I’m often told I don’t look my age. Most of the time, that’s welcome.
Tonight, however….
A 26 year old took a liking to me. I was polite, yet distant. I didn’t want to encourage this fine young thing who still lived at home with his parents.
As I left the bar, he stopped me. “If you were a McDonald’s hamburger, you would be a McBeautiful.”
I seriously didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Incredibly, we were ranked 3rd in the league. How? I’m not sure. I don’t remember winning any games this season, but maybe we did.
Tonight, we were en fuego. We could do nothing wrong; the other team could do nothing right. (with minor modifications, that could be the lyrics to a country western song….) The final score was 23-5. Amazing, considering we only scored 36 runs during the entire season.
Emily invited me to an Alley Cat race this weekend — a bike ride/food drive for the San Francisco food bank. When she explained it, I was psyched. Riding around the city on a Sunday afternoon, for the good of the community? What could be better?
I arrived a few minutes before noon at the large bow and arrow on the Embarcadero. I slowly got off my bike and unclipped my bike helmet. It was the ultimate hipster gathering. Girls with cut off jeans, funky striped socks, torn stockings, multiple tattoos and piercings, and attitude. Guys with tricked out bikes, gelled hair, and lean bodies that had done one too many recreational drugs. One of these things was not like the other, can you tell what does not belong??? I stood there, feeling very conspicuous. I’m not hip. I’d like to be, but I’m not. I’m very mainstream, very Southern. I was grateful I wasn’t wearing matching hairbands.
The minutes that I waited for Em felt like an eternity. What body position could I assume that would indicate I was relaxed, at ease? I simply stared.
Emily arrived; the group gathered to receive our “manifests” — the list of grocery stores we needed to visit and food items we were required to procure before racing to the final destination: Gestalt. What we lacked in speed we made up for in 1- knowing where the grocery stores were located and 2- knowing where food items are located in the grocery stores. Maturity has its advantages. We didn’t finish first, but we also didn’t come in last. Hooray for us!
At Gestalt, the uber hipster bikers were surprisingly friendly. They wanted to know how many races I had done (none) , if I enjoyed it (yes, except for those damn hills) and how I heard about it (through my best friend’s boyfriend). And they kept talking to me. Stereotypes be damned. The biker crowd was pretty damn awesome. And up close, the tattoos are even more incredible. Seriously.
Some people go to movies to critique the art of the movie. I go to be entertained. I’m not asking for much. A simple plot, bonus points if it’s clever. Decent acting. And a relatively happy ending. I saw two movies over the weekend.
Stranger Than Fiction
The movie ended; I was sobbing uncontrollably. I loved this movie. Incredibly genius, innovative, creative, touching, heartbreaking, and funny. What more could you ask for?
Babel
Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse… it did. I spent the entire movie hunched in my seat, alternating between covering my eyes, covering my ears, and wanting to shout at the characters, “Don’t do that! No. Really. Stop. Noooooooooooooooooooo!”
The movie ended; I was exhausted. Utterly and totally spent. Completely nauseated and wanting to be anywhere but around people.
I really should start reading the previews before the movie. The surprises kill me.
Over brunch, the three of us were discussing work holiday parties. She asked, “Where is yours this year?” I heard him say, “The Great American Musical.”
Awesome! Someone had finally taken my idea of living life like a musical and turned it into a party idea. I was intrigued. How would this work?
So I asked him, “How will they do that?”
Him: “What are you talking about?”
Me: “The musical. How will the holiday party imitate a musical?”
Him: “What?!? What are you talking about?”
Me: “Didn’t you say your holiday party was going to be The Great American Musical?”
Him: “No. It’s at the Great American Music Hall. What are you talking about?”
Me (disappointed): “Oh. I thought it was a theme party. You know, the Great American Musical. Everyone would have to sing the main parts. For example, today could be, ‘Oh, what a beautiful morn—-ing! Brunch at Rex’s is ours. Sharing good food and great friend—ship…”
Her (laughing): “Can you sing that again?”
Him: “Please don’t.”
Act I
I deposit my quarters, pour in my soap, and select the button, “colors.” And wait. The water should be streaming out, mixing with the soap, so that I can deposit my dirty clothes into the washer. And, nothing. Okay, maybe “colors” is out of commission. I try “bright colors.” Nothing. “Whites.” Nothing. “Delicates.” Nothing. Damn.
I walk across the street, because I know that the man who owns this laundry also owns the corner store across the street. There are a couple of other men in the corner store, hanging out, watching the ball game on tv.
“Hi! I put my money in the washer, and the water isn’t working.”
“Number 21?”
“No, number 20. I tried all the selections: colors, bright colors, whites, none of them worked.”
“Did you say-ah the prayer?”
I think I’ve heard him ask me if I’ve said a prayer to the washing machine. No. I couldn’t have heard that. That would be silly.
“Did… A… Did you just ask me if I said a prayer?” I stammer.
“Yes. The prayer. To the washing machine.”
Am I really hearing this? I look at the other men. They nod in agreement. The prayer. To the washing machine. Of course.
“Um. No, I didn’t. I mean, I’ve said prayers. Even today. Well, maybe. I opened and shut it several times, hoping it would work. Is that maybe the prayer?”
“No-ah. Go and say-a the prayer. The washing machine work then.”
I stand there, perplexed. Am I really having this conversation? Obviously I am. I go back across the street and say a couple of prayers for machine 20. It still doesn’t work.
Back in the corner store, I tell the proprietor, “I said the prayers. It still doesn’t work.” At this point, I just want a refund of my two, yes TWO, dollars that I deposited into the machine for the privilege of washing my clothes.
“You said-ah the prayers?”
“Yes. The prayers were said.” I motioned with my hands together, mimicking a bowing, praying stance.
“You slam the lid?”
Is he questioning whether I broke his machine?
“No. I didn’t slam the lid.”
“You need-ah slam the lid.”
“Well. I opened and closed the lid. I tried to make it work.”
Another man in the store, obviously familiar with machine 20, said to me, “No, you need to slam the lid. That’s how the water comes on. Press really hard in the center. That helps, too.”
“I already moved my clothes. Washer 20 isn’t working. I just want a refund. That’s all.”
The proprietor looks peeved. “Two dollars?”
“Yes, two dollars.”
“But the machine has to-ah run.” He motions to one of the guys watching the game. “Go across the street. Machine 20. Slam-ah the lid. Up and down. Hard. Go.”
I wait. Will I get my refund? He thinks for a moment, then nods. “Okay. I give you refund.”
Note to self. Don’t use machine 20 again.
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Act II
I return to the Laundromat, ready to put my clothes in the dryer. Wait a minute. What is this? For some unknown reason, I had a rosebud in the pocket of the jean jacket that I’ve just washed. Rose petals are everywhere, stuck to my somewhat clean clothes, stuck to the metallic walls of the washing machine. Uck.
**************************
Act III
I open the washer with my whites/colors. I’ve washed a magenta t-shirt that obviously was not colorfast. I need to just go back to bed.
As I waited in the lobby, I realized this was a Restaurant. Not any restaurant, but a Restaurant. The low ceilings, dark paneling, and dim lights whispered, “sw–aaaaaank…” I observed the others. Men in gray pinstriped suits at the bar drinking martinis with olives, not twists. Lanky women with hair done just so and meticulously applied bright lipstick. Bartenders in perfectly pressed shirts, black vests, and snappy bow ties. I felt like a little girl watching her mom host a party, wanting to be invited, but sensing I didn’t quite belong. My companion arrived and led me through the posh. In a matter of moments, we were the ones in the corner booth by the fire, laughing heartily over chilled drinks and catching up on news of recent months. We were Patrons at the Restaurant.
…and I don’t want to listen. It’s too early to be hearing Christmas songs on the radio. Instead of making me merry, it makes me sad. Seriously.
Today I was flipping through my Korean cookbooks with a hankering for some good, down home kimchi. Remembering the delicious oi chi from Dong-A, I set out to the farmer’s market to purchase cucumbers to transform into the spicy, pickled side dish I grew so fond of during my time in Korea. Back home, I chopped garlic, onions, and ginger. I pondered what I would substitute for the red pepper powder (more or less the main ingredient). I know what it looks like in Korea, I could have gone across town to the Korean markets to purchase some, but it seemed too much of a hassle. I found a hot red powder (curiously not labeled) in my pantry. I tossed a large portion in and now I wait. In warm weather it takes about 30 hours for oi chi to ferment. In San Francisco? I’m betting at least a few days…
LoriLoo 