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.

Most Unappealing Name for a Business

Tan Your Hyde

Tanning bed salon on the way to Lake Tahoe. Yuck.

Spell That, Please?

Recently someone at work really helped me out. Came in at the last minute and totally helped me pull off a pretty major project, and did it with a great attitude. I wanted to express my gratitude, so decided to send her flowers.

I work in Hayward. I’m not really familiar with florists in Hayward, so I turned to the internet for assistance. The first place I called had gone out of business. Hmm. At the second place I called a gentleman answered. I explained I wanted to order a bouquet of flowers, for delivery the next day. He very slowly affirmed my wishes, and asked me what I would like to order. “Hmm. Maybe a spring bouquet. Fresh flowers – maybe pinks, yellows, whites, something very fresh – very happy.”

Silence filled the line.

I waited.

“Ooooo-kay. Spring bouquet. Lemme write that. B – O – C – A – D – E.”

I’m scared to see what will arrive.

Destination Unknown

Maybe it’s my approachable face. Maybe I carry myself with an air of authority. Whatever it is, I am constantly approached by strangers for information about how to take BART. I have finally realize my desire to be a superhero. I am BART INFO GIRL.

This morning, long before the sun decided to shine, I was at Bayfair Station, waiting for my Fremont transfer. A man got off a San Francisco train on the opposite track and wandered, searching, trying to decide who of the few of us to approach. I knew it would be me. It always is.

I concentrated on the clack, clack, clack of my knitting needles in my lap then saw them. The shoes, planted in front of me.

“Miss? Miss?” I looked up. “Which way to San Francisco Airport?”

I pointed to the track where he had just come from. “Over there.”

“But I just got off that train.” He stared at me blankly.

I stared back. I wasn’t sure how to reply. His eyes pleaded. That *couldn’t* be the train to San Francisco. He was just on that train. He had gotten off, therefore he had to take another train. Not that one.

I pointed to the destination sign. In red dot-matrix letters that pierced the dark morning flashed the words “San Francisco Airport train – 2 minutes.” “The train will arrive in two minutes. Right over there. That side.”

He stared at me in utter disbelief. “No. I just got off that train. It must be somewhere else.”

“No, really,” I countered. “This track goes to Fremont. That side goes to San Francisco. Catch the next train and take it to the end of the line. It will take you to SFO. Really.”

Head down, shaking it in disbelief, he walked back over to the opposite side of the tracks. I heard him muttering faintly, “But I just got off this train…”

It could have been a scene from a movie. Except that it wasn’t. It was me, shocked from sleep by the knowledge that someone was in my apartment. I bolted upright, screaming. And screaming. I remembered chainlocking my door. How could anyone have possibly entered? What did he want? Why was he here? I listened. The footsteps. I held my breath. I listened. There were definitely footsteps. I peered into my hallway, frozen, terrified to leave my bed. No one. I listened again. The footsteps were coming from above, the apartment above me. Or were they?

I tried to reason. I felt the blood swirling through my head. I felt my heartbeat, racing, threatening, to run away and leave me. I tried to breathe, but could only manage random gasps.

The footsteps were from upstairs.

I laid back down. I forced my breathing, long breath in, long breath out. As I turned on my side, my hands drawn up, clasped under my cheek, I felt my heartbeat, still pounding against my chest. It’s okay, I told myself. It’s only a sound. No one’s here. It’s upstairs. It’s okay. You’re safe. I repeated this, my mantra for the evening, until hours later I finally drifted into a fitful sleep.

I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that I’m about to be attacked. This morning I awoke exhausted. On BART my eyes darted up from my book, surveying each new passenger. In the deserted hallways at work I listened. In my apartment I listen.

The fear hasn’t merely lingered, a breezy, fleeting memory, like so many of my dreams. It’s strangled me. It has attached itself, gripping me like the horrible evil trees of a forgotten fairy tale.