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.

One Of These Is Not Like The Other…

Friday night we attended a party that a friend of a friend invited us to. It was at a local bar, so there were plenty of people mingling as we made our entrance. We looked around, then at the same time turned to each other and said, “And *why* were we invited to the annual conference of anorexic blondes?”

Found Time

We were supposed to go abalone diving this weekend. We were planning to drive up the coast early Saturday morning, dive all day, roast yummy abalone over the campfire in the evening, camp, play night bocce ball, then come back on Sunday.

The weather reports today were, to put it mildly, ominous. The expert diver in the group sent out this message:

“Fellow abalone hunters..

…having camped in the rain on many a dive trip I can say that it is not the best way to experience the lovely north coast…and it becomes a much less social-sit around the campground and banter sort of trip…That said …rain won’t really change anything about the diving…it is going to suck..the conditions currently are as follows: …Wind Speed: 12-18 mph Surf: Overhead Sea State: Very rough Wave Height: 11 ft.”

We called off the trip.

I am so excited. I have at least 36 hours of bonus time – time to do anything I want. No one knows I will be in town, so I can be completely selfish in my decision. Ahh, freedom.