Saturday, July 31, 2010

A Handful of Blueberries and A Biscuit

I have to tell you something. Tiffany is adorable in the driver's seat of a 10-foot U-Haul. She has to scoot the seat way up so that her feet reach the pedals. Uncharacteristically, she's a little bit nervous and, consequently, very chatty.
"I can't see out the mirrors in this thing... it's so big...I hate driving big cars...I don't know why anyone would want a big car... am I in my lane because I can't tell if I'm in my lane... how much space do I have on your side..." she spouts.
Looking at Tiffany in the driver's seat of a U-Haul makes me happy because it reminds me of all the places we've been together and all the places we'll go together and... all the friends who've helped us along the way.
This morning, for instance, after Tiffany successfully double-parked the truck in front of our old apartment, five friends showed up to help us load our big awkward furniture and then to walk three blocks down the street to help us unload it.
Thinking we might get hungry, I made biscuits and cinnamon rolls on strategically left-behind pans. When I say "made," I mean Tiffany and I bought cans of biscuits and cinnamon rolls, and I peeled the paper away, popped them open and put them into the oven about 15-minutes before everyone arrived. But still. There they were for the taking, along with butter and honey as possible toppings, and some fruit for snacking.
On one trip to the truck, I asked our friend Gladys if she wanted a snack. She was stuck holding the door.
"A biscuit," she yelled, as I ran up the stairs. "And some blueberries."
I smiled because I was happy that I had a snack to offer. Friends who hold doors and carry awkward furniture deserve snacks, at the very least.
At one point, as five of us struggled to carry our couch up the stairs of our new apartment, time froze. I considered all the good friends who had placed themselves in the precarious position that these very friends were in now--climbing stairs they cannot see while holding a several hundred pound couch above their heads. I looked down and saw Tiffany straining under a corner and Gladys' fiance Chris straining under most of their end. I saw Rebecca--"Little Rebecca" whom I have known since she was born and whom I once pushed up and down the halls of her Mississippi home in a toy grocery cart--helping Tiffany with her corner and staring up at me like: holy sh*t, this couch is going to fall on my f'ing head. I looked to my left and saw our friend David holding most of our end. I looked up, as I strained to lift my corner onto the next banister, and I could see Rebecca's girlfriend Sam, wide-eyed, praying for our progress, and Gladys, smiling and laughing the way she most always is, looking down at me like: holy sh*t, that couch is going to crush my fiance, but it's still so funny!
Later, we stood around in the few feet of uncluttered space in our new apartment. And I considered what a marvel moving is. And how much easier it is with a handful of blueberries and a biscuit.
And some damn good friends.

Friday, July 30, 2010

Three-Legged Race

The other night I met Tiffany at work so we could walk home together. We walked all the way home--stopping at red lights and crossing at green ones and through a grocery store where we bought lettuce and tofu--talking about our future: where we should end up and how best to get there.

"This little head of red leaf is $2.99, seems like a lot," I said, when I found her in the dairy department. "So, anyway, I see what you're saying, but what I'm saying is..."

"That's okay. Do you see the tofu?" she asked. I pointed it out next to the yogurt.

"I walked right by it," she said, picking one up. "I know, I hear you, but I just think..."

We stopped talking for a minute while we stood in line to pay, but, as soon as we exited the store, we continued. We talked round and round and round and didn't ever quite agree. We didn't disagree either. We were unresolved. By the time we got home, we were exhausted and a little bit irritated.

Conversations like this one remind me of three-legged races. I can remember running three-legged races with my best friend Beth Ann in elementary school. Sometimes we won because we matched each other's stride perfectly. And sometimes we lost because I jerked us out of whack or we started to giggle uncontrollably and tumbled to the grass in a heap of arms and legs. But I was never mad that I had tied my leg to Beth Ann's.

Being in a relationship can feel like running a three-legged race (the giggling comes and goes): both people have to agree to move a certain general direction and the speed at which you move is entirely dependent on one another. The band connecting you only stretches so far.

After Tiffany and I gave up on deciding our future for the night, we set about making our salad. She was dubious about my sauteed squash as a topping. I wasn't sure about her goat cheese. We threw them together anyway, and it was, we agreed, the best salad ever.

We might not win any races. Who knows what finish line we'll cross in the end. But still. I feel pretty good about what's holding us together.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

It's A Big Big World (Unfortunately For My Small Small Family)

My brother Brandon got to drive our 86-year-old grandmother to the convenience store where she buys her daily lottery ticket today. I was jealous. There are five people in my immediate family--my mom, dad, brother, grandmother and me--and we live in four different cities in three different states. It's weird how that happened because, unlike some families I've seen, we like each other.

My favorite way to spend a weekend growing up was at home with my family. Usually we had several soccer games to shuttle around to. If it was summertime, we'd come home and cook out on the converted water heater that served as our grill. If it was the winter, we'd make a big fire and curl up to watch a movie. I was an unusually homey-homebody. Sometimes my friends would call and I would make my mom answer the phone to tell them I couldn't come over to play. Then my mom and I would spend the afternoon working in the garden or walking our dog up to the park to run loose.

Then my brother moved away to college. Then I moved away to college. Then my brother moved some place else for graduate school. Then I moved some place else for graduate school. In the meantime, my parents' marriage fell apart, and my dad moved out. I went home to be with my mom for Christmas breaks and spring breaks and summers. And then I started working, and I didn't have Christmas breaks or spring breaks or summers. My brother and I moved a few more times, but we never moved home. The year I moved from the East Coast to the West Coast he moved from the West Coast to the East Coast. We bought our mom a clock with three faces, one for each time zone our family lived in. She loves that clock. And she hates it. I hate it too.

My dad was always telling Brandon and me to make our world big. This was good and important advice, and both our parents encouraged us to act on it. Without it, I might not have gone to school in Boston. I would never have met Tiffany. My career path would have led somewhere entirely different. Who knows how much of my life would be the same if I'd stayed right where I was.

But being a long-distance family is hard. I want to take my mom to lunch without having to get on a plane. Hang out with my brother without scheduling it three months in advance. See my dad without needing an airport and a two-hour drive. Or take my grandmother to buy her lottery ticket more than once a year. So, while I am grateful for the opportunities I've had to make my world big, I spend an inordinate amount of time wondering how and when I'll ever be able to make it small again.

Monday, July 26, 2010

Some Thoughts On My Monday

My lentil soup spilled in my backpack this morning and got all over the soccer shorts I was going to wear during my morning workout. The soup miraculously missed, however, the pair of short tight biker shorts I was going to wear under my soccer shorts. So I was able to work out after all. But I was wearing short tight biker shorts.

I made it through my weight routine fine, but the treadmill wouldn't stop beeping at me. Beep beep beep, it kept beeping, flashing a little picture of a heart and telling me where to put my hands if I wanted to check my heart rate. Which I did not. Then it beeped beeped beeped and, morning of miracles, displayed a heart rate. 161. 171. 178. I have no idea whose heart rate that was. I wasn't holding the heart rate grips. Nor do I wear a heart rate monitor. I looked around. No one was running on any of the treadmills near me, so this heart did not belong to anyone I could see. So suspicious was I of this mysterious heart rate that I actually felt the elastic band of my sports bra wondering if I had inadvertently bought one with a built-in monitor. I had not. Beep beep beep, the little red heart flashed, as I continued to run. Occasionally it displayed the phantom heart beat, despite my button-pushing and under-the-breath cursing. Or maybe because of it. Perhaps my anger at the beeping had increased my heart rate to the point where the machine could sense my emotional state. The machine said: "whoa, this girl is really annoyed; let's show her heart rate even though she hasn't asked us to, just to be nice" (what I heard: beep beep beep beep beep beep)

This was not the best start to my Monday, lentil-soup shorts, short tight biker shorts and a beeping treadmill. Tiffany knows someone who is a Buddhist. He says things like, everything that happens was going to happen whether you were there to react to it or not. I think this means take a deep breath and don't worry if you're wearing ridiculous looking shorts because your other pair is sopping wet with last night's dinner. It's kind of like that prayer, "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference." It's a nice thought, but we all know it goes like this, especially at 6:45 on a Monday morning: "Godd*mn this stupid treadmill."

PS-The lentil soup was great for lunch!

Sunday, July 25, 2010

A Thing Or Two About Muscles

I date a personal trainer, so I know a lot about muscles. Or, I know that she knows a lot about muscles and that's satisfying enough for me. But I do know a thing or two. I know, for instance, that it's a sign of a really great workout if muscles you never knew you had are sore.

Most of the thing or two I know I picked up during my four years of college soccer. After experiencing four pre-season camps where all we did was eat and run (sometimes with a ball, sometimes without), four fall seasons worth of competition and four off-seasons worth of preparing for competition, I thought I knew all I needed to know. Although I couldn't tell you where my muscles connect to my bones and ligaments and tendons and whatever else they connect to, I sure could tell you where and when they hurt. I thought I had discovered all my mysterious muscles.

I was wrong.

Take, for instance, the "vacuum-cleaner-carrying" muscles. These are obscure, so don't feel bad if you haven't found them yet. For those of you with enough sense to never carry your vacuum cleaner further than one room to another, you'll probably never hurt in these sneaky arm spots. But, in the process of moving from one apartment to the other, I had no choice but to carry our vacuum cleaner down the street. Three long city blocks. Doesn't sound far, I know. Until you're holding a vacuum cleaner out in front of you.

Here's another one: the "I'm-hoisting-a-way-too-heavy-suitcase-with-my-right-hip" muscle. This one, I think, is actually just the skin atop my bone, and it's very tender and slightly bluish now.

Finally, my favorite from yesterday, the "holy-sh*t-an-ambulance-is-coming-and-I-don't-have-control-of-my-wheelie-bags" muscles. Head down, I was descending the hill with only one more block to go. Just as I was about to coast into the intersection I became cognizant of the sirens approaching from my right.

"Watch out, watch out, watch out!" a woman I had nearly run over en route to the sidewalk ramp yelled. In case I hadn't heard the sirens. Plainly I had. I just needed a few extra steps to stop. And I did. In the street, yes, but only barely, protected by a parked car. A muscle near my forearms screamed.

Lest you feel too sorry for me, let me give a little context. Tiffany and I do have a car, and will, in fact, be using it to move some of our bigger things. But we both need to be present to move things with the car, as double-parking in front of the new place will require at least a sporadic look-out for meter-maids. Tiffany was in all-day classes yesterday and today learning about--you guessed it--muscles. So I'm doing my best to move as much as I can on my own, two suitcases and a backpack full at a time. It's tedious, yes. It's conspicuous, certainly.

But damn. What a workout.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

The End of Certain Things

Certain things must go. It's what happens when you move. Certain things don't make the cut and this we call purging. We call it cleansing; we call it de-cluttering--simplifying.

For instance, Tiffany has decreed that my "Kiss" poster will not make the walls of our new apartment. I bought this poster in the West Village when I was in graduate school. It's a photograph by Tanya Chalkin and it shows two women, lying on their sides in bed wearing t-shirts and underwear, locked in a soft-looking kiss. When I was growing up, I had Albert Einstein hanging on my bedroom wall. Putting the "Kiss" poster up for the first time felt long over-due. And now, apparently, it's long over-done. Although it was demoted to the back of a closet door immediately after Tiffany and I moved in together, it is being demoted further still--to the curb. This is okay.

Some other items aren't making the move either. For instance, we are parting with a few of the surprising number of Audrey Hepburn prints we acquired after people discovered we loved the movie "Breakfast at Tiffany's." Likewise, it's time to say good-bye to the copy of Matisse's "Blue Nude II" that hung on my dorm room wall (approved for tucking-away, however, are the hand-drawn "Blue Nude II"s that I, my brother and various of my friends made in a spontaneous "who-can-draw-the-best" competition held in that dorm room). On a somewhat grander scale, we will also be relinquishing one of the two 1970s-era chairs that Tiffany's sister bought at Goodwill (unfortunately, the one most likely to go--because of the gigantic gash in its fabric--is also the most attractive. It has several colors in a rectangular pattern making it "funky" while the other one is merely orange).

I can purge with the best. Stuff is just stuff, after all. Except some stuff isn't. Like the cigar box with tiny corked glass vials containing bits of flowers (my grandfather and grandmother collected those bits in the 1940s on a cross-country road trip for his PhD research). Or the little hand-made turtle, frog, fish, butterfly and chicken bobble-heads that line our desk (my mom has sent me those over the years in tissue-wrapped packages stuffed with good-smelling candles and chocolate bars). Or the wooden heart that my friend Robert's father carved. Or the glittery, miniature ruby-red slipper my dad gave me (I grew up in Kansas). In the end, we make room for clutter like this because it means a new apartment is now home.

Certain things must go. Other things must be carried.

Friday, July 23, 2010

Sun-shiney-ness

Astute readers will remember that one of the words I used to describe our new apartment was: sunnier. This is a crucial feature and a major selling--I mean renting--point. Sunny was Tiffany's primary criterion; top floor was mine.

For two and a half years, we've lived in the back of a squat three story building with beautiful old glass windows that look out onto--wait, for it--the cement foundation of a residential skyscraper. Here's how Tiffany and I check to see whether the sun is shining in San Francisco (it generally is not): we tilt our heads back so we are looking straight up and we press our right cheeks against the pane to see the sliver of sky visible to us from that angle. Not surprisingly, without any direct sunlight, our apartment is freezing. We wear hooded sweatshirts and slippers and cuddle underneath a blanket while we watch television. Sometimes we pull out an electric heater and point it directly at our feet. Our favorite part of baking cookies (besides eating the cookies) is standing over the open oven door with our shirts lifted out to catch the warm draft.

In Los Angeles, where we lived for a while before we moved to San Francisco, we had quite the opposite problem. Our little 1970s-ish West Hollywood apartment was like a cement sauna. The old Russian couple who lived across the walkway from us ate dinner and watched television in their underwear: he in boxers and black socks; she in a camisole and (given her age, this term is appropriate) granny-panties. Once, during a heat wave, the electricity on their side of the complex went out and they showed up on our doorstep (fully clothed) with plastic tubs of ice cream and several dozen Saran-wrapped chicken legs for temporary storage in our freezer. Our own guests were often shocked at the heat Tiffany and I became accustomed to. We sometimes slept on top of our bed covers with cool cloths draped on our necks. When Tiffany's mom came to visit, she dragged her air mattress to the door of our balcony and slept with her head outside in the cooler air.

Alas, those days are gone... but not for long! After a couple years shaving over goosebumps in the shower, Tiffany and I are ready to shed layers instead of pile them on when we walk in our door. We danced a little dance the first time we saw a pool of sunshine--the actual yellow stuff!--spreading on the linoleum floor in our new kitchen. Also, the new apartment has steam heat--all year round (laugh if you will, my non-San Francisco readers, I wore a scarf to work two days ago).

Maybe someday, we'll find a space that's just right, temperature-wise. Until then, if the sun is out and the steam heat is on, you might find us tanning ourselves in that sunshiney pool between the sink and the refrigerator.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Girl(s) On The Move


Last night, as I dragged two suitcases full of books past the stinky pee corner by the 24-hour grocery store, trying to navigate each set of wheels around anything that looked like it came from a human body, a man startled me from my concentration.

"Girl on the move, huh!" he yelled, as we passed each other on the narrow sidewalk.

I smiled, then stumbled, having clipped my own heels with one of the bags. Passing a window, I glanced at my reflection to see what he saw. In fact, he probably thought I was a run-away. I was dressed in a pair of baggy BU soccer sweats, a long-sleeved tee and a red vest my grandmother gave me several years ago (yes, if you know me and have spent more than three consecutive days with me, you've probably seen me in this exact outfit). I looked 14 or 15 years old, suitcases teetering along as I descended one of Nob Hill's famous slopes en route to the new apartment for which Tiffany and I just signed a lease (unfortunately, for those not familiar with the area, the further "down" the hill you go, the more stinky pee corners there are, hence my careful steering).

Indeed, we are on the move, and, actually, we are sort of running away--fleeing the tap-tap-tap and thump-thump-thump of the pairs of feet that live above us; headed toward a top-floor slightly sunnier, slightly smaller, slightly cheaper place that happens to have a gigantic built in bookcase (of course, that sealed the deal for me--our own library!).

The move--only three blocks--is a cure for the temporary insanity that overtakes me whenever I hear the feet of the people above us in our current apartment. And it is a cure for the temporary insanity I cause Tiffany in my temporarily insane state. Fed up with waking in the middle of the night to find me poised, broomstick in hand, waiting for the next foot-fall so I can jab at the ceiling (yes, if you know me and have spent more than three consecutive days with me, you've probably seen me in this exact pose), Tiffany kindly told me we needed to move in order to preserve our happy-coupleness.

So, for our first official day as top-floor lessees, I'd crammed dozens of books into our carry-on wheelie bags. Everything else would slowly make the trip over the next two weeks. Since it was a special occasion Tuesday, I packed a bottle of Tiger beer and a can of Dr Pepper in the backpack I was wearing, nestling them between the Windex, the 409 and the roll of paper towels.

When I reached Tiffany, who was waiting outside our new front door, I could see she was giddy at the thought of the organizational task ahead of us. In fact, as soon as we finished cleaning, she started alphabetizing the books on the shelves.* I, on the other hand, was relegated to merely passing the books from the suitcases to her outstretched hand.

Tiffany pulled a special occasion treat out of her backpack too--our favorite children's books: my copy of The Little Prince and her copy of Hand, Hand, Fingers, Thumb. Her treat was neater than mine. Literally neater because I forgot to bring a bottle opener, and so, as we struggled--eventually successfully--to open her beer on the handle of one of our cabinets, we spilled some on the kitchen floor. No matter, that's what paper towels are for!

We toasted ourselves and sat down for a while in the place where our bed might go. I promised to try not to let the new noises that surely will accompany our new apartment bother me. Tiffany promised to use my money to buy me a pair of those gigantic padded headphones and push play on "Enya" if I break my promise. Then, on the move but not yet moved, we walked back up the hill for dinner.

*Please note, it has been brought to my attention that the title of my blog might make my beloved seem "nerdy." I wonder if this alphabetizing sentence might be further fodder for that line of thinking. Personally, I think the fact that my girlfriend is studying-- chemistry, anatomy, physiology and all the other sciences that I long ago learned did not come naturally to me--is awesome. That she loves to organize, alphabetize and sort--adorable.**
**I realize this makes me definitely nerdy.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Rhythm... I Still Don't Have It (and I Still Can't Spell it... No, Really, I Had to Look it Up)

Each Monday night I have to confront a particular demon of mine: music class. On Mondays I volunteer at a shelter and play with the kids who are living there. When I signed up nearly two years ago, the woman said "Oh great, you'll be here for music night!" She explained that on Mondays a music teacher comes in to teach the kids rhythm games and lead sing-alongs. The volunteers are expected to participate fully. After all, what child wants a mute adult looming over their rhythm circle. My heart stopped. My mind flashed back to all those Mon/Wed/Fri in elementary school when our class would traipse down to the music room for exactly this type of thing. I was horrible in music class. Its only value to me was that it was immediately before gym, a class where I was far more sure of my abilities. I could toss a dodge ball, no problem. Run a mile? Sign me up! But put me in a circle and ask me to keep a beat while passing plastic cups left and right, dear god. Something shattered inside--my self-confidence.

Anyways. Apparently that fear never goes away. I'm 28 now, and still the sight of a circle of small children clapping their hands and looking expectantly at me to clap my hands in the same way, is frightening. Oh, I laugh my clumsiness off, but my palms still sweat.

What's worse, the other volunteers on music night don't seem to have the same problem I have. So while those 20-somethings and 30-somethings are clapping right along, even tossing in a variation of their own in between beats, I methodically count the rhythm in my head, trying not to move my lips from my isn't-this-fun smile.

But actually, it is fun. Ridiculously fun. Because, while I still perform abominably in music class, I know I'm not being graded for my performance. Even better, neither are these kids. So I can act silly and make faces at them and tell them how much better they are than me and sing off-key the bizarre lyrics we ask children to sing in such classes. It doesn't matter one bit if I have rhythm. It only matters that we forget where we are, and that's easy to do when you're dancing while singing, at the top of your lungs, a song like this:

Grandma, grandma, sick in bed,
Went to the doctor and the doctor said,
Grandma, grandma, you ain't sick,
All you need is a peppermint stick!

Hands up, shake, shake, shake, shake,
Hands down, shake, shake, shake, shake,
Turn around, shake, shake, shake, shake,
Get out of town, shake, shake, shake, shake
(Repeat)

Sunday, July 18, 2010

How to Have a Fight in a One-Bedroom Apartment with Your Girlfriend's Dad in Town

I've never been a shouter. You know how some teenagers scream "I hate you!" at their parents? I never did that. Chalk it up to my cautious nature, I guess. Even when I was really mad at my parents, I knew that after I was done being really mad they would still be my parents. So, "I hate you" always felt a little over-kill to me.
The pleasant truth is that I never hated my parents nor did I ever have any reason to. This is lucky and I know it.

Tiffany must be wired the same way because we are similarly restrained in our where-another-girl-might-scream-I-hate-you moments. Last night we had one of those moments.* As most of ours do, it began over a typically teensy thing. I was driving us back from a really fun day in wine country. Tiffany sat shotgun, and her dad sat in the backseat. As we approached the toll booth on the Golden Gate Bridge, Tiffany pointed out that the lanes to my left were for pass holders only, which I had already noticed myself. Since I was headed directly for a cash lane, I responded that I knew that (alternate theory: I responded that I knew that in an angry fashion). We continued our approach in this way until I said in a laughing, aren't-you-silly way "I know, I'm not going to those lanes!" (alternate theory: I said this in a really nasty way) The moment passed. Only it didn't. As these moments have the power to do, it crept back up on us later in our tiny one-bedroom apartment. Whispering so that her dad would not hear, we revisited the moment. Tiffany hissed that I was totally out of line; I spat back that I absolutely was not. Meanwhile, we both kept our eye on the pot of homemade popcorn we were making.

This is what's weird about fighting with someone you love-- whether it's your mom or your dad or your brother or your sister or your partner or whomever--you still have to love them five minutes later. So you make popcorn in the hopes that you'll want to eat it and not dump it over her or his head. Earlier in the day we had talked about making ice cream sundaes. Acting on faith that we would still be in a relationship after dinner, I walked to the store to get the fixings.

When I came back, I got in the shower and politely called Tiffany into the bathroom so we could work through the issue in private (alternate theory: I demanded that she come into the bathroom). Alas, we continued to disagree, and Tiffany left the bathroom madder than she had come in. Likewise, I created more steam in the second half of my shower than I did in the first. When I turned the squeaky faucets off a few minutes later, I could hear that the fight had been disclosed to her dad.** I stared at the fogged-up mirror. Screamed into my towel. Then, what else could I do? I put on my pajamas and went out into the fire.

Would you believe this particular father actually has a calming effect on us both? Soon we were laughing at the ridiculousness of our fight. And, because of my excellent foresight (alternate theory: because I was sneaky enough to use the sundae ingredients as an excuse to leave the premises for a few minutes), we had sundaes to celebrate.***

*Please note, the parties are not in agreement on the following facts.
**Also note, this father happens to be wonderful.
***Note, in conclusion, that all parties agree the sundaes were spectacular.

Saturday, July 17, 2010

What To Do When You Lose Your Angel

I'm not talking about the airy, heaven-sent kind with wings. I'm talking about a legitimate angel. Mine was teensy... dime-sized, gold-colored, kind of cupid-ish. He/she/it attached to a push-pin, and my mom gave it to me when I went away to college for the first time 10 years ago. Ten years ago! When she gave it to me, I pinned it to the loop strap on the top of my backpack. That angel went everywhere my backpack went for ten years: sleepovers at another dorm, Russian literature class, soccer road trips, work, the gym... everywhere. When I got a new backpack, I transferred the angel. Each time I did, I smiled to myself and felt... well, a little bit protected.

Maybe you can sense where this is going (especially if you read the title of my post). As I've mentioned, Tiffany and I took a big vacation last month. We saved up our days and our money and spent three weeks in Vietnam and Cambodia. It was amazing and totally different than anything either of us had ever done and... you guessed it, my angel went with me. Then, he/she/it was gone.

We were on our way to Siem Reap, Cambodia from Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. After spending all night on a train, we raced to the airport and, with plenty of time before our flight, breathed a sigh of relief as we cruised through security. And then I reached for my backpack. I grabbed the loop strap. It looked naked. There was no dime-sized gold-colored angel. No he/she/it cupid-ish pin.

"Uh oh," I whispered.

Tiffany heard me.

"What?" she asked.

"My angel," I said, and I didn't have to explain. She knew I wasn't using a term of endearment directed at her. She knew what my angel was and where it should have been. Thank goodness. I was afraid to talk too much about the missing angel for fear that might give greater significance to its previous presence on my bag.

"Uh oh," Tiffany whispered.

I swallowed and swung my bag onto my back.

Here's the thing about losing your angel. You have to pretend like you don't care. I was sad because I knew my mom would be sad, and I was a little scared because even though I don't consider myself to be a superstitious person, I guess in some ways I am. When I played soccer, I didn't eat the same thing before games or ritualistically exchange a secret handshake with a teammate, but I did wear the same rubber band in my hair until one day it would snap or, like my angel, disappear. Likewise, I say the same prayer every time I get on a plane (my trick is to balance pleading for my life with lots of thank yous--thank you god for my wonderful family, thank you god for my wonderful girlfriend, thank you god for this trip... and please protect everyone on this plane and help us land safely in _____).

I can always say my prayer. I could grab another rubber band and play. But I didn't know where to find a dime-sized, gold-colored he/she/it cupid-ish angel in the airport in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. I'm not sure where my mom got my angel in the good ole USofA. Who knows how any replacement would perform anyway? Maybe angels have life expectancies and mine had come to the end of his/hers/its.

Tiffany and I had a plane to catch, so we caught it. I said my prayer then reached down to touch the loop strap of my bag. I felt the hole and, squeezing Tiffany's hand, said my prayer again.

Friday, July 16, 2010

A Hammock


Tiffany reminded me of something else on our Someday List, one of my desirables--a hammock. My family had a hammock when I was growing up. It hung between two trees in our backyard in Shawnee, Kansas. It was thick and ropy so it kind of hurt your back, but, when you're lying in a hammock listening to the wind push the leaves around, who can complain? It was nice. We had the hammock in Mississippi, too, when my brother and I were smaller and used to flip each other around on it. We were so light that we could hang on upside down like spider-people. Anyway. The first time I contemplated buying a hammock was when my mom and I were traveling in El Salvador five years ago. I saw them in people's homes and then I saw them for sale at little markets. I didn't buy one, though. I didn't have any place to hang it. The second time I considered buying a hammock was last month when Tiffany and I were traveling in Vietnam. They were everywhere in the markets, silky and all different colors. Each time we passed them I stopped. They were like $3. But I couldn't bring myself to buy one. I still don't have any place to hang it. And even though I could have stuffed it in my bag, carried it home and tucked it away in a closet until I do have two trees, it felt like cheating. Someday we'll have two trees. Until then, no hammock. You'll see I'm trying my first picture above... that's my feet and Tiffany's feet in a hammock five years ago.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

The Old Woman in Red (and me)

I went to the farmer's market last Wednesday to pick up a few things to hold us over until the weekend. I bought a carton of eggs and a bag full of plums, peaches and nectarines for $4.50. Normally, I buy fruit that isn't quite ready so that it will last throughout the week but, because I knew we would be going back to the market Saturday, I bought instant gratification fruit, softish and ready to bite. I could smell the plums, peaches and nectarines even holding them at arm's length. It was delicious. But I wasn't sure how to carry all the fragile things with one hand and call my mom with the other, so I stopped for a minute to consider. I put my packages down gently and raised my face to the warm--and rare--San Francisco sun, unbuttoning my coat--Tiffany's coat, bright pink with a nice snappy collar and a fitted waist.

Then I saw the old woman. She was moving slowly on pencil-thin legs. She wore a bright red knitted hat and a matching ankle-length knitted sweater. She saw me too. I could tell she was looking at me even from across the grass. She rounded the corner and shuffled toward me. We stared at each other in something like recognition.

"Your coat is lovely," she said.

"I was just about to say the same thing about your red," I answered, which was not really true. I had wanted to say the same thing, but if she hadn't spoken first, I probably would have just stared at her and smiled.

The woman shuffled off toward the market. I could picture the plums in her wrinkled hands. And then, with a little more effort, I could picture me, in 50 years, holding plums in my wrinkled hands, shuffling along on not-so-pencil-thin legs (I'm sure that woman never played soccer). I remembered a book of poems my mom used to have: "When I Am An Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple." I don't own a single piece of purple clothing--not even a pair of socks--but I always loved the poem that gave the book its title, so here it is:

"Warning"--by Jenny Joseph

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

The Someday List

Tiffany and I don't have a dining room table. We don't have a dining room, first of all, so a dining room table is out of the question. But we don't have a table to eat at, really. We eat off our laps or leaning over the coffee table. When we have company, they do the same. We did have a table. When we moved to Los Angeles and into our first apartment together, we bought a simple kitchen table at a Russian thrift store in West Hollywood. It was nothing special, but I liked the look of it, and Tiffany indulged the purchase even though it didn't come with chairs (we found those later--a pair with cushions from a Goodwill and a plain wooden pair someone left on the side of the street). We carried the table home to our new apartment, laughing as we teetered down the sidewalk past the beautiful homes with the jasmine plants we loved and the avocado and lemon trees we coveted. A few months later, we ate our first Christmas dinner at that table, just the two of us: our tiny tree in the background, dressed in the holiday sweaters my grandmother sent, Dr Pepper and champagne in hand-me-down wine glasses, salmon, broccoli orzo and a spinach, walnut, dried cherry, gorgonzola salad.That table served us fine. But we don't have it anymore. We sold it, along with most of the rest of our used furniture, when we moved to San Francisco, where we bought mostly all new used furniture--but not a table to eat at since the new apartment was a bit too small.

A table to eat at is on our "someday list." That's the list Tiffany and I mentally compile whenever we find, as we go about our daily lives, something we'd really love to have: bicycles that we will actually ride (I want one with a basket), a coffee pot with an automatic start so that Tiffany can wake up to fresh brewed coffee, a bed frame, a couch without an orange Mike & Ike stain or a gigantic gash that has been sewn up with a slighly off-color material, chairs that don't date to the 1970s in a bad way, a garden, a house behind which the garden will go, a flat screen television, a dog, a bed for the dog at the foot of our bed frame...

The list goes on and on and on, and, because of the nature of the things on the list, it's fun to make. We don't really need anything on our someday list (although a dog is non-negotiable--I don't care if we ever get a bed frame). Plus, the list reminds us that we're moving toward something, or some things, and that feels good too. Someday we'll live in a house and not an apartment that's attached to other apartments. Someday we'll have a couple of tomato plants (for me) and a few varieties of lettuce (for Tiffany). Together we can make a salad. Someday we'll have a t.v. that plays sound out of both speakers when we watch movies, and someday we'll take our dog for a walk and beg her not to pee on our garden.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

While My Girlfriend Studies Chemistry

This is how much I love my girlfriend: I make a 15-minute walk home from work an 11-minute walk. I walk at a ridiculously fast pace so that I can see her sooner than I would if I walked at a regular pace. Sometimes, if she's still at work, I drop my bag, change my clothes, turn around and walk back out the door to meet her at her work so we can walk home together. If double-walking home isn't love, I don't know what is. When Tiffany and I are together, we like to be together. That is an amazing and beautiful thing and don't think I don't know it (I am, after all, the one speed-walking around with a gigantic grin on my face).

But here's what loving someone so much can do--it can steal time away from other things you love. One of the other things I love is writing. I don't write for fun as much as I used to for two reasons. First, I write for a living, so when I turn off my computer at work, very often the last thing I want to do is turn on another computer at home. Second, when Tiffany and I are together... well, you remember.

Here's my idea: for the last two years, Tiffany has been taking classes and studying as she considers further education in the fields she loves: nutrition and fitness. I often fill the time she studies with things we need to get done (like grocery shopping or laundry) or things I want to do (like reading in the park or going for a run). ButI figure if she has the discipline to study from a textbook in pursuit of her passion, I should have the discipline to sit down and type out a story or two in pursuit of my own.

So I will write While My Girlfriend Studies Chemistry (which happens to be what she is studying now).