I love my grandma. I really do. But sometimes it’s hard watching her grow older. Grow different from how I so fondly remember her.

I love my memories of her from when I was a child. Of my four grandparents, she was my favorite. She was always so good-natured, so loving, so indulgent, the most permissive. She always plaited my long hair and told me stories of growing up in the south during the Depression, working in the mills, raising her siblings. Anyone who knows me knows that I love stories. Enrapture me with a story and I’m yours forever. Of my four grandparents, she’s the only one still alive.

Her health has deteriorated rapidly over the past several years. First my parents had to hire someone to check in on her in her house in South Carolina. Then she fell and broke her hip. After hip replacement surgery they moved her to an assisted living facility, much to her chagrin. She lost use of her legs and became confined to a wheelchair. After a year or so, it became evident she needed more care than that facility could offer, so my parents looked for a nursing home. They couldn’t find one in her hometown, so they moved her to our hometown in North Carolina. She cried the whole way.

Now she vacillates between the sweet, caring, loving grandma I remember and a bitter old woman I don’t recognize.

At Christmas dinner we were all laughing, joking, anticipating what Santa would bring us and she was right there with us. She ate her meal, settled just so on her wheelchair tray, commenting about how you never got a bad meal at Sybil’s house. We finished dinner. As mom and I were clearing the table, the phone rang.

Dad answered. It was his sister, grandma’s daughter. I hollered at her (she has thrown away her hearing aid) that Gloria was on the phone. She sat there, unmoved, staring into space. I thought maybe she hadn’t heard me. “Granma!” I shouted. “Gloria’s on the phone!” She slowly turned her opaque blue eyes to me. “Gloria’s on the phone!” She grunted. “Well, good for her.”

Oh no. Bitter grandma had arrived.

“Don’t you want to talk to her?”

Another huff. “‘pends on what she got to say.”

I glanced at my mom. “Here granma, we’ll take you to the bedroom so you can talk to her.”

We heard her on the phone, complaining about how much she hated where she lives, how no one comes to visit her (dad visits her every day), how we kidnapped her away from her family, how she’s just miserable.

She finished her conversation and we wheeled her back to the living room.

She huffed again. She stared at me. “Cain’t believe you took me way from my family. You ain’t got no idea what’s it like to be so far from family.”

I laughed. “Granma, I live in California. Remember? I know what it feels like to live far away. It just makes the times we’re all together so much more special.”

Grunt. “I jus’ hate it. I hate all of it.”

I hold her hand, massaging the ropey blue veins that poke forth. “It’s okay, granma.”

After a few minutes of silence, without any warning, good grandma is back, commenting on how she loves to watch my nephew, her great-grandson, run around. “Chil’ens what gives you energy. Just watch him. Makes me feel good, just watchin’ him.” She smiles, staring into the space beyond my nephew.

I smile, cherishing this, knowing it may not last, but enjoying it while it does.

Over Halloween weekend my parents were in San Francisco visiting me, en route to Australia and New Zealand. When they told me which days they would be in town, I told them I would take off work, I would take them to great restaurants, I would show them the sites, but that Saturday night they would be on their own because I had Halloween parties to attend. For the past several years the same group of friends and I have donned (what I consider) witty costumes. I couldn’t break tradition.

Maggie, even though she couldn’t be with us, lent us the idea for this year’s costume. At first I was dubious. Would anyone recognize us as Boob-Slip Tara Reid? I obviously underestimate the power of pop culture.

I also underestimate the amount of time to pull together a costume. The four of us had our black evening dresses, we had our blond wigs, our white wraps, our fake boobs, our Victoria’s Secret double stick tape to hold said fake boob in place. We decided we should have tassels underneath our fake boob, just in case it fell off. It was my job to obtain said tassels. I figured it would be no problem, after all, we do live in San Francisco.

I tried Victoria’s Secret. Good Vibrations. Nameless adult toy shops in the Tenderloin. No one carried tassels. I was in shock. I turned to the trusty internet. Felicity’s Fetiche claimed they carried tassels. Unfortunately, the only time I had free when the shop was open was on Saturday morning. My parents and I had planned to visit the Asian Art Museum after spending the morning at the Ferry Building Farmer’s Market. What luck! Felicity’s Fetiche was a mere blocks away from the museum. I told my parents to walk on to the museum; I had a stop to make. They insisted on coming with me. I didn’t want to explain to them what I was shopping for; I thought they might not notice I was taking them to a fetish shop.

Wrong.

We walked through rhinestone thongs and CFM boots. Silk ties and other bondage materials hung seductively from the walls. Sure enough, there was a nice selection of tassels in the display case. I bought several pairs and we were on our way.

On the street they asked me what I had bought. I explained the costume, how we would be wearing fake boobs, how we were attaching the fake boobs with double stick tape, how the tape might wear thin by the end of the night, so we wanted an “insurance” plan, hence the tassels. They nodded.

While on their trip to Australia and New Zealand, my dad sent out email updates to friends and family. One of the first emails detailed their trip to the fetish shop with a note about how “Lori always manages to show us something new each time we visit San Francisco.”

Fast forward to Christmas in the Bible Belt.

We’re all opening our presents – Mom, Dad, siblings, nephew. I pick up a smallish rectangular box which reads “To Lori, From Santa.” As I begin to open it, I hear my mom signal to my dad, “Jerry, look…” All eyes turn on me as other unwrapping is suspended. It’s not a heavy box. I can’t imagine why everyone is watching me. I open the box top to reveal violet tissue paper. I gingerly peel back the layers of tissue. I see a card with two furry dots. What is this? Button covers? Earrings? I read closer.

“The Original. The Genuine. Possum Pam Possum Fur Nipple Warmers.”

Mom exclaims, “We found them in a gift shop in New Zealand!” I feel my face turn bright red as the room erupts in laughter. I can’t believe my parents have given me nipple warmers for Christmas. The most unexpected Christmas gift… ever.

I’ve noticed a phenomenon, much more so recently. Members of the male species don’t know what to do when a member of the female species cries.

I’ve noticed this in the past when I’ve gotten into arguments/discussions/heated conversations with boyfriends. There reaches a point when I’m beyond words and I just break down in tears. And the person who moments ago was vehemently opposed to my point of view suddenly is comforting me, consoling me, agreeing with me. I always assumed it was because he, too, had enough of the argument and just wanted it to be over.

Today I realized that it was the tears.

I’ve had an increasingly annoying and persistent cough for the past 5 months. I went to my general practitioner a few times, took 3 rounds of antibiotics, 2 rounds of steroids, and endured dozens of sessions at the acupuncturist, all to no avail. I’m not particularly fond of going to the doctor (hence the persistent cough for 5 months), so when she said, “I can do nothing else. You need to see a specialist,” I avoided it as long as possible. Until I couldn’t stand it anymore.

He came in, greeted me, and asked what was wrong. I gave him the brief outline of my infirm history. He depressed my tongue, asked me to say “Ahhh,” “Ooooh,” “Eeeeee,” then pronouced I couldn’t sing. I laughed. Both at his corny jokes and his outfit. He wore a long white lab coat and an old-fashioned doctor headband, the kind with a silver orb attached. From his stories, I surmised he has been practicing medicine for at least 40 years, maybe more. He asked if I had had cultures and blood work done. I answered negatively to both.

He took what looked like a long, springy q-tip and told me to tilt my head back. As I did, he poked the springy q-tip up my right nostril. I jerked my head forward. “Hey! What are you doing?” He assured me he knew what he was doing, just taking a sinus culture. “I’m good at this – I got an A in this in medical school. Be glad the guy who got a D isn’t doing it.” Ba dum bum. He instructed me to tilt my head back again. He poked the springy q-tip up my left nostril.

Searing pain shot through my head. The tears immediately sprung forth. I grabbed my nose, hoping pressure would halt the intense pain radiating from my sinuses.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.
I looked at him incredulously. “That hurt, that’s what’s wrong,” I sobbed.
“You have a deviated septum. It’s one of the most sensitive parts of the body.”
I continued to cry.
“Don’t cry.”
I stared at him, my tears blurring the silver orb in front of me. “It hurts!” I exclaimed.
At this point he became visibly agitated. He pulled Kleenex from a box and dabbed at my eyes. “Please… please… what can I do?”
“You can let me cry. I need to cry. It hurts.”
He wrung his hands. “Why are you still crying?”
“Because that hurt. I’m okay, I just need to cry for a minute.”

He turned his back to me and fiddled with his instruments for a moment. I sobbed a little more, wiped my eyes, then cleared my throat. “Okay, you can finish now.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he hesitantly asked.
I nodded. Sometimes you just have to let people cry.

My most favorite band, EVER, is in a contest at Live2Night.com. If they win, they’ll play at Bottom of the Hill in January. If they don’t win, they’ll probably still play somewhere, just not at Bottom of the Hill in January.

I encourage you to enter the contest and vote for Porkchop Express (voting closes 12/16 – don’t delay!). And, if you’re in the Bay Area, check them out this Thursday at Beale Street Bar at 7:30 pm. Fun times.

As I offered her a gingerbread cookie, she sweetly declined. “Oh, no. I couldn’t. I don’t eat anything with a face. Unless it’s meat.”

A dear friend was relaying a conversation she recently had with her mother.

“Mother, I met someone this weekend, but I’m not telling you anything about him for 3 weeks.”
“Why?”
“Because I really like him. I don’t want to jinx this, and I don’t want you to ruin it.”
“Ruin it? I wouldn’t ruin anything, you little bitch.”

7 am. Drizzly San Francisco street. Me, briskly walking to BART. Him, homeless man, weaving back and forth across the sidewalk, heading towards me.
Him: Mmmmm. MMMMM. Nice legs.
Me: (eyes cast downward, no response)
Him: (coming closer) Yeah. You look good. You look real good. (pause) But I bet you can’t cook.

Moorcheeba. At the Fillmore. Awesome.

Seriously. Something about seeing Jody Sternberg singing then saying, “I can’t believe we’re at the Fillmore,” and laying down on the stage. And singing. And gesticulating. And singing. And the passion.. So much passion. Like she couldn’t believe she was there.

Awesome.

someone googled “i want bigger hips”

and my site came up second, only to a channel 4 news story about being fat. awesome.

…was the color I saw as I extended my arms out in front, then swished them to my sides. To me, swimming is all about numbers. Odd laps are breast stroke, even, crawl. One and a half minutes per lap. Average. The first ones are less, the later ones are more. R237 G28 B36 – the color of my fingernails, a deep red contrasted against the R113 G206 B235 and R0 G124 B197 blues of the tiles of the pool. I come up for air. Mozart is playing over the loudspeaker, 7/8 time. Or is it 3/4? I return under water, concentrating on my breath. One stroke, two strokes, three strokes, breathe. One stroke, two strokes, three strokes, breathe. Until all laps are done. And I have 37 minutes to shower, dress, and make it to the train.