Don’t Do That!
I’ve discovered pet peeves I never realized I had.
1. Passengers who insist they want to take the scenic route then sleep the entire 13 freaking hours to Los Angeles on windy Highway 1.
2. Traffic jams. I can handle about 1 1/2 hours of slow, imperceptibly moving traffic, then I turn into a raving bitch.
3. People who grunt when asked a yes/no question, the grunt not clearly an affirmative nor a negative.
That’s all for now. More as they are discovered.
A New Perspective
My friend Young is visiting from Korea. I’m seeing America in a way I’ve never seen before. The first day he was here I had to explain what parking meters are. The second, laundromats. The third, redwoods and why they grow so big. The fourth, gay pride.
I may have bitten off more than I can chew. Tonight we’re going to the Marin County Fair, in part because I want him to expose him to the whole “fair” experience – the exhibits, the rides, the carnival games. But also because KC and The Sunshine Band is playing. Take me back to 3rd grade. How can I explain that?
Sale?
As I passed the fortune cookie shop, the sign caught my eye: Special Sale Today. Misfortunes, 50% off.
I’m sad. My only uncle, my favorite relative, has died. I don’t ponder questions that usually come with such occurrences, such as, “Why him?” “Why now?” “What did he do to deserve such an early death?” because such questions really don’t matter. Death happens.
I’m sad because I won’t hear his Florida twang in his scruffy voice ever again. Sad because I won’t feel the prickly stubble of his graying 5 o’clock shadow as I hug him. Sad because I won’t experience that special feeling when I sit talking to him at family gatherings, knowing I’m his favorite, too, not because of any words that have been said, but knowing nonetheless. Sad because I’m 3000 miles away from any family and during times like these it would be so comforting to drive across town just to be with others who loved him too.
I’m sad just because.
Moving, Moving, Moving
Once again, I’m packing up my belongings and moving. Hopefully this will be the last time for a while, but for some reason I suspect not. This time it’s just across town, to a larger apartment, one more conveniently located for my commute.
In some ways, I marvel that I own so little for having been in the workforce for almost 15 years. Then, on nights like tonight, when I begin packing those seemingly so few possessions into boxes becoming stacked higher and higher, I wonder how I’ve accumulated so much. And why I need it.
I was making excellent progress until I began to pull a packed box (one never unpacked from the last move) off a closet shelf. I began to lose my balance, the next thing I knew I was showered with cascading high school and college yearbooks. Not sure those were the best times of my life, but they certainly were the heaviest.
The End
The end came excrutiatingly slow. The end to our softball season. We’re a fun team. Every time we take the field good times are guaranteed. But something has happened, or rather, has not happened, lately.
There’s a peculiar rule in the league we’re in. If a team scores 10 runs within an inning, they’re done. Back to the outfield. Time for the other team to have a chance to play ball. That rule was invoked upon us not once, but twice, in tonight’s game. Ouch.
What was especially painful was the very last inning. The umpire told the other team (at that point ahead by at least 20 runs) that in order to take their last at bat, everyone on the team had to switch hit. There were groans, meek protests of, “But I’ve never held the bat this way…” And yet they still scored.
Guess it’s a good thing we all have day jobs.
The Coldest Birthday I Ever Spent Was a Summer in San Francisco
In theory it was a good idea. A bonfire on the beach to celebrate my 35th birthday. Emily sent out the details; most people responded by saying they had never attended a beach bonfire in San Francisco before and were looking forward to a new experience.
We arrived to the beach just after nightfall, laden with firewood and refreshing beverages. As the icy wind blew through my woolen sweater and silken long underwear, I reminded myself, “Yes, it really is the middle of June in the northern hemisphere.” But, as we all knew it would be chilly, we had donned our ski attire. Yes, in the middle of the summer.
As we walked over the large sand dune to reach the long, flat area of beach where we were to build said bonfire, we were met with water as far as the eye could see. Unbeknownst to us until that very moment, it was a full moon, making the tide particularly high. Something we didn’t really consider in the planning of the bonfire. We were more concerned with having plenty of beer and marshmallows.
We managed to build a fire on a quite small strip of dry sand, which, in any sense of the word, couldn’t be classified as a bonfire. It hardly qualified as a campfire. We huddled around it, blinded not only by the spears of smoke carried by fierce winds, but also stung by the sand those same winds slapped against any area of exposed skin.
Everyone was a good sport. No one complained (much) about the cold. Or the absolute absurdity of the plan. Or the fine particles of sand that would be found everywhere over the next several days – in clothes, in ears, in cars, in apartments. I think, however, the next time anyone in this group receives an invitation to a beach bonfire in San Francisco, they’ll probably look back to a cold evening in June on a lonely beach and politely decline.
‘Til Death Do Us Part
I expected a small adobe brick building in a field somewhere. They were getting married in a Mission and for some reason that conjured rural images in my mind.
We parked on a city street, at a meter, and walked through a bustling crowd. “Where are we going?” I repeatedly asked. They pointed. “Right there. The white building.” Said building was sandwiched between others, not even a hint of a lawn surrounding it. As we neared, I heard amplified noises. The others, while not surprised about he location, were surprised by the sounds growing louder and louder as we approached the church.
Strains of loud Christian rock assaulted our ears as we rounded the corner. I turned to Em. “Diane doesn’t seem like the type to hire a band to greet guests.”
As we rounded the corner, the music grew louder and we were astonished to witness a festival, a “Freedom Fair” taking place in the courtyard and on the front steps of the church. The drummer hammered a steady beat with his eyes closed, head turned towards the sky. Several musicians, men and women, strummed electric guitars. A singer belted out words praising her Lord. People gathered around, singing, clapping, observing, praying.
The only thought running through my head was, Are we going to be able to hear the ceremony? We entered the Mission yet the sound didn’t diminish. I had a flashback to my brother’s wedding, almost 20 years ago, in the small town of North Wilkesboro, North Carolina. The church happened to be adjacent to a race car track. The wedding happened to be on the day of a major race.
“Do you, Greg, VROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM…… take VROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM…”
It was one of those moments during my life when I knew that it was completely inappropriate to laugh, yet I couldn’t ignore the irony of the situation. Being sixteen probably didn’t help either.
Thankfully, on Saturday, the band took a break moments before the wedding began. Solemnness was restored as Pachelbel’s Canon in D rang through the church. Two beaming mothers were escorted to their seats, followed by the bride, elegantly radiant as she sashayed down the aisle.
LoriLoo 