It Took A Decade

I’ve lived in San Francisco, on and off, for 10 years now. And today was my first time attending a 49ers game. It was awesome. A beautiful sunny day, perhaps in the 70s, I, perfectly comfortable in a short sleeved shirt and a glass of icy lemonade in hand. A panoramic view of the field, good fans all around. Except the one man, that one very, very loud man behind me. Who, no less than 112 times during the game, exclaimed, no, screeched, in a bellowing way, “That is big! That is so big! Do you realize how big that is?”

Missing…

The move went well. Better than I ever expected. Eight of my closest friends showed up – the boxes and furniture were out of the truck in less than an hour. I’ve spent the whole weekend unpacking. Nothing broken. Everything as packed. Except. Except that one box. That’s nowhere to be found. The one with all my bathroom and many of my kitchen items. All my towels. My bathmat. My dishrack. My tea kettle. Seemingly small items, but oh, so important.

“The Only Downside…

of my new apartment is that my bedroom wall borders the yard of the elementary school next door. So, every morning, around 7:45 am, I hear the little darlings kicking the soccer ball as hard as they can, then yelling, ‘SCOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!’,” I was telling my friend as he drove me home from work. “That’s a little annoying. But other than that, I love it.”

As I put my key into the lock, I noticed a bright orange flyer on the floor of my lobby, slipped under the door. I stooped closer to read.

“DEAR NEIGHBORS,

One of our second graders kicked a ball with such force as he was playing soccer that his shoe flew off his food and sailed over your fence.

Would you please help him retrieve it from your backyard and throw it back over the fence to the school yard? He would appreciate it immensely. The emergency sandal that we fashioned from packing foam and duct tape made him the object of some good humored teasing.

I know he’ll be more careful next time. Thanks for your kindness!

Signed, The Principal”

I laughed until tears streamed from my eyes. Then I found a flashlight, went into the backyard and searched for the missing shoe. It took me three tries to get it back over the 30 foot high fence. That must have been one hell of a kick.

Night Bocce Ball

Just returned from a weekend of abalone diving. Or, rather, abalone eating. Several times a year, a spirited group of friends plans a camping trip to the Medocino area, for the sole purpose of abalone diving. I look forward to these trips with unbridled anticipation. The drive up is always stupendous, a good four hour drive with my best friend Emily. We usually stop at a barely populated beach along the way, she surfs, I read on the beach, wrapped in layers of fleece and wool. We usually arrive in to the abalone campsite in the late afternoon, just in time to utilize the last rays of light to pitch our tent. This year was no exception.

We arrived, just as the divers were returning from their first dive of the weekend. Nine beautiful, shiny, unsuspecting abalone greeted us. Emily and I pitched our tent, then materialized for campfire duty. The divers prepared the abalone, striking it with a crowbar to tenderize it, scooping it from its luminescent shell, slicing it into edible portions. I resumed my regular duties: chopping garlic, washing asparagus, timing the pasta. And watching. Watching and waiting. Food prepared over a campfire always seems more delicious, more tantalizing, than food prepared in a kitchen, but this more so. Keeping with tradition, we prepared three varieties of abalone: sauteed with butter and garlic, breaded and fried, and “happy enchiladas” a layered concoction of sliced abalone, salsa, chiles, and lots of cheese that tastes unlike anything I’ve ever had before.

Dinner is a communal experience. The abalone is taken from the frying pan onto a single plate. The first person takes a bite, then passes the sole plate to the next person at the campfire. That person digs in, then passes it to the next person, and so on, and so on, and so on. Dinner lasts for hours, a bite here, a bite there. When all the food is gone, dinner is done and the cleanup commences.

As we were roasting s’mores, Ladd announced it was time for night bocce ball. I perked up. This was a new tradition. Something introduced on the last abalone camping trip, the one I missed because I was still in Korea. “What is this night bocce ball? Do tell….” It was explained to me. A bocce ball set, one of the plastic variety, was produced. Glow sticks, the bright neon tiny ones commonly found at raves, were taped unrelentingly to the balls, each person a different color. The colors were exhausted quickly, so color combinations were utilized. I was blue and green.

We began, Ladd throwing the first ball into the woods. No flashlights allowed. We watched as the first ball rolled into the brushes, the glow sticks barely perceptible as it bounced, then rolled, then stopped. Each of us, all eight of us, tossed our balls towards the now unseen ball. Branches were heard crushing. Splashes, into the nearby creek, echoed in the darkness. As the last one threw his ball, we rushed towards the pallino, seeing who earned the honors of tossing for the next round. This continued by the light of the nearly full moon, each round halted by an emergency search effort, as someone had undoubtedly lost their ball. “Red, we’re looking for the red glow sticks. The red bocce ball. Is it over there?” “Red is the hardest to see, you know. Something about the wave length of the color.” “I think I found it! It’s way over here…” “How’d it get that far? Are you sure?”

For three hours we engaged in this madness. This make believe sport on a magical playing field. We stopped not because it was no longer fun, but because we could no longer keep our eyes open. We were exhausted from a day of diving, cooking, eating, more eating, more eating, and night bocce ball. My new favorite sport.

As Heard Around The Campfire…

“Chicken necks? Are you *sure* that’s a good idea?” the woman in the group gently probed.

They were recounting the scene from earlier in the day.

“Well, we wanted to catch crabs. So, we figured the best way was to take some chicken necks, paddle out, and leave them with the traps. It wasn’t until right as we were getting ready to get into the water that we realized we were in white shark territory.”

The only woman in the group, a mere 4 foot 11 compared to the 6 foot pus men, “Well, I knew I wasn’t getting out of the car if they were putting those chicken necks in the water. I mean, c’mon, we’re in shark territory. I didn’t want to be shark bait. I didn’t care if I was already in my wet suit.”

A prime example of a good idea. Well, a potentially good idea, turned really bad.

Dominoes

Maybe it was because the bus driver was new. Or sadistic. Or maybe it was because I was wearing high heels, dressed for an interview. He lurched up the hill, starting, stopping, starting suddenly. The tiny Chinese woman beside me lost her balance. She careened into me with a force I didn’t realize could come from such a small person. I tottered then checked the woman in front of me. She in turn lurched into the woman in front of her. And so it went down the aisle.

More amazing, though, was the wave of soft apologies that followed the same pattern, all received with smiles.

The Job

It happened so fast. I arrived to San Francisco on Sunday. On Monday I had an email from a former co-worker and good friend.

“Would you be interested in working contract work back at (name of company that laid me off last year)? Call me.”

Hey, it’s Lori. I’d love to do some work for you. What ‘cha got?

“Well, it’s only 20 hours a week. Through the end of the year. You’d be helping out with some of the major conferences coming up – writing and editing show programs, contacting speakers, logistics, etc.”

I thought for a moment. Twenty hours a week was certainly more than the zero hours a week I was currently working. I’d be working with people I really, really like and respect. And, it would give me time to continue searching for a “real” job – whatever that might be.

Sure, I’d love to. Thanks.

“Well, there’s one thing. Can you start right away?”

I thought again. I had been looking forward to easing my way back into my life in San Francisco. Catching up with friends, doing lunch, morning jogs by the Golden Gate Bridge. Then again, I’ve never eased my way into anything. Why start now?

I’ve been working for two weeks. Somehow the twenty hours a week morphed into forty. It’s been great.

Oh.

I’m starting to get settled here. Working a regular work week, sleeping in the same place every night (though sans furniture), connecting with old friends. I felt it was time to start my Korean language and Chinese calligraphy lessons again. Searching the web, I typed in “Chinese calligraphy lessons San Francisco.” The first result: Loriloo. Hm. That really doesn’t help me.

Maybe I should leave a couple of dead ones here. Just as an example. In case any others decide to return. I want them to know I mean business.

He stared at me, this assertion of my killing capacity was somewhat out of character.

What? I hate ants. I want them all dead.

And with that I returned to my task of mopping up, scraping up, digging out, squishing, any and all ants that remained.

I had been talking on the phone with my ex-husband when I made the discovery. He was asking me about my new apartment; I was extolling the virtues of it when I opened the refrigerator door to get a glass of water. There, a black ribbon undulating up and down, was a line of ants crawling on the door. Not in the refrigerator, merely where the door frame met the gasket. I slammed the door, trying not to drop the phone. I opened the freezer compartment. I don’t know why, but I did. And was met with mounds and mounds of freeze dried ants.

How did this happen?

As calmly as I could, I ended our phone call. I didn’t tell him about my discovery.

I immediately called Daniel, already on his way over. In mild hysteria, I told him, I am staring at millions of ants. They are all over my refrigerator. Get something!

Somewhat perplexed, he said, “What? What exactly do you want me to do?”

I want you to stop at the store and buy something that will kill them. All of them. Raid, Black Flag, anything, just get it quick!

I stared at the ants. I watched them crawling, up and down, in an almost perfect line. I felt my skin crawling. My scalp felt as though tiny feet were irritatingly massaging it. I itched. I scratched. I shuddered. I couldn’t just stand by and watch. I grabbed a paper towel and started squishing. I shouldn’t have.

For where they once were in a contained area, marching up and down the pristine, just plugged in, brand new white Frigidaire, they now scattered. Random patterns of travel over the sides of the refrigerator. Scurrying down to the white and black marbled floor, disappearing into the nondescript design. I stood there, paralyzed, not sure of my next action.

Half an hour later I buzzed him in. I grabbed the white plastic grocery bag from his hand. What’s this? How am I supposed to kill ants with this? I asked as I handled the “ant motel,” a small plastic house for wayward ants. Do you see what I’m up against? Oh, this just will not do! I had been transformed into a mad woman. I grabbed my keys, threw on a jacket, and proclaimed my intention to find a powerful toxin to kill, kill, kill the creatures which had invaded my new home.

He, still perplexed, followed behind me. Twenty minutes later we returned, I with can of poisonous spray in my hand. I, who uses vinegar and water to mop the floors. I, who uses baking soda to scrub the sink. I, who avoids newly painted rooms because of the fumes. Yes, this same I began spraying with a vengeance. I wanted them all dead immediately. I couldn’t figure out how they got there. Why they chose my kitchen to attack. I had just moved in the night before. I didn’t invite them. I have no food out in my apartment. In the refrigerator I have bottles of water and a small leftover container of Chinese noodles. But the ants didn’t seem to be interested in the little food that was in the refrigerator. They were crawling, seemingly to the freezer compartment, to die, frozen instantly as they became trapped.

As the crawling ceased I calmed. I began the unpleasant task of cleaning up the thousands of shriveled, lifeless drowned forms. We searched for anything they might have been after. A forgotten sweet? Refuge from the dampness outside? It was bizarre. There was no trail from anywhere. The ants seemed to have spontaneously appeared, either in the freezer or on the refrigerator, crawling around it, but never leaving.

Before leaving for work this morning I considered checking, just to make sure they hadn’t come back. Then I realized I didn’t want to know. They may be there, waiting for me, when I return home. But now I’m prepared.

Home, Sweet Home

I love my new landlord. He’s a stooped, elderly, nearsighted Chinese man whose eyes twinkle. While trying to determine a time to meet today to sign the lease, present him with a check, and transfer the keys, I suggested 5:30. He countered with 5:00, so I wouldn’t be walking in the dark. This immediately endeared me to him.

As I walked up the hill, he glanced at his watch, and with surprise, exclaimed, “Right on time!” I smiled and introduced myself. His adult son, who had shown me the apartment, stood a few feet behind him.

At first I wondered why the son was there also. I soon found out. My landlord is the Chinese version of Mr. Magoo. He read the lease to me, then pointed out where I should sign. Except it was where he should sign. As his son pointed out. He showed me the new refrigerator he had installed. Except he forgot to remove the packing materials from the inside. As his son pointed out. At great length, he explained the lock system on the door (push button lock and deadbolt), then proceeded to leave the apartment without utilizing either. As his son pointed out. But he was so good natured, even in his clumsiness, I couldn’t help but like him. Even when he forgot to actually give me the keys at the end of our meeting. As his son pointed out.