All the News Fit to Print

The NY Times ran the article. As well as msn, the splash page even. I figured it must be true. “One of the best flea markets in America is at Treasure Island, just moments away from downtown San Francisco, Sundays only. 6 am – 4 pm. But arrive early, as many vendors leave by 2 pm.”

I dreamed of the gems I would find. It was the “Sunday activity” for my parents’ visit. We’d explore together, amazed at the treasures we’d unearth. We aimed to leave the city by 7 am – eager not to miss any bargains. Heavy fog enshrouded the island, giving it a mystical feel. We drove to the address. Not a soul stirred. No flea market, no cars, no people, no sign of life whatsoever. We continued around the small island. It was practically deserted. After circling the island twice, I had a deja vu of searching for the woodworking village while in Korea. Here I have the advantage of speaking the language, which didn’t really help, as I left the island just as befuddled as ever. No flea market, no activity, no riches to be discovered.

Jim Dandy

Ever so carefully he swept the sidewalk, dressed in a threadbare suit, his feet covered by socks and rubber flip flops. He had the look of a well-kept bum, a 2-day shadow gracing his face. His sunken eyes watched the movement of his broom, back and forth, back and forth. Slowly the pendulum motion of the broom slowed. He bent down, fingered an object caught in his broom, then ever so gently picked a bird’s feather from the refuse, examined it, then gingerly placed it in his left breast pocket before continuing, swish, whoosh, swish, whoosh…

It Just Struck Me As Strange…

The gate agent, in a sacchariney sweet voice, announced, “You guys have been great. You haven’t asked a lot of questions or shot us any dirty looks. We’ll get you on your flight as soon as possible.”

So if we *had* shot her dirty looks we’d be waiting even longer?

Bruce, Baby, Bruce

“Do you even know any Bruce Springsteen songs?” she asked me.

“Well, sure, I mean, I’m sure I’d recognize them. You know, once they’re played. Like Little Pink Houses. I’m sure I’d recognize that one.”

She laughed. “Wrong singer. That’s John Cougar Mellencamp. Try again.”

I thought for a moment. “The one about dancing. If I had a chance, I’d ask the world to dance, dancing with myself, when…”

“Nope. That would be Billy Idol. Getting closer, though. Springsteen does sing Dancing In the Dark.”

“Well, even though I’m obviously not the biggest Springsteen fan, I’m looking forward to the concert.”

The concert was at Pac Bell Park, our local baseball stadium, situated right on the bay. Before going to the concert, we visited one of the multitudes of sailboats docked right outside the stadium. I sipped margaritas from plastic stemware and watched the sun slowly setting in the sky. The conversation around me was all Bruce, all the time.

And the concert was awesome. Springsteen is a spirited performer. He engages the crowd. He’s enthusiastic. He has fun. Even though I didn’t recognize a single song until the third encore, I’m still glad I went.

Welcome to the Neighborhood

I felt his presence behind me as I began to open my front door. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed him stumbling up the front steps, obviously drunk, a fairly large guy. He made no effort to reach for keys. I waited, he stumbled. It was late enough that no one else was on the street. Wary of someone I didn’t know entering the building behind me, I boldly turned around and confronted him. “Excuse me, do you live here?” The words left my mouth with much more sass than I intended. He laughed, stumbled again, and with a snort replied, “Yes. 405.” Oh, great. My upstairs neighbor. My key still in the lock, I slowly turned it, then entered. He quickly weaved in front of me. Halfway down the hall he came to a dead stop. He spun around and stared. I stopped and faced him. He slowly opened his mouth and, in the exact same tone I had used with him, slurred the words, “Wait a minute. Do *you* live here?” I simply laughed and nodded yes.

The Swedes

When Emily returned from Europe a few weeks ago, she brought with her some biber kuchen that she had been given as a gift. It looks like a large gingerbread cookie with a picture of frosted happy Swedish people frolicking in front of windmills on it.

We first took it to a barbecue. We cut a few bite sized pieces and placed them on a platter. People were curious to try this gingerbread concoction. After a few moments of chewing, each person would politely smile, keep chewing, then utter something to the effect of “That’s nice.” It wasn’t the culinary sensation Emily had hoped it would be. The general consensus was that it would be tasty on a long hike if you didn’t have anything else to eat.

At the end of the barbecue we Saran Wrapped the remainder. Linda took it, saying she would bring it on our next hike. It went on a hike, it attended another barbecue. None was eaten. At the end of the barbecue, Linda turned to me and said, “Okay, it’s your turn to take the Swedes home. Make sure to bring them to the next party.”

So Soon

While talking to my dad recently I informed him I had just purchased a car. Not any car, but a 1983 Volkswagen Rabbit convertible. A friend of a friend was selling it cheap and I just couldn’t resist.

“Good for you, Lori. Ever since you got your license you’ve wanted one of those. Can’t wait to take a spin in it when we’re out there in September.”

The words hit me full force as I hung up the receiver. Oh, my god. It’s already happening. My mid-life crisis has officially begun. I just bought the car I wanted when I was 16.

Another Reason to Think Before You Speak

Before thinking, I had already said Hi. The damage was done.

It was the guy formerly known as my hairdresser. I like him well enough. Several friends had referred me to him. I had never left an appointment distraught. But I also had never left his chair exuberant about my new do.

My last two haircuts weren’t with him. Another friend had a fabulous haircut, raved about her hairdresser, so I tried her. And loved her. Twice now I’ve left the salon with a “Look at me – I’m sassy – oh yeah!” kind of cut.

He knew I’d been unfaithful. He eyed my hair with suspicion, but didn’t comment. I introduced him to the others I was with, “This is Paul. He’s my…” I wasn’t sure what to call him. Hairstylist? Not anymore. Ex-hairstylist? Too dramatic. Some guy I used to pay to play with my hair? No. “He’s… uh…. he cuts hair.” Even as I said the words, I felt as though I had been caught, even though I hadn’t done anything wrong. Could have been worse. Can’t think of how at the moment, but I’m sure it could have been.

I sat on the MUNI train, trying to read my book. He was large, and sat down beside me with unnecessary force. In my peripheral vision, I could tell he was a-big and solid, and b-wearing all black, perhaps with random piercings. I continued to read, even as his arm nudged into mine. I shifted uncomfortably, trying to free myself from his unwelcome touch. I scooted closer to the window, smushing myself against the steamed glass. I continued to refuse to look directly at him, trying to concentrate on the words on the page, lost in pre World War II Japan. I couldn’t help but notice movement. It seemed his hands were folded, resting on his chest, but flickering back and forth. Curiosity got the better of me. I ever so slyly glanced to my left. His hands were moving. But why? Was he twiddling his thumbs? Didn’t appear so. What was he doing?

It was at that point the long tail lashed out against my arm. I sucked in air, suppressing my desire to scream. I not so nonchalantly stared at the passenger to my left. It was only at that point I heard him talking to the other passengers in the car. “Rats really are the best pets. They’re clean, not like hamsters or gerbils. They’re great.” It was a rat he was stroking over and over again, the motion that had caught my eye. The rat’s tail happened to flick every now and then, encroaching upon my personal space. I stared back down at my book, unable to focus on the words on the page, but grateful for the distraction.

Stripping Is Hard Work

One of my flaws is that I jump right into things, without really giving much thought to what the task at hand involves. Often I find myself smack in the middle of a project, cursing myself, “What in the world was I thinking? Oh, yeah. I wasn’t.”

When the manager of my new apartment pointed to the half stripped kitchen cabinets in my new kitchen, a project the previous tenant had begun, and asked if I wanted to finish the job or have them painted, I, gazing at the beautiful redwood cabinets already exposed, casually replied, “Oh, I’ll finish the job. Thanks for asking.”

I jumped into the project with unabashed enthusiasm. After a trip to Home Depot, I returned to my new abode with stripper, putty knives, brushes, safety goggles, ventilation mask, protective rubber gloves, varnish, drop cloths, masking tape, sandpaper, and mineral spirits. I cleared my calendar for an entire Saturday. I awoke early, envisioning what my beautiful redwood cabinets would look like by the end of the day.

The ventilation mask was anything but. After I strapped it around my head, adjusting it so that it rested comfortably over my mouth, I realized I could hardly breathe. Yes, it prevented me from inhaling dangerous toxic fumes, but it also prevented me from inhaling oxygen. Off with the mask.

I put the safety goggles on. As I turned to don the bright orange protective gloves I ran into the wall. My vision was distorted just enough that I constantly bumped into things. What’s safe about that? In addition, the angle of the top of the goggles cut the light in such a manner that it always appeared someone or something was moving just at the edge of my peripheral vision. So all day I suddenly turned, looking for the something or someone sneaking up behind me. If the fumes didn’t drive me crazy the paranoia the goggles induced surely would.

I applied the stripper, I scraped, I applied more stripper, I scraped, I applied more stripper, I scraped. Like most San Francisco apartments, my kitchen had at least 8 solid layers of paint applied over the past 75 years. Two hours later, I had stripped one surface of one cabinet. Ten more to go. Ever so slowly it dawned on me I might not get the entire project finished in one day. (I also had bought paint to paint the walls a lovely sunshine yellow after refinishing the cabinets, thinking I might have extra time. Probably wouldn’t get to that either.)

As I worked on the second surface, I leaned over to get a better grip. Suddenly, a hot pain seared up my forearm. I jerked up and looked down. There, on my forearm, was a smudge of stripper, creating bubbles on my skin like those in the stripped paint. I jumped down from my perch, threw the faucet on, and with relief welcomed the cool water rushing over my arm. By about the sixth time this happened, I decided it was time to call it a day.

After ten long hours, about half of the cabinets were stripped. I was supposed to have dinner with my friend John and realized I (as usual) was running late. I can only imagine his reaction when he heard this message on his machine, “Oy. I’m running late. I’m exhausted. I didn’t realize how difficult stripping could be.”