Baseball

With game 6 of the World Series just hours away, I was reflecting on the start of the season which, for me, began with a laughter filled trip to Scottsdale Arizona with my two favorite baseball fans - Montana and Leggs.  We squeezed in four games in three days, although the rain and hail cut three of those games short.  Despite the thick pellets of hail and menacing thunder and lightning, and thanks to our trusty emergency ponchos, we still had a delightful time. 

Here's a little expert from my journal I jotted down on the plane ride home... Memorable Moments

The whole first game! Giants vs Dodgers. We got up with the rain, headed to Starbucks for coffee, Albertsons for sunscreen and ponchos, Einsteins for bagels and a new travel mug, then found good parking, close, and headed into Scottsdale Stadium.  The rain came first, so we doddled around, into the Team Store for Giants gear (for Maddie) but the lines were madness, then out into the stadium hallway to browse the baseball paraphernalia  There were concessions, and famous players from another year, like Gaylord Perry and Rollie Fingers, but there was an uproar from around the corner. We meandered over to see what the fuss was about.  Montana smirked.  It was "Mystery Baseball."  A fundraiser for the Giants Foundation community fund - $80 for a chinese take-out box with a Giants sticker on top. Inside was an autographed baseball, which could be a random or could be Buster Posey.  Montana turned to me, "I'm gonna do it." "Do it," I cheered on.  She stepped up to the table, paid her $80, and turned to Leggs and I for advice about which box to choose.  We looked bewildered at each other, both thinking "I don't want to be responsible for her fate" and said "You have to choose." She looked us each in the eye and, like a child in front of a christmas tree, scanned the boxes for her choice.  She reached out, grabbed a box, and greedily scratched at the sticker.  The Foundation staff began the drum roll on the folding table.  The box was open and her long skinny fingers searched for her prize.  Out came the ball.  She scanned it for the signature and we looked on perplexed.  What was the scribble?  Thankfully, the Foundation lady gasped and smiled and scrambled for the box... inside was a sheet of paper.  She ripped it out of the box and fumbled it open.  "Madison Bumgardner" she exclaimed. We all cheered for joy and Leggs and I sighed with relief. Montana will be pleased.  Montana was pleased.

Skidmarks in the Bathroom

About a year ago, my boss negotiated a new lease for our office.  A condition of said lease was an upgrade to the bathrooms.  We've been there for over 20 years, so it was overdue.

Upon my arrival about six years ago, the women’s bathroom had a host of handyman interventions that told the story of evolving code compliance and years of commercial businesses made up mostly of women. To start with, it had pink tile walls with a baby blue sheet vinyl floor.  How stereotypical can you get.  There were two stalls, two sinks, a large mirror, no vents, and fluorescent lights that made everyone look bad (although sufficiently bright for a zip popping sesh). The double sinks each had a countertop soap dispenser, as well as a wall mounted option, providing a weekly surprise as to which bladder the cleaning staff had filled over the weekend.  The left side, which also had a protruding motion sensor paper towel dispenser mounted adjacent to the recessed combo paper towel waste can unit mounted adjacent to an always-empty 10 cent sanitary napkin dispenser, had a rusted out hole next to the drain, which slowly dribbled water to the floor creating a workman’s comp nightmare by the end of each day. When using this sink, I had to position myself carefully to not get soapy water on my shoes or unnecessarily dispense a roll of excess paper towels.  Although once three, the two current metal stalls generally fit the space, but the installer had little regard for bathroom politics given the large gaps along the hinges that provided a full, direct view, of the female user.  One gap was filled daily with a new sheet of dangling toilet paper due to its direct line of sight for anyone entering the bathroom.  And each night, the cleaning crew threw it away.  The toilets were not much to speak of other than being so low I sometimes wondered if I'd entered an elementary school bathroom. The stall with the big peeping Tom gap had evidence of its ADA retrofit, including an ill-placed grab bar directly across the toilet paper holder and sanitary napkin disposer and a capped off toilet stub poking through the pink tile wall.  While sitting idly in that stall, I couldn’t help but ponder whether, under the right flushing conditions of the tenants in the upper floors, would the jury-rigged cap come flying off, sending a hose of waste fluid shooting through the gaping privacy divide and onto the unsuspecting woman washing her hands.  Thankfully, that never actually happened.

Needless to say, I laid rest to my waste in this bathroom without too much complaint, but was delighted to hear of the pending upgrade. After a six-week closure, and never remembering to not wait until the last might to bleed the lizard or send the kids to the pool because the elevator to the 3^rd floor bathroom was painfully slow, our new bathroom was unveiled.  To my surprise, after all those weeks of watching the hallway calamity, including the hazardous materials tents, electricians in the ceiling tiles, and masons with a stack of shining ceramics and a fancy slab of granite, the bathroom was in no better condition.  In fact, I’d venture to say it was worse. The finishes were indeed all changed out, for the better, but the individual components were installed piece meal by each trade without the end user in mind. The colors are better, cream and green instead of pink and blue.  The new green wall tiles cover up the extra toilet pipes, but they just refurbished the existing stalls so the privacy gap persists.  Everyday, the toilet paper drape is hung, and every night is disposed with pile of used paper towels. The sinks, facets, soap dispensers, and counter were replaced, and the extra parts removed.  Compact fluorescent recessed cans replaced the large fluorescent tubes, but the new lights are positioned over the floor instead of the sink so my face is always in the dark while standing in front of the mirror.  This makes contact lenses difficult, as well as make-up application, not to mention my irregular craving for extraction.  However, all in all, these are manageable for me.  The real kicker to the bathroom upgrade is the new low-flow toilets.  They nearly always leave skid marks.  They appear as little claw scrapes or as tire-sized welts, and they always emerge.  As if dropping a duce in the public restroom isn’t inconvenient enough.  As if the stink bomb from last night’s beer binge isn’t prominent enough. As if making gravy when I want to make logs isn’t mortifying enough. Now, I always get to leave a memento of my accomplishments, paying homage to my gastrointestinal tract for all my coworkers to bear witness,… unless I flush like five times.  Thank you low-flow toilet, I really think you are making a valuable impact.

Teacher's Pet

I've spent most of my life ashamed of being smart. Yep, it's true. And now at 38, I'm finally willing to admit it.  How fucked up is that?

I can trace the shame back to 7th grade science… when we had to dissect that dead frog in Mr. Simmons class. I can still hear my lab partner teasing me, "teacher's pet, teacher's pet", for my enthusiasm and curiosity about knowing the inferior vena cava from the superior vena cava, and being praised by the teacher for it.  Despite the adult approval, I was thirteen in a new school and just trying to fit in. I took those adolescent social cues to heart and stopped raising my hand first or blurting out the right answer with unconfined excitement.  In 7th grade, you don't get liked for being smart, you get teased.

It got a little better in high school.  At least in the AP classes I was with other smart kids.  But in the regular classes, the social outcasting persisted.  I loved math, physics, biology, and chemistry.  I studied because it was interesting, and got good grades because it was challenging.  The academics were easy.  It was the social stuff that was so much more difficult.  When I didn't get all A's in my classes, it was because I was too preoccupied with the class' social dynamics, essentially sabotaging my academic achievements just to fit in. I played softball and basketball to round out my heady tendencies and was always embarrassed when I got the scholastic award. I still have them all in a box somewhere, proud that I got any awards in sports I suppose.

I tabled all this behavior as just "normal growing up" but I've been doing some soul searching about it recently.  Perhaps because of my 20th high school reunion later this year, or perhaps because of the women in leadership program I've been attending.  Or, most likely, a little of both with a splash of therapy to help me connect the dots.  I was programmed to think being liked is more important than being smart.  And I'm not the only one.  Studies show that lots of girls face this same social programming - that above all, it's most important to be liked.  I don't want to be a victim of those adolescent insecurities anymore. I'm working on reprogramming myself.

I AM smart. I DO know the answer. And I am PROUD to be a teacher's pet.

Judah

Judah with tiger stripes the color of a midday summer thunderstorm.  Sleeps soundly on the over stuffed chair in the afternoon sun until I rustle the covers and slip out of my bedded cocoon. Ears perk up and limbs stretch out as he slides down onto the bare floor.  Wanders coyly to the curtains’ edge. Stares out the French doors at the birds and bugs dancing with the garden flowers.  I return from the bathroom and slip back into bed.  My head still throbs from the evening’s late night enchantment.

 

Judah with a halo of tender sleepiness.  Delights in the simplicity of the studio apartment, until there is a stranger among us.  Transforms in a moment.  Growls at the neighbor cat Homer, outside, who passes with disinterest on his way up the stairs.

Judah with short attention span. Attacks at the white knit mouse.  Rolls to the side, hugging, licking, batting, kicking. Chases the mouse across the wood floor.  Runs laps around the rectangular room.  Rug slides out from under him and crashes into the front door with inertia.

Judah with never ending curiosity. Pants with excitement and exhaustion from the wild rampage with his mouse. Lays drained and relaxed. Smiles with his eyes. Surrenders to my affection and snuggles into my touch as I lay broken in my bed.

Social Justice

My cup runneth over with tears of joy today, literally.

I woke up this morning, having forgotten that it was rumored to be a day of really, really big news. I've been having heel pain from my half marathon training, plantar fasciitis, so after hitting snooze twice, I rolled out of bed slowly and placed my bare feet on the red Persian rug in hopes of a pain-free start to the day. I rotated each ankle, each way, and stepped into the morning. I had only mild discomfort, Yes, and gave Judah a solid rub down with a smirk of satisfaction on my face. In our usual routine, he jumped under foot just as I stepped up onto the cold kitchen tile floor to reach for his kibble. Damn It, will you ever learn? I scooped food into his dish and reached for the radio power button.

The NPR business report was just ending, signaling the turn of the hour, so I returned to my bed to roll the tight ligaments in my foot over a bright pink golf ball while I listened to the morning news. As I winced at the self imposed discomfort of my right foot, the BBC report seemed to have nothing note worthy to announce. I spaced out on the news as I worked my inner left arch, but my ears perked up when the broadcaster said, And this just in, the US Supreme Court has struck down the Defense of Marriage Act...  There was more to the sentence but none of it registered. As if dosed by a shot of caffeine to the vein, my head popped up and my face brightened. Oh my god, did I just hear that? I reached for the television remote, flipped to channel five, and stared in disbelief. And then I started crying. The tears flowed, and flowed. Then stopped. Then flowed some more as I processed the implications of this landmark ruling.

I am proud to call myself an American today. And I am so very proud that our Supreme Court stood up for social justice today.

Lipstick

I don't really wear a lot of makeup, I never have.  I don't know why exactly.  Maybe I've never really been good at applying it?  Or I haven't felt comfortable with how I look in it?  But recently, I've been wearing lipstick. You get noticed when you wear lipstick.

I don't remember ever learning how to put on makeup.  I have one memory of playing dress up with my teenage girlfriends.  We got decked out in wacky 80's glam rock outfits, hair sprayed our dos into mohawks, and dolled up our faces with a box of cheap Wet 'N Wild lipstick and eye shadow. Then we did a [sexy] photo shoot by the spiral staircase in the hallway outside my bedroom. It was ridiculous. Other than that, I have no makeup memories from my childhood.

I went to an earthy, liberal arts college in Portland during the grudge years, so I had absolutely no run-ins with makeup in the 90's.  I don't think I even owned anything other than a tube of Cover Girl mascara in those days.

By the 2000's, I'd finally shaved my legs, cut and died by hair, used sculpting mousse for the first time, and discovered sex with boys from bars.  Oh, and I started wearing makeup.  It was only a little - accents mostly.  A little eye liner.  A little mascara.  Maybe if I was feeling really flirty I'd use some blush and sparkle my chest with glitter.  But I definitely never used foundation and wore lipstick only on very, very special occasions (like Halloween).

These days, I think of my glasses as my makeup.  They have a little sparkle and they accentuate my eyes.  That's what makeup is supposed to do, right?  Possibly, but glasses, mascara, and eye shadow only deal with the upper half of my face.  The lower half, the part that does all the talking and makes those cute smiles, is just left hanging out there, neglected.  I hadn't really taken that in all the way until a month or so ago when I got a little perspective from my two year old niece.

She was rummaging through my purse one Saturday afternoon and found an old MAC lipstick buried at the bottom.  It was a luxury I'd splurged on almost four years prior, for my sister's wedding.  I couldn't remember the last time I'd actually worn it.

"Wat dis?" She grinned at me with excitement about the treasure.

"Oh, that's lipstick" I smiled back.

"Wat for? Wat dis?" Her anticipation was palpable.

"Oooh kay. It's lipstick. Here, see." I pulled the top off and twisted up the deep maroon stick of color.

"AH!" She squealed with delight.

"See. You put it on your lips, like this." I pursed my pale, chapped lips and glided on the pigment.

"Me too. Me too." She grabbed for the stick and awkwardly jammed the color into her chin, moving it across her teeth, through the snot on her upper lip, and up to her nose.

"Oh, wait. Hold on."  I grabbed a tissue. "Let me help."

I wiped down the mess she'd made with her still-developing hand eye coordination, and reapplied the lipstick closer to her actual lips, thinking to myself, This is going in the trash. I don't need that snot anywhere near my mouth.  I pulled out my pocket mirror and showed her the fine artistry.

"Listik!" She pointed to my lips and beamed with delight.

The following week, I went to the MAC counter at Nordstrom to replace my fancy lipstick.  I've been wearing it ever since, beaming on the inside.  Maybe that's why I've been noticed...

Whiskey Ginger

A whiskey ginger is the perfect drink.  Somedays it's a little bipolar, and other days it's perfectly normal.  All days it's totally solid.  If I were a drink, I'd be a whiskey ginger.  Sweet and bubbly fresh on arrival, but I'll leave you with a little kick.  And if you have too much of me, you'll probably like it and you'll definitely get drunk.

The Orbit Room Cafe on Market Street is a great place to get a whiskey ginger. They are known for their mixologists, but I go there because the bar has a really great vibe.  And they make a delicious whiskey ginger. One of my favorite Orbit Room memories is a time when I got off work early on a sunny Friday in San Francisco. Two things about this story are rare, I got off work early enough to be in San Francisco in the afternoon, and it was sunny and warm.  I was in a good mood and had a few hours to kill before the afternoon wore off.  My friends were all still at work (although I tried to change this), and my house seemed dark and cold for such a lovely afternoon.  The only conclusion I could come to was to belly up to a whiskey ginger at the Orbit Room.

I was delighted to find that the big picture windows were opened wide, calling me in for a voyeur's afternoon delight.  I nestled up to the bar, smiled, and ordered a Jack and  Ginger in calm anticipation.  The bar tender smiled and got to work.  As I watched him carefully make the drink, a healthy dose of whiskey, equal parts fresh ginger juice and soda water, and a candied ginger garnish, I pondered my order.  Jack and Ginger - they sound like movie stars.  Or maybe they are just really cool everyday people.  Right now they are my friends.  A day dream begins. Jack and Ginger - the names roll off my tongue, more maybe that was a little saliva.  I blink and transport back to reality.  My cocktail is ready.

He slides the beautiful drink across the bar to me, and we both smile with satisfaction.  The perspiration begins to coat the edge of the collins glass as the ice settles between layers of whiskey, soda, and juice. I pay and tip the tattooed man, master of mixology, and head for the open window.  The air is warm as it blows into the bar and tickles my nose.  I sit at a high backed wooden chair at the large metal table and gaze down Market Street. I plop the wedge of candied ginger onto the ice, give my drink a quick but gentle stir with the straw, and take my first sip. I am content.

Reflections on Poprocks

So there's this band.  They call themselves Poprocks.  And they are super fun. Well, they used to be super fun.  Now, I think they're more of a curiosity than anything else.  In fact, they're kind of like Pop Rocks: At the moment of contact, they burst into action, and then crickle and crack with your saliva until they seemingly disappear.  A few get stuck in your teeth, leaving a short glimpse of that tingly feeling, but then they're gone, leaving nothing but a faded memory.

I used to live in the inner Richmond, about a decade ago, and being that I was single and in my mid-twenties, I went out a lot.  And got drunk. On one of those nights, I was out with a girlfriend who had tickets to an 80's cover band at the Red Devil Lounge.  It sounded like a good time, so we dolled ourselves up - me in maroon velvet pants and a black halter top with sequins and she in a shimmering green shirt and tight blue jeans - and headed down to Polk Street.  We had arrived a little early and waited patiently with anticipation, and a cold pint, for the band to come on.  The lights dimmed, and over the loudspeaker we heard, "Have any of you ever felt stepped on, left out, picked on, or put down? Whether you think you're a nerd or not, why don't you just join us." The audience roused with enthusiasm and delight.  I thought, is he really saying this?  This is awesome.  As the lights brightened, five hot dudes, dressed as Nerds, sauntered on stage and exploded into We Are the Campions. I was hooked, right then and there. They followed that up with a variety of fun 80s songs like Just What I Needed, Jessie's Girl, Sister Christian, and Little Red Corvette, popping in and off stage for various costume changes.  My friend and I sang our hearts out and danced our shoes off, through the encore and one too many pints of beer, until we stumbled home deliriously satisfied.

The excitement of that show was like a drug for me.  I chased the high to a few more shows, but couldn't duplicate that first explosion of enthusiasm and delight.  I remember one show was full of bachelorettes, with their high heeled shoes and their pointy purses.  Another show ended in insult and injury, literally.  My friend's foot got impaled by a stiletto boot heel connected to a short, flagrant, dancing queen and I got called an ugly piece of crap by a belligerent jock who failed miserably at flirting with me. I don't know if it was Polk Street, Poprocks, the Red Devil Lounge, or some combination of the three, but all subsequent shows ended in disappointment and a hangover.  Needless to say, I have the incredibly fond memories of that first show, which still brings a smile to my lips and a smirk to my cheeks.

A decade later, and about a month ago, I stumbled across a deal for free tickets to a Poprocks show on Goldstar.  Could this be real, I thought to myself, they are such a fun band and the tickets are free!?  I need to jump on this... and jump on the nostalgia train. Clearly my memory had faded significantly, except for that first show of course, because I impulsively secured two free tickets (plus service fee) for the Saturday night affair.  The day of the show I realized I hadn't figured out a partner in crime, so I invited a girl friend who enjoys live music and off we went into the world of yesteryear.  As we meandered towards the Red Devil Lounge around 9:30 pm, we found ourselves dazed and confused by what seemed to be a foreign neighborhood. Yes, that sounds simple and silly, but with San Francisco's micro-neighborhoods, it is easy to not visit a part of the city.. for years.  I actually said to her "I can't even remember the last time I was over here." And then I remembered that a friend's band recently played at the Hemlock, but that was as far north on Polk Street I had ventured in god knows how long.

It's no wonder that the bar was pumping 80's tunes upon arrival. To our surprise, however, someone had rented the place out for a private birthday party before the show.  As we nestled into a wallflower seat with our first round of whisky and ginger in hand, the birthday boy was summoned on stage for a serenade and acceptance speech.  He was celebrating his 40th birthday. Ah ha. A light went on for us both.. cute boys our age and we just travelled back in time. Shortly thereafter, the public streamed in and shifted the crowd dynamics considerably. To join the cast of characters, we witnessed a bachelorette party of four, blond girls dressed in 80s gear that were likely born in the 1990s, gay boys with slick hair and manicured nails, and a large number of couples composed of a gleeful gal and a pussy-whipped and/or devoted guy. Not a moment too soon, the band blasted on stage with an 80s hair band song, Here I Go Again, and got the crowd bumping.  They followed it up with a whole lot of pop music, from the 80s through today. I don't remember the set list, but I remember my impressions: the band got older, just like me. They were fun, don't get me wrong, and I sang my heart out like it was group karaoke. They busted a move with AC/DC, Guns N' Roses, The Cars, and even Madonna, but I almost lost it a couple of times during the show.  Like when they did a mash up of Jessie's Girl and Gangnam Style, or when they screeched through Katy Perry's California Gurls. They can pull off the 80s rock great, even the 90s rock, (I loved the mash-up of Smells Like Teen Spirit with Billy Jean) but current pop is out of their league.  The whole show really reminded me of Pop Rocks: At the moment of contact, they burst into action, and then crickle and crack with your saliva until they seemingly disappear.  A few get stuck in your teeth, leaving a short glimpse of that tingly feeling, but then they're gone, leaving nothing but a faded memory.

Inspiration

I'm a virgin.  And I'm inspired.  I fancy myself a good story teller but an amateur story writer. This is my first time putting it out there on the world wide web. I'm hopeful this experience will be like the other first time... I may have been a late bloomer, but I was more than ready for it when he came.

I was recently in Maui for a lovely oceanside wedding with an intimate group of friends and family.  I had planned the week long vacation months ago, but when it came time to book the lodging I got frustrated with the high price of hotels. The thought of being hold up in a fancy resort hotel with restaurant food for a week had my IBS clawing at the bathroom door.  I'm not exactly a cheapskate, but I'm... frugal and emotionally attached to my savings account.  I'd been given the tip to look for a condo rental, which was super appealing and provided more autonomy, but there were slim pickings in my hopeful price range. I reached out to the few friends I knew were also attending, but had no luck with finding a roommate to share costs.  After two weeks of lunchtime internet searches and spotty responses, I conceded to the fact that my Hawaii vacation wasn't going to be fun on a shoestring budget.  I would have to part with my treasured rainy day funds.  Hell, it's ok, they're sunny day funds too.  

With my revisioned expectations, I got back on the hunt for a sweet pad in Kihea.  Not but a day had passed when I got a hit on a 4th floor two-bedroom ocean-view condo just a five minute walk from the beach.  I quickly called the contact number to verify that it wasn't too good to be true: all those amenities were available for that price?  She confirmed and I told her I'd get back to her the following day because "I needed to sleep on it."  With a smile on my face, I set about to finish the morning's work and head out to a spaghetti lunch.  Upon my return, I read some online news and checked my personal email while the food coma worked its way through my system.  Low and behold, I had a new email from the bride's good friend in LA asking if I'd sorted out lodging for the wedding, and if not, would I be interested in sharing a condo with her? Serendipity strikes again. 

From the moment we met at the airport, inspiration abounded.  It started with the getting-to-know-you conversation as we cruised down the Mokulele Highway in our rented black Jeep with the warm island breeze swimming freely through our blond locks.  After the baseline data exchange, we talked about boys, the Secret, family, friends, and what 2013 had in store for us.  Oh, and we talked about writing.  She is trained as a lawyer, but self-identifies as a writer.  I had been nurturing my writing voice for a few months now, and couldn't believe the luck of having a fellow writer dropped in my lap.  The familiar inertia of our conservation continued through that first evening, as we chatted lazily on the lanai, sipping Pacificos while the afternoon wore off and the stars came alive.  In fact, the ease and openness of our discourse continued all weekend long, through snorkeling and whale sightings, bachelorette gossip and fancy cocktails, the rehearsal dinner and quick-mart cigarette raid, and the wedding ceremony and dance floor debauchery. It was the following morning, as the wine was wearing off and she was packing for her flight home, when she turned and asked "do you have nickname?" "A few, but nothing widespread." "Megahertz, that's what I thought of when I first met you.  It fits."

As I sat on the beach later that afternoon, reflecting on the week and looking forward to a few more days of island life, I made a commitment to myself.  A commitment to more seriously nurture my writing life.  This means more than my writing group starts or my jar full of notes about stories yet to be written.  It means actually writing. So here I am... Welcome to Megahertz: Stories of a Supernova trapped in a Firefly.