Feelin’ Good

“I’m running late. I’m so sorry. I should be there in about 15 minutes.”

No problem. I’ve got a book; I’ll just sit on a bench here on Shattuck and wait for you. Call me as you’re closer and I’ll come to the curb.

It’s been a long time since I’ve hung out in Berkeley. I found an empty bench, right at the Downtown Berkeley BART station entrance. There were people all around. Students, homeless, people just hanging. Boomboxes blaring, people sharing their lunches with one another. As I read my book, I smelled a slightly acrid, yet slightly familiar smell. What was that? I sniffed, still not recognizing it, and continued my reading.

She called again. She was a block away. I stood up. Then quickly sat back down, my head spinning. That smell. I was second hand stoned.

The Crazy Man

He’s a San Francisco institution, known simply as “the crazy man.” He sits at the California Street cable car turnaround, right in front of the Hyatt Embarcadero, shouting meaningless quibble. Same bench, same squatting position, everyday. I noticed him when I moved to San Francisco in 1992; he’s been there every time I’ve been there since, rain or shine, weekday or weekend. And he was there today. I’ve listened to him occasionally, just to see if any of his ramblings make sense. Never have. Random words, never complete sentences, rarely even the least bit coherent. As I walked by today, rushing to the BART station, he waited until I was right in front of him. A brief silence, then, “NORTH CAROLINA!” then his usual utterances, louder then softer, a harsh crescendo fading to a whisper. I stopped in my tracks, turned around and stared. He paid me no notice. Maybe I’m the crazy one.

Happy New Year!

Almost There…

Maybe it’s the start of a new year. Or maybe it’s because I’ve suddenly become (more) neurotic. For some reason, the thought of growing older preoccupies my thoughts. I can truthfully say this has never happened before. I’ve been the one to really look forward to birthdays – another year older, another year wiser. But lately…

I’ve noticed I need more sleep than I used to. For a while there I functioned, quite well, on four to five hours per night. Now I need a solid eight. My joints creak when I rouse from the bed in the morning.

I ran to the Golden Gate Bridge the other day, probably six or seven miles round trip. My knees hurt afterwards. It took me two days to recover.

Last year Emmy and I took an on-line questionnaire, the “Real Age” test. Amazingly, our “real ages” were 11 years less than our chronological ages, probably due to our diets, our exercise habits, we wear our seat belts, etc. We took the test again last week. In one chronological year, we aged eight “real years.” Oy.

The worst, though, was when I was walking to work. I passed by a Ross department store. In the window there was a sign that said, “Tuesdays, Senior Citizen Discount. 10% off 55 and older.” The realization struck me like a bolt of lighting, making every hair on my body stand on end. Oh, my god. I am so much closer to being a Senior Citizen than not. By far.

Merry Christmas

“I FELL ON THAT BIG BUMP AND I LOST ONE SKI AND I SCREAMED YOUR NAME AND YOU NEVER CAME AND I HAD TO GO UP THE HILL BY MYSELF AND IT WAS SO HARD AND…” and the sniffles started.

“But you’re here now. Everything worked out.”

“BUT I HAD TO DO IT ALL BY MYSELF!” she asserted, more violently.

He looked at her. Without sympathy, he uttered, “And?”

“YOU LEFT ME! I SCREAMED YOUR NAME 15 TIMES AND YOU NEVER CAME!” she screeched, now gasping for air in between the sobs.

With more patience, though it came with difficulty, he suggested, “Why don’t you ski in front of me. I can’t hear you if you ski behind me.”

“I DON’T KNOW THIS MOUNTAIN AND I CAN’T SEE AND I’M COLD AND I SCREAMED YOUR NAME AND YOU NEVER CAME! I HATE THIS! STUPID SKIING!” and she thrust her pole down, spearing anything that might have been alive under the deep blanket of snow.

Emily and I were sprawled on the mountainside, our legs burning, yet freezing, the fresh snow we were resting upon slowly giving way beneath us. We watched the interaction between the young girl and her father in silence. Simultaneously, we decided rest time was over.

As we whizzed down the mountain, we both giggled as Em said, “Guess we’re not having such a bad day after all…”

Is It Hot In Here Or What?

She laughed when she entered the café and saw me wearing the fuzzy red sweater. “Every time you wear that it reminds me of the time you went out with Brian…”

We both began laughing uncontrollably. It was a couple of years ago. There was a group of us that loved to hear live bands. Folk, blues, rock, alternative, punk, it really didn’t matter – the thrill of hearing the music, watching the musicians, dancing. On one particular night we visited a small, rather cozy performance space at the Hotel Utah. Our group of four females was virtually the entire audience. The band, one we had never heard before, but one of the gals had heard of, warmed up as if they were playing to a full house. “Check, check, one, two, three.” The mics were ready. The guys were warm. The music began.

It was our own private dance party. We had the whole floor to ourselves; they played to us. There was eye contact, there were winks, there were dedications. And at the end of the evening, there were phone numbers exchanged.

Brian, the bass player, called me a few days later. We made plans to have dinner together the following Sunday night.

I spent that weekend white water rafting, camping in the wilderness 5 hours north of the Bay Area. I returned home to learn my car had been towed, because the street in front of my apartment had been used for a street festival that day. I hurried down to the police station, retrieved my car, then pampered myself with a massage. I was feeling unusually sore and achy which I unthinkingly attributed to the white water rafting trip. We had been paddling for 3 days.

This was in July. For those not familiar with San Francisco, July is one of the coldest months here. Really. Having lived here for so many years, I know the cardinal rule of going out – layer. For some odd reason, I chose to ignore that rule that night. I tend to always get chilled, so I chose one of my warmest, cutest outfits. My fuzzy red sweater and black capri pants. Brian had made reservations at Park Chow – a scrumptious, cozy restaurant near Golden Gate Park. We waited a few extra minutes so that we could be seated next to the large fireplace, the table basking in the warm glow of the flickering flames.

Over appetizers we made small talk. The usual stuff – our jobs, where we grew up, what we like to do in our free time. I was seated closest to the fire, and felt myself growing unusually warm. I’m never warm. But, having ignored my own cardinal rule of layering, I had nothing to peel off. When the entrees arrived, I wasn’t simply warm anymore, I was hot. And sweating. I felt beads of perspiration running down my face. Whenever Brian looked down to take a bite of food, I tried to inconspicuously wipe my face. I don’t think I accomplished my goal of inconspicuousness. By the end of the meal, I could feel the heat radiating not just from my face, but from my whole body. What was going on? I tried to act as if this were quite normal, but I could tell by his glances that he noticed something was awry.

As we exited, I welcomed the chill air against my damp face, greeted the snapping wind like an old friend. As Brian hurried to the car to escape the chilly bitterness, I slowly sauntered, relishing the cooling of my body. He drove me back to my apartment, but I dared not give him a goodnight hug, much less a kiss, for the sweating had begun again. I could feel tendrils forming along my hairline from the dampness I was emitting.

As I brushed my teeth that night, I spied a thermometer in my medicine cabinet. Just out of curiosity, I took my temperature. One hundred and three. No wonder I was sweating! I tossed and turned all night, burrowing under my down comforter, then tossing it aside, heating up, then cooling off. By noon the next day my fever had broken. In a matter of days I felt back to my normal self. I never told Brian, though, that that was the reason I was sweating profusely. I could never think of a graceful way to broach the topic. We talked a few more times on the phone, saw each other at concerts, exchanged pleasantries, but never went out on a date again. But now, whenever I wear the red fuzzy sweater, I get a little bit flushed…

“I Often Have Strange And Curious Experiences Happen To Me.”

This was one of the statements on the psychological exam I recently took during a job interview. Without hesitation, I blackened the circle next to “agree.”

As I was walking to work this morning, I was reflecting on many of the strange and curious things that have happened to me. Many of them occurred while living in foreign countries, which I’m sure the language barrier contributed to. Men asking me to be their sexual partner on the subway in Korea. Little old ladies in purple lipstick asking me to pose in pictures with them in China. Aboriginals sharing witchity grubs with me over a campfire in Australia. Receiving a marriage proposal at a baseball field in Cuba, having met the proposer only minutes before. Then the other experiences here in San Francisco, just because it’s San Francisco.

I was approaching Chinatown. The streets became narrower, the cars barely eking by each other, the sidewalks seeming to sprout people. I neared the hospital where the guard greets me each morning with “Happy Monday,” “Happy Tuesday,” the greeting changing respectively with each passing day. Sure enough, there he stood in his position, observing the people jostling pass. As I approached, just like clockwork, he said, “Happy Thursday!” but then he glanced at his watch. “You’re early this morning.” I simply smiled. Time in the morning is a mystery to me. Sometimes it seems to creep along, the minutes dragging. Other days, the minutes spin out of control, and before I realize it an hour or two has passed. The guard then looked surreptitiously to the right, and then checked the coast to the left. “Here, I have something for you.” Oh. This can’t be good. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper, folded neatly into eighths. He shoved it into my hand, saying he had to get back to work, the boss might be watching. I took the paper and slipped it into my coat pocket. The entire exchange happened without me breaking my stride.

I was curious. What would the paper say? Did I really want to know?

I waited until I turned onto Grant Street, out of sight from the hospital. I reached into my pocket and retrieved the paper, slowly unfolding it. There, typed neatly on the page, were stanzas. A poem, with lots of Shakespearean-esque words. “e’er, o’er, soar, shining rays, heavens’ eyes, joy, eternal sweet,” all jumped off the page at me. Normally, I read very quickly. I read it once, but didn’t comprehend. I forced myself to read it slowly. I understood the words, but not the whole. I read it again. Random images came to mind, but not a coherent meaning. It still didn’t make sense.

Yet another strange and curious experience to add to my list.

Spiritual Court

Friday

“Lori, this is Father T. I hope you remember me. I’m calling because Steve was just in here filing for a church divorce. Please give me a call at your earliest convenience. I need to talk to you.”

Sunday

“Lori, this is Steve. One of the priests might be calling you. I just wanted to give you a heads up. They’re not calling for a bake sale donation or to ask you to bake baklava. I’m in the process of filing for a church divorce and for some reason they want to talk to you.”

Monday

(on the phone with Steve)

Me: I appreciate the warning about the Greek priests, but you’re a couple of days late. Father T called me on Friday. We’ve been leaving voice mails for the past couple of days.

S: Lori, you would not believe the session we had together. I completed some paperwork, then he asked me about the possibility of our reconciliation.

Me: Did you remind him that our divorce has been final for 3 years?

S: Well, yes. I told him we did the therapy thing, we tried to work it out, but we had irreconcilable differences. That’s when he asked for your number. And then said, ‘I wish I had the opportunity to meet your wife.’

Me: Steve, he did meet me!

S: I know, I know. I don’t know why he wants to talk to you.

More pleasantries exchanged, then we hung up.

Today

“Lori, this is Father T again. I’m sorry we keep missing each other. Your voice is an absolute delight on my message machine; I remember you fondly. I wanted to let you know, just in case you weren’t aware, that Steve is filing for a church divorce and this is your chance for reconciliation. Give me a call if you’d like to work it out. If I don’t hear from you, then I’ll assume you agree with his wishes and we’ll take this up to Spiritual Court.”

I’m torn. First of all, a priest shouldn’t be lying. He has no idea who I am. Second, I guess he’s just doing due diligence, but really, our divorce has been final for 3 years. Does he really think I’ve suddenly changed my mind and want to reconcile? Third, I’ve never been to Spiritual Court. Now *that* could be cool.

2 Weeks Ago

“We really enjoyed meeting you. We’d like you to come out again, meet a few more people, and take a 4 hour psychological exam.”

At first I thought I had misheard. I replayed the message. I had not misheard.

My first reaction was to laugh. A psychological exam? For four hours? What in the world for?

I returned the call. Very friendly, yet inquisitive. So what exactly is this four hour psychological exam?

This was met by tittering laughter. “Oh, everyone up for a promotion and serious job candidates have to take it.”

Okay, but what exactly is it?

“I even had to take it.” More laughter.

But what does it consist of? What is it? A pen and paper test? A demonstration? Face to face interview?

“Welllll… yes. An aptitude test. And a personality test. And then, well, just talking to a psychologist for awhile.” She was trying to downplay the magnitude of spending four hours of a job interview with a psychologist.

I wasn’t convinced, but I agreed to it anyway.

The Past Week

I mentioned this transaction to a few people and was unanimously met by incredulous stares then exclamations. Let me clarify here, I’m not applying to be a top secret, triple clearance agent. I’m applying for a corporate training position in the retail industry. I’ve vacillated from indignation to intense curiosity. Do I really want to work for a company that gives me a pre-employment psychological exam? Do I really want to work for a company that requested personal references, professional references, financial references, and familial references? Someone for whom I’ve signed my consent for just about every drug test possible? Is this the sign of a company that truly cares about its employees, or am I entering a Big Brother utopia?

The job, as I understand it, seems challenging. I’ve clicked with the interviewers I’ve met thus far. And I’m dying to know what they will ask me for four hours.

Monday Morning, 9:30 am

“Hi. Your psychological exam isn’t until 10:30. I see you’ve brought a book. Good. You can sit in the cafeteria for the next hour.”

I looked at the HR rep. Inwardly, I thought, On the no less than four voice messages you’ve left me over the past two weeks, you’ve said to be here at 9:30. Every single time. I smiled. Did you leave me a message that it starts at 10:30? I was under the impression it was at 9:30.

She pondered. “I *thought* I left you a message. Maybe I didn’t.”

I’m sitting here with my coffee in the corporate headquarters, in the cafeteria. Is this part of the exam? Do they want to see how I react to schedule changes? Are they watching me? I glance around. I don’t see any secret cameras. I smile anyway, just in case. I glance at my schedule for the remainder of the day. My meeting with the psychologist is scheduled from 10:30 am – 2:30 pm. And the schedule does not indicate a lunch break. Is this part of the exam? To see how I function in physically demanding situations? To see how long I can survive without food or water?

There is nothing that triggers paranoia more than preparing to sit with a psychologist for four hours. When you think about it, we are evaluated everyday, constantly. And normally, I don’t think twice about it. But for some reason, today it bothers me.

This extra hour has been a blessing in disguise. I feel like an undercover agent. I can observe all the employees, in a relaxed atmosphere. A priceless opportunity to experience the culture of the company firsthand, unnoticed.

Post-Psychological Exam

It’s over. Several “aptitude” tests – which were quite fun. Lots of logic questions, both verbal and numerical – I felt like I was doing puzzles. A battery of problem solving tests, then the 462 item personality quiz. Yes, 462 individual items with which I had to agree or disagree, then bubble in the corresponding circle. Throughout most of the test I was highly entertained. Some of the questions seemed, well, ridiculous. Lots of questions about how terrified I am of natural disasters. Lots of questions about if I like to dance. Then, the random ones. Some of my favorites:

“I have never been in trouble with the law”

“Several times a week I feel as if something dreadful is about to happen”

“There’s no use in doing things for people; you only find that you get it on the neck in the long run”

“Women should not be allowed to drink in cocktail bars”

“I often feel like picking a fist fight with someone”

“I am often bothered by useless thoughts which keep running through my mind”

And, then, lots of questions about whether I would want to be a race car driver, a soldier, a mechanic, librarian, etc.

I don’t believe that a pen and paper test can accurately capture my personality. But, they’re going to try. They’re going to score me on 28 different personality traits then judge me. I can’t wait to see what they discover.

At Breakfast

“I feel like a…” he began.

Million bucks? I offered.

“No, more like a single paper note. Denomination unimportant.”

Hard night last night, dear?

This time, it was my turn to laugh.