Women Live in the City, Men are from Mars….

The date had gone well so far, in spite of the fact that it was supposed to be a double date, and somehow I missed that message and had not invited Emily, so it was me with the two guys, drinking a light chardonnay and eating Moroccan food. Communication had been a challenge for us. Somehow we were always misunderstanding what the other had said.

“Did you see on the news about the city lights?” he said.

“No, I didn’t. What about the city lights? Did something happen?” I mentally combed the last couple of days of headlines, not remembering anything about the city lights.

“You know, the city lights. The pictures. The mission.”

The Mission? Was something taking place in the Mission? A new art installation perhaps? With lights? I thought. No, I hadn’t heard anything about it. “What’s going on in the Mission?” I probed.

“The mission, the spaceship. The new pictures. From the city lights.”

I stared at him, completely lost. Then I got it.

“Satellites? Are you talking about the Mars mission and the pictures?” I inquired.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Exactly what I said. The city lights.”

Getting There

I looked around the waiting area near the gate. Had a senior citizen travel group chartered the entire plane? Was I at the correct gate? I double checked my ticket. I was in the right place. For me, getting on the plane is like buying a lottery ticket. Would this be the trip where I sat next to my soulmate, whispering sweet nothings the entire 10 hours to London? Would this be the trip where I got a whole row of seats to myself, allowing me to arrive overseas completely rested? I looked around. This wouldn’t be the trip.

Fortunately, I scored a window seat. Next to Joan and Ron, an elderly British couple. Who talked. And talked. And talked. At the same time. To me. Imagine:

Joan: Where are you from, love?

Lori: San Francisco.

Joan: Oh, lovely. We holidayed there. Just lovely.

Ron (at the same time): Really? Are you going to London for holiday?

L: Yes. On holiday. With my mom.

J: Oh, lovely. You mom lives in London, does she?

R: What do you plan to do there?

L: (trying to decide which question to answer first, as they were asked at the same time) Um. My mom is traveling there also, she lives in the southern part of the US. We’re meeting there. We plan to see some plays, visit museums, just touristy stuff.

J: Oh, lovely! You’ll have such a lovely time. We so enjoyed touring your city. All the skyscrapers, we just walked around and around, staring upwards. Just incredible, all the tall buildings…

R: Visiting London, eh? Plan to visit the country side as well? No matter. In London there’s plenty to do. Must see the London Eye. Best thing the government’s built in quite a while….

This went on for at least 3 or 4 hours, until the lights were dimmed and Joan announced it was time for us to sleep. I dreamt in stereo.

Matinee at The Palace

I should have known by the title. I mean, after all, it is called Les Miserables. But everyone had raved about it. Raved. You must go see it. A masterpiece. A classic. The best London has to offer.

So we did. From the first curtain, I felt the impending sense of doom. Bad things were going to happen, I just knew it. Very bad. Very, very bad. And they did. Pretty much everyone died, or suffered some other random misfortune.

As the final scene ended, I sat, my body shocked by the story it had just absorbed, the tears streaming effortlessly, free flowing, down my cheeks.

Living and Dying

At the British Museum. A look at people’s rituals and relationships with life and death, from all around the world. A central exhibit examined the medication of an average British man and an average British woman over the course of a lifetime. Each pill, over 14,000 for each person, was sewn into a tiny pocket on a never-ending roll of filament, then stretched across the length of the great hall.

14,000 pills. Average.

Accompanied by random photographs and notations. For the woman, pms pain relievers, birth control pills, pre-natal vitamins, post-natal anti-depressants, hormone replacement therapy, high blood pressure medicine. Nothing abnormal.

14,000. Pills.

Yards upon yards of tiny pills. What are we doing to our bodies?

Do You Ever Have the Feeling No One Is Listening?

Shopping. At Harrods. Thursday evening. Special late night shopping until 9 pm. We couldn’t figure out if late night shopping was by special invitation or for everyone.

We were in the shoe department browsing among the boots and pumps. I walked over to Mom. “Hey, mom, I just saw a sign. Late night shopping is for everyone, but Harrods card holders get special deals.” She nodded in agreement.

Not two minutes later she fingered the same sign. “Look, Lori, anyone can shop tonight but Harrods cardholders get special deals.”

I stared at her, befuddled. “Mom. That’s what I just said.”

“I know, but I thought you somehow just figured it out. I was reading the sign.”

Shoot me now.

Vertigo

Was what I experienced each time I stepped onto the escalator leading down into the tube. The steep descent. The feeling that my stomach was no longer a part of my body. The people rushing past me on my left, hurrying to catch the next train. I tried to squelch my uneasiness by reading each of the tiny billboards also descending into the tube. Advertisements for the theater. For iPods. For banks. For travel getaways. Then…

“1588 injuries. 1 fatality. Be careful on the escalators.” and a picture of an outlined figure, dead at the bottom of the escalators, presumably from carelessness while on the way to work one morning.

Which only served to increase my feelings of unease. I gripped the handrail and continued downward.

Waitungi Day

We exited the Westminster tube station. I really wanted to see Big Ben. On my previous trips to London the famous bell and clock were always under renovation, obstructed from view. I just wanted one picture. Just one.

We noticed there was an abnormal amount of people milling around. I looked across the street. There seemed to be a protest going on. Signs proclaiming how many children had died in the Iraqi war thus far. Signs against Bush and Blair. Signs urging the government to mind England’s own business. Being from San Francisco, I didn’t think anything of it. We found Big Ben; we snapped photos.

The noise from across the street grew. I watched, fascinated. Throngs of people were rushing across the street, past the protesters, past the ragged signs. A roar commenced. I craned my neck. More mobs of people crowded the streets, stopping traffic. Horns honked. What was going on? A couple of bobbies were watching as well. I sidled up to them. “So what’s going on over there?” “Ah. It’s Waitungi Day. A New Zealand thing. Not sure exactly what it is.” I noticed many of the people streaming across the street were wearing New Zealand flags as capes.

“So they’re all New Zealanders over there?”

One of the bobbies smirked. “That’s right, love. All of New Zealand is there. The entire country’s left empty.”

Damn British.

Could I Get a Cuppa?

I fingered the postcards, trying to decide how many I would really write before leaving the UK. She came up, out of nowhere, a smartly dressed middle aged British woman. “Could you tell me where the nearest Starbucks is, please?” The young merchant pointed across the square. “Just there, ma’am.” As the woman walked away, the older merchant scolded him. “Why-a you tell-a her the Big-a Bussa over there? No sell-a the Big-a Bussa.”

The younger merchant calmly said, “She asked for Starbucks, not Big Bus.”

The old man wouldn’t relent. “But they no-a sell-a Big-a Bus-a. So why-a you-a tell her a-that? Hmm?”

Unrattled, the young man replied, “Starbucks. The coffee. That’s what she asked for.”

The old man continued. “But I no understand. Why-a you tell her? The Big-a Bus-a. No sell.”

I couldn’t stand it any longer. I spoke up. “She asked for Starbucks. The coffee. Right there. See? Not Big Bus. Not tour. Coffee.”

He threw his hands up in exasperation. “Ahhhh! Star Box. Why didn’t you say so?”

GMT

Sometimes, we have ideas that have always been with us, that we don’t question, because we’ve always just known it. That’s how I felt about Greenwich Mean Time. The point from which time starts. Add or subtract hours depending on which way you’re traveling around the world. From Greenland.

Yes, Greenland, I say.

For somewhere in time, probably way back in elementary school, I confused Greenwich with Greenland. And never questioned it. I mean, to a young girl’s mind, it made sense. Greenland, the big icy country, inhabited by few, the perfect place for time to begin. There’s nothing there, nothing to interfere with time starting. Something, from nothing. Completely made sense.

A friend, originally from England, recommended we make the trip to Greenwich, in parenthesis he noted (“where the clocks are in Dana Sobel’s Longitude”). Sounded good to me. So we pulled out the tube map, figured out where we needed to transfer, and began the 45 minute journey. At the visitor’s center, we asked the friendly lady where the clocks were. She whipped out a map and began explaining the layout of the area. Visitor’s Center. Maritime Museum. Royal Observatory, where the Prime Meridian was located. The Chapel.

What?

I looked at her, puzzled. The Prime Meridian? But that’s not in England. That’s in Greenland. We’re in Greenwich. Fortunately, these thoughts were only streaming through my head and had not exited my mouth yet. It suddenly all made sense. Greenwich Mean Time. In Greenwich. England. Thirty years of supposed knowledge, gone.

Coming Home

It’s amazing what you can see from 39,000 feet above ground. As we passed over Greenland (that icy country, NOT where the Prime Meridian is…) the surface below looked like a giant creme brulee, just cracked, with chunks of ice separated just so. Once over Montana, the mountains below us appeared perfectly formed, dusted by a healthy coating of powdered sugar. In California, farms that were patchwork quilts – green, more green, and brown. Towns made of Monopoly houses, white instead of green and red.

I loved the fact that we followed daylight; I never saw darkness as I peered out the window.

Me Too?

I watched the empty water bottle compress and compress and compress some more as we descended, wondering if my body was doing the same thing.

Off and Away

I’m about to head to the airport. For London. For a week. With my mom.

Which could be incredibly awesome, or maybe not so much. I’ve never traveled alone with my mom. We’re very different people. I love her dearly, but loving someone and traveling successfully with someone are two entirely different ballgames.

Stories coming in a week. Bye!

Hostage

The BART doors opened at the Montgomery Street Station. Commuters poured in, eager to go home after a long day at work.

Beep, Beep.

The doors closed and the train started moving. Slowly at first then picking up speed. The conductor’s voice boomed over the intercom.

“I apologize to those passengers who got blasted by the horn. It wasn’t meant for those of you who were following safety regulations. But, let me tell you this, those people who were standing over the yellow safety line, I was honking my horn at you. Yes, at YOU! And I will keep honking my horn until you step away from that yellow line. Because that line is there for your safety. Your safety, you hear? So don’t be stepping over it. Because if you are, I’m going honk my horn over and over and over til you step back. Again, I apologize to those passengers who were behind the yellow line, having to endure the loudness of the horn. BUT LET ME TELL YOU. THIS IS FOR YOUR SAFETY. THIS IS FOR THOSE PEOPLE WHO WERE OVER THE YELLOW LINE. DON’T BE STANDING OVER THE YELLOW LINE. I WILL HONK AT YOU UNTIL YOU MOVE. IS THAT CLEAR???? (deep breath, then very calmly) This is a safety reminder while riding BART. Thank you for riding and have a nice day.”

I couldn’t get off the train fast enough at the next stop.

From the Mouths of Babes

“But I want it,” wailed the three year old in the shopping cart.

“Dear, you can’t always get what you want…” sang the mother to the child in her best imitation of Mick Jagger.

“Stop singing that! It’s painful!” shouted the toddler.

I had to side with the child. It was painful hearing the mother sing.

Ode To Emily

“Okay, first thing you need to do is call all the local hospitals and see how long the wait is for the emergency room. And, while you’re at it, check and see if they accept your insurance. I’ll be by around 9:30.” I love a woman who has a plan. Emily is that woman. She’s the person you want on your side in case of emergency.

So in the hour or so that I waited for Emily to arrive, I called the local Emergency Rooms. “Do you accept Blue Cross/Blue Shield?” All answered in the affirmative. “How long a wait do you have now?” Most of the people on the other line skipped a beat, cleared their throat, and offered no more than, “Busy. We’re really busy.” I understood what they were really saying – if you’re concerned about how long you have to wait, you don’t need to be in the Emergency Room.

But I did. The tears wouldn’t stop rolling down my cheeks. I sobbed uncontrollably. The pain, from such a small area of my body, was so incredibly large. It was my toe. My big toe on my left foot. I had slid uncontrollably (sort of) during our softball game, and at another point I’m pretty sure a guy rounding second stepped on me with his cleats. I think. I was too angry processing his slanderous “Quit blocking my way, bitch” comment to notice anything else. After the game I noticed a throbbing in my big toe and took off my cleat to investigate. My toe was swollen, and turning a little bit blue, but nothing to really worry about. Or so said all the other guys on the team. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I quietly held an ice pack to it, trying to numb it. Another player, trying to be helpful, wanted to inspect it. I simply shook my head no, not saying anything. He persevered, as did I. In between sobs, I finally mumbled, “I don’t want you to see my ugly toes. No, no, no…… I haven’t had a pedicure in months….” When I was younger, my father always teased me about my ugly monkey toes and it’s something I’ve never quite gotten over. But I digress.

Emily called. “I’m downstairs.” I hobbled down the steps, trying not to place any weight on my left foot. Just seeing her, parked in front of the building, laughing as I tried to reach the car without stumbling, caused me to break into a grin. There’s something about best friends that transcends pain.

She laughed as I got into the car. “Loriloo, what on earth have you done now?””I don’t know, but it huuuuuuuurrrrrrtttttts…. The guys on the team told me to suck it up, but I can’t. It hurts so baaaaaaaaaaaddddd….” I don’t remember what words of wisdom she imparted upon me, but I do remember laughing. A lot.

We pulled into the Emergency Room parking lot and she sternly said to me, “Don’t look so perky. They won’t believe you’re hurt.” I practiced a non-smile with some difficulty and she assisted me into the ER. When I explained what had happened to the admitting nurse, she was the one trying to contain a smirk when I admitted I had hurt my foot playing softball. I truly didn’t see what was so funny, but it was if a secret joke had been told each time I was passed from one hospital attendant to the next. “Yeah, softball, she hurt her foot playing softball…” (smirk, smirk)

An hour later, after I had been poked, and prodded, and x-rayed (and finished another two stripes on my scarf) it was deemed that I had broken my toes in several places. The doctor explained that there really was nothing to do except prop my foot up, ice it, and rest. And wear a silly looking orthopedic boot-type thing to prevent me from using my toes when walking.

Emily helped me back to the car and we immediately began laughing again. We lamented over how this just sucks. The week before I leave for vacation. Right before volleyball season begins. Right after buying new cute shoes which I won’t be able to wear for many weeks now.

That’s the thing about best friends. They make even the most painful situations something to laugh about. Everyone needs an Emily in their life.

The meeting notice popped up on my computer screen.

“Manager/Lori – Discussion. In office. 3:30 pm.

Accept? Decline?”

I noticed the lack of details.

I noticed the meeting was scheduled for 45 minutes from the present time.

I noticed it was in an office with a door, something somewhat unusual in our cube culture.

I accepted. And pondered. And fretted. This had the signs that indicated it could most likely be negative.

I racked my brain. Had I said anything too terribly politically incorrect recently? Had I missed any deadlines? Had I inadvertently offended someone I shouldn’t have?

3:28 pm. I walked to my manager’s cube. “Hi…” I offered, cheerily.

“Please go on in; I’ll be there in a moment,” all business and matter of fact.

As I walked the few paces to the office, I decided to use the strategy of the best defense is a good offense. Or something like that.

She sat down across from me, stone-faced.

“So,” I began, “the details surrounding this meeting were incredibly vague.”

She nodded.

“Well, I wondered what this could be about. I thought a lot about what’s been going on over the past several weeks. Quite surprisingly, for once I can honestly say I can’t think of anything I’ve done wrong. Unusual, but true.”

She finally laughed. “No, you’ve actually done several things right. I’m offering you a promotion.”

I like to think I’m a relatively composed person. But at that point all I could say was, “Really?” “Really?” “You’re offering me a promotion?”

Thankfully she didn’t take my inquisitiveness as a sign to retract the promotion. She explained the details, had me sign some papers, then it was back to business as usual. Not a bad way to end the day.

What’s That, You Say?

I received the second UPS delivery attempt notice. Knowing I wouldn’t be at home the following day to receive the package, I logged on to the UPS website to request the package be routed to my work address. My request was completed successfully and I closed my browser window.

The next day, I received a final delivery attempt slip at my apartment. I checked the UPS website and it registered the change of address rerouting request, but just to be on the safe side I called the customer service number. The customer service representative looked up my tracking number, assured me that yes, it was being rerouted to my work address and bade me a good night.

Two days later I received a postcard from UPS, at my home address, saying they had attempted to deliver a package three times, I wasn’t at home, so it was now my responsibility to pick up the package at the UPS service center across town. I was befuddled. I called the customer service number again. Surely there was some mistake. The friendly customer service representative tracked my package and explained that they had attempted to deliver it three times, so now I had to come pick it up. I explained how I had requested it be delivered to an alternate address. She clucked her tongue and said, “Oh, I see here that you did request your package to be rerouted. But you requested it after 7 pm, and that just won’t worky-worky. talk, talk, talk, talk, talk.”

I know she said more after that, but I couldn’t concentrate. All I could focus on was that a grown woman, in a professional context, had just told me something wouldn’t worky-worky.

My So Called Scarf

After an initial anxiety producing encounter with knitting, I decided to give it another go. Each day I would return from work and my half completed purple, raspberry, and gold scarf silently cajoled, Finish me. Finish me. Pick me up and work magic with my ever so soft fibers. So I did.

I knitted all the way to Lake Tahoe and all the way back. My three balls of yarn were quickly diminishing. Early on in the project I had decided the scarf would be as long as there was yarn. When the yarn ran out, the project was finished.

This time, the knitting was different. I no longer stressed about how many rows I had finished. I enjoyed the feel of the bamboo needles against my fingers. I relished the warmth of the length of completed scarf in my lap. I fingered the fuzzy angora, imagining how soft it would feel wrapped around my neck.

Once I returned home, I laid the scarf out flat on the kitchen table, curious if it was near the 60″ that is the recommended length for a proper scarf. I stretched it out, noticing that it looked not so much like a scarf, but more like a boa constrictor enjoying a mouse. It started out thin and neat for about two feet, then suddenly bulged, growing wider and wider and wider, then gradually tapering again. Upon closer inspection, I realized that as my anxiety about the project diminished, my gauge became looser. Sigh.

Knitting, 1. Lori, 0.

The Amazing Brain

It’s amazing how fast the mind processes information. Case in point:

Emily and I rode the chair lift, sandwiching a mother and her young son, them both on skis. Emily and I were on our snowboards, simply enjoying the beautiful day, the fresh air, the snow covered pines against a devastatingly perfect blue sky. We prepared to dismount. Emily bolted off first and was down the slight hill much before any of us. I was slightly ahead of the mother and her son. I heard the mother, “Tristan, veer left.” As I thought, “Oh, no. I’m to the left in front of them, this can’t be good,” I heard the click of her skis against my board then the piercing of not one, but two, sets of skis in my back as they crashed into me, knocking me over as well.

Time elapsed: 2 seconds. Max.

I turned around to see if they were okay. I began to offer to help them up and the mother scowled at me. I immediately replayed the scenario in my mind, wondering if I, not she, had been at fault. I was about to apologize when the ski patrol came over and said to her, “Ma’am, you really should try not to run over the people in front of you.” I second that.