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.”

“How long…

do you think it would take us to get a dozen?” We laughed as we went back to the car.

After our trip to Home Depot, we stopped by the local Krispy Kreme. I tried to explain to him the absolute reverence I had for Krispy Kreme, those delectable, melt-in-your mouth sugary sensations hailing, as do I, from Winston-Salem, North Carolina. We watched the procession as we entered. The circles of dough, evenly spaced on the conveyer belt, going up and down, up and down, before being plopped into sizzling hot grease, fried to a delicious golden brown before wafting under the waterfall of pure sugar. Mmmmm!

We strolled up to the counter, I surveying the display case, he waiting. The guy behind the counter, obviously bored, without looking at us, thrust two freshly made, piping hot original glazed doughnuts towards us. “Sample?” We gladly accepted, then walked back to the assembly line, watching the doughnuts bobble in the hot grease. After finishing our free sample, we walked back to the display case. I was ready to order one of my all time favorite doughnuts, the chocolate covered, cream (not custard) filled, with a glass of milk. We stood there patiently. Again, right on cue, the counter boy, still not looking at us, thrust two more freshly made, piping hot original glazed doughnuts towards us. “Sample?” Again, we took the doughnuts.

It took a few minutes for me to get his attention. He started at me with another freshly made glazed doughnut in his hand. “No, I don’t want a sample. I’d like to get one of those to go.”

We laughed as we went back to the car. I bet if we had had a box we could have easily garnered a dozen.

My Morning Walk

When he called to tell me the meeting had been delayed, I was excited. I was already scheduled to spend the night in Monterey, and now I had a free morning. I set the alarm for the normal 6:30 am, but once my ears heard the shrill ring, I sprang out of bed rather than wallowing under the covers like I usually do. The beach was right across the street. And it wasn’t the crowded part of the beach; I had purposely booked a hotel 15 miles out of town.

I struggled to lift my feet, one at a time, sinking ever so slowly into the millions of fine grains of sand as I hiked up the enormous dune. I reached the top, blinded by the sunlight’s glare on the ocean. To the left, far in the distance, just before the fog met the horizon, were a smattering of fisherman. To the right, for as far as I could see, nothing but sunlight.

I scurried down the dune, sliding, losing my balance, my feet rolling out from under me. I reached the pressed portion of the beach, that sand packed by the endless cycle of tides going out, coming in, going out again. I turned to the right and began jogging, each foot leaving a deep impression in the sand as I made my way down the deserted beach. I ran, immediately feeling alone and tiny surrounded by the vast expanse of the sand, the ocean, and the sky. As I ran, I realized I wasn’t alone. That my presence wasn’t concerning the incredible amounts of life all around me.

The seagulls didn’t even move as I ran by. They stood, searching, solitary or in groups, searching for that elusive fish. Occasionally one would fly, soar, then return to its post. I ran by groups of five, groups of fifty gulls waiting on the beach.

The other thing in abundance on the beach was kelp. Two varieties had floated ashore, the huge, forest green snake like tubes and the tiny, fresh neon greens sprays. Surrounding each group, however, were tiny, ball-like organisms. At first, I thought the sand had come to life. Small balls of sand jumped as I ran by. The larger the bunch of kelp, the more the sand particles jumped. They must have been a small sea animal;I never found out.

I ran, trying to reach that elusive spot where the fog meets the horizon. As I ran, it surfaced farther and farther away. I finally gave up and turned around. An hour and a half later, in what seemed like minutes, I was back in my hotel room. What started out as my solitary expedition turned out to be one filled with millions of other life forms. Hopefully they’ll still be there when tomorrow’s, or the next day’s, fisherman, heads out.

Sign of the Times

I stumbled quite unsuspecting upon the den of madness. I arrived, after my manicure and pedicure, to meet friends for a drink at Blondie’s. Upon arrival, I was met by greeters sporting nametags and whistles “Hurry Date – 25 Dates in One Evening.” I showed the bouncer my i.d. and hesitantly asked, “I’m not with the program, can I still get a drink?” He smiled and said, “Thanks, Lori, come on in.”

Thankfully, right away I spotted my friends, sans nametags. I observed the scene around me. Every three minutes Jordan blew her whistle loudly, toot, toot, toot! The men moved counterclockwise one seat; the women remained where they were. With glazed looks each couple repeated the same conversation they had previously repeated five, six, seven, eight times.

I watched with wonder. How could anyone possibly purport to know, and like, someone within three minutes? Collin summed it up nicely, “This is so Henry Ford’s approach to dating.” Get them in, move them out.

Pre-teen Angst

I often have to remind myself I’m a grown woman. Today was one of those days.

I’m a corporate trainer. Normally I love facilitating classes. It’s fun, I get to meet new people, I get to visit a different office, it’s an exhilarating day. Except for when it’s not. Like today.

The second thing I noticed when I entered the room was the dour look on everyone’s face, that look of “I really don’t want to be here but was told I must attend.” The first thing I noticed was that the room was 85 degrees and had no air conditioning or windows, only fans that slowly shoved the hot air from one side of the room to the other. I looked around, wondering what the third strike would be.

They weren’t a talkative bunch. To say the least. By the end of my introduction, I realized I was going to have to work arduously if I wanted those in the room to be appropriately labeled participants. Which was fine, I like a challenge. Usually.

As I was elaborating on one of my oh so intriguing Powerpoint slides, I sensed something towards the back of the room. In my peripheral vision I noticed the table of all women mouthing sarcastic comments to each other. I thought I saw a note being passed. I started walking the room, hoping my movement would trigger their attention. A couple of eye rolls followed. I asked a question, hoping a dynamic discussion would ensue. Instead, I was met by blank stares. I asked a more direct question and was met by shoulder shrugs. As I worked the room, whenever I turned towards them they would snicker then try to hide their laughs. I was no longer a corporate trainer for a multi-million dollar company. I was in the halls of my junior high, being shunned by the popular girls.

On paper you would have thought I was popular. I was a cheerleader. I played sports. But I never really understood what the hype was about. I didn’t watch tv. I didn’t follow the latest rock stars. I didn’t wear designer clothes. I preferred to read books or do my homework. But I tried so hard to fit in. Growing up in a small, conservative southern town, what I wanted more than anything else was normalcy. To be like everyone else. But I wasn’t.

And still am not. I continued the class, hoping their immature behavior would self-correct. It didn’t. Should I have said something? Maybe. Did I? No. Will I in future classes? Probably. What I realized, in hindsight, is that you can’t please everyone, so you might as well please yourself.