Being the responsible citizen that I am, I made sure I allowed at least an hour before leaving for the airport to move my car. I have a residential parking permit, which means I can park my car on the street, but I must move it on certain days for street cleaning. I considered the price of an hour of sleep. At 5 am. Was it worth the $35 ticket? No. Streets must be cleaned. Cars must be moved.

In the darkness, I walked the three blocks to where I had parked my car on Sunday afternoon. I saw it as I wearily drug myself up the slight hill. Still there (always a concern in the City). I placed my key in the lock and realized I didn’t feel the click of the lock popping open. The door was unlocked. Hmm. That’s strange. I thought back to Sunday afternoon. I’m sure I locked the door. Oh well.

I opened the door.

Fuck.

In the dim light, I saw the wires. The wires protruding from where my faceless radio used to reside. I looked over to my glovebox. Actually to the place where my glovebox used to be. Because whoever had been in my car had taken the entire thing. The entire glovebox was gone. Bear in mind, there was nothing of value in there besides the face plate to the radio. But now there is only a void cavity, a gaping hole.

I noticed a paper on my windshield. Had I gotten a ticket as well?

I pulled the paper from the damp windshield. It lay limply in my hands. I carefully turned it over. It wasn’t a ticket, but a note.

yoU LeFT YOUR HAZARDS ON LAte SUNDAY/eARLY MONDAY (11/20-12/1) MORNING. I THOUGHT yOU MIGHT HAVe BeeN VACATING THe PARKING SPOT. I GAVe UP AFTeR WAITING 10 MINUTeS. MORe THAN LIKeLY, YOU’Re CAR BATTerY IS NOW DeAD!

GOOD LUCK.

I glanced inside the car again. Parts of the car, maybe the gear shift? maybe something else? were on the passenger’s seat. Wires dangled from below the steering wheel. Might as well give it a try. It is the season for miracles after all.

I put the key in the ignition. I turned. Silence. Not even a click.

I got out of the car, shut the door, and locked it. Then realized how ridiculous it was for me to lock the door to a car which someone had basically just torn apart. Old habits die hard.

I looked at the street cleaning sign. Sigh. I should have gone for the extra hour of sleep.

SF’s Finest

So once I arrived back to my apartment, I thought about my next plan of action. I needed to leave for the airport in 30 minutes. What could I do in 30 minutes? I’ll call the police.

I leafed through the white pages until I found the government section – San Francisco – City & County. Police. Po-lice. So many departments under police. Investigations – Auto Detail. That sounded like who I needed to talk to.

I dialed the number. On the second ring a man answered, sounding much more awake than me.

“Yeah.”

“Um. Hi. My car was broken into.”

“Yeah?”

“Is this the police department?”

“Yeah. What do you want me to do?”

“Well, I’d like to file a report.”

“Call the main number.” Click.

I leafed back through the pages. Main number, non-emergency dispatch. Ring, ring. Ring, ring. Ring, ring. Ring, ring. Ring, ring. Finally a woman answered.

“Hi. I’d like to file a report. My car was broken into.”

“Did you see who did it?”

“No.”

“You need to call back after 8:30 to file a report over the phone.” Click.

Lester

Fortunately a taxi stopped right away. That’s one of the advantages of living downtown, amongst the hotels and the theatres, far away from neighborhoods of residences lined in a row. There’s usually a taxi. You have to step over five sleeping homeless people to get to it, but the taxi is there.

“Where can I take you to, miss?”

“SFO. Northwest terminal please.”

“Oh. You’re going on a trip (as also evidenced by the suitcase he just put in the trunk). Where to?”

“Minneapolis.”

“Oh, for fun?”

“No, for work.”

“What type of work are you in?”

“I design computer based training.”

“Oh. I thought you were a lawyer. You’ve got that lawyer look to you.”

I wasn’t in a particularly talkative mood. I was still trying to figure out what to do with a car that wouldn’t start. Given that the car is 20 years old, my insurance deductible is the same amount I actually paid for the car, and I generally don’t believe in throwing good money after bad. Or something like that.

Lester, however, was in a talkative mood. By the end of the 35 mile journey to San Francisco International Airport, I learned that Lester drives a cab three days a week, for 6 hours at a time. His “day” job (only he does it at night) is a pathologist in the San Francisco Coroner’s Office. You can see the Coroner’s office from the highway (he pointed it out). It’s adjacent to the jail. The top two floors are reserved for felons. He hails from Washington State, from a family that includes many generations of loggers. But not him. He moved to San Francisco 18 years ago.

And I still hadn’t figured out what to do with my car.

The Report

Once I checked into my hotel, I called the non-emergency dispatch number of the San Francisco Police Department. After being on hold for 16 minutes and 47 seconds a woman’s voice, somewhat shaky, answered. I told her I wanted to file a report, because my car had been broken into. “Did you see who did it?” “No.” “Okay, then, I can take the report.”

I’m not sure why it would have made a difference if I saw who did it. Would I be called in to look at mug shots? Would my life be in danger? Would I be placed in a witness protection program?

In my mind I pictured what this woman looked like that I was giving all my details to. I’m guessing late fifties. No, maybe early sixties. 62. White hair. Permed, but done at the beauty parlor once a week. Slightly overweight, probably five feet two inches tall. I imagined her name to be Mildred. I never asked.

I detailed all I could. The location of the car. The damage done. When I parked it. When I found it. The note.

She pleasantly repeated the information back to me, often misquoting what I had said. I corrected her; she again misquoted me. She gave me a police report number and told me to have a nice day.

And I still haven’t figured out what I’m going to do with my car.

Brrrrr

I’m flying to Minneapolis, Minnesota, in a few hours. Current temperature, 29 F, but according to weather.com it feels like 21 F. Once it gets below freezing, is there really a difference?

Inappropriate Questions

“He’s kind of cute, don’t you think?” my friend whispered to me as we stood in line at Target. I glanced at the check-out clerk. Young. On the thin side. Dark hair, slicked back. “Mmmm. Yeah. I guess so. Yeah. He is cute.” We continued to examine our choices of gum. I picked up two, then three, packages of Dentyne Ice for the plane ride tomorrow. He whispered again, “Do you think that’s a straight ring, or a gay ring?” All I could see was a glob of gold flashing on his left hand ring finger as he bagged items.

“Hi, how are you tonight?” I asked him. He responded with something akin to a grunt.

“Wow. I really like your ring.” He glanced at me, then nodded, his chin thrust upward in something akin to an acknowledgement.

“Is that your wedding ring?” He looked at me harder, then snorted, in something that was definitely a scoff.

“Can I see it up close?” He held out his hand with a flick of his wrist. Staring at me from the safety of his hand were two cloudy ruby eyes, nestled snugly in a molten gold skull.

He handed me my bag.

As we exited Target, my friend turned to me, laughing hysterically. “Nice work, Nancy Drew! Is that your wedding ring? HAHAHAHAHAHA….”

I enjoy it so much, yet I only do it once a year.

As has been the case for the past four years, every Thanksgiving Emily’s mom, Alice, invites me to spend Thanksgiving with her family. And asks me to bring the pies. Always pecan, always fruit.

There is comfort in the routine. Wednesday night after work, I make the crust. The same recipe I’ve used since I was a girl. I flip through the pages of my Southern Living Best Of cookbook. The one given to me upon high school graduation, because every young woman needs a few good southern recipes. I thumb through the Pies and Pastries section, pages refusing to yield to my tug, pages stuck together from excess water, flour, or sugar leftover from past culinary experiments. I find the recipe on page 353: Basic Pastry for 8-inch, 9-inch, and 10-inch crusts. Very simple, yet always perfect. Flour, salt, shortening (yes, shortening) and ice water. Chill overnight, then roll.

And the rolling is my favorite part. Flour softer than the finest silk sifts effortlessly through my fingers onto the pastry board. I smooth it in circles, first clockwise, then counterclockwise. I pat the dough, the hard, cold dough, first on one side, then on the other. Then roll. And roll. And roll some more. As I roll, I get lost in the repetitiveness of the action, thinking of the trivialities of my day. Thinking of my future dreams. Thinking of my past Thanksgivings. Thinking of what I’m thankful for. The usuals: my family, my friends, my health. The not so usuals: double-sided tape, high thread count sheets, lycra, cumin. I rub more silky flour on the rolling pin and continue to roll, my mind continuing to drift. In between memories I check the thickness of the dough. When it’s sufficiently thin, I transfer it, in one fell swoop, to the waiting pie pan. From there, routine takes over. The fillings are poured, scooped, placed, ever so gently in their respective crusts.

I stand back, admiring my work. Perfect pies, waiting to be baked. Thanks, Alice, for giving me the reason to make the pies once again.

You Don’t Say?

We both love to eavesdrop. As we sat in the setting sun, surrounded by trees beginning to shed their leaves, we listened in on the conversations at the picnic tables around us at the German Tourist Club.

…..

“We were at this party. I told him my name was Mary. He replied with, ‘Quite contrary?’ I then said, ‘Hey, shouldn’t we be talking about cockshells?’ ‘Cock shells? Or cockleshells?…”

…..

“What are you doing?” he asked his wife. “It’s better this way,” she asserted as she poured a grapefruit Juice Squeeze into an otherwise perfectly fine glass of beer.

…..

“See, the best part is, people confuse us. So if I don’t want to talk to a guy, I ignore him. He calls my name, ‘Wendy, Wendy, hey, Wendy,’ and I respond, ‘Wendy? My name’s Lisa.’ It works until we’re both at the same party together, both claiming to be the same person…”

Can You Hear Me Now?

A few weeks ago, while I was visiting my parents in North Carolina, they lamented their cell phone. Their 8 year old, chunky, clunky, weighs over a pound first generation cell phone. Great for fending off an attacker, not so great for carrying around the mall. And how they were constantly paying roaming fees. And a ridiculous per minute charge, something like $5.00 per minute. Okay, maybe not that much. But close.

At one point I made several calls with my own itty bitty electric blue Nokia cell phone. Mom commented on the costs I must be incurring. “No mom, I’m in a home network. I don’t pay roaming charges. It’s included in my monthly fee.”

What? No roaming fees? All inclusive?

Even I, avoider of all pop culture who eschews television like the plague, knows about all inclusive cell phone plans.

This led to me researching plans for them. Which would allow them to call their children in North Carolina, Georgia, *and* California? Which plan would allow them two phones for the lowest monthly charge? Which provider would provide them the best service while traveling remote Southern roads?

After much investigation, we settled on a plan. Two phones, each different (so they wouldn’t get them confused), one monthly plan, no more roaming. Thirty day guarantee, so that if, for some reason, they didn’t like their new phones, all could be returned, no questions asked, all money refunded.

My job was done.

So I thought.

I received an email on Friday from my father.

“We received our box of phones today and don’t understand the directions. How much would you charge to develop an interactive training program for wireless usage?”

I called him immediately, laughing with him for his clever wit (while in North Carolina I was developing an interactive training for an HR system at work). Except he wasn’t joking. They couldn’t figure out how to use their phones. They seemed resigned to let my sister look at the phones and directions on Thanksgiving day while she’s visiting. I sighed, wishing there were more I could do.

This morning I received a phone call, quite early. It was my mother. “Guess where I’m calling from?” “Um. North Carolina?” “Of course, silly. But from my cell phone! I figured out how to use it! I’ve programmed in your home number, your cell number, and your work number. I can reach you anywhere. I can’t do anything else with my phone but I can make calls. Daddy still hasn’t figured out how to use his. I figured out how to use mine because the directions are all in pictures. Okay, that’s all. Bye!”

And with that she hung up.

As sleepy as I was, I had to smile. The image of my mother, pouring over cell phone directions, then calling me as soon as she figured them out, made me proud in an oldest daughter sort of way. Good job, mom.

What’s That Smell?

On the way to BART this morning I was met by several people donned in navy shirts and hats passing out free samples of Nivea for Men! an extraordinary skin care product. I glanced at the product suspiciously; I’m not really their target audience. He shoved three samples in my hand with the words, “It’s great for hand lotion.”

Standing on the train platform in the chilly morning air I notice my hands are particularly dry. No problem. I’ll just use this handy dandy Nivea for Men! extraordinary skin care product, perfect for hand lotion. I tear open the foil package and begin rubbing my hands together furiously, my parched skin quenched by the soothing coolness of the creamy white lotion. After a couple of rubs I’m assaulted by a noxious smell. Nivea for Men! is not merely lotion. It’s lotion plus the most offensive after shave scent ever created. Fortunately, I have a Purell wet wipe in my purse, leftover from a picnic or a cross country trip. It kills 99% of all disease causing bacteria. It does not kill the stench emanating from my hands. I can’t escape it.

As I get on BART, heads turn. No one can figure out where the stink is coming from. It’s unquestionably masculine, in the worst sort of way. I, too, participate in the sniffing, hoping that if I appear reasonably disgusted no one will realize it is me, me and my hands, proffering the repugnant odor.

Once at work I make a beeline for the restroom, writhing my hands continuously under the hottest water I can stand until I feel certain the offending smell has been washed away. Lesson learned. Don’t accept samples from strangers. Or at least sniff them out first.

You Don’t Write, You Don’t Call…

My immediate circle of girlfriends and I have run into quite an interesting phenomenon here in San Francisco – an epidemic of staggering proportions of boys who don’t call. These are not calls expected after random phone numbers are exchanged in dark, dank establishments as the bar tender bellows “Last call!” These are bona fide quasi-relationships. Boy meets girl. Boy asks for girl’s contact info. Boy and girl email flirtatiously. Boy and girl go on random first date (insert activity here: surfing, movies, dinner). Boy and girl arrange for second date, setting time, date, and activity. Boy says “I’ll call you to confirm.”

Fade to black.

No second date, no phone call, no notification from San Francisco General that boy is in Intensive Care.

Now I’m the first to admit, I don’t want to go out with someone who doesn’t want to be there. But, dammit, don’t tie up my calendar. If we’ve made plans and you’ve changed your mind, at the very least leave a message on my home phone while at I’m work and say something else has come up, say, a once in a lifetime opportunity to witness first hand the migratory patterns of the lunar moth. Or better yet, don’t make the plans in the first place.

I excitedly called Emily on Saturday afternoon. “Emily! I’ve got a true life example of a guy who is undaunted by the phone. Who masters it, manipulates it, refuses to succumb to voice mail.” Equally excited, she begged for details. “Well, Friday night George called. He said he missed me and wanted to get together this weekend. I didn’t have time to call him on Friday so Saturday morning he called again. He left another message, inviting me over to the East Bay for touch football on Sunday. I guess he got fed up that I still hadn’t called him back, so on Saturday afternoon he had his mom call me.” Emily laughed and we joked, “There’s hope. The epidemic may be broken!”

Okay, I guess it doesn’t really count, since George is in fact my godson, and he is only 10 years old. But damn, the kid’s got persistence. Love that in a guy.

Take That, Dr. Phil

Reminiscing for my days in Korea, I made rice and kim chi for dinner. I’ve never been able to bring myself to eat kim chi with a fork, so I pulled out my favorite pair of chopsticks and began munching on that spicy, pickly sensation known as kim chi. Mmmmm. After about 10 minutes of eating, my hand cramped, so I set down the chopsticks, planning to read and open mail until my hand felt better. Hours later I noticed the half eaten bowl of rice and kim chi in the kitchen. Maybe that’s why I lost so much weight while living in Korea.

If You Wanna Dance…

Or just hear some really good tunes, and you’re in the Bay Area (or not), I highly recommend stopping by Doc’s Clock on Mission Street between 21st and 22nd Streets in San Francisco on Sunday, November 16 any time after 9:00 pm. The boys of Porkchop Express are going to do their thing.