boo!

It’s Halloween and all is dark.
Soon the tricks and treats will start.
But in the jet black night you’ll see
A frightening face, believe you me.
It is not a mask or hairy guise,
It’s round and mean, with fiery eyes.
It nibbles seeds and runs on wheels.
It elicits shrieks and screams and squeals.
So before you leave, this you must know...

Beware the Ham-O-Lantern’s GLOW!

a Charmin story

I am not a house. I am not a tree. I’m not an oily butthole. But tonight, I was toilet papered.

There I was, in my continuing quest for physical perfection (Sidenote if I may: I bought a scale like I said I would and have lost ONE pound in two weeks; a far cry from Nicole Ritchie weight-loss proportions but, I’m big boned.) I was out for a nighttime dog jog in my parents’ very quiet, very safe suburban neighborhood with the faux creek and the horse trails. It’s become my favorite Saturday night ritual with the dog. He gets to pee on assorted shrubbery and take a crap on his favorite hill. I get to burn some calories and take care of shit with a plastic bag.

So, I’m rounding the second to last stretch of our route. It’s the street where I pick up the mail from the cluster box. For those of you who don’t know what a cluster box is, it’s basically the post office’s solution to lazy-ass, socially unstable mail carriers. Put a box that has different cubby holes, each with its own key and designate one cubby hole for each house. It’s kindergarten for middleclass homeowners. The mailman just stands behind it and sorts out the bills and Playboys at one easy location all while avoiding potential adultery with lonely housewives. Apartments have it and so do we.

The dog and I are both panting. I see an extra-long white SUV with black tinted windows. How very hip hop. They pass us going the same direction that we are going and turn the corner up the street. Then a few seconds later, they’re heading towards us. Must have been picking up a homey. They pass and then I hear them turn around behind me and come BACK again in our direction. My back was to them but I could see the headlights shining close and bright on the curb. They were going to stop. Naturally, they wanted to tell me how fine my ass looked in my sweatpants. Or perhaps they needed to ask for directions to the nearest supermodel party because you know, I look like the type of person who’d be up and up on that sort of information. I am one-pound lighter if I hadn’t already mentioned. But instead, as they came up from behind, someone pelted me with a roll of toilet paper. It hit me square in the back and I yelped from the surprise. They headed up the street and turned around and zoomed past me, flashing their high beams. I didn’t know how to react. I had put my key in the mailbox and was trying not to look up but I did and I saw two guys in the front seat. I watched them drive away, feeling pretty helpless and stupid for not trying to get their license plate number. I didn’t know what to do. I turned and saw the roll of toilet paper on the sidewalk. I ignored it, trying to process the whole incident and walked home. We’re low in the guest bathroom, I should have taken it.

When I got home, I immediately called the boyfriend who tried to soothe me by telling me they were just some stupid kids. I felt helpless. I felt offended and pissed off. I called the police station but there wasn’t much they could do because a) I didn’t have the license plate number, b) it was a low-level assault and c) porous paper fibers providing a spotty surface for fingerprints would make it difficult to get a clean one. They didn’t say this but, I watch CSI. I know the drill. The officer who took the call was quite nice about it all. She told me she’d take down the information and if the patrol cars noticed a vehicle lolling around and fitting my description, they could stop them and see if they had any extra rolls in the back. Do you see that? Those are my tax dollars at work. I’m sure no one will get pulled over tonight. Not for this anyway.

I called the boyfriend back who confessed that when he and his friends were of rowdy age, they had played pranks similar to what happened to me. They egged the houses. Left bags of their own creations (fecal) on doorsteps. And yes, they toilet papered yards. But, not people. I was on the phone live with the mind of a criminal. I immediately interrogated him.

“Did you ever do it to strangers?”

“No, just to people we didn’t like. Kids are dumb.”

“But, I wasn’t doing anything. I was just standing there.”

“They were just picking on you. I’m sorry, baby.”

“Yeah, they were just picking on me. And I just stood there. And there was nothing I could do about it.”

I began to cry. I cried to release my frustration with being completely ineffectual in my crime fighting ability. I cried because my brain was full of dead ends and they needed to be rinsed out. I should have picked up the roll so I could dab my eyes. I began to think about the boys who made me cry. Maybe their high beaming me was a “Hey, hope you’re not too upset. Thanks for providing us with a good laugh.” They represent a lot of people in life, whose actions may or may not be malicious, who sometimes have enormous power over me. I’m learning to take their power away. I thought about those boys and how they may grow up into great boyfriends like the one I have. Maybe they will feel bad for their misdeeds one day and teach their sons in a way their parents tried to teach them. Maybe when I go to work on Monday and Val, the bitchy breakfast queen is mean to me and I won’t let her get my goat. This fills me with hope. We’re still low in the guest bathroom but, I’m not low in spirit. Score one for positivity.

we we

If you want the anniversary of when I first saw the boyfriend, I would have to estimate last summer July 10th or 17th, at a company softball game. He was sweaty and I was aroused.

The first time we actually hung out one on one? August 2nd …lunch. It was the kind of place where you had to get your own utensils. He got sets for both of us; two knives, two forks and one swooning girl. I emailed one of the “Rhymes with An’s” to tell her about it. I was reading into EVERYTHING. The utensils meant he considered us a couple. Obviously.

The first time we spent time together away from the office: August 22nd. We went to play Scrabble at the Getty Center. I made him bet me that the loser would pay for dinner. This was my ploy for more alone time. He beat me by like 500 points. Sadly, that was NOT my ploy. I just suck. So, I took him to dinner. We sat in a dimly lit corner at Paladar (excellent Cuban.) He had mojitos. I noticed a scar on his forehead. “No one notices my scar until after at least six months of knowing me.” BOOYA! I’m an observant bitch. Plus, I couldn’t stop staring at him because he was so goddamn good looking.

That was pretty much all our firsts…NOPE! The first time I kissed him was a year ago today. We were laying on his bed all junior high innocent and we had just decided that we would date. He said “I want to give this a try.” I said “You’re not getting any, if that’s what you’re thinking.” But, I kissed him anyway, no tongue. The first boy I’d kissed in probably four years and the only boy I’ve kissed since. I was me and now I’m part of we.

We laugh, we chat, we hug, we draw, we fight, we wait in line, we eat, we sleep, we learn, we dance, we go to the batting cages, we justify, we explore, we leave notes, we cry, we admire, we take turns, we stare, we check in, we speak français, we greet at the door, we chase, we care, we hold hands, we question, we put on sunscreen, we sing songs, we smile, we gossip, we road trip, we get gas (octane and methane,) we commiserate, we compromise, we grill, we walk, we explain, we notice, we attend each others' events, we tell stories, we buy souvenirs, we veg, we encourage, we make gifts, we got a card from our gay friend in Hawaii because it’s our first anniversary OF DATING (I love my gay friend in Hawaii,) we watch, we listen, we teach, we kiss, we reason, we play catch, we massage, we reflect, we tidy, we comment, we meet planes, we comfort, we giggle, we absorb, we whisper, we evaluate, we surprise, we bake cupcakes (he helps me frost,) we call, we IM, we spoon, we heal, we improve, we agree, we disagree, we try to dunk each other in the pool, we find parking, we love.

suckcinct

Where can I find a 99% accurate voice recognition typing program? (begin disjointed robot voice) E ven if I have to talk like this I will do it be cause my hand hurts from typ ing all the time (elongated pause) it feels like it’s bur ning in my right hand (elongated pause) this blows (elongated pause) end.

I suppose today’s post will be concise then. I’ll leave out the unnecessary words.

1) Glad sun shining again because fog seeps into my brain through my tear ducts and makes it hard for me to type emails and say phone number correctly on voicemails.

2) Have friends who doubting their relationships with significant others. Wish I could help them figure out life love all about. May just buy self-help book and read it on their behalf but then would be others-help book.

3) Watched World Series Game last night with boyfriend. Fucking long.

4) Should have updated blog earlier. Getting lazy.

5) Hand hurts.

Tomorrow is my one year anniversary with the boyfriend. We are making gifts. More on that later when the hand stops throbbing.

make love, not football

Cue intro music: a bright, upbeat yet intense and anxious march, lots of brass and drums.

Good afternoon and welcome to *insert city* where today the mighty *insert plural noun which represents a generally accepted symbol of strength>* take on the *insert other city* *insert plural noun, preferably an animal, which represents a generally accepted symbol of ferocity* in a battle…for dominance! It’s going to be a great game, huh Jim? Sure is, Bob. We’re proud to be bringing you today’s game in high definition. For more information, log on to the web and visit us at www DOT you’re not going to see your boyfriend until January DOT sucks.

*Insert fancy graphic with website address layered over helmet*

Fall. What empires do. Fall. When football teams become empires. Powdery lines are drawn. Battles are fought on manicured fields. Women everywhere who don’t understand the game are left bewildered, dumping clinking beer bottles and dusting nacho crumbs off the couch.

I used to hate football. When I was younger, my father tried to explain it to me in bits and pieces, often forgetting the very basic basics. His daughter couldn’t be THAT stupid, could she?

Oh, yes.

“What’s happening now, Dad?” Eager.

“It’s the 1st down in 10.” Wha?

“But, I thought they just got a 1st down.”

“They did.” Ok, so…ok. Hm.

“They have another 1st down? (then to myself) Shouldn’t it be the 2nd down then?”

“Yeah, that’s the whole point of the game.” Oh. (beat) Right.

Who’s on First? Apparently the down was or something like that. I’m a girl. Down means bafflebox construction and at least a 400 thread count. And if you asked me about thread count, I could explain it to you.

I was left to my own devices to figure out this puzzling game that involved a ball that looks like a chocolate Easter egg (yum) with men dressed up like astronauts with spandex pants on (possibly yum.) Recently, I’ve spent quite a few afternoons watching “the game” with the boyfriend who is a lot better at explaining its nuances. I’m no armchair quarterback however I know what the downs are now. I'm taking it one yard at a time. But still, after many delving questions and hypothetical situations, near as I can figure, football is popular because it is the dumbest sport out there. Whoa, whoa, whoa…pipe down, boys. Let me explain.

In basketball, you have to get a ball into a hoop. In golf, it’s a cup in the ground. In baseball, you have to hit a ball in the air with a stick. In hockey, you hit the puck in a net with a stick. All these sports require a skill. Everyone has to learn this skill in order to play. In football, you grab the ball and run. YOU GRAB THE BALL. If I’m not mistaken, infant boys are born knowing how to grab their balls. Oh, oh, I’m sorry, you have to grab the ball and then run it onto the other team’s “side.” Fine. That’s the objective then. Listen up ladies, I can sum it up for you real easy-like…to understand football, just know that you have to grab the ball and get it into the other team’s “area” aka endzone. Hard? Intrinsically, no. But, the NFL throws in a gazillion rules and time limits to make it hard. The opposing team is pretty much allowed to do anything short of setting you on fire to prevent you from getting a touchdown. It’s a glorified game of catch mixed with tag.

This is madness.

Does this seem like war to anyone else? I'm not trying to hate. I'm not saying football fans are idiots. But, I mean..men in armor, face paint, lines to cross, territory to invade and of course you have to root for your home town. Alright, alright, since rooting for the home team is inherent to most sports so I’ll let that one go. It's war complete with strategy and individually tailored ranks. Foot soldier linemen. Lieutenant wide receivers and colonel tight ends. Catapult kicker. A quarterback general. The women are abandoned for days on end while the men beat their chests and yell battle cries ("Go Bears!") All they need is the OK to kill instead of merely sack.

Everyone fights for something. We fight for equality. We fight for promotions. We fight for attention. We're fighting for something in Iraq, we just don't know what it is. Grab the object, be it a pig skin or the last pork rind, crude oil or amnesty and make it yours. And when you can't, find solace and satisfaction on the television. Any given Sunday between September and February is your chance to believe in a cause. Beer sponsors paid for the game, enjoy it with a cold one and acknowledge their generosity. It's your chance to find a hero from your hometown with a great arm who can throw your failures to zero. It's the most expensive advertising time for a reason.

I wish a Macy’s sale was more like football because despite the wrong size or offsides, I love possessions too.

the real world

This weekend, in a quaint little town about forty miles east of Los Angeles, in a modest home on a tree-lined avenue with simple furnishings and gentle dog, you would have found me: splayed across the couch in my parents' family room in front of the TV; in my sports bra and sweatpants, stewing in my own filth, generally unresponsive to my name being called with eyes bloodshot from lack of moisture, a condition usually remedied by blinking.

Holy crap, do I love watching MTV's "The Real World: Austin"!!! I mean, I really love it. Would I watch 12 episodes in a row (out of 18 aired thus far) if I wasn't at least mildly piqued? Who watches this shit anymore? Gimme a Nielsen box and I'll tell you who...ME.

Real World (in particular Austin,) why do I love thee? Oh, it's so depraved. You are the life I never had but secretly wished I had. I watch you with mouth agape, eyes glued, brain transfixed, absorbing every backstab, bar fight and booty call. I never wore clothes that showed my midriff. I never solved my problems with tequila. I never made out with strange boys I didn't know. But now I do all these things vicariously while sitting in the beige comfort of suburban suburbia.

My real world is a Toyota Camry, online bill pay and sensible shoes. If I had to talk into the camera about my feelings, it'd be along the lines of...

"I wasn't sure if I should have cereal for dinner. You know, like, since cereal has a lot of carbs and stuff. But I did."

*start crying*

"And, I wish I hadn't."

My real world would get a viewing audience of 0% Tuesday night adults 18-49. My life has no spice. It has no layers. Many deep conversations are had in Austin. Rachael tells of the intimately frightening experience as an US army nurse in Iraq. I wonder if I should return a pair of shoes I bought just to get my parking validated. Nehemiah wishes he could be closer to his mother who's in rehab. I'm debating what color to paint the guest room. Lacey professes her undying love for her parapalegic boyfriend. Do I need to get milk? Danny and Melinda are going to make it work, no matter what it takes because one day Danny is going to realize that Melinda is gorgeous and is as close to a supermodel as he is ever going to date. Where did I put my ATM card? Johanna realizes that being arrested for public intoxication is not going to stop her from living her life. I'm going to the supermarket. Wes wants to have sex with anything that won't chew his dick off. Must remember to buy a new nail clipper.

The parents come home from a night of dancing at the senior center. My mother is putting away the dishes from the dishrack.

"Oh my god, ma, I love this show," I sigh dreamily.

"What show is it?"

"The Real World. It's so great. It's the life I never had. They go out every night, get drunk and try to find someone to have sex with." I'm searching for a connection.

"Oh no. You want a life like that?"

"Uh, yeah!"

"You don't want that kind of life."

Reality check not reality show. She's right. Make-believe adulthood with lots of skin and no responsibility, that's not the real world. Married 33 years with a 28 year-old daughter who still comes home every weekend to plant herself on your couch in front of the television you bought, with food from your pantry, watching DirecTV you pay for, it doesn't get any more real than that.

but weight, there’s more

I have been wearing dark colors. I move slowly. I politely acknowledge people around me with a soft, demure nod. I put on a pair of dark grey J.Crew slacks today. I am mourning the loss of my former skinny self. She wandered into the fatty, lazy, depths that are my current pudgy self. I’m dabbing a tear with a Kleenex.

I eat too much! And I exercise too little. It’s no wonder that I’m what the Centers for Disease Control calls “overweight.” I measured my body mass index with their online calculator and I am 0.1 points/ pounds/ hairs/ whatever into the overweight category. I scored 25.1 and the range for normal is 18.5 to 25.0. To rub shoulders with the lower end of normal for my height, I would have to be 122 lbs. I haven’t been 122 lbs. since I was ten.

Last night, I called the gym to which I belong but have never visited. I am getting over the fact that I need to drive 2.2 miles to get there. I used to refuse driving to work out. I would much prefer to just put on my medicinal Shox and run out the door and around the block. However, my neighborhood is, at best, dimly lit. Not safe for a stunning, running fatty like myself. The errant lust that enshrouds me is an aphrodisiac only enhanced by my profuse sweating during a jog. Homeless men and wandering bar patrons would be defenseless. And of course, I’d be easy to subdue because I’d be out of breath and extremely tired. Maybe I’d be slippery enough to wriggle free due to the sweat. But like I said, I’d probably be too exhausted.

Anyway, so I called the gym to ask them two very important questions.

1) Do they have a pool? I love to swim.
1b) Is it saltwater or chlorine? I hate smelling like chlorine.
2) Do they have an indoor track? I like to read (and run) between the lines.

The conversation went something like this:

Voice: Gym, where can I direct your call?
Me: Hi, I just had a couple of questions about your facilities.
Disinterested Voice: (couldn’t care less, probably even slightly annoyed) Ok.
Me: Do you guys have an indoor track?
DV: Nope.
Me: So, you only have treadmills?
DV: Yup.
Me: And is your pool chlorine or salt?
DV: (condescending) Uh, chlorine.
Me: Ok, thanks.
DV: (silence, the sound of people in the background)
Me: That’s all. Thanks.
DV: (hangs up)

I think my only revenge is going to said gym, seeking out the lackadaisical part-time high school dipshit who answers the phone, then working out so diligently that I become hot like a Maxim cover girl and can flaunt it as I strut around their chlorine pool. In high heels.

First, the wake. The metaphorical wake and then the waking of my consciousness to the reality. I need to change. I am wandering around my apartment with my belly hanging out, lamenting the fact that I have chocolate in my fridge that I am not going to eat and that the dark grey J.Crew slacks I wore today were bought on sale three or four years ago because they were a great bargain even though they were two sizes too big. Now they’re tight. That’s why I’m sad. But instead of buying flowers, I’m going to get a scale. And instead of serving hors d’oeuvres, I’m getting served like street break dancing style. Yo, you wanna battle, heifer? Hell yeah I do. Instead of cardboard, I’ll be bustin’ on the yoga mat. I can’t imagine what 122 lbs. would look like on my bones. I’m afraid my boobs will shrink and I will look ten again. But this is for my health. This is for my body as a machine, not a clothes hanger. We gather today to bid a fond farewell to Katie’s bad habits. Hasta la vista low self-esteem. Hello to me and achieving a goal and to weight being lifted off more than just my shoulders.

today’s unspecial

I have a coworker, we’ll call her Val. Val is probably in her mid-fifties and quite a curmudgeon. Every morning, Val arrives at the office and gets settled in which means she turns on her computer, logs in to the network, checks her voicemail, etc. This is her routine. And every morning, as sure as the sun will rise, part of Val’s routine is calling the cafeteria to inquire about “the special.” And every morning, without fail, no matter what the special is, Val orders it. Maybe it’s eggs benedict, maybe it’s a Denver omelet. Whatever it is, Val is hungry and she’ll “take it.” Her words. Her breakfast is delivered maybe half an hour later and Val is as happy as a breakfast sausage in a croissant.

Unless something disrupts the routine.

No one is perfect, especially the cafeteria at our office. They get busy. They make mistakes. They have to serve a lot of hungry, demanding people. Val doesn’t appreciate or understand this. There are mornings when she calls (she uses her speakerphone) and her call goes straight to voicemail. I hear the goings-on from my cubicle because it’s a mere five feet away and the acoustics here are excellent. Val doesn’t leave her order on the voicemail like you’re supposed to. She can’t. Because she doesn’t know what the special is. Even though she is going to order it, she can’t order it blindly. Val doesn’t like the element of surprise. Val likes control. Val likes to redial the cafeteria number until someone picks up.

*beep boop bap boop beep* “Hi, you’ve reached the cafet…” *click*
*beep boop bap boop beep* “Hi, you’ve reached the…” *click*
*beep boop bap boop beep* “Hi, you’ve reach…” *click*
*beep boop bap boop beep* “Hi, you’ve…” *click*

Her reaction time is steadily improving.

“Has anyone tried calling the cafeteria this morning?” she’ll yell over the cubicle jungle. “They’re not picking up.”

Sometimes, I hear the phone ring and then go to voicemail. This is different than when it immediately goes to voicemail because it means the lady who takes the orders may have seen Val calling on the caller ID. I bet she doesn’t pick up because the routine is starting to get to her. (This is a lot of backstory to highlight the day things went awry but, trust me it’s worth it. Read on.)

So, one particular morning, Val came in to the office with a foul mood circling her body like a vulture on the carcass of a dead gazelle. I could tell from the way she slammed down her purse and then snatched the phone from its cradle. Like I said, acoustics = excellent. She had a hard time getting the cafeteria lady on the phone which immediately sent her day into a tizzy. After finally getting a hold of her, she inquired with a forced politeness about “the special” which she was told was eggs, bacon and hotcakes.

“That sounds good, I’ll take it. Thank you.” Even though she says thank you, it always sounds like she’s talking to a baby because she’s forcing herself to be nice. Like when a baby gives you a soggy half-eaten teething biscuit.

About 45 minutes later, when Pedro finally arrived with her order, she inspected it as she got out her money.

“Wait a minute, where are my hotcakes? She said there would be hotcakes.” Val is shockingly rude to the delivery people sometimes.

“This is the special. You ordered the special right?”

“Yeah I ordered the special but she said there would be hotcakes. Where are they?” Holy fuck, did I mention Val is an assistant? Not that executives have the right to be rude but, I mean come on Val, Pedro probably pulls in even less than you do. Cut him some slack. You know he feels the pain. Val proceeds to dial the cafeteria, unsuccessfully to my amusement.

“I can go back and get your hotcakes,” Pedro offers. He’s a very sweet man and just wants everyone to be happy and of full belly.

“Yeah, I want my hotcakes. I ordered the special. This is just eggs and bacon. There’s nothing special about that.”

Oh, but what a special day it was. I laughed hysterically yet quietly to myself. I thought this was the end. I was sad that the dilemma would soon be resolved with hot hotcakes and a big apology. I secretly wished bad things on Val. Toads, floods, runny eggs, whatever. She is just so unpleasant.

Later, Pedro returned with hotcakes as promised. Val was almost in tears.

“These have blueberries on them. I don’t like blueberries! She didn’t say there would be blueberries!” I think I heard Val whimper. Then she shooed Pedro away so she could sulk with her cold and unspecial eggs and bacon. The hotcakes went into the trash and there was not one berry bluer than Val.

things that are wrong with my body: playing footsies

A couple of years ago, I was on my way to Target when I stepped on my left foot sort of funny while skipping merrily down a flight of stairs. I was in a really good mood at the prospect of buying at least $30 of unnecessary crap. I was undeterred. My foot was ok during the drive to the mall. It felt a little hot but no big deal. I was whistling and smiling, saying hello to birds and doing just fine until I got out of my car. I had to limp around Target with a twisting pain emanating up my leg. I felt like my foot had swollen to the size (and weight) of a bowling ball which I had to drag around the store. I still bought a bunch of crap though.

I went to a chiropractor and an orthopedic surgeon. Joints were prodded. X-rays were taken. Both doctors told me that there was really nothing I could do. “Get a good pair of running shoes.” So, I went to SportsMart and bought a $100 pair of Nike Shox running shoes. I wore them every day to work, my very corporate work. I’d point to my shoes…“This is my medicine.” It helped that people saw me limping too. And it was a real limp, not a I’m breaking in these new dress shoes limp. I limped so much and for so long that my opposite knee started to hurt from compensating for my awkward gait. There goes Katie, the girl who walks like a hobby horse.

One day I asked my acupuncturist to throw some needles in and it helped a lot. It took about a year for the pain to subside and my foot to mostly heal. When it finally got to a point where the limping subsided, I stubbed my right baby toe on a picture frame which had been perfectly fine collecting dust in my closet for almost three years but, no, I got too big for my britches and I took it out and leaned it against the wall as a reminder that I should put pictures in it. I didn’t put pictures in it. Instead I walked by it and stubbed my toe so hard that I fell over from the pain. It hurt so bad that I thought I had knocked my toe off my foot completely. Back I went to the orthopedic surgeon who took new x-rays and assured me that my toe was still attached to my body and that a good pair of running shoes was in order. I think the man is being paid off by Foot Locker. I bought a new pair of Shox and put the damn picture frame back in the closet, far away from my toes. Maybe I should have framed the x-rays.

I can’t wear high heels. It hurts to get out of bed for reasons in addition to my general malaise. I hobble around in the morning due to the lingering pain and stiffness. Morning foot, I call it. When people ask me why I’m sitting along the sidelines of the dance floor, music pulsating, bodies swirling around me, I look up at them with doleful eyes and say “I have two effed feet.”

hello?

I love the sound of his voice. No matter what he's telling me, whether he's angry because I'm being a brat or ecstatic because his team won, it is a sound that envelopes me like a white fleece blanket on a cool night. I have six of his voicemails saved on my phone. One of them is from last Christmas. I have one where his sound is crisp through a landline but most are digitally mutilated versions of him bounced up through smog and stars to satellites and then back again to my hand. There is no conch shell that can bring the ocean to my ear like his voice. He sings snippets of songs with lyrics he makes up himself. He calls out when he's in the kitchen even though knows not to disrupt my highly methodical cooking madness, he always thinks of something that maybe I'll let him help with. His voice is the compass that points me to his heart and I listen for every tick.

and if ya don’t know…

Leaves are green. Air is warm. It’s fall in California which means everything looks the same except the calendar reads October.

Growing up in Toronto, fall is school starting, new erasers, classrooms with the alphabet lining the walls, treetops turning yellow, orange and red, raking, grey skies, marveling at summer growth spurts, rosy cheeks, pristine running shoes, crushes on boys you didn’t notice the year before, the scent of rotting leaves…and if you’re in elementary school, a trip to Black Creek Pioneer Village.

I looked at the map on the website this morning and realized that the village is a lot closer to where I grew up than I remember. Field trip bus rides always seemed like an aching eternity. The anticipation drew out the minutes. I’d sit against the green leatherette seat, straining to peer over at the kid in front of me. Our heads and our bodies bobbed and swayed in unison with the changing potholed terrain. We left the 1980s behind and made our way to the 1880s.

The pioneer women wore bonnets and big skirts with white aprons. They walked around in stockings and black orthopedic shoes. During business hours, they “lived” in real houses built the 1800s. They would bake bread, churn butter, dip candles and sew. After hours, they would tug blue jeans over their legs and slip into their cotton-polyester sweatshirts and drive home. Looking at the map again, they might have been my neighbors. But during my visit, they were my teachers for a day.

I remember dipping strings in tallow to make candles. They tied strings which would later become wicks onto a stick and dipped them into a big pot of filtered animal fat. After you dipped the candles, you’d lay the sticks between two chairs so they could harden. Then, repeat, being careful not to leave the candle in the tallow too long or else the heat would melt the previously coated tallow right off. I’m sure these chaste ladies never used the tallow in the bedroom.

I remember learning the varied uses for strips of fabric. They loved to make mats with them. Two kinds. For one, they took burlap sacks and used hooks to loop the strips in with both ends of the fabric on one side. That side would end up resembling shag carpeting or a Muppet’s head while the other looked like cobblestone. I remember learning to use a loom there. They made woven mats by tying longer strips of fabric end to end, like an escape rope from a cartoon prison movie. It was then wrapped around a wooden shuttle which dove back and forth between the alternating strings tied to the frame of the loom. It was like playing inside a grand piano.

Other memories from this field trip are fuzzy but I do recall walking on a dirt bath next to a field where I saw a pitchfork. Why I retained the image of the pitchfork, I can only psychoanalyze. Imagine what Freud would say. I remember the stone walls of the buildings. I remember eating a deliciously anachronistic ice cream sandwich. It probably cost me a penny.

Most interesting in my rolodex of memories is what is not available. I don’t remember the year in school I was. I don’t remember the teacher who accompanied us. I don’t remember the other students. I don’t remember being conscious of my race. I was a girl, wandering around in history, my history. I lose myself often because there are no mirrors on the streets of foundation, of inception, of origin. Maybe I pass a shop window or a reflection in the water trough in which I catch a glimpse of my oddity. Otherwise, how would I know I didn’t belong? Chinese in colonial Canada? The round “pioneer” women didn’t treat me any differently when, if truly in character, they should have treated me like a prostitute, purveyor of sexual deviance and cholera. I should have been tarred and feathered (a practice that still horrifies me) but instead I ate freshly baked bread and ran my hands over antique furniture with the rest of children.

The things I remember pop into my head and lull me into daydreams. They serve little purpose other than to pad my longing for vacations and what were once new and fascinating experiences. The things I don’t remember incite debate, introspection, investigation. So, to twist a hip hop phrase, if I didn’t know, now I know.

manly girl

I really need to get a desk. I'm sitting on the floor in my bedroom and this old back is starting to curl like a shrimp.

Actually, I have a desk. I have a wooden slat that has holes in the underside into which legs are to be affixed. I've even got the corresponding legs. I don't have screws but I do have a car which I could drive to the hardware store to buy screws. I don't need to buy a screwdriver because I have one already! But, I also have a crippling case of procrastination. I just put a pillow behind me and it feels nice.

I've been quite manly lately. Anatomically, I'm a female but I've noticed that exhibit a lot of typically heterosexual male qualities. Let me list a few:

1) I procrastinate. My ex-roommate moved out in February leaving me with a vacant bedroom and a head full of interior decorating ideas. Workout room? Library? Home office? Waiting room? Have I bought even my first issue of Reader's Digest to put in my new waiting room? See opening paragraph.

2) I buy flowers for girls. Tonight, I stopped by one of the "Rhymes with -an"s with a bouquet of flowers because she was feeling blue. She oohed and ahhed. I suppose if I were actually a man, I'd try to make out with her but, I'm not. I am not attracted to my female friends like that. I do, however, find Jessica Alba somewhat attractive.

3) Ok, I find Jessica Alba really attractive. Does this make me a lesbian? The boyfriend hopes so, at least part-time. I think I'm just secretly jealous that she looks good in a bikini. You pervs can think whatever you want.

4) I like to fix things. This past weekend, I had gotten saucy. I opened the blinds in my bedroom for the first time in two years to let in the sunshine. Unfortunately, I don't think they liked that much and so they decided to stay open. This creeps me out slightly because my window faces the window of another apartment on the opposite side of the alley between us. Sometimes, that girl has her blinds-that-work-just-fine open and since she is not Jessica Alba, I don't care to see her. So, tonight, after getting home from "Blue but Rhymes with -an"s apartment, I realized that my vertical blinds were still askew and non-Jessica Alba was in her room. Well, the lights were on anyway. I decided that I needed to make some waves. I took my screwdriver, the one I own, and took apart my vertical blinds and got them to close again. Only men do this.

5) I like to drive really fast. Some may find that being an Asian woman behind the wheel is treacherous enough as is. I like to do this at 95 miles per hour. One time, I got pulled over for going 95 in a 65 zone. Did I freak out? No, I took it like a man. I tried to pal around with the highway patrol officer, chummed it up with him, I did, talkin' about the game and the damn Manning brothers and shit. You know what I'm sayin'? No? Ok. Well, YOU must have been going that fast if you caught up with me, right? *chortle chortle* What, the law don't apply to you? Oh I get it.. Law Enforcement but not Law Obeyment. I'd do the same thing, bro. *wink* Still gonna write me that ticket, huh. Yeah, thank you officer. You have a safe drive too. No, no you go first.

Ahh. Five things that make me feel manly. RAWR! I'm going to watch Sports Center now. But I am NOT going to assemble a desk. Assembly is for junior high school.

dante's in-foto

As promised, photos from my office building where you can see the Chatsworth fires raging.

Look at the smoke.


Nature is bigger than us.