sunny side up

a lover, not a fighter (or vice versa)

MIS EN SCENE: Kai and I on a road trip to Target.

SCENE ONE: The Drive Up

Talk ensues about a mysterious club Kai has formed, which he refers to as "My Club."  Members include the following, according to Kai: "Me of course, SeaBass, Michael and Sean."  Pause.  "Oh, and Mavewick.  He's vewy powahful so I have to have him." 

I envision Maverick, physically a very small boy whose powers are not obvious.  So I imagine he must be politically powerful on the Montessori scene (and also I'm impressed Kai thinks he needs to surround himself with powerful people, for whatever reason). "What do you mean by powerful?" I ask.

"Well, he chases the girls all around and yells, 'ack-ack-a-zoooooooo!'"  I'm not sure of the significance of this power but then again, I'm not in The Club. 

Kai continues.  "SeaBass throws water balloons, Michael does kawate, and Sean . . . I'm not sure what his power is.  Maybe he does kawate like Michael.  [random fighting noises]"

"These powers, what are they used for?"  I ask.

[Eye roll].   "To defeat the girls, of course!"

***

SCENE TWO: The Drive Home

"Mom, why do people have wars?"

"Why do people have warts?

"No, wars.  You know, like when you kill each other [random fighting noises]?"

"Ohhhhhh.  Wars.  Yes, well.  Sometimes people have wars because their governments are fighting over something each of them wants. Then they make the people of the country fight the wars."

"And then hippies hold up signs that say 'PEACE' and 'NO WAR IN VIETNAM'?"

"[???}  Uh, yeah.  That could happen."

"I think if I was in a war I would be on the side of the hippies.  I'd put up signs evwy-where that said 'PEACE.'  That'd be sooooo funny!  There'd be, like, signs evwy-where!"

at home on the range

One of our local librarians is a mild-mannered gentleman rather lacking in humor and hospitality.  We call him The Grey Guy (I've mentioned him in passing before) because his personality is overwhelmingly bland, he has longish salt-and-pepper hair with matching eyebrows and other facial hairs.  He usually wears a black jacket, black pants, and sensible black shoes. And!  He wears cakey foundation, not at all color-matched to his skin (a look not even appealing on women) and it sometimes runs into his grey mustache.  I know this because I look very closely when he is on the other side of the counter not talking to me while he processes my books.   He's not mean, exactly; he's just very not friendly. 

Is it unreasonable to expect people I see on a regular basis in this small town to say hello or  make eye contact or show any amount of recognition?  Am I wrong to believe that people who work in the service industry should be friendly when they provide service?  With the Grey Guy, it's the same thing every time.  We approach the counter.  He waits for one of us to put our library card on the counter.  He scans the card.  If Jade is the patron he says in a grey tone, "You have X number of overdue books.  Do you want to pay for those fines now?"  (In the alternative he'll say, "You have $X in fines and cannot check out any more books until those fines have been paid.")  Sometimes if I'm not so quick on the draw and I don't have my card on the counter he will say, "I need your card."  When I thank him for his processing services, he does not welcome me.

Maybe my expectations are too high.  Normally I live in a world where almost everyone I make contact with will be friendly to me, even if I am not paying them for something.  This includes people waiting in line in front of and/or behind me; people shopping in the same aisle as me; 411 operators; strangers passing by my house when I'm out there stretching; and librarians. (It excludes one particular border patrol agent who once pulled me over at the checkpoint and barked orders at me.  I wanted to say, "Dude! Don't you know who I am? Everyone else is so nice to me." Asshole.)

Seriously, for as long as I can remember random people have gone out of their way to be nice to me, even if I don't initiate or invite conversation (because sometimes I vant to be left alone).  I think I am one of those people others feel the need to talk to and tell about their circumcisions and vasectomies and marriage problems and health ailments, and who want to give me free things.  For whatever reason though, The Grey Guy seems impermeable to my magic.  So I have taken up the challenge to break him, to make him at least acknowledge that yes, he does recognize me and my family as longtime patrons of the library and yes, he will say "Hi" when we approach the counter or "You're welcome" when we leave. 

That was how I initially defined my challenge when I realized he was stone cold to our friendliness. I have long thought that the way in was to come up with a common thread that would unite us. I think I finally might have found it.

Recently Bell and I were at the shooting range* preparing to fire off a few rounds.  I had just put on my goggles and was adjusting them when onto the premises strolled a smallish man dressed in a black Members-Only-ish jacket, black pants, sensible black shoes and, most telling, a jaunty (black) fedora.  He looked quite comfortable there, and walked on past me as if with a purpose.  I tried to signal discretely to Bell that it was the Grey Guy and that we should go have another look for confirmation, but he couldn't understand what the hell I was trying to say.  Once we were on the range, it was too loud and we were both wearing earplugs so I was hard pressed to recruit Bell into assisting with spying activities.  Besides, I think he was more interested in shooting at targets.  Still, without a second look I remain 98.725% certain I saw The Grey Guy. 

So now, when I go to drop off some books at the library, should I mention that I (think I) saw him at the range?  What if it is part of his secret life that he wants to keep on the DL?

_________

*BTW, if you've never been to a shooting range, don't go getting all freaked out.  You might be surprised to find that it is peopled with completely ordinary folk.  When we were there we saw a dad with his young son (why wasn't the kid in school?), another, older dad with his little old wife and two teenage daughters, several women taking a self-defense class, some standard-issue military guys, two regular Joes competing against each other, and Bell & me.  I dare say it looked like America, an America where a humorless librarian sporting makeup and a jaunty fedora can fire a gun next to a little old lady who takes the time to sweep up everyone's bullet casings.  Perhaps the shooting range, not the library, is the Grey Guy's natural habitat.

gentle into that good night

1991-2008

I woke up Friday morning to find that Hamlet had passed away sometime during the night.  When I got up he wasn't in his usual spot waiting for me, so I checked his second-most-usual waiting spot.  Not there.  I looked out to the sunroom to see him lying on his side looking quite relaxed.  Had it not been dark, I would have thought nothing of this, for he loved to lie around in the sun like that.  He looked so peaceful there on his little rug, and I knew before I reached out to him that his heart was no longer beating.  His fur was so soft, his body rigid but not yet cold. I have no idea how long he had been like that. I sat there petting him and talking to him--you know, saying goodbye--before I covered him with a flannel sheet.

Then I went into the kitchen and turned on the coffee, as is my wont, then went to the pantry to feed him, as was also my wont.  I realized there was no need, but I couldn't bear the thought of just throwing away his food and water bowls, so I left them there.  It still felt like he was supposed to run up to me when I was in the kitchen, as was his wont.  Alas, he never came.

 

He had been mellowing and not eating regularly since Christmas.  In part I thought it was because we had eight other people staying at our house, but by the time everyone left and the house returned to normal, we saw that he had lost a lot of weight.  He had been reduced to sharp, furry bones.  He was still eating occasionally and drinking water regularly, and I was relieved he was not hiding in a closet and refusing to eat.  Still, we could see that he was really slowing down.  He would attempt to jump up somewhere and sometimes miss, then look kind of embarrassed about it.  We played it off like we didn't notice the miss and would pick him up and place him at his destination.  We wanted him to maintain a sense of dignity, after all.

I knew then that he would probably not make it to see another year, but I still imagined that we had more time. Then I re-read a comment from a post I wrote about Hamlet's woes last year, where one Greensboro Transplant said of her beloved pet:

I just stumbled across your blog and enjoyed it very much! I can empathize with you about Hamlet. My 23-year-old Siamese, Meling, quit walking and eating for about 5 days in November. Everyone said to put her down, but I really didn't feel it was her time - her blood work showed no major problems, etc. I knew her time was near, obviously, but not then. This went on for 4-5 days. The only problem was that I was due to travel to Florida (from Virginia) to celebrate Thanksgiving with my family. I knew no one here would care for her like I would, so I threw a diaper on her, put her in the passenger seat and took off! Along the way, I stopped for Chicken McNuggets (her favorite!) and, lo and behold, she started eating! I fed her all the way down and by the time she arrived, she was eating and walking! I nursed her back to health and she enjoyed the holidays with us. One warm day in January, I put her outside to bask in the sun (she loved that!). When I went outside to retrieve her, I found that she had died. I was thankful for the time we had and that she died naturally.

I told myself that it could very likely happen that way--one day Hamlet might just be gone--and I needed to prepare myself for that.

 
With the start of the new year, I realized that Hamlet was not long for this world. His patterns had changed; among them, he actually started spending a lot of time in Kai's room.  Why, he even remained on Kai's bed when Kai got into bed.  If you knew how timid and quiet Hamlet was, and how much like a tornado Kai is (even while winding down to sleep), you would understand why this feline behavior was so extraordinary.

But there were other things, too.  Hamlet always came around wherever we were, to make himself available for extracurricular petting above and beyond his usual levels.  Indeed, he sort of demanded it, and he rewarded us nicely with an extra loud purr (this might also have been because the purr echoed through his empty stomach and bounced off his bony insides).  He stopped running into the kitchen every time the fridge opened, and he wasn't even that keen on his favorite baby food (Gerber's turkey or chicken) anymore.

Wednesday night I passed him on my way to brush my teeth, and he was lying on the reading room floor.  Something about the way he looked at me when I passed made me turn back and go lie down next to him.  I petted him and he purred so vigorously.  All the while his head was lifted and he stared straight into my eyes for the longest time.  I don't know why, but I just felt then that he was telling me it was time.  As he stared at me I said, "We know you have to go, Buddy. It's okay. It's okay to go."  Then he laid his little head down and closed his eyes, but he kept purring.  I watched his belly go up and down, up and down.  I thought that any minute it would just stop, just as Greensboro Transplant had said.  "It's okay, Buddy."

He gave us one more day. 

If nothing else, I'm thankful he expired so peacefully.  No frantic calls to the vet, no forcing Hamlet into his carrier for a stressed-out trip to the vet, where he's poked and prodded on that cold steel table, no wondering whether and when it is the right time to put him down.  Perhaps he knew that after last year's shenanigans I was not emotionally equipped to go through all that again.  Maybe he was being kind.

We'll always remember our beautiful Russian Blue for the way he would walk over to the other side of the room and sit expectantly.  I would throw a paper wad or ball of old used sports tape his way, and just as it was about to arrive near him he'd leap into the air, front paws up, and try to catch it.  Sometimes he actually managed to grab it between his paws.  Upon landing he would bat it around and back to me, then return to his original position for more.

You know how, as a parent, there's not only a sense of delight when your kid loses his first tooth, but also a tinge of sadness that the toddler smile is changing?  It was that same sort of reasoning that inspired me to take this photo (left) of Hamlet just before he went to the vet to get fixed.  (As Bell later exclaimed, "He's not fixed; he's broken!") Good times.

Ah, but without those testicles Hamlet might not have been able to jump to great heights as he did.  Back before kids, when we had allllllll the time in the world, Bell and I could easily spend it directing a flashlight on the walls of my Victorian studio apartment to watch Hamlet jump after it.  Sans testicles, he was so light and agile he could tap the wall 2/3 of the way up.  An Olympian feat, it was.

Rest in peace, Hamlet aka Hammy; Hammikins; Hamma-lamma-ding-dong; Hambone; Belly Dragger; Our Own Special Little Guy; The Ham-ster; Ham-and-Cheese; Little Dude; Furry Dude; Hamleticus; and, near the end, Bony Butt and Bony Maroni; and, if you had lived a little longer or I had seen "Superbad" sooner than last Saturday, you might also have been known as McLovin.

There may be other kitties along the way, but the hole in my heart can only be filled by you.

fast times

Now that Jade is in the fifth grade, it’s time to begin frank discussions about . . . you-know-what.  This will be facilitated by our enrollment in a program called "S.H.A.P.E.: Sharing Healthy Adolescent Parent Experiences."  In other words, The Birds and the Bees.  The program, offered through Campfire USA through Jade's school, requires both parent and student.  The boys and girls attend separate classes.  In five sessions the class will cover issues like where those boobs suddenly came from; Mother Nature's plan; body parts and how they fit together; fluids and their consequences; and the care and feeding of an egg (or, how I paid my mom to babysit my egg).

When I was in fifth grade our sex education was limited to that 30-minute black-and-white production known with a wink-wink as "The Health Movie.”  The only thing of import that I took away from that waste of celluloid was the scene when a boy telephoned some girl with a sassy flipped-out 'do and hairband (apparently this was considered attractive at the time the film was made, which must have been in the ‘50s because it seemed dated by the time I watched it in the '70s).  The girl, who bore a striking resemblance to Patty Duke, began sweating so profusely that her white blouse darkened under the armpits.  I remember this because the camera zoomed in on the armpit, clearly intending to emphasize the gravity of the situation.  This is what happens when boys call you!  I was so mortified of sweating like that (it was unattractive, by my high standards), that I took the initiative in calling boys.  Unfortunately, I still ended up being one of the sweatiest people I know.  Think Albert Brooks in Broadcast News.

So with the exception of The Health Movie, everything I learned about puberty and it's consequences came from the streets and my school library.  Specifically, “Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret” and the racy “Go Ask Alice” were so popular that if you wanted to get your hands on the only copies in the library you had to know who had checked it out last and beg them to tell you when they returned it.  And it didn’t hurt to be on good terms with Mrs. Robinson, the school librarian.  I recently considered purchasing these books for Jade and dog-earing the good parts, but then I realized that the thrill of reading them came from sneaking them into and out of the house without my mother knowing.  I'm hoping one of her friends will corrupt her in a similar fashion.  It's just not a proper coming-of-age without Judy Blume.

Basically my parents never said a word to me about puberty, much less sex, when I was growing up. I’m sure I must have picked up a few choice bits from my sister, who is two years older than I am, but I don’t remember that.  Perhaps she deliberately withheld information from me so I could suffer as she did when she hit puberty?  Alas, it was not to be, for I had friends to fill me in.  Sure, much of their information was inaccurate, but at least I felt empowered and all-knowing.

***

There was no such S.H.A.P.E. class when I was a kid, so when I heard about this one I was very excited.  Jade, not so much excited.  When she saw the flyer about the program she asked if she had to go.  “Yes,” I said, “of course. Come on!  It’ll be fun!” I urged, because honestly, I think it will be a gas.

However, she got all serious and defensive and said, “Well.  I have better ways to spend my time.”   I think what she meant was “Please don’t make me go and embarrass the crap out of me by giggling and drawing penises with the other moms.”  I’m so sure!  She needs to, like, grow up.

Last week was the orientation class for parents only.  It consisted of eleven moms and a dad, the latter of whom promised that he would not return for the other sessions (his wife was there and he thought, wisely, that the girls might not be comfortable with a man in the room).  The instructor basically talked about the format of the class and the topics covered.  She said that most of the girls are completely mortified at first but then end up having fun.  By contrast, apparently in the boys’ class they have no qualms about discussing boners and asking graphic questions. I think that class sounds like more fun, but since I don't have a son in fifth grade I can't exactly sit in on it, for the others might grow suspicious of my presence.  Maybe I should say I'm just auditing the class.

The instructor for our class seems to have a magical way of addressing sensitive or embarrassing topics, which makes me perfectly comfortable about taking Jade despite her reluctance and younger age.  The instructor said that often the girls (and sometimes their moms) want her to discuss things that they are too embarrassed to raise in front of the class.  For this, we will have in the class a pretty little bag into which we can drop these questions.  Last week, each mom (and the dad) received an actual question that had appeared in The Bag of previous classes, and we were supposed to say how we would answer if our child came to us with that question.  I got to go first.  My question was, "Were you a virgin when you got married?"  When the instructor asked how I would respond, I clapped my hands over my ears and said, "LALALALALALALA!"   Sadly, that wasn't quite what she was looking for.  Other questions, which could have been answered using my method, included, "What does an orgasm feel like?" (One mom answered, "I have no idea, honey," which got some good laughs.); "Does an abortion hurt?"; and "What is the right age to have sex?"

Oh yeah!  The coming weeks promise some goooooooood times.  Good times.

stalking the unicorn

January has been quite a month of firsts thus far.  Early in the month I witnessed someone driving off with the gas nozzle still attached to his car--something I've heard about but could not imagine actually happening. 

Last week I was getting back in my car when I noticed, in the car next to me, a woman parked under a shady tree, reclining in the drivers seat and snoozing like there's no tomorrow.  Now, I've long heard stories that there is a subculture of carnappers in this country--not the ones who steal cars, but the ones who pull over in them to catch a few Zs.  Some people do it so regularly that they keep sleeping supplies (a pillow, an alarm clock, a blanket) in their vehicles.  For some reason, I find this practice fascinating, especially if it is a planned event.  I've never known anyone who admitted to car-napping.  Actually, I have a friend whose husband was once planning to go out to Happy Hour after work, and my friend caught him carrying a pillow out to his truck when he left for the day.  He claimed it was because if he got too drunk to drive he would sleep in his truck.  But that's not really a ritual napping.  It's more like planning to pass out.  Either that, or not wanting to come home.

In any event, it is with great delight I present to you a gen-u-wine American Car-Napper:

Shhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Doesn't she look peaceful and cozy with her down blanket pulled up to her neck?  I'll bet she's dreaming of rainbow unicorns.
 

there's a draft in here

You may not be aware of this, but many sunny side up posts go unpublished because they never make their way out of draft form.  Sometimes I'll be inspired to write and just start typing away, creating the bones (or the heart, whatever) of the post.  But then I'll stop, usually because I have some obligation to fulfill and I can't sit at my computer all day.  I hate getting interrupted like that, but I promise my draft I'll be back...and then the fire is gone.  I don't go back; I go forward, on to drafting another post.  The little orphaned post just sits there taunting me every time I open my Typepad account. 

This scenario occurred a lot toward the end of last year, so that I now have several abandoned drafts that I can't bear to delete because I already put something into them, but I can't seem to finish.  Here are a few samplings, feel free to flesh them out. I would be so grateful.

1) Supa-Fly

This was a post about the super-human race of giant flies that seemed to infest my house and lay eggs, which is why even after I managed to kill one with 26 rounds of the Fly Shooter,* the next day I'd hear that annoying "bzzzzzzzzzzzz" surround me and I'd spy another fly.  A different, new fly, even more super than the previous one.  My working alternative to the infestation-and-egg-laying hypothesis was that the fly colony was headquartered outside of our house but that there was a breach in our fortress somewhere.  Every time I killed a giant fly (again, the normal fly would go down with one hit of the Fly Shooter; these flies took many hits) the commander would get word and send a new one in to torment me.  I thought this problem was finally solved after I wiped out the army, but just yesterday I heard the dreaded buzz and the hair on the back of my neck stood up straight.  This is Southern California! I thought flies didn't exist in the winter.  Except supa-flies.

2)  ATF: wtf?

Remember the fires of October 2007?  The Orange County fires were under investigation by the federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco & Firearms* or ATF, as it is commonly known (in Waco).  Upon hearing this I said to myself, I said, "ATF: WTF?"  Why was the federal government involved when federal lands weren't burning (at the time)?  What do Grey Goose, a pack of Camels and a Saturday Night Special have to do with the Modjeska Canyon fire? 

Turns out, ATF also now also gets charge over explosives, so their jurisdiction (and their name) has expanded.  But of course.  How often to federal bureaucracies seek to lessen their presence?  ("No, no, we simply couldn't.  We already have enough power.  We'll stop here.")

3) Non-profit status

This was a post about how our contractor, visiting our house for what we hoped was the final inspection after last summer's remodel, told Bell he was upset because he didn't make the profit on us that he was expecting. (I know! Who says that directly to a client?)  Bell's reaction was, effectively, Dude, you've been in this business, like, a hundred years. (Not a direct quote).  If you don't know how to bid on a project, no tengo mi problema.  (Again, paraphrased and cleaned up for your enjoyment.) Then the contractor had the feckin' nerve to say that he was mad because we didn't even offer him extra money to pay for the the things he screwed up!  Yeah, we're real assholes like that.  By contrast, he was probably planning to refund us any monies we paid out if his work happened to exceed his original bid.

4)  Untitled.

Do you know what sucks about being a blogger who likes to write about the things I witness around me and the conversation I have with myself?   Sometimes I have really good material about unbelievable things people say or do, but I refrain from sharing on the off-chance that the person I would write about reads this blog and would be really embarrassed and/or pissed off.  Of course, Bell is privy to these wonderful tales, so at least I don't have to shove them down to a deep dark place where they will never see the light of day, but still.  There must be a release,  I cannot keep these stories inside forever, so they all go into a mental file for material we will use to write into a television show.  Because it's totally okay to splash someone's personal life across the television screen to a whole nation of watchers. It's just not okay to write about them on a teeny little blog that no one (except you, of course) reads.   

5) Visualize whirled peas. 

This is my post about how it would totally be a bummer if the war in Iraq ended because then what would become of all those stupid anti-war bumper stickers. For instance, "WAR IS NOT THE ANSWER."  Oh yeah? Well then how do you spell "raw" backwards, Mr. Smartypants?

What about "NO MORE VIET NAMS"?  I thought we pulled out of Viet Nam in order to avoid humiliating defeat or something.  So are these bumper stickers advocating that we not pull out of Iraq? I'm confused. 

And finally, "PLANT SEEDS AND SING SONGS."  Yeah, we know what kind of seeds you're planting. 'Nuff said.

6) No Shirt, No Shit.

Okay, so I got out of my car one day and ran across the street to the post office when I heard my name called.  I look around a bit, only to find our former painter (the one who hired a colorblind guy to paint Jade's room) beckoning to me quite enthusiastically from outside a bar.  As he ran across the street saying, "I have to show you something!" I thought to myself as I watched his belly jiggle, "This is disturbing. Why is he shirtless?"

He stopped in front of me, turned around and spread his lats.  I had no choice but to look at his giant back tattoo of a heart with wings.  It looked pretty fresh, which is to say a little scabby and raised.  "I just got it done, like, three hours ago! Do you like it? I'm gonna have [his kids' names] written in the banner!"  Mind you, I haven't seen this guy for over a year and only encountered him one other time recently, so I was surprised at the exuberance with which he chased me down to show me his backside.  But then he said he was showing everyone. In fact, right in the middle of my conversing with him he spied someone else he knew across the street and just took off to show him without so much as a goodbye.**

This led me to reflect, for quite some time, on the fact that back in the day it was not unusual to see shirtless guys roaming the streets.  But nowadays, who walks or drives around shirtless in a Camaro anymore?  I ask this and I live in a very casual beach town, for god's sake.  Still, when not on the beach or at the pool most guys are civilized enough to don a tank top or wife beater.  Is it just me, or has shirtlessness fallen out of favor? 

Admittedly, there are exceptions.  If you've ever strolled the Castro District in San Francisco or the streets of Laguna Beach, you know what I'm saying. But besides that, what has become of the shirtless man of the '70s and '80s?  Has he been forced to cover by all those "No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service" signs?  Because, come to think of it, people don't much walk around barefooted anymore either.  I always thought that was because of the ever-powerful shoe lobby.

_________

*Do you own a Fly Shooter? It is the most awesome bug killer ever, mostly because you get to shoot at stuff.  I don't advocate killing the nice bugs or arachnids (black widows and brown recluses excluded), but for flies it is a blast. Except supa-flies, which require many rounds.

**I hope my former painter doesn't read this.

when justice is your friend

I recently had the opportunity to meet Justice Clarence Thomas and to attend a moving talk about his recently published memoirs.  The book follows him through his life up to the time he was appointed to the High Court, which may explain why he doesn't note the fact that he and Jade are totally BFFs. I'll bet you did not know that.

Back when Jade was born, my friend Nicole (one half of the charming and scholarly--and also damn funny--duo of Professors Garnett) began clerking for Justice Thomas.  During her stint there, she sent Baby Jade an autographed picture of the Justice, which we hung in her room.  When she was old enough to speak, Jade would upon waking look at the picture and say,"Good Morning, Justice Thomas."  Justice Thomas was always there for her. (In fact, he still lords over the chaos that is her room, reminding her to "always do your best to be your best," which, for the most part, she does.)

One day we were sitting in the airport waiting to board a flight back from an AALS conference, Jade struck up a conversation with the man next to us.  He was apparently quite taken with her little articulate self, especially after she told him she the reason she was wearing a name tag was that she had just attended a law school conference.

He asked her how old she was. 

"Three and a half."

He said he had a son who was also three and a half. 

"What's his name?" she asked.

"Justice," came the reply.

"Justice?"

"Yes.  Justice."

"Oh, I have a friend like that," she offered casually.  "His name is Justice Thomas." 

my wish for you this year

I hope u don't croak.

[Update: I took this picture at the Monterey Bay Aquarium.  Please click on it to see the top frog smiling.]

Hoppy New Year!