Just a Girl in San Francisco

Just a Dog in San Francisco

2012-01-08T16:19:00.000-08:00

On days like this, it's hard to believe that I live amid all this beauty.

This is Sadie.

A Girl Draws

2011-12-14T17:57:00.000-08:00

First, my latest homework assignment, to draw this face:

My attempt:

I was at least happy with the lips and some of the shading. Still a lot to learn, but I'm doing it!

Next, a find from a sketchbook circa 1990: A sketch I did of myself as a 3-year-old.

Whimsical Watercolor Cityscape

2011-11-17T20:03:00.001-08:00

Tonight's lesson. I can just see Harriet the Spy walking along this street. (The horizontal line is because it's two adjoining pages in my watercolor pad.

A Girl Just Paints

2011-11-16T10:30:00.001-08:00

This is the "underpainting" for my current project.

You can only imagine what my cats look like with all that paint flying around.

Thank you my lovely teacher!

The Eyes Have It, But Do I Have the Eyes?

2011-10-01T19:56:00.000-07:00

This week I'm learning to draw eyes. I'm thrilled that they look human, even if, perhaps, they don't look too much like their model -- me!

My assignment: Draw 25 eyes, looking in the mirror, in varying expressions. Following is my work today. When I turned out a pair I liked, I decided to break out the watercolors and start playing ...

Here are two cool tutorials my teacher pointed me to:

http://www.dueysdrawings.com/eye_tutorial.html

http://www.dragoart.com/tuts/4431/1/1/how-to-draw-an-eye-in-pencil.htm

And I would be remiss not to give credit to my mentor and old friend, Leah. (She's giving discounted classes through October. Find out more here.)

Continued Art-iness

2011-09-26T20:07:00.000-07:00

I'm learning how to draw with grids. I chose to try to reproduce a Mary Cassatt piece. Wow, nothing less than humbling, this drawing stuff. First the original, then my first hour and second hour at it so far. I am most intrigued by the woman's face.

Just a Girl Drawing a Girl, Or, Helen Keller Moments

2011-09-10T19:20:00.000-07:00

Two assignments from my art class: Draw a portrait from a photo of my face looking straight ahead; and replicate a handed-out sketch looking at it upside-down. It's amazing how that view scrambles your brain signals and breaks what you see into lines, circles and dots. I'm having Helen Keller "water" moments ...

First, photo and sketch (the fact that you can tell my drawing is of a human face thrills me; that you can see it's a woman sends me over the moon! Baby steps):

Then upside-down exercise, first the printout, second my sketch. Mine's head is ridiculously small, but I think it actually looks kind of cool that way! That's my story and I'm sticking to it -- I meant to do that!

My First Art Lesson

2011-09-07T20:51:00.000-07:00

Wow, this video calling is crazy. I had my first drawing lesson tonight with my old buddy Leah, now an accomplished artist in New York. After the first few minutes of head-popping nostalgia, we got down to business. I can't believe all she taught me in an hour. Here's my first outline of a face, whose measurements are surprisingly predictable.

The Artist as a Woman of a Happy Age

2011-09-04T13:08:00.000-07:00

I can't recall why, but a few weeks ago I began to sketch. Then I checked out a book from the library on drawing figures. Now, as luck would have it, my good old friend Leah, a fellow ex-pat of the Star-News in Wilmington, NC, who long ago traded her reporter's notebook for a paintbrush, has kindly included me in a beta test of the online art classes she's launching.

As in print, it feels kind of cool when I see my sketches "published," so I thought I would begin posting some in JAGSF. I also hope as time goes on I will be see improvement! A sampling:

Lulu Bet

Mother and baby

Mother and child

Dear Diaries

2011-01-15T18:51:00.000-08:00

I grew up playing with words.

When I was in grade school, having gone through all of the Nancy Drew mysteries, I wrote one myself. When my brother told me I was infringing on copyrighted material, I got so scared I erased every word in the little green notebook with the puffy sticker on the cover. Luckily, I had written it in pencil, I wasn't sued and the scandal has never come to light.

There were other masterpieces: A collection of scary stories; a notebook of poems; the time-traveling novella "When the Moon Is Full"; a short-lived family newsletter that I produced on my dad's manual typewriter using carbon paper to make extra copies.

I was 12.

There was so much girlish scribbling that by the time I entered high school I had chosen my favorite works, typed them up and stapled a construction paper cover to them. It was called "A Classical Collection of Prose and Poetry." It's sitting behind me in my bookcase.

I'm not saying much of it was any good, mind you.

Then there were the diaries, which turned into "journals" as I got older. My first one (pictured) was a cheap little orange number from the variety store where my mom worked, given to me for Christmas 1977. The next year, it was succeeded by (another) orange volume -- this one with a lock on it. The following Christmas brought an official "Nancy Drew Private Eye Diary," also lockable, from McMahon Books in Christiana Mall (I remember finding the receipt, and even though I had outed Santa several years previous, I was disappointed at the blatant proof of his non-existence).

At first, I didn't grasp why anyone would be encouraged to chronicle her mundane fifth-grade days at Holy Angels School in Newark, Del. Reading through it now, I can tell you when we had snow days, who my teachers were, which girls in class I liked (though this was a moving target; lots of names ended up being crossed out), the day I dared apply a Bonne Bell Lip Smacker for the first time (it was Mary Lou's, strawberry). I can also tell you the Dallas Cowboys won the Super Bowl that year, Leon Spinks made history by beating Muhammad Ali and the Catholic faith saw three popes. It would appear I was a reporter even then.

Once the habit was planted, it took hold. Arranging my journals on my new massive bookcases today, I counted 44 -- more, even, than the years I've been alive. Many are cloth-bound books, some are spiral notebooks, a number have a cardboard marbled cover. They have been read, and sometimes hidden, by four nosy ex-boyfriends. They have been carried to 15 residences and four states. One even has the dubious distinction of living in police custody for a year after my attack (the journal, not the boyfriend. He still has about nine years to go).

Reading them, I realize that while sometimes I feel like a mess of a person, I question who the real "me" is and I wonder what I should be doing with my life, I have always consistently been Me.

Though that doesn't answer the meaning of life, it gives me comfort and insight to face the question. Now I know why my mom bought that first little blank book and encouraged me to record the mundane thoughts and experiences of a 10-year-old girl in an obscure East Coast state.

Merry Christmas, From Just A Dog in San Francisco

2010-12-22T18:33:00.000-08:00

You've Heard the Phrase ..

2010-12-21T23:45:00.000-08:00

... "It's like herding cats"? Well, these are herding cats. And they're not the direct object in that sentence. In this video, it's Bear doing the work; Jasper is just looking unamused.

Gremlins TP'd My House!

2010-12-16T14:32:00.000-08:00

I heard a lot of commotion last night while I was in bed. Too lazy to check on the critters. This greeted me this a.m.

Wouldn't it be funny if I didn't have any pets and this kind of thing still occurred?

BTW, beneath all of the tissue is a white cat toy mouse. Do you think he had anything to do with it? Or was he just taking cover?

I guess I'll never know.

Time to buy some more toilet tissue. And drop these kittens off at the pound ...

Monday Morning and All is Looking Rosy

2010-12-13T12:07:00.000-08:00

If you have to go to work, might as well take your rose-colored glasses with you.

Glasses: $3.

Outlook: Priceless.

And yes, that is a sock monkey on my desk.

This Belly Ain't Gonna Scratch Itself

2010-12-09T12:14:00.000-08:00

This is what I get to wake up to: Lulu! My own version of Mr. Winkle. Should I make a Web site and sell T-shirts etc.? Catchy slogans could include: "I eat cat poo -- do you?" and "This belly ain't gonna scratch itself!"

In other news:

* I have fallen in love with oatmeal.
* I have decided that I will not stop for red lights in my dreams.
* Last night I dreamed about pizzelles and am now determined to find a pizzelle iron.
* Am wondering: How does Santa get UP the chimney?

SF, You Make Me Feel Like I'm Living a Teenage Dream

2010-12-04T14:21:00.000-08:00

Wednesday morning I had the opportunity to interview an inspiring woman, Kim Kaselionis, CEO of Circle Bank in Novato. (Check out the story.)

The day was gorgeous -- perfect convertible weather.

The Golden Gate Bridge is always stunning, but even more so when it's clear and crisp. And even more so when you're looking straight up at the towers as you whiz over it with the top down.

Not for the first time, I was struck by the absolutely heavenly beauty of my home, and how lucky I am to be in the position of having a utilitarian use for such a grand icon, simply in the course of doing business.

On the way back to San Francisco, I tried to capture the glory of the day with the video function of my new iPhone. As it happens, one of my favorite songs was on the radio -- Katy Perry's Teenage Dream. You can't see much of me, but that's how I wanted it: The stars here are the blue sky with cotton-ball clouds and the suspension wonder that make you feel like "we'll be young forever ..."

Anthropomorphism, Or, Plant! Watch Your Language!

2010-11-28T16:21:00.000-08:00

I have always had a vivid imagination. I also am an avid dreamer of fantastical, intricate adventures. And I have the best memory of anyone I know (save our managing editor, who has photographic recall of everything he's ever read).

Put it all together, and my life can be a bit like a Disney movie, with my cats -- in my mind -- running for mayor, setting up side businesses, threatening to call their union rep; and my dog affecting a Spanish accent and decreeing that some days, she wants to be called "Lady" or "Betsy," depending on her mood.

Everything in my life, be it animate or inanimate, tells a story. I guess that makes me an anthropomorphist. Fortunately for me, the people I truck with are, too.

Lately, I've been spending more time with my dear friend and college and post-college roomie, Vicky, who says things like, "Oh, Stove, you're just not simmering well" and "Poor Purple Chair, you're going to have to go downstairs again when we get the Christmas tree." We weave hilarious tales of our cats -- my Big Bear and Jasper are brothers to her Little Bear and Maurice (making us mothers from another brother, but I digress). Convinced her Little Bear is a genius, she even purchased him a Baby Einstein piano. I told her today of the sudden movement among my felines to demand middle names. Apparently, it's all the rage, and it's in the "contract" and so forth ...

Long story short, as Vicky would say, I've been in a fantastical mindset of late.

As those who are familiar with San Francisco weather will know, it has begun raining. And rain = ants. (Oh, and these disgusting earthworms that literally crawl up the house, sometimes even depositing themselves into my windowsills, but I digress.)

I understood when they came for my dirty dishes in the sink on the first night. That made total sense. But then the next day I came home from work to find a line to the paper grocery bag into which I deposit my recyclables.

I furrowed my brow (which, at 43, I cannot afford to do) and for a moment was confused: This was the recycling, not the trash, didn't they know that the items in the bag would have the least foodstuffs on them? And then I had to laugh: Yes, Sue, of course the ants know that they are marching into a recycling bag. They're San Francisco ants, after all, and demand that their edibles be organic and disposed of in the proper manner.

It put me in mind of when I was working at Mother Jones years ago and was waiting in the morning for the BART train at 24th and Mission. Alongside me were a young mother and her daughter. The mother glanced down at the tracks and said to her daughter, "Look at the mouse on the tracks!" as the vermin, which I happened to be watching, too (a habit picked up on the Red Line in Boston -- it was the deepest under ground and had the most critters), scampered across the rails.

The girl took her mother's hand and, looking confused, pointed to the sign above the tracks. "Doesn't he know he's not supposed to touch the third rail?"

Her mother tried to contain her merriment and said, "No, sweetie, mice can't read."

I thought of that today, as I was leaving Vicky's, and we both regarded one of her indoor plants. "Poor Plant," she bemoaned. "He's looking droopy. He needs a big drink."

To which I rejoindered, "Yeah, he's like, 'Who do I have to &*%$ in here to get a drink?!' "

Vicky channeled more of Plant's salty exclamations, and I turned to it and said, "Plant! Watch your mouth!"

We dissolved into our trademark giggles and hugged and she walked me to the door. Halfway in and halfway out, I turned to her and said, "The funny thing is, on some level, I still think the plant was cussing."

They Call Me Heat Miser ... I'm Too Much

2010-11-27T19:41:00.000-08:00

Received my first Christmas card, from Shaken Mama, steamed the season's first batch of Dungeness crabs and nabbed me a 7-foot-tree.

Kittens Jasper and Bear got their first taste of crab -- Lucy already has been treated enough with the Thanksgiving outing to Aunt Vicky's.

My friend John and I are stringing the lights on the tree, wondering what is a sugar plum? And how did figgy pudding gain such a cult following among carolers? And why would someone want to be married by the Rev. Snowman?

Somehow, Not Only at Christmas ...

2010-11-23T20:43:00.000-08:00

Somehow, not only at Christmas, but all the long year through,
The joy that you give to others is the joy that comes back to you.
-- John Greenleaf Whittier

Somehow, not only at Christmas, but all the long year through,
My sis and I sing this song -- and never fail to crack up. Wait, that doesn't rhyme.
-- Doodie and Sue Sczubelek

This Whittier quote was on a Christmas card our Aunt Bet once sent us. It was scotch-taped up on the front door of 837 Lehigh with all the rest of the holiday greetings my parents received each year.

One night, feeling silly and inspecting all of these cards, mostly from people we didn't know, for some reason my sister and I turned it into a song (I think it was more of my goofball doing). The most notable parts are how high your voice has to rise for the "joy that you give to others" phrase, and then how low it has to go to end with the decisive, formal "Whit-tier-rrrr."

As an adult, when my sister found this verse on a Christmas card, she bought the box and informed me that I would be receiving one every year until they were gone. I think I have 12 so far.

I have always loved, loved, loved Christmas. That and my birthday, with Christmas edging out even the miraculous entrance of moi.

When I was a kid, we would get a tree a few days before Christmas, but it would remain undecorated until Christmas Eve, when my parents would string the lights and hang the ornaments while we were sleeping. Christmas Eve, we would each open one gift, and share the Oplatek Christmas wafer around the dinner table, which would be filled with cold salads and meats. The older of the six kids would go off to Midnight Mass.

The next morning, after opening our presents stacked in individual piles around the living room, we would line up by age -- me first -- and Dad would descend to the den to plug in the tree lights. We would file down into the magical darkness, to the glowing tree and more presents, along with our stockings -- each nailed to a stair in descending order of age. Mine would be filled with barley pops; bell-shaped, foil-wrapped chocolates; Lifesaver "books"; a toothbrush; and other precious treats.

Ever since junior year in college, I've gotten a tree and decorated for the holidays -- whether I had to ferry it home in a taxi in Boston, or with my convertible top down in San Francisco.

Until last year.

You see, I have my own tradition -- and that is, when I wrap up all the Christmas decorations after the holidays, I think about what the coming year will bring. When I unwrap the decorations next year, what will have transpired? Will I be single? Will I have a new job? A new house?

Last year, in the wake of the attack, I was so weirded out that 10 months prior, when I had been packing away the Christmas decorations, I had had no idea that I might not live to another Christmas ... that I couldn't do it. No tree, no decorations.

This year, however, I'm making up for it. The minute those divinely scented pines are tagged for sale, one is coming home with me. I'm going to ice skate on one of the outdoor rinks they set up for the season in the city. I'm going to sing along to the Messiah at Mission Dolores church. I'm going to have a holiday party (you're invited!). I am going all out.

After all, time is the present.

Here's Your Hat, What's Your Hurry?

2010-11-22T19:57:00.000-08:00

My friend Elliot calls me Iggy, short for Instant Gratification.

I have always hated waiting: Waiting for the new Adam & the Ants album to be released, then waiting to save up my allowance to buy it, then waiting to be allowed to ride my bike up to the record store.

I want what I want, and I want it now. I am, after all, an American.

Lately, however, I find myself valuing moments, and things that take time, things that remind me how incredible my existence is, how wondrous -- and how fleeting.

Mundanely enough, this line of thought started with the microwave-in-bag potatoes I found at the Safeway last week. Looking at them, I realized that there is virtually nothing to wait for anymore (Muni excepted). In the words of Kenny Chesney, I've been living in fast forward.

The elimination of waiting, I think, has come at the cost of a near extinction of mindfulness.

I hate walking down the street and seeing white earbud tails snaking down everyone's neck, or the ubiquitous Bluetooth earpiece. It feels disrespectful and droid-like. My friend Vicky and I a few weeks ago had dinner in a restaurant where virtually everyone was not talking to the people at the same table, but texting someone else.

We spend so much time distracting ourselves from where we are that, while it may seem as if we're stuffing our lives chock full of experience, we're draining the miraculous, Tweet by mundane Tweet.

This is one of the reasons I was delighted when Chronicle folks were given tickets to Cavalia last week. For those unfamiliar, it's a Cirque du Soleil-type show, but with the addition of beautiful, majestic horses.

Sitting in the dark, watching the amazing feats of the acrobats and trick riders, I felt part of something greater than myself. A connection, perhaps, to ages gone by when people entertained each other just like this: with comedy, beauty, stories and dangerous stunts that celebrate the fragility of our existence -- but also the immense, magical promise of being alive. Not alone, each on our own iPod, but together.

That is ... I've been living in fast forward ... but I need to rewind real slow.

Harriet the Spy, at the Flea Market

2010-11-15T21:13:00.000-08:00

Harriet the Spy being my inspiration, I was charmed by this girl at the flea market yesterday. Spy trench coat (despite the fact that it was near 80 degrees), an inexplicable hat and notebook under her arm. Watch out, world!

Rock-a-Bye Kitty, on the (Toilet) Tank-Top ...

2010-11-15T21:00:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer: No live animals were harmed in the following mishap. All cats appearing in this work are fictitious, and any resemblance to the mortified tabby who streaked away after being rescued is purely coincidental. Right.

So, every morning when I can no longer stand my freakishly long-armed cats swatting my nose like a cat toy, rescue Peke Lucy has awoken -- as evidenced by a distinctly ladylike eruption of sneezes and snorts -- and I have administered the requisite number of belly-rubs as prescribed by the union contract, I feed my critters.

I try to get a few things done before Lucy finishes her dainty snarfing and has to go outside. In today's case, that was scoop the litter box, which lives in the bathroom. It's a big enclosed number, and I haul it up onto the toilet to make scooping easier. Only, just as I set it down, Lucy click-clack-danced down the hardwood-floored hall and I stopped what I was doing to spirit her outside for her constitutional.

Upon returning and opening the front door, there arose such a clatter that I rushed inside to see what was the matter. Nothing appeared out of place in the living room or kitchen and Bear, the black cat, threw me a withering glance as if to say, "What? Racial profiling again? It wasn't ME."

Whereupon I discovered that tabby Jasper apparently had climbed into the litter box as it was perched on the toilet seat, disrupted its balance and pitched forward whiskers-first as the commode nosedived onto the bathroom tile, effectively trapping the furry pooper inside.

I broke out laughing -- which cats will hold against you for more than one life, as cat-lovers everywhere know -- and lifted the box to see a blur of stripes whisk through my legs to safety and anonymity.

After cleaning up the mess, I took pictures that better illustrate the hazard.

Before:

After:

Professional actor hired to re-enact the event:

Ground Zero for Greatness!

2010-11-03T13:35:00.000-07:00

Our boy Timmy.

This has got to be the only city in the United States where a ballplayer can wear his thong on his ... well, anywhere he likes ...

2010-11-03T11:52:00.001-07:00

SF is crazy!

2010-10-31T10:59:00.001-07:00

What a gorgeous day for the flea market!

Trouble + Trouble = ?

2010-10-29T22:57:00.001-07:00

Still together after all these years.

I (heart) Phillip's Park

2010-10-28T05:55:00.000-07:00

When I was little, we had a magic door in the downstairs den. (This is not to be confused with the adjoining cellar, where I still suspect a monster lurked.)

Actually, there were 22 tiny doors that together formed a portal to anywhere in the universe, past and present, sprinkled with an inkling of the future: The World Book Encyclopedia.

By the time I came along, 15 years after my oldest sibling, the set was complete, its pages and marbled exterior weathered by tiny hands seeking answers to increasingly complex questions: How many planets are in the solar system? How does a seed grow? How does the human body work?

Researching this last would bring you to some of my favorite pages: The transparent overlays that, as they were peeled back, revealed the ingredients of the human body -- the skin, muscles, bones, organs, circulatory system.

I like to think of the geography of my life in terms of those layers. This is especially true when I visit my hometown of Newark, Del. There on Elkton Road is the corner where, when I was in grade school, they built the Friendly's that would become a perennial hangout for my girlfriends and me, turn into a date spot for ice cream, morph into a meeting place for childhood reunions, and finally be torn down to make way for a bigger, more serious building to house a credit union.

Beneath the ever-changing storefronts of the Park-n-Shop across the road is DiIorio's variety store, where my mom was a cashier with Erma, Thelma and Rita, whose bay window was lined with bins of superballs, colored rabbits' feet and tiny rubber men with flimsy plastic parachutes strung to their backs that we would throw up in the air for an afternoon before they were outshined by the gleam of the next dime-store novelty.

And then, there's my favorite spot, draped in so many gossamer layers I sink into them: Phillip's Park, nearly 14 acres of creek, trees and memories nestled between neighborhoods and the railroad tracks that used to ship the cars from the now defunct Chrysler plant.

Since my dad worked full time at DuPont, my mom was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease when I was about 12, and I had five older brothers and sisters, I don't have a lot of memories of just me and a healthy Mom -- and even fewer of just me and Mom and Dad. But there is one at Phillip's Park: I was really young and playing in the "cheese castle" -- concrete barrels of varying height with Swiss cheese-like holes dotting the perimeter. I paused to watch my parents, who were engrossed with each other, looking very happy.

I remember how happy they looked because of my own contrasting, distinctly unpleasant demeanor -- I had just wet my jumper.

Phillip's is where I walked with my brother and his girlfriend on my sixth birthday, before they gave me my Fisher Price record player. I remember this because Peggy let me wade in the creek and I found a quarter.

The park is where Mom took me and my next oldest sister for a picnic during Easter break when I was 10, when I promptly ate my small chocolate bunny -- and my sister saved hers til the end of the trip in a show of patience and deferred gratification I had yet to fathom.

It's where I used to ride my bike and sit for hours filling a marbled composition book with poems and short stories and observations from my Harriet the Spy-inspired spy route.

It's where my girlfriends and I roller skated on the impossibly smooth tennis courts until invariably being kicked off.

It's where, when I was home to share my dad's last days, my sister and I shared our grief walking on the new paved trail.

Most recently, this summer, it's where I viewed fireflies for the first time in years, watched a thunderstorm, and listened to crickets, cicadas and train whistles, all the while aching to fold up one of those gossamer layers and slip it into my back pocket.

Adopted Hometown Pride

2010-10-26T16:04:00.001-07:00

Fear my weird.

No more Phillies cap for me!

2010-10-25T15:30:00.000-07:00

*** PRESS RELEASE ***

MAYOR GAVIN NEWSOM DECLARES “SAN FRANCISCO GIANTS PRIDE WEEK”
Mayor Urges All San Francisco Giants Fans & Local Businesses to Show Pride in the National League Champions as World Series Begins Wednesday in San Francisco

San Francisco, CA–Mayor Gavin Newsom has officially proclaimed it “San Francisco Giants Pride Week” beginning Wednesday, October 27th and continuing through the end of the World Series, set to begin Wednesday in San Francisco between the San Francisco Giants and Texas Rangers. Mayor Newsom is urging San Francisco Giants fans and local businesses to show their pride in the National League Champions by wearing the Orange & Black or displaying signs, flags or other shows of support for the hometown team.

“The whole City is rallying in enthusiastic support of the San Francisco Giants as they take on the Texas Rangers,” said Mayor Newsom. “I encourage every fan and every local business to show support for the Orange & Black anyway they can throughout the World Series. Let’s show the world San Francisco is a true baseball town and help boost this remarkable team to a World Championship.”

In a show of civic pride for the hometown team, the City will continue to fly the Giants flag over San Francisco City Hall and around Civic Center Plaza and light City Hall, Coit Tower, the War Memorial Opera House, the Treasure Island Administration Building and San Francisco International Airport in Giants Orange. The San Francisco Chamber of Commerce, the Golden Gate Restaurant Association, and the Building Owners and Managers Association (BOMA) are also joining in the show of Giants pride. The Ferry Building, Embarcadero Center and other San Francisco buildings will soon be lit in Giants orange.

Mayor Newsom and Mayor Robert Cluck, M.D. of the City of Arlington, Texas, the home of the Texas Rangers, will announce their friendly World Series wager tomorrow.

In Which I Am Mistaken for a Pole "In the Know"

2010-04-03T14:27:00.000-07:00

Living in the Outer Richmond, I have the incredible fortune of being within walking distance of stores and restaurants that offer every ethnic food I can imagine. This is a far cry from Wilmington, Del., which for the longest time had just one Thai restaurant.

So, after deciding to throw a Polish Easter feast for the brave souls who will oblige me, I set out today for the Polish deli and Russian bakery.

There was a line at the deli, so I queued up and began eyeing the shelves to see what I needed to pick up by the time I reached the counter to order the kielbasa. The black currant juice caught my eye. Thinking how tasty it would be in vodka, I picked up a carton.

Most of the people in line looked like me: hardy souls with big noses, round faces, light eyes. I have always wanted to visit Warsaw, from whence my DNA comes, with the fantasy that it would be a city full of people who looked totally familiar. Then a couple who were clearly not Polish stepped in and took their place behind me.

Judging from their conversation, somehow they had gotten themselves into the position (appropriately, a "pickle" ha ha) of providing a Polish Easter dinner, and they weren't quite sure what all that entailed. First, the woman worried they wouldn't be able to converse in Polish like the customers in front of us. Then she noticed the carton I was holding. She said to her partner, "Oh that looks good, let's get some of that."

I spied a jar of red cabbage and apples and, recalling a recipe I'd seen that I would like to include in my dinner but was too lazy to make, picked it up. Soon, she had scooped up a jar of her own.

When I got to the counter and ordered my polish sausage, they were debating which sausage to get. "Well, SHE got the polish sausage," the woman said.

I spread my wares on the counter, threw in a babka and some liverwurst as if I knew what I was doing, and handed over my cash.

Then I picked up my booty and made my way back to my little NWZCHIK-mobile with the Polish decal on the bumper -- for all this couple knew, on my way to cook up yet another dinner of Polish fare, thinking that they would appear appropriately Polish with their copycat purchases of a Delaware girl who only looks Polish, and doesn't know much about anything.

Happy Dyngus Day! Or, Poles Know How to Party

2010-04-01T19:55:00.000-07:00

Avid Girl readers (and if this is you, you deserve a medal for putting up with my crap -- I'll order you one later from my Polish catalog. How about the breastfeeding Virgin Mary?) may recall this post from August 2008, in which I cracked wise about the, well, Polish-ness of a certain catalog catering to a certain Eastern European bent.

It turns out -- and I can say this, as I am a Pole to my core -- there's a reason there are so many Polack jokes. There's just so damn much material. In retrospect, it's fitting that my Polish father used to say, "I always wanted to be a stand-up comedian. Or an undertaker."

We see the humor in life, always laugh at ourselves -- and at the same time know that no one's getting out of here alive.

My college roommate V (a Slovak) and I several years ago hosted an Eastern European Easter at my old apartment in Noe Valley. It was a smash hit, and so when she mentioned having Easter dinner at my place this year (she's redoing her kitchen), I thought: Redux! Hence, the research on Polish traditions.

First, I was tickled to come across the idea of "Bitter Lamentations." I mean, that basically is the subtitle for all our family dinners growing up.

But I was quickly diverted by an even juicier tradition that occurs the day after Easter: Smingus-Dyngus [SHMEE-goos DING-goos], or "Wet Monday," in which people douse each other with water in a pseudo-courting ritual that also somehow involves ... pussywillows?

Turns out the biggest U.S. celebration of Dyngus Day is in Buffalo, N.Y. It sounds like a freaking hoot.

My colleague "Fishbone," always quick on the uptake, immediately suggested a T-shirt to commemorate the dousing. Turns out, Polart already beat us to it. "Wetter is Better," it proclaims ... in water-based ink.

Do you SEE why I love this catalog so much?

(It also explains why in fourth grade I got a water pistol in my Easter basket. It didn't work and had to be exchanged -- a travesty I lamented bitterly.)

I (heart) ESL Customer Service Reps

2010-03-13T11:23:00.000-08:00

I'm going to go out on a politically incorrect limb here, given that outsourcing has such a bad rap, what with the U.S. suffering from a 9.7 percent unemployment rate and all.

But I love dealing with customer service reps who are in another country, culture and time zone.

They are so freaking polite.

It's a positively Elizabethan experience -- well, if phones and the Internet had been around back then.

They say things like, "The pleasure is all mine" and "a very warm welcome to you" and "kindly take very good care of yourself." And, in general, just make me feel warm and fuzzy all over.

Can you blame me for suddenly needing to get clarification about my BofA statement, or my HP computer's quirks or my Roomba's broken spirit?

I mean, compare it to my recent experience with Kaiser Permanente, which I recently called to make an eye appointment. As the chatty woman was looking up times, she threw out, "So, how's menopause coming?"

The pleasure was all not mine.

High School Reunions, or, Things Thought Up By The Antichrist

2010-02-25T20:01:00.000-08:00

(I am smiling because I couldn't be more happy to be leaving high school behind me.)

It has been 25 years since I was forced to spend six hours a day inside a concrete-walled, four stories-plus-basement fortress with classroom windows that didn't open at Ninth and Broom streets in Wilmington, Delaware, called Padua Academy -- an all-girls Catholic school.

I called it hell. (I mean no disrespect to the school. It is a fine establishment, and I remember my teachers fondly. My classmates, however, were the spawn of Satan. Anyone who thinks an all-girl environment is nurturing either has a penis or plays softball -- very well. And one or two might wear a nun's habit.)

Seriously -- it was climbing those endless marble steps from the basement to the fourth floor for first period that I formed my idea of purgatory: Carrying 8 pounds of textbooks from one place I didn't want to be, with girls I didn't want to be with, to another place I didn't want to be, and arriving out of breath. To learn French. Knowing I'd have to do it all again tomorrow. It doesn't take much imagination. Il ne prend pas beaucoup d'imagination.

Girls are not kind. They are sharks (though I hesitate to sully that animal's reputation with the comparison. Sharks seek prey that is bleeding; high school girls seek prey they can make bleed).

Fast forward on that little cassette player of life and we come to January's alumnae newsletter, which I flip open to the class notes. And there it is: a classmate I barely recall is organizing a reunion.

Given the antipathy already expressed, why, you might ask, would that item merit even a second thought?

It's like this, cat.

High school is that old lover who f%$#*d you over, but who you have never been able to forget all these years. He knew you back before you even knew yourself. Heck, it was his hazing that helped you become the strong woman you are today. Surely, he's matured with age and life experience -- he can't possibly be as cruel as he was then? And man, when he sees who you are now -- well, that'll show him! I mean come on, you know you want to see him. I bet he's lost his hair! He might have gotten fat! And I'm sure he's unhappy. And then you can close the book on the whole thing and get back to your wonderful life with an empathetic sigh that you don't know how you couldn't have seen it, but he wasn't all that. You would've kicked him out of bed for eating crackers.

Right.

Anyway, I called upon everyone's favorite stalking tool, Facebook, to see what I was up against.

My first thought? Damn, these women look old. And how did my best friend from high school (who I no longer talk to) have four kids?

There's my homeroom homie D., who was hospitalized for alcohol poisoning one weekend -- apparently she's got a kid now. There's S., who tried to OD junior year -- on aspirin. And there's K., who got pregnant senior year (weren't you kicked out for that?). There you are, J., whose speech I wrote. A., you were a softball star. And now you're married?

I can't decide: Will this reunion rekindle an old, dysfunctional relationship? Or will it constitute healthy closure for four years of my life that still leave a bad taste in my mouth?

Much Ado About Sue

2010-02-09T18:26:00.000-08:00

My industrious friend Shaken Mama has been cleaning out her video/photo files, and I have been the recipient of a few gems. You see, we diligently document each others' lives, in order to be ready to spring THE MOST EMBARRASSING OBITUARY OF ALL TIME. (Wait til you see the photo of "Lamb chop" and "Pinhead" in Las Vegas!)

You might think that's macabre, but it's actually our way of egging each other on to live looooooong lives. Because, frankly, the world would suck with either of us gone. Just sayin'.

Most notably, she unearthed three video clips documenting the night of the Great Bathroom Caper, in which I got locked in Vicky & John's bathroom at their wedding party.

Now, Vicky maintains that she'd never had a problem with that lock. But mysteriously enough, she and John have now redone the entire bathroom. Coincidence? I think lock. I mean, not.

And so without further ado, I urge you -- if you are so inclined to proceed on this track -- to familiarize yourself with the Caper and then check out these video links of what was going on outside my prison.

1: General speculation and problem solving.

2: John picks at the lock.

3: (Another) John jokes about a bomb.

Suffice to say that my rescue hailed not from this side, but from the outside:

My Life, in Cat Years

2010-02-07T13:20:00.001-08:00

In July of 1991, about a year after my mother died and I was still getting my adult sea legs at age 23, on a whim one day I found myself at the Delaware SPCA.

I was in search of a black cat, preferably a female who, I hoped, would exhibit the same charming disposition of the calico I loved growing up. (She was named C'mon, pronounced "Simone," after my sister's misreading of the slang phrase in books when she was a kid. To this day, we will say such things as, "Simone! Let's go!" You can imagine the havoc wrought by railroad "X-ings.")

A shelter worker quickly disabused me of the pairing of my desires, reminding me of what I had learned in a college biology class, that color genes are sex-linked, so solid-colored cats tend to be male -- just as calico cats are female.

She showed me to a row of cages. One of them held a tabby kitten; the other, a black one. She let out the tabby and I held her. She squirmed out of my hold, wanting nothing to do with me. Then the woman placed the 4-month-old black kitten in my arms. He curled up against me and began purring. And the love affair began.

In honor of his color I named him Vesper, "of the evening star," also reminiscent of "vespers," Catholics' evening prayers.

He was incredibly annoying.

At night, if I let him have the run of my small apartment in Wilmington, Del., he would dig up the African violets on the coffee table in the living room.

If I kept him in my bedroom at night, he would jump on each piece of furniture and meow, trying to get out.

If I shut him out of my bedroom, he would spend the night meowing and scratching, trying to get in (when he wasn't tearing up the Afrian violets on the coffee table).

But he settled in with me, and I with him, and it came to pass that for the next 18 years, in whatever joyful, devastating, harebrained, ill-advised, wonderful, romantic, miraculous life scenarios I found myself in, somewhere in the frame was a wispy black shadow regarding the antics with gold eyes that held unconditional affection and forgiveness behind a seemingly detached stare.

From Wilmington, Vesper moved with me to Yorklyn, Del., where I shared a house with my college roommate Vicky, her two cats, Theo and Sophie, and Barney, an ornery stray tabby already living there who I would end up adopting.

From there -- now with Barney in tow -- we humped it over to nearby Hockessin, down to Wilmington, N.C., up to Boston, down to a summer in Riverton, N.J., and finally, about 14 years ago, all the way across the U.S.A. to San Francisco.

Vesper was there when I met the man who would become my husband. He was there when that man said goodbye. He was there when I lost my father, and when we lost Barney. He was there in my life for the birth of my best friend Shaken Mama's three girls, who decorated him with ribbons and jewels (above), just days before I had to put him to sleep.

Vesper was dying of congestive heart failure. On Aug. 20, with Vicky by my side and my sister on speaker phone, the vet eased Vesper into the Long Nap as he lay on his favorite afghan, in his favorite spot by the window.

It was the end of an era, a slicing of the umbilical cord that connected me to my 23-year-old self and all the "me's" in between.

And so it was that a chapter of my life closed, and I was on to the second half of my "book." But I will continue to use the memory of a gold-eyed wisp of black as my bookmark, forever marking my place.

The Sea Lions Are Back on Seal Rock!

2009-07-25T14:16:00.000-07:00

Living two blocks from Ocean Beach, Seal Rock, Lands End and the ruins of the Sutro Baths, I often walk or run around the area. A few weeks ago, I heard something unusual: It sounded like the bark of sea lions, which most commonly haul themselves onto the floating docks at Pier 39. (Live Web cam here.)

But while Seal Rock used to be a popular sunning spot for the pinnipeds, I understood from researching and writing this story that they mysteriously had abandoned the hangout around the time of the '89 earthquake.

So today, when I set out for my walk, I looped binoculars around my neck and determined to get to the bottom of this. (Cue Harriet the Spy, my inspiration.)

Sure enough, when I reached the Lands End parking lot and peered through the goggles, there were sea lions atop Seal Rock!

I padded down the trail for a closer look and, as luck would have it, ran into a volunteer from the Marine Mammal Center who had been called on a report of a stranding (the subject of the call, luckily, had returned to the ocean). In fact, this volunteer had been featured in a story by a colleague of mine about a disturbing increase in the incidents of sick sea lions.

He said that this year, for some undetermined reason, hundreds of pups have shown up much farther north than usual.

I put the spy glasses to my eyes again and couldn't believe what I saw -- what I previously had taken for vegetation on the rock was actually hundreds of chocolate brown pups.

In the dead of night, through my bedroom window, I listen to the sound of waves crashing. I can only hope a time comes when the pups' barking will punctuate the lull of the ocean and the moans of the moody fog horn.

Ridiculous Things Delight Me

2009-07-06T20:50:00.000-07:00

It was one of those days. Long and chock full of "moles" needing to be whacked. Like the Rashomon interpretations of our new deadlines (it's kind of like a scavenger hunt for good information in the newsroom).

So I was all kinds of prickly when I reached the Walgreens by my house, where I was picking up some dog food. When I came across the most ridiculous dog bed -- on sale! -- that I just had to buy. I whisked it to the cashier and announced, "I'll take this ridiculous thing." I couldn't keep the smile from my face.

I have to admit: I am that consumer -- the definition of impulsive and impressionable.

So here it is, before and after Lucy found it. (1 1/2 cats included to show actual size.)

My Neighbors Stink.

2009-07-05T13:50:00.000-07:00

I happened to look out the window this afternoon and caught a phalanx of four skunks slinking across my neighbor's back yard. I've seen coyotes and raccoons, and once a skunk on my steps in Noe Valley (it was so cute I had to restrain myself from coming right up to it and trying to pet it), but never around here. I'm a bit concerned for them to be out in broad daylight, as they are nocturnal, and hawks commonly frequent this area. They moved so gracefully, and close together, that at first I couldn't tell how many there were. I was amused at how like cartoon skunk Pepe Le Pew they looked. Adding to the scenario was a black-and-white neighborhood cat who was watching them, camouflaged in the grass, no doubt to avoid their ardor.

Color My World

2009-05-24T15:55:00.000-07:00

I made two brilliant purchases, for a collective $3, at the Alemany Flea Market today. The flea market shares the site of the Farmers' Market, which operates on Saturdays and was established as a wartime measure to allow farmers to unload their surplus crops in town. Previously at Market and Duboce, it has been at its Alemany location since 1947. I just love that link to the past.

I adore this flea market because it's the great equalizer. The parking lot is filled with everything from Mercedes to Priuses (Prii?) to banged up vans and vintage vehicles. You'll find every language you can think of spoken, every color of skin, every age, every style. Sometimes there's the old lady who plays the saw and simultaneously makes a wooden cat puppet dance using a foot pedal.

Many of the vendors recognize me now, as I've been haunting the place for years, ever since my good friend Elliot would take me there using a circuitous route to mix me up so that for the longest time, I didn't know how to get there myself; it was just this magical destination at the end of a magic ride.

It's probably a safe bet that about 30 percent of my clothes, jewelry, books, furniture and artwork have been purchased from this flea market.

Wandering among the stalls is like a spiritual experience for me. There are constant reminders of my childhood in the toys, of my parents in the 50s cookware and of our communal history in the war memorabilia and photographs.

It is bittersweet. I like to hold an object in my hand and imagine its former owner. What kind of life did he lead? Are these from his estate? Were there no children to inherit them, or did they not care for these personal items, these photo albums and collections of owls and swans and matchbooks?

When I first moved to San Francisco, with my then-fiance, we sought out garage and estate sales to outfit our small apartment. At one home in Ingleside, a woman with no children had died, leaving everything from her slippers to a fully equipped barber shop in the basement that she had left as-is was when her husband died.

One of the loneliest things I have ever seen was my own mother's slippers after she died, toes tucked under her bed. Clothes are one thing, but there's something heart-rending about a pair of well worn shoes having been set aside carefully, sitting there awaiting their owner's return, when she never will.

I still have a round mirror from that barber shop that we purchased for $30. I also sneaked away a note that I found in the woman's kitchen cupboard, a hand-written recipe for bran muffins, "Very Good!"

On the way home, I said to Mark that I thought the estate sale was sad. No, he said, those items are getting a second life.

And that is how I've come to think of it: A continuation of life.

In any case, there I was today, on a blustery overcast afternoon, perusing the tables, when I was lured by a collection of old Ellery Queen paperbacks. I find old books delicious, especially ones that still contain un-P.C. references. It's like being on an anthropological dig.

I could not resist the siren call of Ellery Queen's Siamese Twin Mystery, penned in 1933, though it appears my $2 version was printed in 1942. There are so many juicy tidbits to this volume, starting with the declaration that, "In order to cooperate with the government's war effort, this book has been made in strict conformity with WPB regulations restricting the use of certain materials. For victory, buy United States war bonds and stamps," and moving on to such engaging chapter titles as, "The 'Thing,' " "The Queer People" and "Cheater Cheated."

Enough said. (I'll let you know how it ends; it will be my reading when I venture to Shaken Mama's abode tomorrow, to spend a few days with her family while she gives birth to her third daughter in a scheduled C-section Tuesday morning. I have been tasked with notifying the stationer of the details and yet-to-be-revealed name of the girl we know so far only as "Leaf," and announcing her entrance into the world on Shaken Mama's blog. As S.M. and I have a long-standing mutual threat of embarrassing each other in the obituary of whoever dies first, giving me access to her blog is quite a leap of faith on her part.)

Have you read this far? Oh, goodie! Now I can tell you of my second thrilling purchase.

A $1 box of 24 Crayola crayons.

Now, hold on! Yes, it was worth it: They are older than I am. How do I know?

First, let me give you a window into my daily morning meeting at the newspaper with the Web producer (Swedish), the deputy section editor (Chinese, 6th-generation San Franciscan), photo editor (Chinese), page designer (black) and wire editor (Filipino). Then there's me, second-generation Polish-American. I believe we are the most diverse group at the paper. And the absurdity of the "flesh" colored Crayola crayon has come up in conversation.

And so there I was today, at the flea market, when my eyes lit upon an old-looking 24-crayon box. I opened it up, found the peachiest color and pulled it out. "Flesh," it read. Which, by Crayola's reckoning, was changed to "peach" in 1962.

Other colors you won't find these days: rose-pink, dark green, middle blue green, gold ochre and prussian blue, which was changed to midnight blue in 1958 -- well before I was born.

And not a one is broken.

'Maybe all one can do is hope to end up with the right regrets'

2009-05-04T19:34:00.000-07:00

I have surprisingly few regrets in my life.

I was thinking about the course of people's lives on yesterday's occasion of what would have been my father's 86th birthday. He's been gone now four years; my mom for 19. For a long time, I have felt different from people who still have their parents.

Today, I realized that regardless of when mom and dad died, by now it's likely that I would have lost them anyway. Dad would be 86, Mom turning 85 in November.

And it made me think: I'm not such an oddball anymore (at least where this issue is concerned). Life is pretty normal.

And I got to thinking about the course of my own life, and what I would have done differently. And I know I'm going to sound like a boring Pollyanna, but the truth is, not much -- even regarding the decisions that wound up taking me unexpected places, like getting married.

How annoying is that?

Of course, there are some things I would have done differently, knowing what I know now.

1) I would have been nicer, all around. Those who know me now would probably comment about how "nice" I am. It was learned. And I still can be pretty selfish.

2) I would have attended more classes in college. I skipped so many that I still have nightmares about it.

3) I would have considered going out of state for college. I had the scholarships, but it never dawned on me this was possible.

4) I would have gotten involved in sports at a young age. They're so important for girls -- they teach discipline, self-esteem and how to lose with grace.

5) I would have learned how to play the guitar earlier.

6) I wouldn't have gotten a credit card when I was in college.

7) I would have been more discriminating with men.

8) I might have had a child.

This list, however, paled in comparison to what I am thankful I did do; for example:

1) Lived outside of Delaware, in N.C., Boston and S.F.

2) Got married, even though it didn't last.

3) Got divorced!

4) Bought a convertible.

5) Maintained several life-long friendships.

6) Went to London on a blind date.

7) Went to graduate school and earned an MFA in creative writing.

8) Went far enough in the application process to know I could have entered the SFPD academy.

9) Bought a house.

10) Adopted three cats and a dog.

11) Didn't do drugs.

12) Witnessed the birth of my best friend's first child.

13) Went home to stay with Dad indefinitely when he was diagnosed with cancer.

14) Told both my mom and my dad how much I loved them before they died.

15) Drove cross-country by myself.

16) Laughed. A lot.

So, Arthur Miller, I think I can say, I have the right regrets.

Calgon Commercials, Pull-off Soda Can Tabs and Other Things That Show My Age

2009-03-28T20:09:00.000-07:00

Do you remember those hot summer days when you would buy a can of soda, pull off the tab and drop it into the can?

If you don't, chances are you were born in the 80s, by which time the "stay-tab" invented by Daniel F. Cudzik had widely replaced the pull-off tab, which had been vilified in suburban legend as slicing kids' toes if carelessly discarded, or being accidentally ingested when dropped into the can.

Ye olde pull tab came to mind as I was driving home on the Great Highway along Ocean Beach today, a stunningly beautiful sunny Saturday, and began jonesing for a rootbeer. Rootbeer, along with Dr. Pepper and Mr. Pibb (I was always rooting for him to at least get his doctorate; I mean, how can you compete with that title-dropping Pepper character?), was my favorite soda as a kid. I was suddenly struck by the physical memory of running my tongue along the rough metal lip of the soda can opening.

My mind began to wander to other things I remember as a 41-year-old, and I lit upon a conversation I had with my 31-year-old colleague's husband the other day, regarding a comment I'd made in a group e-mail that I thought was rather witty at the time: "Calgon, take her away!" When I saw him later, K. laughed and said, "You're showing your age!"

Then there are phone booths, which recently were in the news thanks to a group of St. Mary's College students who staged a re-enactment of the famous Life magazine photo of 22 students stuffed into said container.

As my brilliant colleague, Steve Rubenstein, wrote:

"It was not easy to cram into a phone booth 50 years ago, and it has not gotten any easier. In the first place, there are no longer any phone booths around, and the college had to dig one up from storage in a warehouse in Los Angeles, a town full of useless stuff. Many of the students confessed that they had never been inside a real phone booth before."

To be sure, if my life depended on it, I don't believe I could locate one myself.

And speaking of phones, a former colleague of mine several years ago shared a laugh with me upon digging up a rotary phone and showing it to her 12-year-old daughter. M. asked the girl and her friends how they thought it worked. They started pushing their fingers into the holes in the dial.

Then there's another colleague, T., whose little girl Sarah was so excited when they rented a pick-up truck to cart some things to the dump, and she found it had a handle to roll down the passenger's window manually. (When, I wonder, will people actually forget how the hand motion of rolling down a car window originated?)

Several years ago, my brilliant ex-boyfriend E. and I were enjoying a mild evening on the fabulous roof deck of my former Noe Valley apartment, and I voiced wonderment at all the inventions that had been witnessed in the lifetime of my father, who was born in 1923 and at the time was in his late 70s. In his time, TVs were invented (he told me he proposed to my mom as they were watching the first set her family bought. "When we're married, I'll buy you a bigger set," he said.) For Pete's sake, cars were still fairly new, with the first automobile commercially produced in 1901. Add to that cordless and cell phones, ATM machines, the Internet, and I said to E.: "I think we've invented everything. I can't imagine that we'll see the same type of world-changing inventions in our time."

"Oh no," he said. "We haven't seen anything yet."

I'm beginning to believe him. Being a technology editor, and editing our departing -- :( -- awesome biotech reporter, I am continually amazed at what people are inventing.

I was talking to another talented reporter yesterday about our 90-year-old colleague David Perlman, who invariably conveys a childlike sense of wonder in his science stories.

We talked about how, at some point, it must feel like everything is so foreign. But we agreed that it would never feel foreign enough to think about wanting to leave this world.

And so I sit here wondering at what more will be invented in my lifetime, and hoping in the back of my mind that something they come up with will extend my life, say, 100 years. And drinking my (diet) A&W rootbeer in a plastic bottle, with a twist-off cap that I forgot in the car.

I hope I don't slice my toe on it.

Living the Life of a Mayfly

2009-03-12T19:37:00.000-07:00

Back when I lived in Yorklyn, Del., our house was infested with little red beetles. When the exterminator came to spray, I followed him around and quizzed him about his job.

He told me of the Mayfly, which lives only long enough to reproduce other Mayflies -- anywhere from 30 minutes to 24 hours.

That blew my mind. It seemed so sad and meaningless.

I've been thinking about the Mayfly lately, because we go to work at The Chronicle each day now knowing how limited our time is. And it begs the question: Why bother with anything?

As my father would have responded, in his short time after being diagnosed with cancer: "Why bother with anything."

And I realize that, at least for me, the answer is that we are all like the Mayfly, just on different scales.

Would we live our lives any less earnestly if we lived just 24 hours?

And so it is that I go to work each day until the end of our lifespan, finding meaning in simple existence. Because if you don't bother with anything, you don't bother with anything.

And how meaningless would that be?

The Lost Weekend Day

2009-03-09T22:05:00.000-07:00

It was bound to happen.

When my father was alive, he would telephone me whenever I needed to "spring forward" or "fall back." Because she knew Dad did this, my sister took up the tradition after his death.

Well, D., you called and left a message for me yesterday, but nowhere was there a mention of having to adjust my clocks. Instead, I spent the day in a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. In a middle ground between light and shadow. That's right: in The Twlight Zone.

Somehow, the stars aligned to deliver me a day in which I had no time commitments. I played hooky from church, decided against the flea market and treated myself to chocolate chip pancakes for my last day of vacation.

Then I scooped up Kerry Kennedy's "Being Catholic Now," which was overdue (my dad would not approve) and headed off for a walk to the library. (Church hooky + overdue Catholic book = ? I wonder.) There, I checked out the newest from one of my favorite -- and local -- authors, Diane Johnson, "Lulu in Marrakech."

I trotted on down to a bodega on Balboa and picked up some lemons to -- yes, how fitting, given the economic and newspaper situations -- make lemonade.

Arriving home, I spirited pup Lucy and the New York Times crossword out into the back yard. When the sun got too warm, I popped back inside and dove into "Lulu."

About 7:30 p.m., I surfed over to the blog "Rex Parker does the New York Times crossword puzzle" and saw his reminder of Daylight Saving Time.

Just then, my cell phone rang: my boss. "Hey -- when does Daylight Saving Time start, today?" I asked. "Uh, that was last night," he said.

So where was I all day?

A Girl and Her Dog, Out on the Town

2009-03-08T20:51:00.000-07:00

As I don't have kids, I'm fortunate that in San Francisco, people treat their pets like children, so I don't feel too left out. And so it was that my rescue girl, Lucy (formerly Coconut), was invited to Doggy Happy Hour at a cool bar in the Mission called Doc's Clock. I highly recommend it -- it's homey, has shuffleboard (love me some shuffleboard, puts me in mind of Comegys Pub in Wilmington, Del., where you can get a drink served by one of the most talented photographers with whom I've ever worked). And, the proceeds went to Muttville, whose founder, Sherri Franklin, saved my little Peke from the mean streets of Oakland.

Lucy, who clearly had been bred and abandoned, had little interest in the other mutts. ("I know dogs," she told me. "They're only interested in one thing.") She preferred nibbling treats from her perch on the counter as the other canines nudged their noses into each other's buckeyes. Why is it, I have always wondered, that an animal that literally can smell something a mile away needs to get up close and personal to confirm the scent? "Yep, that's Spike. I thought so when I smelled him crossing the Golden Gate Bridge. But damn, what the hell has he been eating?"

I'm in a 3-year-old State of Mind

2009-03-06T13:29:00.000-08:00

Shaken Mama and I have have been wringing every moment we can out of these days leading up to June 1, when she will birth her third daughter and, needless to say, become too preoccupied to foray into the city for dim sum and hijinks.

Yesterday afternoon I dropped the top down on my convertible and shot over the bridge to visit. The moment I entered the house, 3-year-old "Chebs" looked up from her lunch of pasta and peas and said, "Aunt Sue, let's get into the hot tub Right Now!"

Maybe it's the big sister in me I was never able to express, being the youngest, or maybe -- as a former newspaper editor advised -- I apparently default to being "ornery for ornery's sake," but whatever it is, I can't let her have what she wants immediately, regardless of how hedonistic the request. So first I raided the refrigerator and popped a tofu dog into the microwave. Then I pulled on my one-piece.

The hot tub is delightfully deep, situated beneath three mature redwoods. Chebs tore off her clothes, grabbed a floatie ring and kickboard and slid in. With the ring around her middle, she propped her chubby perfect feet up on the kickboard and stretched out her arms.

"See, Aunt Sue," she said proudly, "I can float all by myself."

"No, you can't," said my evil little voice. "You have a floatie ring and a kickboard. That's not all by yourself."

"Yes, it is."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is!" she popped up her head to explain: "I'm using my ring and kickboard. That's what 'all by myself' means."

The way she said it somehow made sense. And with that, I sank into the world of 3-year-old logic.

After a few minutes, she held the ring and board in front of her. "Which one do you want?" she asked. Thinking the ring better suited her, I pointed to the board. She ran her little hand lovingly over the board, circling the many colors with a finger and shaking her head. "No, this board has too many colors in it for you to have." I should have known.

Next up was where I should sit. "Don't sit there," she instructed, pointing to the corner from which the bubbles were emanating.

"But I want to," I said, sliding into said spot.

"No!" she said with a laugh, pushing at me. "You don't own this, it's not yours."

Then she got distracted by the rhinestone-studded heart necklace I was wearing. "I want that, put it on me. I'm allowed."

"Nope," I said, swishing away. "It's not yours. You don't own it."

"But I want it."

"Well, we don't always get what we want."

She screwed up her face, brought it close in to mine, and said, "I do."

"You're a smart cookie, but I'm just as smart," I said.

"No, you're not."

"All right, then, what comes after fifteen?"

She paused. "Six?"

"Close, sixteen," I said, proving my superiority, which paled beside the magnificence of being 3, with the whole illogical world ahead of you.

For Some Jobs, Pessimists Simply Need Not Apply

2009-03-03T16:30:00.000-08:00

On a dreary Boston evening, on the last day of April in 1996, I finished packing a suitcase, kissed the walls of my beloved Beacon Street basement hovel goodbye and climbed into a cab headed to Logan Airport with my best friend E. and two cats.

Our hearts were heavy, our eyes were moist, the cats were drugged. After nearly two years of a "Friends"-like existence earning my master's degree at Emerson College and working at Houghton Mifflin, I was leaving behind the first city I had ever loved and the people in it to start over in San Francisco. You see, I had accepted a marriage proposal (an unimpressive proposal, but I digress. Maybe I'll write about it some time).

E. and I toted the crate o' cats over to the pet check-in, where an unsmiling woman asked, "Have they got water?" "Um, no," I responded. (Actually, I'd found their carrying crate in an alley in the Back Bay, which I trolled every trash day eve to recoup the objects discarded by my rich neighbors. [Thus earning from E. the nickname "Trash Picker."] I furnished my apartment in this manner. Anyway, the previous owner of the crate had not discarded the attachable plastic water bowl with it.)

"I can't check them in without water," the clerk said dispassionately, shaking her head. My emotional state was about to crack into territories. "Well, what can I do?" I asked.

E., ever the "take charge, save-the-shit problem solver," said, "There must be something we can do. Can we buy a bowl?"

The woman pursed her lips, furrowed her brow and said skeptically, "Mmmm ... it has to be a specific type. I don't think we have any spares. If I can find one, maybe ..."

"So what if we send them without water?" I asked, thinking that surely, if the cats were to be handled in any manner akin to how they treated bags, the water would slosh out anyway.

The woman stared at me as if I had just said, "OK then, do you have a sharp blade I can borrow so I can just slice their throats right here?"

"They must have water," she said stonily.

"OK, so can you please see if you can find a spare bowl?" I pleaded.

The woman radioed someone, no doubt Animal Care & Control -- if not the police -- and spoke in hushed tones that I was sure were describing my flagrant irresponsibility and undeserved cat-momitude. If she'd had the authority, I felt at that moment, she would say, "No cats for you!" in the manner of Seinfeld's soup nazi.

"Yeah, we have one," she said a few moments later.

With the threat of having to delay my flight behind me, I felt a sudden affection for this woman. "So, they're going to be OK, right? I mean, I've never flown with them before. It'll be fine, won't it?"

She looked up at me, met my eyes and said, "Probably."

"Probably?" I (probably) shrieked. "Animals fly all the time! They'll be fine, won't they?"

At this point, truly disgusted with having spent so much time with us, she sighed and said, "Let me put it this way: I wouldn't fly my cats on this airline."

I was put in mind of this woman, whom E. and I despise to this day, while getting my teeth cleaned today.

Now, don't get me wrong: I love my dentist. But that medical craft has bedeviled me my whole life, and so I am always in hyper-aware mode while lying back in the chair, mouth open, tray of lethal weapons at the hygienist's disposal.

First, she wanted to review a letter from a root canal specialist to whom they had referred me three years ago. "It says here that your one front tooth is 'non-vital' and a root canal is recommended."

"Dr. X told me that it was a valid decision to wait and see if it gives me pain or gets loose before opting for surgery," I said, clearly to her disapproval and/or disbelief.

She proceeded to measure my gum pockets and the recession of my gums. When she'd finished calling out all the numbers, I asked what they meant.

"Well, ideally, you would have only 2's and 3's," she said, knowing that I'd heard her call out a number of 4's in the back of my mouth. "And as for the gum recession, ideally you would have none."

She brought one of my bottom front teeth to my attention. "That's a 2, and if it recedes any further, well ..."

"Well, what? There's always something you can do, right?"

"Mmmm ... a graft. But you don't have to worry about that until it gets to be a '3.' "

I was relieved. Painful it might be, but it was available -- a graft!

Now that the specter of losing my front tooth was behind me, I said collegially, "I guess these days, there's always something you can do to save a tooth."

She screwed up her nose. "Well, not always," she said, explaining that sometimes there isn't sufficient integrity of the bone to hold an implant.

"I guess there's always dentures," she said. "Of course, that's not optimal if you want to enjoy your food and be able to speak properly and such ..."

With no E. there to defend me, I just closed my eyes and thought of the pet check-in clerk and resigned myself to the comfort that my teeth wouldn't be falling out anytime soon. Probably.

Delighting in My Life

2009-03-02T16:41:00.001-08:00

(Vesper and Lucy on the couch)

Enough about the heavy topic of The Chronicle's future.

The good thing about bad things is that they make the good things seem so much better. Of course, it does help that I'm on vacation this week ...

Anyway, I've always appreciated opposites' effect. Like, leave the bedroom window open in Yorklyn, Del., in the winter, and it makes the comforter feel that much more cozy. You can't have cold without hot; things are defined by their opposites. So maybe it is that I've been doubly appreciating all the delightful aspects of my life in San Francisco.

Those of you who know me know that's not difficult for me to do. I am constantly tickled by such sights as a unicycler making his way up The Great Highway by the Cliff House, the Amgen Tour randomly snaking past my house and my new rescue dog waking me up with an unprecedented bark in my ear.

These things give me joy. Others:

Waking up at 4 a.m., when the buses aren't yet running and traffic has ceased on Clement Street. Listening to the mournful call of the fog horn, the crash of the waves at Ocean Beach, the contented breathing of my pets.

The whisper of air touching my skin when I realize a cat has silently sidled up to me.

The state of my house when my best friend's 3-year-old has visited: a painting lying on the couch, a pinecone on the window sill, costume jewelry in the bed sheets, ornamental glass objects where the cat food bowl used to be ...

My neighbors' brown lab, Harry, when he or his wife take him out. Harry sniffs at my door as if he wants in, then thumps his tail against it.

I am here. I am. And that's more than enough for me.

The Surreal Life

2009-02-28T13:55:00.000-08:00

There are certain times when life takes on a surreal tint, when opposite emotions co-exist and make perfect sense. A time when I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, and everything seems meaningless -- and poignantly meaningful.

The first of my adulthood was when my mother slipped into a coma the weekend before Christmas in 1989. That one lasted three months, until she passed away on March 15 (fittingly, the Ides of March). Next up: my brother's two-week trial on bank robbery charges in June 1994 (conviction on circumstantial evidence). Then there was the two-month hell of knowing my husband wanted to leave me but he hadn't yet moved out (also June, in 1999). Followed in 2005 by my father's diagnosis (guess what month? Right) of late stage stomach/esophageal cancer.

It is this last that feels the most familiar now, with The Chronicle having been diagnosed as terminal. The question is: How long does it have?

In my dad's case, it was 16 days.

He insisted on opening the mail, paying his bills, taking his eye drops for borderline glaucoma. This aggravated one of my other brothers to no end. "Why bother with anything?" he asked my dad one day. "Why bother with anything," my dad repeated and responded.

As my father became more incapacitated and uncomfortable, I would wish for it to be over at the same time I would hate myself for thinking that and sink into denial that it ever would be.

I feel like that now: I want the layoffs to start at the same time I hate myself for thinking that, and I can't believe they will. In my dad's case, I knew who I was going to lose. Now, I look around the newsroom and think, "Will it be me? Will it be him? Her? You?"

My boss and I had lunch on Friday and he observed that all we're doing is commiserating on Facebook and talking and writing about saving The Chronicle. But the thing is, how do you have the stomach to try to save something that, in the end, might not want you to be part of it? How identity-crushing would that be?

So I go through my days in a surreal-tinted haze, trying to convince myself that my loved one has more days than the doctor said. And desperately hoping that, regardless of what state he is in after surgery, I will be welcome in the hospital room.

Why Newspapers Matter, or, Where Do You Think the News on the Web Comes From?

2009-02-25T19:47:00.000-08:00

Note: Since writing this entry, I was able to locate the original clip. My memory erred regarding several details, as follows: Adriene is spelled with one "n"; her parents were James and Teresa; Adriene was 5; and her sister was 1 1/2.

In the summer of 1988, between my junior and senior years at the University of Delaware, I was a reporting intern at the Wilmington News Journal. One day, an editor came over to my desk and said, "Have you ever done a 'dying baby' story?" I looked at her stupidly and she said, "If you're going to be a reporter, you have to learn how to do a dying baby story. Here."

She handed me a piece of paper with some names and phone numbers on it. It was a couple with a 3-year-old girl in the final stages of a rare, fatal disease. They wanted their daughter to be able to die in her bed at home, but because the father's employer had switched health insurance providers and the new one didn't want to pay for the equipment they would need in their home, they were stuck. They were reaching out to the newspaper -- and unbeknownst to them, to me -- for help.

Twenty-one years later, as I thought of that story while driving home from work at yet another newspaper, I could still remember her name: Adrienne Merganthaler. I want to say her parents were John and Marianne.

I visited the Merganthalers and Adrienne in the hospital. And I called the insurance companies. And I wrote a story about an everyday couple who could be in your family, in your neighborhood, in your church, who didn't want an insurance company to pay for extraordinary measures to keep their daughter alive. They were realistic. They were human. They were parents. They just wanted their little girl not to be scared in her last days. To be home with her family -- there was an older sister, I believe.

And guess what? The day the story was published, both of the insurance companies called the newspaper. They were fighting over which one would get to pay to bring Adrienne home. And so it was that Blue Cross paid for Adrienne to come home and die in her own bed.

I did that.

A college classmate of mine, Dino Ciliberti, said to me once that he chose to go into journalism to help people. At the time, I thought, "Then be a doctor." But I would go on to learn that he was right: newspapers (in my case The San Francisco Chronicle) can help people.

The reason I was thinking of this story was twofold: Yesterday, our editor stood before the newsroom and told us some grim news. The newspaper is losing too much money. Many of us will be laid off, and if we can't turn the situation around -- and quickly -- the paper will be put up for sale. And if no buyer can be found (keep in mind that when Hearst bought The Chronicle back in 2000, it had to pay the Fang family $66 million to take the Examiner off its hands), we would close.

I don't know if I was the only one who began to cry, but I cried longest. And I don't cry. The last time I cried like this was when my dad died in 2005.

Of course, we published a story about the news. It generated vicious comments online attacking the newspaper. And people were quoted on TV saying, "It doesn't matter because I get my news online."

Exactly who do you think gathers that news, vets it and delivers it to you online? Without The Chronicle, there is no SF Gate, one of the top 10 most visited news sites in the country.

Adrienne also came to mind because I was rushing home to edit a story by one of our most talented reporters, Carolyn Said, who covers real estate. (I was going to do it from home so I could let me dog out before her bladder burst.)

You've probably heard about that guy Obama, and his housing rescue plan? Well, it turns out that many Bay Area homeowners won't qualify for relief because our loans are so large. Carolyn, being the veteran, trusted journalist she is, outlined this in her analysis of Obama's plan. And U.S. Rep. Jackie Speier read it. And amended Obama's plan so that more homeowners in the Bay Area will be able to keep their homes.

The bill is set to be approved tomorrow. Because of a newspaper reporter.

You're welcome.

25 Random Things About Me

2009-02-07T10:42:00.001-08:00

OK, this is kind of cheating in the area of "orginal content," but it was a fun exercise on Facebook, so I thought I would post it here. If you're tagged, you have to write a list of 25 random facts about yourself. Here's what I wrote:

1. I am freakishly impervious to cold and often run the A/C in my car even in the winter (sorry, enviros).

2. Herel is not my "real" name.

3. At various times in my life -- and to varying degrees of seriousness -- I have wanted to be: a spelunker, airline pilot, nun, model, war correspondent, novelist, police officer, nurse, EMT, spy, lawyer, florist, fireman, FBI agent and professor -- but never an astronaut, actor or politician.

4. I am the proud mama of two cats and a dog: Vesper, 18; Stosh, 5; Lucy (a rescue Pekingese from a puppy mill), 9. They get along swimmingly.

5. I ran with the Olympic torch in 1985, and I still have it (you only pass on the flame).

6. I miss my dad, who died in 2005, more than he or I ever would have imagined.

7. If I could meet anyone, alive or dead, it would be my grandparents, who died before I was born. Second choice? Cary Grant.

8. I am infinitely curious what my mom, who died when I was 22, would think of me today. Enough about death ...

9. I have worked as a hand model, and my hands remain on some instruction booklets for small kitchen appliances. (My feet were registered with the studio, too, but I never had the occasion to work as a foot model.)

10. I have a thing for even numbers, but I have only ever lived at odd-numbered addresses.

11. I once flew to London for a blind date. London was great!

12. I love horror movies -- and classics. Dual favorites: The Thin Man and Halloween.

13. This year I will turn 42, the age my mom was when I was conceived/born. No longer will this reassuring thought be true: "I’m not as old as Mom was when she had me."

14. I feel like I should have been this age in the 1950s.

15. I still sleep with the teddy bear my brother gave me when I was 5.

16. My fashion sense and taste in music are arrested at 1989.

17. I feel incredibly fortunate that my U of Del. roommate, Victoria Lyon, and best friend from graduate school in Boston, Erica Kain, live in the Bay Area. I also am terribly excited to have found my first girlfriends ever -- Lori Shew-Jones and Sara Shostak -- on Facebook.

18. I have an abundant fondness for every city and every apartment I have lived in: Newark, Wilmington, Yorklyn and Hockessin, Del. (I love ya, Joe Biden!); Wilmington, N.C.; Boston; and S.F.

19. If I weren’t so terrified of public speaking, I would like to be a comedian. The biggest compliment you can give me is if I make you laugh.

20. I cut the tags out of all my shirts because I can’t stand how they feel (if you are a friend or colleague, there’s a fair chance that I’ve employed you to help me with this).

21. I really wish they would bring back Melrose Place, Seinfeld and Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

22. Things that make me happy: anything retro, 40s music, the library, reading, crossword puzzles, flea markets, peanut butter cookies, butterscotch, buttons, cooking, my pets, friends, (some!) family, Nip/Tuck, Real Housewives of Orange County, Saw movies, Julian McMahon, David Boreanaz, Robert Downey Jr., gardening, the beach, being tan, running at Lands End, chardonnay, cowboy boots and The San Francisco Chronicle.

23. I have never been to Disneyland and really want to go there.

24. I own hundreds of Pez dispensers.

25. I snore. I dream vividly and remember my dreams. I believe in ghosts. I'm one of the happiest people I know. And I'm out of numbers.

We Are All But Actors on a Stage

2009-01-25T15:31:00.000-08:00

When my then-husband called it quits in the summer of 1999, my sister-in-law encouraged me to talk with his first ex-wife. K was curious, my sister-in-law said, to compare notes. So I gave her a call.

We talked for about two hours.

Ten years later, I find that K, a poet (a talented one at that; M picks good wives, as I've told him), has written our conversation into her book of poetry.

It's due to arrive from Amazon tomorrow, but I have been able to find some of it on the Web. The main section of "The Paragon" is a collection of 42 sonnets titled, "His Next Ex-Wife."

It's been 10 years since we split up -- nearly 20 for K -- and I still became faint reading about my life, from someone else's perspective.

I had to order it, in hopes that maybe K's poetry would help me understand my own life.

It is, however, exceedingly strange to read. Take this excerpt from a review, for example:

And what setting could be better than the California of legends with its new-world wines, self-consciously healthful cuisine, superimposed track of Sex,
Lies & Videotape and cameo appearances by Barbie, Mr. Spock and The Frugal Gourmet? ... But just when the biting recreations of "made-for-TV-drama" resemble Hollywood scripts too perfectly, a complex picture underimposes itself beneath the film. This undercurrent cannot be paraphrased and its grief is real.

That would be my grief. Her grief. Ours?

Funny thing is, I fictionalized K as well, in a short story I had published in my graduate literary magazine. Escher is working overtime here.

Nothing Much Happened Today

2009-01-04T17:32:00.000-08:00

I was 10 when I got my first diary for Christmas. Its cover was soft orange faux leather with the word "Diary" written in gold script. More than likely it came from Woolworth's or Di'Iorio's, a variety store where my mom worked at the time. There is a feeling of power a little book like that and a writing instrument inpart. But also an odd sense of obligation. After dutifully filling up January's pages with my fifth-grade dramas, the entries became more sparing, until a nagging sense of guilt would lead me to write in big letters over the span of several days or weeks something like, "Sorry, Diary, nothing much happened today. I will be better about writing in here. Sorry sorry sorry!" All the while remaining unclear on the concept that no one gave a hoot whether I wrote anything. Strangely, however, I feel a similar urge to apologize when I haven't written in my blog. What a vain, silly sense of self-importance!

Anyway, for what it's worth, here is my first entry of the new year. I feel an unexpected sense of relief that the holidays are over, though like my sister I don't care for years with uneven numbers. And not because anything bad transpired in 2008. To the contrary, I was quite fortunate, especially given the state of the economy. I fared well at work, got a cheap interest rate on my mortgage, began to mend fences with my family, enjoyed Christmas -- for the first time since college -- with a blood relative and, finally, adopted a rescue Peke I named Lucy (see pic). Oh, and I returned to church, Catholic, St. Monica's up at 23rd and Geary.

People who know me are surprised I go to church. They ask me why. Sometimes they don't wait for an answer and proceed to list all the things wrong with organized religion. I'm not even sure myself exactly why I sought out the church again, after spending eight years in Catholic grade school followed by an excruciating four in an all girls Catholic high school and many adult sessions with psychotherapists in which I worked to exorcise the feelings of guilt and inadequacy that Catholicisim arguably implanted.

Here's what I know: Mass was the one place I sat still with my parents, sharing an experience, for more time than any occasion other than, perhaps, dinner. I have few links to my past like that, and none that is as comfortingly the same as when I was a kid. It is the one place my parents don't feel like a dream I made up. In fact, you could say that it was more unusual that I didn't go to church for so many years, it is so familiar. Now, I can't say I believe every tenet of the faith -- heck, it's difficult for me to simply believe in God -- but there is the nut of something there that centers me. In any case, it's an escape where I can turn off my cell phone, listen to stories, sing, smell incense and fall back into ritual as if it were the Snoopy sheets on my trundle bed at 837 Lehigh. I like being part of a community. And if it allows me to take time to contemplate my life and my actions, and how I can bring joy into the world around me, I think it's worth it, regardless of anyone's feelings about organized religion.

Did you lose your keys at Lands End?

2008-12-23T18:38:00.000-08:00

My sister, who is visiting for Christmas, found a set of keys at Lands End in San Francisco on Monday, Dec. 22. We put up signs, but on the chance that these are your keys and you are searching the Web with keywords like San Francisco, keys, prism, lost, Lands End, Sutro Baths, El Camino del Mar, Seal Rock, e-mail me at sherel@sfchronicle.com.

Halloweens I Have Known

2008-10-30T18:52:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, my mom sewed my Halloween costumes. They were great; my faves were the clown (age 4) and Indian (age 5). And none involved a mask, which she felt might inhibit my ability to see or breathe. (Similarly, we never carved pumpkins, merely decorated them.)

Apparently, the mass marketing of millions of face masks -- none of whose owners ended up suing the manufacturer for injury -- did nothing to assuage her fear.

When I was in fifth grade or so, at the same time my mom was working at Di'Iorio's variety store in the Park 'N Shop shopping center, I was allowed to incorporate masks into my costumes. But not until after she'd taken scissors to them and enlarged the eye, nostril and mouth openings.

To this day, I choose mask-free costumes. Go figure.

Objects In My Past Are Closer Than They Appear

2008-10-18T19:40:00.000-07:00

OK, first of all, apropos of nothing, I rode on a Ferris Wheel this morning. It was all part of the dedication of the renovations at Lands End, which just might be my favorite place in the world, aside from Phillip's Park in Newark, Del. I love carnivals! (I am planning a trip to Disneyland, where I've never been!)

More to the point of this entry, however, are my parents, and how current events are making me miss them more than ever.

First, my dad was a political sponge. He taught me to vote, every time I had a chance. This will be the first presidential election for which he will not be around to vote. And damn, I miss what he would have to say about it. Surely, he would be attracted to the idea that Joe Biden (my take on him here) finally made it on the executive ticket. But would it be enough to sway the vote of my WWII veteran father?

Secondly, though my lovely mom passed away in 1990, I can't help but feel her presence as I contemplate the Phillies entering the first World Series since 1980, whose games I watched with her on TV.

Mom, Dad -- I don't think either of you realized how much love you sowed. I miss you. But you are still with me.

From Here to Eternity (That's What I Can See)

2008-10-12T17:21:00.000-07:00

My eyes still feel a bit scratchy after my surgery, but there's no doubt about it: I now have perfect vision. (20/15 as of my morning-after checkup, and I don't believe the chart gets any better than that.)

Here's the weird thing: I feel vaguely guilty about the whole thing! Is it my Catholic upbringing? My lingering Polish pessimism?

I mean, it just feels so weird to have undergone such a -- really -- miraculous transformation in literally less than 15 minutes.

I'm waiting for the other cornea to drop ...

Doctor, My Eyes Have Seen the Years

2008-10-07T19:26:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow, if all goes according to plan with my Lasik surgery, I will no longer need glasses or contacts to see whether that's a cat or a shoe on the floor.

Of course, since I'm a pessimistic Pole, I have a hard time believing everything will go smoothly. And I feel vaguely guilty paying so much for elective surgery (it doesn't help that all of a sudden, everyone at work thinks I look adorable in glasses). It also doesn't help that my boss says things like, "So, you're getting your head cut open tomorrow?" and "You know, sometimes the laser malfunctions and goes into your brain."

It wasn't until I decided to undergo corrective surgery that I realized how I have measured the phases of my life with my glasses and contacts.

Once a year in grade school, we would line up at the vision testing machine and, when it was our turn, look into this magical device and call out letters, or discern numbers within a kaleidoscope of colored dots.

I am a geek now, so it's no surprise that I was a geek then. In the way that I couldn't wait to get braces, I waited for the year that I would need glasses.

Fifth grade was it.

My mom took me to order my glasses, and I could barely wait the two weeks it took for them to come in. On the ride home with my new specs, I looked at the signs on Main Street. "Were they there before?" I asked my parents. "Am I supposed to be able to read them?"

With sixth grade came new glasses with light-sensitive lenses that turned dark in the sun (see photo).

Then came the glasses with the curvy arms, and the gold monogram letters in the lower lens corner.

At 16, I was permitted to purchase my first soft contacts. Then there were the colored contacts, which made my eyes sea green.

College, it was John Lennon-style glasses.

After 9-11, TV anchor Ashleigh Banfield inspired the glasses I am wearing as I type this.

But as of tomorrow, fingers crossed, I will need none of the above.

I feel like I'm a participant in Extreme Makeover, but the "reveal" isn't the world seeing a new me: It's me seeing a new world.

I'm ready for my reveal.

Delaware: Small Wonder, or Woot, Woot! No more, "What state's that in?"

2008-09-23T19:31:00.000-07:00

My sister called me the Saturday morning Obama picked his running mate. "Turn on CNN!" she said breathlessly. "Can you see me?"

Luckily, I knew that our Delaware homeboy, Democratic Sen. Joe Biden, was in the mix for vice presidential nominee, or I would've about crapped my pajamas, imagining her amid a terrorist attack or somesuch.

But my sister inherited from my father a gene that carries a rabid interest in politics. I knew where she was, all right. She'd gone to Joe's house.

Oh, she's not a stalker or anything -- lots of people were there. Because that's what you can do in Delaware -- just traipse on over to the vice presidential nominee's lawn to wish him good luck.

And in fact, I did see her. I took a picture of the TV to prove it. That's right -- there she is taking a picture of the CNN camera, which is taking her picture, and there I am taking a picture of the TV. Do you feel all Escher yet?

I continued watching CNN, for Obama's introduction of old Joe (my brother as a state trooper had served as his body guard), and Biden's speech, and I have to admit feeling some pride in being from the Little State That Could.

And so it was that after scheming for summers with my girlfriends about how we could escape the First State, and spending years carefully listening to my speech so as to rid myself of the accent (trust me, there IS an accent), I promptly wrestled that cute little state into a Blue Hen bear hug and squeezed its toes (and that would be pronounced with a long, nasally "o").

If you are among those for whom Delaware conjures a memory of 10 minutes on I-95, here's what makes the state special to me -- aside from the fact that it had so little going on that it jumped right on in and became the first state to ratify the U.S. Consititution way back when.

Know the Heimlich Maneuver? Sure you do. But you wouldn't had it not been for Delaware Dr. Henry Heimlich (who really needs to share credit with Maryland and Pennsylvania, because you perform the move in Delaware, that's where the dislodged food ends up).

Among other Delaware natives you might have heard of: Elisabeth Shue, Valerie Bertinelli, Sugar Ray Leonard, Ken Burns (who lived three houses away from mine when his dad taught at U of D), Robert Mitchum, Ryan Phillippe and George Thorogood.

Delaware has one area code. How damn cute is that?

And with a population of roughly 850,000 (just about 100,000 more than the city of San Francisco and nearly 200,000 more than the entire state of Alaska), the DMV hasn't yet reached the need to add letters to its license plates. Drivers even have a decent chance of scoring a vanity license plate that says simply, "nurse" (or, in the case of an erstwhile high school chum, "Halen," but that's another story).

There is no sales tax. It was such a foreign concept to me growing up that as an elementary school student on a trip to Amish country, I thought the cashier was charging me a personal penalty when she announced that the tiny green rubber elephant I wanted to buy at the gift store would be a few more cents than the price sticker. (Don't ask why the Amish were trucking with green rubber elephants; I just remember I quickly lost interest in it after Bryan Amoroso promptly pulled off its trunk upon our return to our second grade classroom.)

And did you know that every fallen U.S. serviceman returns through the Dover Air Force Base? It's the country's only continental mortuary for the Department of Defense.

So let's give it up for this Small Wonder and my 15 minutes of feeling like I'm from a state where, like, people visit on purpose.

Made From Real Turkey Eggs, or Only a Pole

2008-08-26T20:00:00.000-07:00

My ancestral past has always intrigued me. Being a late addition for my mom and dad -- at ages 42 and 44, respectively -- I never knew my grandparents, who died before I was born. My parents didn't seem to know much about their parents' pasts, or at least they didn't talk to me about it.

Here's what I gleaned: Mom's dad was from Minsk, now in Belarus, and her mother from Vienna. They came over on "the boat" when he was about 17; she was several years younger. I have no idea if they knew each other before they sailed, or met on the vessel. He apparently was illiterate, and an agent at Ellis Island gave him his last name, I imagine based on how he pronounced it, as it would have been written in Cyrillic.

My dad's mom was born to Polish immigrants; his father came from Warsaw. My dad knew Polish. I never learned, but he was proud of his heritage, and early on I became familiar with the Polish eagle, which adorned his license plate (in Delaware, you are only issued a rear plate and can put whatever you like on the front). A miniature Polish flag flew on my dad's desk and his tie tack. I joined my parents on annual pilgrimages to the Shrine of Czestochowa in Doylestown, Pa., and shared "oplatek" on Christmas Eve. You can imagine my father's pleasure at the election of Pope John Paul II, the first Polish pope.

On my recent trip to visit my sister, we made a pilgrimage to the Shrine and fell in love with it and all things Polish. Separately, apparently, my brother also had been investigating his Polish roots. And, he placed me on the mailing list for a catalog of all things Polish. How convenient.

I began this post with my reverance for my Polish roots, because from here on, it's going to sound like I'm poking fun at them. But only in the "I-can-make-fun-of-my-sister-but-you-can't" kind of way. Because while I find these things about the catalog hysterical, they endear me even more to my people, because this makes it even clearer that Poland is from whence my DNA came.

I will start with the date of the catalog I just received: Winter 2007/2008. It's August. Well, I figured, it is rather an arcane subject; perhaps they just don't publish often. So I looked on their Web site*: There was an Easter 2008 catalog. Which they didn't send me; instead, shortly after receiving the first catalog from last winter, I received another one. For last winter.

This catalog is so juicy, I spent several minutes on the cover alone. Beginning with the free gift for those who order at least $100 worth of items: A Polska dog tag, retail value of $14.95. Limited to the first 750 orders. Now that, my friend, is an incentive to purchase!

Then there are the hand-painted turkey eggs, which, the catalog says, are "Made from real turkey eggs!" (Well, I wasn't inclined to doubt you, but just the same, glad to know there's truth in your advertising ...)

Being a religious culture -- and, well, it being the (last) Christmas catalog and all -- in addition to the egg ornaments, we have our pick of a variety of creches (that would be a manger scene to you uninitiated). Ah, here's one now, perfect for the eco-obsessed Californian: A creche handmade out of natural products. "The artist uses wood, plaster, paper, bark, moss and selected grass planted for hay." That suits me -- I can't tell you the number of hours I spent in my childhood picking plaster. Good times.

As you may or may not know, Slavic folks tend to be a tad pessimistic. (As my father used to say, "I'd get excited about this good turn if I didn't know the other shoe was going to drop.") Hence, the "Typhoon sub clock," originally made for the Soviet Navy's nuclear subs and warships -- until the Reds fell on tough economic times. The catalog folks "cajoled" the factory into making "a few just for us," and voila! you, too, can own a clock that can "survive depths to 2,000 feet" as well as "depth charge concussions." That takes a load off my mind (you who have heard me snore will understand).

Indeed, there are a number of military replicas -- some authentic -- including "East German Police Submission Handcuffs" (incidentally, now banned for German police use). Ah, the good old days! When these cuffs were used to subdue "troublemakers" by "non-lethal" means. "With a quick flick of the wrist and a sharp twist, even the most obnoxious hooligan comes along quietly." Come to think of it, these might be of use on my reporters ...

Another tempting item is the "2 way Polish Army telephone," with whose discovery I began to doubt my dad was really Polish, as my engagement wasn't really necessary for most of our conversations. But I digress. If you choose to purchase one of these items for $29.95, be assured that, "All phones are used but are in good condition. These are probably in working order but are not tested."

Again, being a religious culture, we have our page of rosaries. The descriptions make it easy to pick which one I want: Only the Amber Rosary can be used "for all your praying needs." I, for one, am tired for having a separate rosary for everything.

And what's a rosary without a rosary box to keep it in? May I suggest the "Mary feeding" motif? Yes, that would be Mary breastfeeding the infant Jesus. (If you are taken with this motif, but already have a rosary box, you might want to take a look at the silver-plated wall mounted icon of the same theme.)

But let's get down to brass tacks, so to speak, and flip to the crucifix selection. Here, I am happy to report that two of the three models offered are "ready to hang on your wall." Which is a relief, as it was a real downer to have to hammer in the nails myself on my old one.

But wait, there's more. I would say in one-quarter of the items, the catalog either ask you to "please allow us to select a color for you," or -- in the case of hats -- a size. After all, "Who am I to know what I want, or expect to get what I pay for?" (said in Eeyore voice.)

Indeed, the catalog pulls no punches; it even warns that your item -- once they pick it out for you -- might not even arrive intact. Take the "Spider of Straw" decoration. "Although we pack carefully to minimize movement, some crushing may occur," the description reads, adding, "Size is approximately 16"x 28", but may be different." ("I'm lucky to get what they give me," my inner Eeyore intones.)

Then comes the order form, which addresses "limited quantities and copy errors," advising that "All prices and discounts listed may change at no further notice," but you're responsible for whatever the "correct" price is.

Oh, and all defective merchandise? Must be returned in "factory condition." Um, if it was in factory condition, I wouldn't be returning it! Of course, in any case, expect to pay a 15 percent "restocking fee." To put the defective merchandise back on your virtual shelf, to sell to someone else?

The takeaway: Choose what you want; you might get it, might not. It might work, might not. Might be at the price listed, might not. Might fit, might not. And if they permit you to send it back, you'll have to pay them.

What?

As my friends and I say ... Only a Pole.

Still, I can't wait to see what they pick out for me.

* What, you think I'm going to give you the URL? And have the first 750 Polska dog tags gone when I order? What do you take me for? A Pole?

You Can't Go Home Again -- Or Can You?

2008-08-04T19:01:00.000-07:00

Growing up, I couldn't wait to get out of Delaware. Now that I've been gone 15 years, I can appreciate its charm, the memories I built and the friends I made there long ago.

It's been about two weeks since I returned from visiting my sister, with whom I had a heck of a time. For many people, this would mean partying, drinking and ill-advised hijinks (which otherwise I highly condone), but we Haven sisters have our own style of fun. We're total dorks.

One of the high points (I'm still awaiting video to post, ahem) is when we discovered that the mercurial calico cat my sister inherited from my father not only loves hanging out in cardboard boxes, but being pulled around the house's hardwood floors in them. This led my sister to create a sled ("sanki" in Polish, which in our dorky manner we studied as well), complete with cloth placemat affixed to the bottom so as to smooth the ride. Marcella would hunker down and lift her head to feel the breeze as I raced through the house with her, much like a dog sticking its head out of a car window.

"I Love Lucy" was watched and pored over, with such lines as, "As soon as I'm feeling up to it, I'm going to kill myself" and (when she and Ethel are stranded on the roof of their building), "I know, one of us can jump and tell the crowd I'm up here" oft repeated.

We had Bing's cookies and chocolate-covered pretzel-shaped shortbreads (OK, well I didn't get a taste of them. Ahem.), subs, cheesesteaks, iced tea (with a straw) and Friendly's peanut butter cup ice cream (the proper number of hard pretzels to include in the bowl was debated).

We hid the Noah's ark Christmas ornament I gifted my sister years ago and which I won't let her get rid of in various places -- most notably, I like to think, at the bottom of the peanut can. But then, it was pretty funny I didn't feel it when I unwittingly slept with it in my pillow case.

We became addicted to Dexter, and watched all episodes using the divine "on-demand" cable feature.

And we sought out places our parents used to take us: most notably the National Polish Shrine of Our Lady of Czestochowa in Doylestown, Pa., and Hollywood Beach on Maryland's Elk River.

I leave you with these pictures taken at the same spot outside the church, one at age 10, one at age 40. Guess which is which:

Kids Say the Darndest Things

2008-06-28T19:52:00.000-07:00

So, I'm gearing up for my scheduled (as opposed to ninja surprise) trip to Delaware to visit my sister and brother, and so planning time with old friends like Moam.

This morning, I called Moam, and we were laughing at some old jokes when her 5-year-old-daughter -- who for some reason can't stand it when her mom gets animated, laughs or sings -- started yelling, "Stop it!"

Of course, that just led to a more rowdy round of us singing our signature Paul Simon song, "All along, along, there were incidents and accidents, there were hints and allegations ..." (in our version, "bone digger, bone digger" becomes "moamdigger, moamdigger").

At which point, as reported by Moam, Roo turned off her "magic buttons" (hearing aids) and covered her ears. Like she does when it's thundering and she doesn't want to hear it.

We were duly put "in our place."

Also to Roo's dismay, her mother shared with me a conversation the two had had recently that went like this: (Keep in mind we both call each other Moam, kind of the way that Shaken Mama and I refer to each as Frog.)

Roo: "Is Moam a mommy?"
Moam: "No."
Roo: "Is she a grandma?"
Moam: "No."
Roo: "What IS she, then?"

Meanwhile, Roo was dragging through the house a stuffed cat I had sent her when she was in the hospital, using a jumprope as a leash that she had tied around his neck. The cat is named Herman as a nod to Moam's insistence on calling my family's (female) cat "Herman" when we were kids, a habit that annoyed me no end.

Herman arrived with a collar, a personalized tag and a book I created about Herman, a cat in San Francisco who insisted on visiting Roo in the hospital 3,000 miles away, and achieved this with the help of strangers and various modes of transport, including a big rig and taxi.

I love it that Roo still cares for Herman, and takes him to school for "pet day." I would be so honored for Herman to become the equivalent of Ted E. Bear, which I have slept with for over 30 years.

Hey, Roo! If you'll be his bodyguard, he can be your longlost pal ...

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way Home From Philly

2008-06-22T17:11:00.000-07:00

A funny thing happened on the way home from Philly: I sat next to one of the 11 crew members of the Enola Gay who dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima the morning of Aug. 6, 1945. U.S. Army Air Corps 2nd Lt. Morris "Dick" Jeppson had just turned 22 that June.

Tomorrow, he will be 85, the same age my dad would have turned last month. My dad also served in the Army Air Corps, a group that preceded the formation of the Air Force.

We were on a Southwest flight from Philly to Las Vegas, where he and his wife have retired, and they were sitting in the front row of the craft. That left one window seat, which I asked to have.

My first interaction with Dick was accidentally dripping water from my bottle onto his head as I attempted to shove my bags into the overhead compartment. I apologized profusely. He smiled his forgiveness and said, "It's nice and cool."

My second interaction, as I chatted with his lively wife, Molly, and propped my bare feet up on the carpeted wall in front of us was, "Nice pedicure."

(At that point, I didn't know who this affable gentleman was, which is a good thing, as I would have had to violate federal aviation regulations by pulling out my BlackBerry and texting everyone I know that one of the men who had dropped the first atomic bomb had complimented my toes! You can't make this stuff up.)

Molly flipped through a Vogue and told me about how she and Dick had been married previously, and after their divorces, each had married the other's spouse. Each couple having had three children, that made for interesting holiday get-togethers.

They enjoyed each other so much, and were so sweet toward each other, that I had to ask how long they had been married. Nearly 50 years, Molly said.

They had been at an air show in Reading, Molly told me. We started talking about checking luggage and all the new fees, and she mentioned that Dick had to pack a bunch of posters to sign. And I asked, what for?

Which is when I discovered I was sitting next to a living piece of history -- one of only two surviving crew members of the Enola Gay, the other being (I believe) navigator Theodore Van Kirk, who had been even younger than my plane mate. Pilot Paul Tibbets, after whose mother the plane was named, died Nov. 1, 2007. At the time of the mission, Tibbets was 30.

The first thing that flashed to mind was the book Hiroshima, by Paul Hersey, a fascinating but disturbing account of the destruction that I read in high school.

The second thing I remembered was that my father had always told me that, while many criticize the dropping of the atomic bomb, he knew that if it hadn't happened, Japan would have been the next stop for him and thousands of other soldiers. That mission, according to my dad, could have saved his life.

And I am selfishly thankful for that.

Politics be damned, I thanked Dick for his service and told him about my dad. And later, dagnabbit, I wished I'd gotten him to sign my toes so I could put them up for auction with all of the other Enola Gay memorabila.

Just sayin.

But most of all, I really wished my dad were still alive. He would have loved that story.

Surprise! Surprise! Surprise!

2008-06-15T14:05:00.000-07:00

In the David Mamet movie Oleanna, William H. Macy -- upon being surprised by a party for his birthday -- delivers a line to the effect that a surprise is an act of aggression. Shaken Mama was gratified to hear that when I told her, given the trauma I served up for her 24th birthday in the form of a surprise party that left her cowering in a squat in the corner, speechless and nearly wetting her skirt.

It was a very hot August night in Boston, and all of our friends in the Emerson College graduate writing program had been waiting in my tiny, un-airconditioned studio apartment for several hours for us to return from our yummy Ethiopian dinner. Apparently, there had been several false alarms, upon which dozens of party-goers had rushed to hide in the bathroom, a la clowns in a Volkswagen. Did I mention it was hot? Well, there's a reason that aggressive crimes increase in the heat.

By the time we arrived at my place and I lured her inside saying that my cats had a present for her, the guests were ready with some hot, pent-up aggression.

SM walked in to hordes of people screaming "Surprise!" over and over in the same tone one would yell "Hang 'em high!" Flash bulbs erupted, and one of our dearest friends, whom we affectionately had nicknamed "Stinky Boy" or "Stinky" for short, given that he smelled like antiques, accosted SM waving a wooden spoon in her face.

(Don't worry, she got me back on what I believe was my 35th birthday, when she arrived at the restaurant with a specialty cake in the shape of a clock. A biological clock.)

In any case, I digress. This post is about my most recent foray into surprising the crap out of people, in particular my wonderful sister, D., whose birthday was June 6. I had decided to fly back to Delaware to surprise her, knowing she would be home that weekend because she was having work done on her house. But I wasn't sure of two things: 1) How would I get her to open her front door around midnight? and 2) Would she consider having me around for four days a desirable surprise?

My brother, always up for a clandestine adventure, fetched me from PHL, and we hurtled toward our target in his delightfully airconditioned Tahoe, accompanied by the Phantom of the Opera soundtrack.

When we arrived at D.'s neighborhood, I called her on my cell phone, ostensibly to share a silly cat tale, for which she didn't have a lot of patience, as it was late, she was tired, in bed and would have to get up early to greet the contractors. I got out of the car and began walking toward her house.

Sensing my window was short, I asked her if she had received my birthday delivery from UPS. No, she said. It's really small, I persisted -- maybe it was put inside her screen door or in the mailbox? I just checked the Web site, I said, and it listed it as delivered. And I don't want it to be out all night -- it's something of Mom's.

OK, OK, she said. Let me put some pants on and go look.

My victory was shortlived, however, as she peered out her dining room window, caught a shadow of me and said, I think my neighbor's out there having a smoke or something. I don't want to open the door.

Drat!

Just then, my brother walked up. Should I knock on the door? he mouthed. Yes! I nodded.

Now someone's knocking at my door! my sister said. Crap.

Why don't you answer it? I asked.

That's easy for you to say! she said, clearly peeved. You're in San Francisco. I'm all alone.

I'll wait on the phone and call the police, I said.

Crap, crap, crap, she said. All right. Stay on the phone.

Of course, I said, switching positions with my brother.

The outside light turned on, and I trained my video camera on her door, which opened slightly.

Surprise! I yelled, and began laughing maniacally. At which point, my intentions of preserving her reaction for posterity crumbled, as I forgot about the camera in my hand and started flailing my arms and stamping my feet, thus capturing the reaction of her mailbox (upside-down), the bottom left corner of the threshold and everything except my sister's face, in an uncanny resemblance of the Blair Witch footage.

Small State Hijinx

2008-06-07T16:55:00.000-07:00

Just a short post from Just a Girl in Delaware:

What Delaware has all over San Francisco:

* My sister, the birthday girl
* My dad's old temperamental cat
* Subs
* Cheesesteaks
* Fireflies
* Hot weather and sunshine that can actually tan you
* No sales tax
* Parking places
* Bing's Bakery
* The Italian Festival
* OLD cemeteries
* Brick buildings
* Bennigans
* Grotto's Pizza
* The Deerpark
* Dunkin Donuts
* Long, loud freight trains
* Some of my favorite friends

Speaking of ...

Yesterday, I met my old friend Moam (who is the coolest, she's a probation officer AND mother of 3) for lunch at Applebee's in Middletown and she brought her adorable daughter Roo, the one who nearly lost her life to neuroblastoma. (Pictures of Roo and Moam to come when I return to SF.) Whereupon Moam shared this exchange that made me laugh so loud I think I embarrassed her. (Sorry, I can't take me anywhere! At least I didn't snort iced tea out of my nose...)

Roo is 5 now, and lately she's been asking her mom questions about death, which -- given that she was so close to it two years ago -- were more poignant for Moam than the average mother.

As related by Moam, an exclusive Roo moment, brought to you by JAGID, a subsidiary of JAGISF:

"Mommy, where we go when we die?"
"We go to be with Jesus, honey."
"Oh. So, we go home?"
(At which point Moam is touched and impressed by Roo's precocious understanding of a spiritual "home.")
"Yes, honey, it's like going home, being with Jesus."
"NO, Mommy! I mean, when we're done dying, do we come back to our house?!"

If I'd Known Then, or Shout Out to Girls Inc.

2008-05-26T12:48:00.000-07:00

Much of who I am and what I've accomplished in my life (debatable as it may be) I owe to Girls Inc., which was still called the Girls Club when I joined back in grade school.

My girlfriend Kathy and I would ride our bikes up to the Unitarian Church the Girls Club rented, an airy space set back under a cool canopy of trees. Later, it moved across the street into some classrooms at West Park Place Elementary School, where I had attended kindergarten. Still later, it raised enough money to build a brand new facility not far away.

As I grew from a girl to a teenager to a college student, I went from being a member to a counselor to a part-time employee. I won writing contests there that helped finance my college tuition, took me to New York (where I kissed a mime, but that's another story) and gave me an opportunity to run with the Olympic torch.

I'm still on their mailing list, which is how I came to know about a book called If I’d Known Then: Women in Their 20s and 30s Write Letters To Their Younger Selves. Generally, I don't truck with these type of Chicken Soup for the Soul genres, but after checking out some of the women interviewed, I was impressed with some of the wisdom it had to impart. And it put me to thinking about what I would have to say to my younger self.

Knowing the stubborn girl I was, I feel a bit better knowing I wouldn't have listened to myself anyway and would have made the same mistakes. But maybe the exercise will channel my 60-year-old self (if I am fortunate to live that long), or at least remind my 40-year-old self of what I think I have learned that makes my life so fulfilling. So here goes, in no particular order.

Life isn't fair. That's not a good thing or a bad thing; it just is. The sooner you come to terms with that fact, the sooner you will appreciate your life for what it is, and stop judging it by its inadequacies.

Pray every day, even if sometimes you're not sure who's up there. And when you do, start off by saying "Thank you" before asking for anything.

You are beautiful. Trust me.

You are smarter than the average bear.

You are entitled to nothing, but you have the privilege of becoming anything you want to be.

You are younger than you think you are, and you are never too old to learn something new.

More people love you than you think.

Forgive yourself. No one is perfect, but believe it or not, your frailties make you loveable.

Delete the word "should" from your inner dialogues. Replace it with "can."

Wherever you go, there you are. It's just different scenery. And speaking of scenery: Pay attention to your surroundings. At best, it will help keep you safe; at the least, you might see something interesting.

Don't ever do something just for the money.

If you're unhappy with your situation, change it. Don't stay with a partner, a job or a living setup that is bad for you. Before you know it, you will have spent more years unhappy than you were happy with it. And you're not doing anyone else any favors -- they have a right to pursue their happiness, too.

Enjoy the ride, not just the destination. And take pictures.

If you are ever absolutely convinced of something, consider that the opposite might be true.

You are all you have. Learn to love yourself, and the rest will follow. The universe doesn't care whether you are happy or sad. So why bother feeling sad?

Be kind.

Laugh a lot, especially when you want to cry.

Walk on the beach, dip your hands in the water and taste the salt.

You will fail. People will leave you by dying or walking away. You will have moments of great sadness when you feel you can't go on. You can, and you will. And don't let the specter of loss keep you from trying or loving.

Life is short. Appreciate the small things. Breathe, and be.

I'd Like To Lease Another Planet, Please

2008-05-24T11:59:00.000-07:00

The Earth is feeling a bit cramped to me these days.

I know it's all my fault.

Knowing that my ex-husband and an ex-boyfriend worked at Wired, I didn't have to hook up a newer ex-boyfriend with the older ex-boyfriend to get hired on there as well.

But now, things are really getting weird.

Although we both live and work in the city, share an affinity for North Beach and have jobs not only in the same field but same area of it (technology), you'd think my ex-husband and I would unexpectedly run into each other. In nine years, we have not.

Then a few weeks ago, I received an e-mail from my ex, who I will refer to as G.E., which stands for Gay Eagle. That is what my girlfriends nicknamed him after our divorce, inspired by a) their suspicion that he is or should be gay and b) the similarity in proboscises. (I, however, maintain that he is a handsome, charming, talented man. After all, he was the love of my life, which makes this all the more heart-skewering, amid the humor.)

G.E. had spoken at some sort of journalistic event at UC and run into two of my reporters. When he learned they worked at my paper, he said, "Oh, you must know my ex-wife." My reporters, surprised to learn I had ever been married, replied, "She's our boss!"

Small world, ha ha and all that.

Now, you know my proclivity for All Things Facebook. So not long after, I was checking my "news feed" only to find that one of my friends "is now friends with G.E." Grr. Especially because when I mentioned to G.E. that I was considering friending him on Facebook, he replied, "Oh, don't bother. My FB life is very, very dull."

After obsessing for exactly three minutes, I let that slide out of my freakish brain as well.

(At this point, you might want to pour yourself a beverage, take a potty break or fortify yourself with a little snack, as I am not nearly done here. Fair warning.)

Along comes Thursday, and I get an e-mail from my good friend G., alerting me that while at lunch with a friend at Le Petit Robert in Russian Hill, she had come across a "large, three-color poster" advertising one of G.E.'s performances. (Did I not mention? He's a lounge singer now.) "I was tempted to pull it down and mail it to you, Stella, and K. offered to help, but we forgot to do it on the way back. Ha ha." (I treasure her loyalty. Don't ever change!)

When I mentioned this to my best boy friend, J., he said, "Oh, I forgot to tell you, I saw one of those too, in my neighborhood, for Mother's Day or something."

Agh!

But the final straw came yesterday, when I was checking out the older ex-boyfriend's new blog about North Beach (he happens to be the one who created my fictional presence of Stella Haven). And found this:

"Local singer (G.E.), a new voice who interprets the great American songbook, is holding down Thursday nights through June. (G.E.) says his parents used to drive up from San Jose for romantic evenings at Enrico's, so the boy is totin' a little DNA with him."

I shot off an e-mail to the author, who I shall call T., inquiring as to whether he had gotten the memo that one of my exes was not permitted to promote another of my exes (please don't think my self-absorption here is lost on me. I am, after all, all about me), adding that in fact, he is incorrect: G.E. is not toting his parents' DNA with him, because he was adopted. Hahaha. So there!

So you see, until my exes become clear on the concept of moving -- along with all my friends' exes -- to The Island of Never to be Heard from Again, I am in the market for another planet. Preferably a lease-to-buy situation.

I'll even settle for poor demoted Pluto.

What's Next, a Cigar Lounge?

2008-05-17T07:50:00.000-07:00

Checking out SFGate this morning, I was accosted by this ad. It annoys me on so many levels.

If this chick tried to do this sitting next to me, I'd wrap the cord around her neck, saw off her hair with one of the plastic knives that accompany the overpiced Sky Chef repasts and steal her bracelet before being tased by an air marshal.

The airline industry appears to be unclear on the concept of its core mission: getting passengers from point A to point B, preferably on time and with working toilets.

I don't need to check my BlackBerry, or play a video game, or talk on my cell phone or style my hair. And I don't want any of the other sardines in the can to do anything, either, except sit there quietly, keep their kids away from me and refrain from farting.

I Win.

2008-05-11T13:21:00.001-07:00

Because I Can

2008-05-10T13:51:00.000-07:00

We have a special guest reader now tuning in to a Girl, my sister D. And to welcome her, I present this photo, the mere mention of which never ceases to send us off into merry fits of laughter with an undertone of, "Thank GOD we don't look like that anymore!"

It is affectionately titled: "Stumpy and Pinhead." I am the 14- or 15-year-old Pinhead. That would have made it around 1982. The picture must have been taken by Aunt Bet, the early adopter of cool gadgets, as no one else I knew had a Polaroid camera.

Why am I posting this? Because I can.

My Life, In Other People's Back Pockets

2008-05-04T17:33:00.000-07:00

The avid Girl reader will recall a post last month in which I compared the life I always assumed I would have to the one I'm living now. After receiving some offline comments about it, I have some new thoughts:

First, being the editor of a magazine in New York and driving a '67 convertible Mustang can easily be translated to being an editor at a newspaper in San Francisco and driving a 2000 convertible BMW.

Secondly, after touching base with friends from high school and college who have gone on to get married and have families, I realize that my life is the persona that lives in their back pocket, of the road they could have taken. Which is kind of cool when you think about it.

Lastly, last weekend I got to actually visit the life I could have had.

My old boyfriend E. and I went out for one last breakfast in Noe Valley before he moves to Mountain View with his wife and 10-month-old son. E. and I have been friends and/or romantically involved off and on for the past eight years, until he met his wonderful wife. But there was a time when he and I were considering whether we should get married and have children.

So there we were, pushing a baby stroller together. When we walked into the restaurant, the hostess asked me if we would need a high chair. "Not the mom, know nothing about babies, just cats -- and they would need a high chair, but not today," I said.

E.'s son is adorable and pleasant and smart and is going to get to laugh a lot in his life, as E. is the hands-down freaking funniest person I know.

Looking at Jacob, I saw a facsimile of what I could have had with E. And while it felt really good to hold him and play with him, at the end of the afternoon I was more than ready to hop into my BMW, roll down the top and drive home to have a glass of wine with my cats.

Happy Birthday, Pops.

2008-05-03T16:34:00.000-07:00

My dad was born May 3, 1923. He died June 26, 2005, of stomach cancer.

I thought the old grump was immortal.

My dad, who was Polish, admired Pope John Paul II, the first Polish pope. Somehow, between the myriad pictures and literature I grew up with in the house, and the fact that my dad and the pope kind of looked like each other, I felt their fate was intertwined. When the pope became ill, I felt a strange sense of foreboding. When he died on April 2, 2005, something told me my father was not long behind.

For my dad's birthday a month later, I wrote in his card, "Isn't this cool: You're 83 and I'm 38!" When I spoke with him on the phone he said, "You know, you're wrong -- I won't be 83 until next year."

I had a superstitious pang: He wouldn't live to be 83.

That June 6, my sister's birthday, she took my dad to the doctor because he was so weak, he couldn't get out of bed. Four days later, he was diagnosed with stomach cancer that had started migrating up his esophagus. The doctors told him he wouldn't live more than six months.

I was shocked. I shouldn't have been -- after all, at 82, my dad had outlived the average life expectancy, as well as everyone in his immediate family. But he just always seemed too damn stubborn to die.

Growing up, I didn't like my dad much. He was eternally pessimistic, seemingly unengaged with my life and always said "no" to whatever I wanted permission to do. He could be manipulative and mean. In general, not a pleasant presence to be around. I wondered what my mother -- who I viewed as a saint -- ever saw in him.

After my mom died in 1990, my dad started to change. It wasn't overnight, and he remained set in his ways til the end of his days. Or maybe it was I who changed, and stopped wanting to force him into the mold of the father I had in mind, and instead started to understand and appreciate who he was.

Whatever I did, he supported me. When my boyfriend moved in with me in North Carolina, he simply said, "You know I don't agree with living together before marriage, but I'll always support you."

When I moved to Boston for grad school, when he would have preferred I move closer to home, he lent me money and support. When I announced my engagement to the boyfriend I'd lived with in NC, he opened up his checkbook and happily paid for my modest wedding. When I moved to San Francisco, he told my sister that he didn't want me to feel lonely, and so dropped notes in the mail to me every week; my favorite ginger snaps at Halloween; Valentine's candy; and my favorite Reese's peanut butter eggs at Easter.

He would end every phone call with, "If you ever need anything, you just let me know." He nicknamed me "Bootsie" (with the emphasis on the "Boot") and liked what he called my "big laugh."

A wise professor at Emerson College, poet John Skoyles, once advised: "Whenever you think you are absolutely sure about something, consider that the opposite may be true."

And so it was: After a life of missing and mourning my mom, it turned out that my dad -- who I had so many arguments with, who I disrespected, who I tried to change, who I couldn't understand -- became the man of my dreams, the man who I would admire out of all men, and who I would miss, every single day of my life.

The Things They Carried

2008-04-21T19:21:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about things. "Thing," as in the dictionary definition: "a material object without life or consciousness."

Not valuable items, at least in the monetary sense. But objects that anchor me to my life, and more particularly to my past -- a past that I feel some kind of need to prove existed through a daisy chain of tangible objects.

I bury my face in a pink velour robe -- which still has a Hall's cough drop in the pocket -- that hangs on my bathroom door and think, "I had a mother. She wore this robe."

I sit in the teal blue 60s armchair my dad had in his bedroom and think, "My father sat in this chair in the morning and read the Bible."

I look at the Fisher Price Little People police car and its driver on my computer at work and think, "Once, I turned 6, and I had a birthday party, and my parents bought me the Little People village."

I look at this picture of my brother holding me when I came home from the hospital and marvel at the fact that in my home now, I have that end table, the mail rack on the door and the black ashtray there by the lamp.

It's the same reason I love going to the flea market -- to see the things that other people carried, and compare them with my own.

So maybe I'm not talking about things in the dictionary definition. Because these material objects do harbor life and consciousness -- my own.

Not Without My Daughter

2008-04-17T15:47:00.000-07:00

Shaken Mama is claiming that I am the mother of her firstborn child. I was there for her entry into this world, and somehow, SM thinks, A. glommed on to me as her true birth mother.

I think she's right. In addition to the fact that Chebs looks more like me than SM, some damning new evidence has come to light:

1) People like to give her things. Kids on the subway, friends who come over to see the new baby ... so much so that upon waking from her nap, Chebs regularly asks if she got any presents while she was asleep. And you know what? Usually, she has.

2) She is similarly particular about things. When I was little, if I lost a piece to a game or toy, it was dead to me. I can't wear mismatched socks, even if no one but I will know. When I was in grade school, if I had a seam in my knee sock across the tips of my toes, I had to fold the end over the top of my foot so I wouldn't feel it. I cut the tags out of all of my shirts and dresses. I can't abide left-open drawers and cabinet doors. With this in mind, I give you the transcript of a phone message from SM:

"LISTEN! I think you should have to pay some sort of child support. Here's why:

First of all, today at "Music Together" class, one of the others kids had a blanket and A. obsessed. Instead of dancing around with everybody ... she just obsessed about making it all perfectly flat on the floor, perfectly straight, with all the wrinkles out of it.

Then when she went to bed, I was reading her a story and some of the kids in it were taking a nap, and she pointed out who was sleeping under a wrinkled blanket and who was sleeping under a non-wrinkled blanket."

3) Out of nowhere, Chebs is afraid to fly.

Sez SM:
"I have determined it is your responsibility to go with us on our road trip up to Oregon because it's your fault that my child is so afraid of flying -- out of nowhere. Why is she suddenly afraid of flying? I know! Because she's YOURS!"

The funny thing is, SM's newly born daughter entered the world with a full head of black hair --just like me (my older siblings used to tell me I was a Korean War refugee). I predict a lot more neuroses will surface ...

Thought Medley (Sorry, Trying to Get Rid of the Leftovers in My Mind Before Cooking Something New)

2008-04-12T20:50:00.000-07:00

It's only Saturday night and this weekend already has been fun, fun, fun.

* I painted the town fuschia with niece Katie and her friend Kurt last night. She was born the summer before my senior year in high school. That feels like yesterday, and yet, now I'm partying with her in North Beach! She is the most delightful girl, a nanny in New Canaan, Ct. My sis done good. After dinner at Figaro, we hopped to Specs with some of my friends and her very cool companion, Kurt, then ended up in the middle of a lively police situation (as spectators, silly!), before I put them up in a nearby hotel. I, myself, conked out at my friend's pad in North Beach (he who dubbed me Stella Haven!) and had a pretty freaking amazing breakfast with a bunch of denizens of Caffe Trieste at Mo's. Then I picked up the Portable Dorothy Parker at City Lights bookstore. Sweet. Meanwhile, Katie and Kurt ambled down to Santa Cruz to dance on the beach.

* The temperature was in the 80s today. I ran for an hour on "my" beach (which was crowded with too many muggles for my taste), then washed my car and took a nap. Ahhh. Now, I'm waiting on a pizza!

* I admit it, I'm addicted to Facebook. But now, I also have fallen prey to catster.com. Where I have set up a profile page for one of my cats (Stosh will get his, don't worry). And guess what? Vesper's already been FRIENDED. What's up with that?

All right, gotta run, pizza's here!

xo

Melange a Trois

2008-04-07T20:24:00.000-07:00

I hesitate to publish a mere thought medley post as opposed to a truly thoughtful post, since good friend V.L. (she of the interesting earwax) told me that she doesn't think my blog is as good as it used to be (I accepted this as constructive criticism. And then trout-slapped her on Facebook). But always being the ornery one (maybe that cop thing wasn't a good idea after all), I'm gonna!

* My cat Stosh's head tips to the left, so that he's always looking quizzical. So much so, in fact, that the cat rescue named him "Tippy." He also has a funny meow that sound more like "Ayow." Add to that the fact that he does not like to be picked up, and gets antsy when I move to pet him with two hands, not just one, and I have come to the theory that he was injured by someone clenching his throat in their hands. How lovely is it, then, that he actually seeks out my hands, to rub him on his snout. (Just one hand, though. Two, and he knows he can't escape, might even be picked up.) I love that he trusts, and even is drawn to, the objects that may have caused him harm in a previous life.

* After running for an hour on the beach this a.m., I went to Louis' for some French toast, scrambled eggs and a vanilla malted milkshake. And I swear I wasn't imagining this -- the very cute cook, who is quite YOUNG and is a cross between James Dean and Willem Dafoe, was flirting with me! Could I possibly be a cougar?

* I woke up this morning at 8:37, which is my favorite time in the world because 837 is my favorite number in the world, because 837 Lehigh was the address of my childhood home. I have the number plate from my dad's house on the inside of my front door, and I look at it when I'm stretching in the morning to run.

That's all, folks. Sorry, V.L.!

Has Anyone Seen My Life?

2008-04-05T15:26:00.000-07:00

The other day I wore to work a motorcycle jacket I bought the evening of Nov. 24, 1988, the day before Thanksgiving, from Wilson's Leather store in Christiana Mall, for $248 (I have a weird memory). After work, I stopped at Safeway and, before getting out of the car, slid my BlackBerry into the inside pocket.

As I did so, it struck me: I was placing a smart phone in a pocket that was created when cell phones and the Internet didn't exist, at least among the common population.

It got me thinking back to that year, when I was a junior at the University of Delaware studying English literature and journalism and working as an intern at the Wilmington News Journal. I was living with V.L., the earwax artist, in Southgate Aparments, and having one hell of a time.

Imagine being a reporter before the age of faxes and cell phones and the Web. Yeah, we actually had to go get documents, call information, knock on doors, track people down.

In 1988, I had a Radio Shack Tandy that had no hard drive; I inserted a floppy disk to install a word-processing program every time I used it. It was connected to a daisy wheel printer that never worked quite right.

Our phones had cords; CDs were new, and mostly we listened to cassette tapes.

And I had dreams.

I was to be a magazine editor in New York, with a red convertible '67 Mustang.

Previously, in my adolescence, I had aspired to be (in no particular order) a go-go girl (I didn't know what it meant, but saw the sign on the way to visit my aunt in the city); a nun; a spelunker (before I realized I was claustrophobic); a jet pilot (before I realized I was afraid to fly); a cop; a firefighter; a cosmetologist; a best-selling author; and a stay-at-home mom with lots of kids.

In high school, I realized I could write. And I realized that the only sure way to make money at writing would be to become a journalist.

So I did.

But now, I can't help wondering where the life I dreamed of went.

My close friend Shaken Mama and I have an inside joke where one of us will say, "I thought it was different!" And the other will say, "No, it's just like this."

I recall a wonderful piece that was published -- I thought it was the NYT but now I can't find it -- by a woman who married a man who developed a brain tumor and died. I read it about the time SM and I were deciding whether I should accept Mark's offer and move to California and get married. This author said she didn't think she would ever get married, and she felt like her alter-ego, the woman who didn't get married, was the persona stuffed into her back pocket.

I have often felt that way: There's me, and then there's where I thought Me would go.

I thought it was different.

But no, it's just like this.

Thank God I Didn't Do My Laundry

2008-04-03T17:19:00.000-07:00

So, I've been back running (saw a coyote this morning! How cool a city is this?) and feeling fit and trim and so today wore a flowy, short little number, that number being a dress.

I had just returned without incident from lunch and was about to enter the building. I reached out to open the door and an opportunistic gust of wind lifted my skirt to the heavens.

That's right, lunchtime at Fifth and Mission. Total Marilyn Monroe. What could I do? I laughed.

Two reporters were coming in behind me (emphasis on "behind"), and we had quite a chuckle. The male reporter lamented that it was all too quick to catch on his camera phone.

Thank god I didn't do laundry last night, or I would have been wearing one of my new thongs!

Sometimes it pays to be lazy.

I Miss My Mom

2008-03-31T19:44:00.000-07:00

I don't remember much of my mother's physical presence.

She began fading for me when I was about 10 and she was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease, a condition of which I knew nothing until a few years later when she began losing her ability to do things, like walk and talk and maneuver silverware at the dinner table.

Looking back, I remember her getting the call from the doctor on the black rotary phone in the den, which was mounted on the wall by the cellar door so that one could stretch the phone cord into that area with the washer and dryer and pantry and freezer and shelves of old toys and Christmas decorations if one wanted privacy. She did. Then she came back to the couch where I was watching TV in my pajamas, to the sofa upholstered in beige fabric adorned with vibrant bluish-purple grape vines and green leaves and tiny flowers.

I remember her hands.

I can picture her crocheting on the end of the couch, with my head in her lap, watching Laverne & Shirley or Happy Days or Bosom Buddies or Nancy Drew or the 11 o'clock news with funny weatherman Jim O'Brien (who would die on a skydiving outing and whose daughter would play on Frasier).

Mom (or Marmee, as I called her, inspired by Little Women) would take a skein of yarn, wind it into a ball and place it inside a tupperware container, threading the end through a hole she would cut in the lid to keep the yarn moving freely without tangling as she crocheted afghans for each of her six kids. When she was through, she would sew a tag on the corner: "Made with love by Mom."

I slept under mine last night. It's my cat's favorite item; we call it "Nana's afghan."

I have her hands. I crochet, and I look at them and think, these are my mother's hands.

When she wasn't crocheting, she would rub my back as I lay with my head in her lap, listening to the noises of her stomach. She would scratch my back with her strong, long nails painted rose pink and then pull down the hem of my top when it rode up.

If you look at your left hand and can see the veins, you'll see they make a "Y." Mom's veins on that hand were raised, as are mine, and I would press my finger down the stem of the Y to make the veins part and then fold back together. It made me laugh, and she liked that.

My mother was no stranger to hospitals, which she hated. Whenever she was in the hospital and visiting hours were over, my sister and I both wanted to be the one to touch Mom last. This led each of us to "forget" something in the room that we had to run back for until we reached an agreement: We would both put a hand on Mom and then say, "One, two, three!" and raise our hands together.

When Mom died, and at her viewing it came time for me and D. to say goodbye, we knelt on the kneeler, looked at each other and put our hands on Mom. "One, two, three!" we said, and laughed a tight laugh with tears in our eyes.

These are the things I remember about Margaret Sczubelek:

She liked Chuckles candy. No matter how bleak the situation, she found something to laugh at. In tough situations, I was always to remember that it would be over. And to always do something constructive while waiting. She let me have licorice for lunch. She liked black, pink and yellow jellybeans. She answered the phone by saying "Yallo." She liked crossword puzzles and mysteries and adored us kids. And she was very proud.

Before she died in 1990, when she was in a coma, I had a dream that I was at her bedside. She was telling me that she wasn't afraid of dying, but that she would miss me so much. And she worried about me.

I told her I would be OK. And I was.

Match.com, You're So Fired; Smoke Alarms Scare Me; Loose Nipples?

2008-03-27T20:44:00.001-07:00

I am posting this quite recent photo of me (yes, it's in a bar during daylight hours, you have a problem with that?!) to assure you, dear reader (IS anyone reading this?) that I do not have a second head, nor a pumpkin-sized goiter and that, well, for 40, I must say I'm not a bad-looking gal.

So why is it that NO ONE is interested in me on Match.com, and more importantly, WHY are men in Egypt and India all of a sudden "winking" at me and wanting to make my acquaintance? (Oh, this is just so sad.) Take "Sasasababy," a 47-year-old man in Ad-Duqqi, Egypt, (who, by the way, is looking for women 24-35), who describes himself:

iam man wants agood woman like childrens and good housing very buity and no make any problems want to life in pease, ia good man high income and want to life in
smooth and comfortable , ai like childrens very mush.

As for his politics, he claims "ultra conservative" and as for his date, "I do not drink alcohol."

Hey, Sasasababy, did you READ my profile? Really.

In other news, I have consumed every single last black jelly bean in my Easter basket, sent to my by my sister, because only we know what a proper Easter basket consists of. I sent her one as well, and when she opened it while on the phone with me (she's in Delaware) said, "Hey! I know for a fact that Reeses peanut butter eggs come in a pack of six! There's only five here!" Well, of course I ate one, and felt guilty about it until ... I received my Easter basket (they crossed in the mail), which contained only four of the aforementioned sweets! "Hey!" I said. "I know for a fact these come in a pack of six! Did you eat two?" "Of course I did," she said.

Furthermore ...

I HATE having to get up early. I hate it even more when my smoke alarm decides to go off at 5 a.m. because the battery's dying. I climbed up on a stool, wrested it from its electrical connection and removed the battery. AND IT STILL CHIRPED! A dying little chirp til it finally fell silent, as I stared in horror. Clearly, smoke alarms are living, breathing beings, most likely alien (and most definitely evil), sent to spy on us (coincidence that they're often mounted in the bedroom? I think not). I mean, sure, they save lives, but at what price?!

Finally, an exchange. I won't say who with, but she roomed with me in college and lives out here, too, and her initials are V.L. A professional, sophisticated woman. From her I received this e-mail today, titled "Something I Need to Share":

And you are the only person I know who might appreciate it! I enjoy cleaning my ears with Q-tips – I admit it. I’ve noticed that my left ear has been “gunky” the past few days. And then today, when I cleaned it, I pulled a big glob of brown stuff out of it with what looked like a gnat in the middle! It was fascinating, albeit gross.
So – any interest in getting together Saturday night now that you know about my
ear?

I LOVE that she knew I would appreciate this. Thus ensued an IM session that went something like ...

Me: Hey!

V: Did you get my e-mail?

Me: Yes, I LOVE that you know I would appreciate that.

V: Yes!

Me: It's like a good poo!

V: Yes! Dinner Saturday?

Me: Yes! Pacific Cafe?

V: I am getting my brows shaped, I will want to show them off!

Me: Woo hoo!

V: About 7, 7:30?

Me: Yes, P.C. will be good, as it's in walking distance, and I'm sure to have taken a tipple by then.

V: I'll have to make sure your tipple doesn't turn into a topple!

Me: Or a nipple! I don't need a third one, afterall ...

V: Or a loose one.

Me: A loose nipple?

V: Yes, they're a real problem.

Little-Known Fact: I Participated in the '84 Olympics

2008-03-21T13:08:00.000-07:00

Yep, that's your Girl, back when she was Just a Girl in Delaware. I won an essay contest at the Girls Club and got to run a kilometer with the Olympic torch. I still have it -- and that fashionable ensemble -- as you actually just pass on the flame. A rare shot of me with Marmee and Poppy!

(Added bonus: The Pinto in the background and the Phillies fan on the bike. You just know he had a mullet.)

Preacher Dies in Accident Involving Goat

2008-03-19T14:02:00.000-07:00

Bopping around other newspaper Web sites this a.m. for a project I'm involved in, I came across this story from the Tennessean.

It is very sad. But a hell of a story! Not sure which has more "whoop" factor, the tale or the comments, which include these morsels:

Real country folks know that things can happen very quickly in a situation like this.

and

It would depend on what the person was doing with the goat. ... The thing I learned was that if you aren't doing something you're not supposed to be doing, there is very little problem.

Reminds me of one of my former editors here who used to joke that my goat "wasn't tightly tethered."

A colleague raises this valid question: "How the hell does a goat, with no opposable thumbs, hog-tie a human? ... Seriously, think what would happen if cats had opposable thumbs. It would be like raising a bunch of monkeys in your house."

While I couldn't find a photo of a true monkey-cat, this one that came up in a Google search struck me as cute enough to share.

I Peeped And I Purloined

2008-03-16T09:51:00.000-07:00

(Photo and theme boldly, unabashedly and unapologetically stolen from my new favorite blogger, "Anne Nahm," with inspiration credit given to Shaken Mama for turning me on to this brilliance.)

All Peeps that die on Good Friday return from the dead Easter Sunday. Jesus Peeps? Hardly. They return as Zombies-Peeps. These Zeeps will hunt you down and eat your brains. And then, they will steal your eye. And look at you with your own eye.

Don't think I don't recognize what an assclown move it is to create a blog entry of my own based solely on someone else's humor. But I had to share this hysterical entry about why Peeps (which fascinate me) are evil.

On other evil notes, I want to program my computer to say, "What fresh hell is this?" whenever I log on to my Match.com page to find that all the men who I've put my heart out on my "wink" for have viewed me and passed. As my colleague at work put it: "Online dating opens up a whole avenue of rejection." Whatevs.

In closing, I am off to the flea market before all the good fleas are scooped up.

The Ides of March

2008-03-15T12:57:00.000-07:00

Today is the day, 18 years ago, that I got a call from my sister that my mother had died. She'd been in a coma since the previous Dec. 17. I will always "beware the Ides of March," the day Julius Caesar was assassinated.

Speaking of superstitions, did you know that Otis Elevator Co. estimates that 15 percent of its buildings omit the floor 13?

Be careful out there!

I miss you, Marmee!

People Are Lovable Because of Their Frailties

2008-03-12T20:05:00.000-07:00

That's what Shaken Mama's sister told me once, when I was newly post-divorce, and feeling imperfect and eminently unlovable. In his resignation speech today, Eliot Spitzer said something that reminded me of this, which was:

I go forward with the belief ... that as human beings, our greatest glory consists not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.

I still love you, Mr. Spitzer -- and I'm tired of people criticizing well educated women for standing by their men. Life is complicated. Human beings are even more so. We've all wanted to do things we shouldn't. Sometimes we do, sometimes we don't. But god, I sure would hate a world where everybody was perfect. How boring would that be? (Not to mention I'd be out of a job.)

He Ain't Heavy*, He's My Brother

2008-03-12T19:57:00.000-07:00

*At least he better not be, or this mother's going down.

Thought Medley (No MSG)

2008-03-11T15:35:00.000-07:00

Why can't I get Fergie's Big Girls Don't Cry song out of my head?

Meanwhile, if S.F. is ever annihilated, I hope special care is taken to preserve the couple of blocks around 21st and Geary Aves (because yes, the world revolves around me). It has everything I could ever want: Sakana Bune sushi with the floating boats (which I'm always tempted to load with a mysterious note for another customer down the counter); Moroccan treasure Aziza; Ton Kiang, where I first had dim sum on my first visit to S.F.; my current dim sum haunt, as it's cheaper, less crowded and just as good, Lucky Fortune; the incomparable Shlomit Heller and her Beauty Network; my favorite UPS store, where the owner recognizes me and all the crazy flea market finds (often military helmets) that I send my brother; and last but not least, the Moscow and Tbilisi Russian Bakery, where I snagged two cheese blintzes for $2 on a trip to the post office this afternoon to mail my sister's Easter goodies. Added bonus: All the cute Russian men in track suits that frequent this area. My Slavic genes salute you!

And ...
My alma mater, the Catholic Church, is continuing to bumble along in its attempt to win friends and influence people with its newest additions to the Sin List: pollution, mind-damaging drugs and genetic experiments. My laywoman's understanding of this -- with 12 years of Catholic school under my belt, mind you -- is that 1) Since you must be absolved of these sins by going to confession, you might as well rack up as many as you can before you take the time out of your busy day to enter the creepy confessional; 2) If you don't confess, you're destined to burn in hell; 3) Survey says 60 percent of Catholics don't go to confession. ... Which brings me to: Hey, Monsignor Gianfranco Girotti! Is there no more room in Heaven? Or are you shilling for the devil?

The New Thing in the Haven Household, Etc.

2008-03-10T21:08:00.000-07:00

I bought "the boys" a window seat for Christmas and just this past weekend got around to installing it (hey, at least I'm not as bad as the neighbors who finally put their Christmas TREE out on the curb yesterday).

As soon as Stosh (the gray and white loller) began humping it, I realized I should have gotten two or None at All, so intense would be the rivalry of who gets to use it and when (the hours of sunlight being difficult to predict, this being the Outer Richmond and all). And the fact that -- who knew -- there actually is such a thing as having too much sun on the perch, at which time it becomes wholly undesireable to all occupants (at these periods, the jury is split over whether the earth-toned, geometric-patterned rug nearest the perch is preferable; or whether the rag throw by the sink is the place to be).

In any case, the boys have brokered a complicated peace agreement that should be envied by warring nations. It involves choreographed licking, synchronized napping and a short sprint through the apartment and into the bathtub -- where it is optional to deposit a cloth mouse or ball -- generally around 3 in the morning, a blessed hour when (usually) the amorous couple upstairs has finally fallen asleep.

In other Stella news ...

Match.com continues to disappoint, but I have developed a wicked crush on a checker named Geff at the Safeway;

I found a 1928, hardback copy of Don Marquis' "Archy and Mehitabel" for $1 at the flea market yesterday. It's really hysterical -- the premise being a man reincarnated into a cockroach who lives in the New York Daily newsroom and at night jumps on the typewriter keys to create his lowercase poetry (he can't navigate the shift key). He has a friend, a cat named Mehitabel who also is reincarnated, and who he wishes would get on the stick and kill the rat that also inhabits this fanciful universe: a reincarnated poet who continually critiques Archy's work;

It strikes me that ants -- which I continue to battle -- are like children. All they want is the sweet stuff. No interest in eating their (or my) vegetables;

And finally, (remember, I love bad TV), I recently caught an episode of Keeping up with the Kardashians (whoever the hell they are) in which the family is trying to quash some pictures posted on the Web of one of the teen daughters having sex with her boyfriend. The FBI is called (our tax dollars at work) and the scurrilous offenders are tracked down, much to the delight of the mother, who says to her girls: "We've learned our lesson. What is that? TRUST NO ONE." Um, how about, "When your sister asks you to take pictures of her and her boyfriend doing the beast with two backs, Just Say No"?

Me & My Pleo

2008-03-07T20:04:00.001-08:00

Well, actually, it's not mine, we'll have to give him back -- journalistic ethics and all -- but here, as promised, is the video of me and Pleo (I'm not "Hello" the kitty; I'm the technology editor):

http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?docId=-5520145595364062386&hl=en

Sorry, can't get it to embed, but the link should work. Note: My hair is up, I didn't cut it.

Also note what Ellen, who is more than three months pregnant, offers the Pleo: A dry-erase marker. What do I offer? A boob. Girl, you're gonna have to get your maternal on! :)

Thought Medley ...

2008-03-04T20:13:00.000-08:00

I saw a video of myself today, interacting with the eerily lifelike Pleo. One of my reporters wrote a story about the new, pricey ($349) critter, and one of my other reporters (who's preggers! Yay, Ellen!) nabbed one from the flaky PR person to videotape with her cat (named "Hello"). It arrived yesterday, and we went into the multimedia room to "wake it up." Thereupon, my maternal instincts kicked in (who knew?), and I was quite the rubber-dinosaur-lovey-mommy. Ack. I can't help it! Anything remotely critter-esque or baby-like, and I'm like, "Ooooooh." Never one to shy from shame, of course I will post it here if my cameo makes the cut...

In other news, my staff was tickled by my obsession with today's L.A. car chase. (I thought I was going to get fired for a) boldly moving our 2:30 meeting to the conference room next to my TV-enabled office and b) straddling the doorway as we talked shop so as to catch all the maneuvers of the purloined SUV.) One of my most dry-humored colleagues announced upon the chase's completion that a collection was being taken up to buy my me own "spike strip" with which to engage my fantasies of Saving Mankind...

Why can't Girl Scout cookies be available all year round? It would definitely be better for my figure to mete them out on a year-round basis...

I have a lunch date with my first Match.com fella tomorrow. Is it too scary that he revealed in our first conversation that he was taken by my TOES?

Stay tuned.

Why Do Police Pursuits Happen Only in L.A.?

2008-03-04T14:15:00.000-08:00

I can't help it, my eyes are riveted to the TV screen, which is showing a stolen white SUV running from the cops. It's all very polite and courteous, with the stolen SUV generally at least slowing at the stop signs and never speeding too far out of the sight of the pursuing police officers.

Then, of course, you have the helicopter cameraman following from above, and the commentators warning (dare I say hoping) that "anything could happen at any moment."

OK, WHAT is the guy in the SUV thinking? He's going to run out of gas SOMETIME. And police are like ants! Dude, there's not just one behind you, and they're communicating with each other. Your ass is so behind bars.

I have a lot of questions, people. Worse, I have a meeting in six minutes. HURRY UP AND CATCH HIM!

"If I Need Ya, Mom, I'll Call Ya!"

2008-02-27T20:30:00.000-08:00

I still remember that title on a poster of a scared little boy about to close the door and submit himself to the dentist, a piece of artwork that hung in the Mouth of Hell, also known as the waiting room of my childhood dentist in Newark, Delaware.

My sister and I still share horror stories about Dr. Collins. He made us fear the dentist so much that I went seven years without a checkup when I became an adult. (When I finally screwed up the courage to go to another dentist in N.C., that doc had to prescribe me Valium for all my visits.)

This was the man who filled my many cavities (my mom distrusted flouride treatments); pulled my incisors to give me braces (yes, I literally gave my eye teeth to this character); inserted painful spacers between my teeth; cemented on braces and then cranked them every few months; extracted my wisdom teeth; and did it all with a poor chairside manner and some foul breath.

Oh, and whenever I cried, he slapped me. Let me tell you, those lame little plastic spiders and whatnot he gave from the prize basket when you left were not worth it.

It didn't help that I had a wicked, unrequited grade-school crush on his nephew. Love -- and dentistry -- hurts.

My current S.F. dentist, who I adore, believes that the roots on my two front bottom teeth are dead because of the force with which Dr. C. "corrected" my overbite. Then again, I do like my smile, so I guess Dr. C. wasn't totally evil. Maybe he had some goodwill hiding in his pinky fingernail.

Anyhow, visiting the dentist for my six-month cleaning yesterday made me wonder: Why do I care so much about pleasing the dentist? I mean, every other doctor you go to, you go because something's wrong. My pee looks funny, I have a temperature, I can't stop coughing and, oh, what's this odd rash on my stomach? But no, at the dentist, you're supposed to show up perfect: brushed, flossed, rinsed. And if you're not, there's the interrogation: "How often do you floss? What kind of toothbrush do you use? Do you smoke? Hmmm."

Hey! I'm paying you! Only my personal trainer gets my money for giving me grief.

But because I seek to please everyone, regardless of whether I hate them, or pay them, or don't even know them, or even if they're dead, mind you, for the past six months, I've been using my Sonicare toothbrush (a gift from my brother for my 40th birthday, don't ask); flossing; and rinsing. I was ready.

For the first time in my life, I could report truthfully that yes, in fact, I do floss daily. And something I've been doing has had some results: my gums have gotten healthier.

Though satisfying, the visit was strangely anticlimactic. Deep down, I think I was expecting a little plastic token of appreciation from the prize basket.

If I need ya, Dr. C., I'll call ya!

Here's to You, BrainHell

2008-02-26T19:34:00.000-08:00

Several months ago, I read a book called "Chasing Daylight: How My Forthcoming Death Transformed My Life," by Eugene O'Kelly, a 53-year-old CEO of KPMG, who in May 2005 -- right before my own father was diagnosed with cancer -- was told he had a late-stage, inoperable brain tumor and just months to live.

He decided to approach his death like any other project in his successful business life: Take control of it, guide it and learn from it.

I am taken with people who chronicle and share their last days like that.

I was fortunate enough to be with my father during his last two weeks, when he amazed me with his grace and humor, saying things like, "A funny thing happened on the way to the barber shop. I wound up in the hospital."

So, I was fascinated to learn of a blogger named BrainHell, who recounted online the last years of his life after being diagnosed with ALS. On Feb. 2, he died at the age of 44. His last post:

ok i'm dead. so what? i partook of much wonder and beauty. you should be so
lucky!

Here's to you, BrainHell, and all the souls like you out there who share your insights on the final frontier.

I personally believe that embracing the specter of death makes us live life more fully, and infuses our joys with poignancy. I know the reason I get such a kick out of my life is that I've been through my parents' tough deaths. I appreciate everything and take little for granted.

How boring would it be if we lived forever? In grad school, I wrote a short story about a world in which couples could choose to live forever -- and not have kids to replace them -- and never age; or, have kids, age and die. The main characters were a husband and wife who were trying to agree on which road to take.

Yes, I am intrigued by death.

Ever since an anthropology course I took freshman year in college in which we read The Denial of Death by Ernest Becker, I've been convinced that every decision we make stems from just that urge, so I'm looking forward to reading this new book: Staring at the Sun: Overcoming the Terror of Death.

On that note, sweet dreams!

Flibbertigibbet Express

2008-02-25T12:58:00.000-08:00

I'm at work, and I have to keep a careful eye on the little rear-view mirror I have velcroed to my monitor, so I can quickly act like I'm Getting Stuff Done if I see, for example, the publisher approaching my office. Too bad I wasn't quick enough to keep him from catching me sipping iced tea and filing my nails -- literally -- when he popped in just now. Oh, well, I'm not the queen of stealth. And this is my lunch break, after all.

So, I have been neglecting this space. I've been glued to Shaken Mama all week, wondering when she's going to pop out Baby V. At least this time, I don't have to be there to witness the horror movie that is natural childbirth (not that there's anything wrong with that). Or listen to the moo's or the horse whinnies she employed throughout her hours of painful labor before Chebbles emerged into this world. Still, I'm strangely hyper-aware of SM's imminent childbirth, and worried to the point I have dreamed about it. Mother Hen, that's me. At least she's packed her hospital bag this time.

Other random musings from the woman who dressed up as Flibbertigibbit along with Shaken Mama (Maria) and friends for the Castro Theatre's showing of The Sound of Music a few years ago:

* Only in SF?: On the way to retrieve lunch at "Pumpkin's" (so-called because the proprietor calls everyone "Pumpkin" or "Cupcake"), I witnessed a homeless man, with two shopping cars of belongings, talking on his iPhone.

* I am inordinately tickled by the fact that Cuba now has a president named Raul. I think this comes from the time I was an extra in the film Bedazzled. If you saw this ill-advised attempt at comedy, you may recall Brendan Fraser's stint as a bumbling Colombian drug lord of that name.

* I have beome addicted to two shows: Chelsea Lately (I want to BE Chelsea Handler in another life) and -- don't judge me -- Paradise Hotel 2, with that ho' Tanya. Oh, and Lipstick Jungle, though I must say I liked the book better; it's always a mistake in my opinion for the dramatization to fall under the authority of the author (in this case, exec producer Candace Bushnell).

* I sent a very difficult letter to my brother and sister this weekend. It dredged up a lot of anger and sadness, and now it's in UPS's hands. Wish me luck.

Oh, and if the "good" friend who hasn't talked to me for 12 days is reading this: "What's up YOUR butt?"

Adventures in Singlehood

2008-02-20T08:03:00.000-08:00

With Moam having given birth (Welcome, Noah Caidin!) and ShakenMama about to burst, I must admit I've been feeling a little domestic. And alone.

At least, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

You see, on Saturday, I caved. I signed up for match.com.

This marks my second foray into the online dating scene; about three years ago I was on eHarmony for a brief while. I had lunch with one man. He spent the whole time talking about himself, in particular about his ex-wife and how he had caught her cheating on him after he bought a GPS device and covertly attached it to her SUV.

Yeah.

Shortly after I signed onto Match, a tall drink of water from Florida "winked" at me. I "winked" back -- and received a barely literate e-mail from him asking to correspond outside of Match, due to a "computer glitch" that was interfering with his Match e-mail. Um, no. Today I tried to check his profile, and it's been yanked.

Yeah.

I forgot the nail-biting, paranoia-inducing, self-esteem-questioning involved in the virtual meat market. On eHarmony, I would obsess over my "matches" who -- before I even contacted them -- would close our match for such reasons as "lack of chemistry." Grrr.

On Sunday, I scrolled through some of the available men on Match and screwed up my courage to "wink" at some of them. Why haven't they all winked back?!

Why?

He Married Me, But Would He Friend Me on Facebook?

2008-02-17T17:26:00.000-08:00

Because I am the editor for technology news at my newspaper, I felt it my duty to find out just what this Facebook thing was all about. I created a page and fooled around with it a bit, but failed to find any application that performed a function more efficiently than tools already at my disposal. (For ex., I could "throw a snowball" at someone, but then that someone would e-mail me and say, "Did you just do something to me on Facebook? I don't want to click on the e-mail if it's spam." To which I would reply, "Yes! I threw a snowball at you! Isn't that exciting? Click on it!") And said friend would click on the link to find that he had, indeed, been struck in the face with a virtual snowball. And lost 3 minutes of his life he will never get back.)

Regardless, the whole thing is addicitng. I've searched old playmates, lovers, colleagues, family members, only to find, tonight, my ex-husband. My first instinct was to friend him. But then I thought, what if he doesn't accept? So I simply examined his friends list, stared at the tiny picture of him and his girlfriend and her three kids, and logged off.

Damn that Facebook!

Valentine's Day: Can't Kill It; Can't Use Its Bones for Soup

2008-02-17T16:15:00.000-08:00

When I was married, my husband (markrobinson.org) gave me an automatic pencil sharpener for Valentine's Day. Not surprising, as this was the same man who had gifted me a dictionary for my birthday. (For Christmas? A CD he wanted.) Need an impeccable pencil point or have a hankering for Sean Colvin? I'm your gal.

I haven't had a real Valentine since 2005, when my sheriff's deputy boyfriend at the time sent me a dozen red roses -- after I told him to please not send me red roses, as I don't really care for them (unimaginative, sorry), they generally don't smell since they're forced to bloom in hothouses, and he should save his money. (What did he do for my last birthday? Yes, roses. Two dozen this time. At least they were fragrant. Nothing from him for Valentine's Day, alas, as he has taken up with a woman 12 years his senior who counsels couples on using S&M to improve their relationship. How can I compete with that? After all, his computer mouse was always sticky, if you know what I mean. A shame, as without my contacts in, if he doesn't speak, he could pass for Julian McMahon. Sigh.)

True to form, this Valentine's Day was pretty crappy. Though I did get two bags of awesome loose tea from my friend Dave at work! I, myself, passed around chocolate hearts (dark, light and Reese's filled) to the masses.

My only Valentine's phone call? From an ex-boyfriend, ex-convict and current member of the California sex offender's registry. (Not to be confused with my Fed Ex stalker.) Yes, I like a man in uniform, even if it's a jumpsuit.

Having nothing to do after work, I took the time to finally clean up my office and remove the mildew-scented life-size dolphin, complete with red cowboy hat and talk bubble reading "For the love of God, help me!" to my boss's desk chair for a nice surprise.

Then I got my sad, Valentine-free self into my car and headed to my neighborhood corner store for some consolation wine.

When I emerged a few minutes later, a scene greeted me: The gangbanger couple who had been in the store with me had backed into my car and fled, witnesses said, leaving me with a $500 insurance deductible as my V-Day gift.

I toted my newly expensive wine home and cracked it open -- only to slice my finger on the foil.

But hey! At least two of the young male "witnesses" I spoke with said I had a nice smile!

Election Day and Ants

2008-02-05T21:04:00.000-08:00

I was quite virtuous today. I dropped off my absentee ballot at the fire station (how odd is it that my old polling place across town also was a fire station?), then ran for an hour on the beach.

I watered the back yard, did the laundry and cleaned. Oh, and found MOLD on the wall in my bedroom, ack.

And I thought more about ants. I am told having ants in San Francisco is a given, at least during the rainy season.

But I can't help but take it personally. (Nancy Kerrigan voice: "Why?!")

Growing up, I never saw more than a spider or silverfish indoors. My mom would sooner have died than let anyone see a roach or other unsavory insect in her house. Once, she spotted a roach in the roll bin at the Acme. She told me about this in a hushed tone and it was Not to be Spoken of Again. Apparently, it was equally as embarrassing to come across a roach where you shopped as to have one in your house.

I was fortunate enough to continue this bug-free streak until I rented an apartment on the top floor of a building at Eighth and Harrison streets in Wilmington, Del. A very unpleasant old Greek woman and her daughter lived below me. They hated me. If I so much as dropped my deodorant on the floor, one of them would take a broom handle to their ceiling. Other than that, the apartment was cute; it had a window seat whose lid opened up to store linens; hardwood floors and old-fashioned appliances in the kitchen, complete with a Frigidaire that opened and locked with a long silver handle.

One day I was in the kitchen and came face to face with the biggest roach I've ever seen, on the stove. For a minute, I thought it was cute. I called it Fred. Then I turned on the gas on the burner and fried Fred.

When another took Fred's place on the stove the following day, my first, irrational, thought was, "But I killed him!"

Ha ha ha ha ha. Ah, youth.

So I called my landlord, who sent over some fumigators. But being a landlord, he was cheap, and only fumigated my apartment -- not the six others connected to it. Thus ensued the Death March, in which Fred's family would crawl out of the woodwork -- literally -- and give up the ghost, belly-up.

Once the massacre cleared, new, lively Freds moved in. I persisted in bugging my landlord, and another "expert" phoned me. "Describe the bug," he said. "It's huge. It's brown. It's about, um, 4 inches long." He proceeded to tell me that, in fact, what I was seeing could not have been that big, or if it was, it could not be brown. "It's got to be a waterbug," he said. "It's black." "Sir, I assure you, my roaches are brown. And they are huge." "Can you catch one for me?" he asked. I killed one, put it in a jar, and left it for him in my apartment.

That night I came home and checked my messages. "Ma'am," he said, "You have a problem."

I was strangely vindicated. I might have roaches, but they were the biggest damn roaches he'd ever seen!

Fast forward to the ants.

Luckily, I never had much of a problem with ants in my old place in Noe Valley. And then not much in the Outer Richmond -- until this winter. All right, so it coincided with my first attempt to compost using a cute little green basket that Sunset Scavengers was giving away outside the Safeway the week they discontinued the plastic bags. My sister happened to visit shortly thereafter and can attest to a short period in which every item headed for disposal needed to be duly examined to see whether it could qualify for recycling or compost.

The period was short because I discovered two things: 1) Ants in a long industrious line leading from the window to the green basket, feasting on the remains of some eggshells. 2) Aside from a dead body, there is no stench like the stench of old food in the green bin in our garage.

Soon, I realized that, while I had removed the inviting compost bin, I was now in the ants' Zagat guide, and they were enjoying many a romantic dinner in my cupboard among my honey, spices and other foodstuffs.

Knock on wood, I've pretty much locked down everything in tupperware, refrigerator or ziplock bag, but I still have what my seemingly knowledgeable friends refer to as "scouts." These are ants that you see solo, searching for food. Often, I find them kind of standing up on their hind legs and waving their antenna, as if maybe they can get a better view that way, or sniff something sweet in the air. I feel kind of bad killing these ants; they seem so selfless and adventuresome and good sports, to go in search of food all alone in the land of the giants.

Today, after I had just cleaned up around the microwave, I saw a spot on the wall and looked closer. There was an ant, head facing down, desperately holding onto a crumb at least as big as he was. It was such a valiant attempt to hump food back to his peeps, I was touched. I could just imagine that ant thinking, "Dude! We could live on this for WEEKS! How COOL will I look when I come in the hill lugging this gem? I'm so going to get promoted."

What did I do? Right: I squished him. But I didn't like it.

A Stroll Down Moamory Lane

2008-02-03T10:06:00.001-08:00

The Moams at their old haunt, Friendly's, 2007*

In honor of this virtual walk, I'm tuned in to Casey Kasem's top-40 countdown for 2/6/88 (could that possibly be 20 years ago?!) via my Direct TV. Now playing: "The Way You Make Me Feel," (video) by Michael Jackson, when he still looked human.

Moam, I apologize for leaving you hanging. But remember, "Jesus would forgive!"**

Still, there's really no excuse for me not to take time from my drinking and whoring to recount the drinking and whoring of old ...

"Just Like Paradise," David Lee Roth.***

So here goes. Gosh, where to begin? A cast of characters, perhaps:

"Push It," Salt-n-Pepa***

Me: Townie; French Club president; editor of the school newspaper; vice president, Honor Society; smart-ass-at-large; youngest of six always trying to get someone to pay attention; writer.

Margaret: Natural blonde; two years younger; funny as hell; called her little sister Bobo and Albino when "Jack and Diane" weren't around; called my female cat Herman for no apparent reason; talented poet; once accused by her father of "bothering the whole household" while she was in a coat closet listening to music on her headphones; I've never thought she was fat; can eat a whole bag of Oreos in one sitting; was always trying to make out with my boyfriends (good success rate).

Chad: (1968-2006) The boy down the block; Margaret's first kiss on the dirt road; continually accused by us of lying; we remember him fondly and still do not know the manner of his untimely death.

Veronica: The friend through which Margaret and I met; boys always thought she was pretty; had pupils that weren't round, but looked like upside-down raindrops; canopy bed; always late -- we were always waiting on her.

Kathy: Mom was 16 when she had her and often was working, so Kathy's house was the place to be; played games there like mixing all manner of ingredients in the kitchen -- including dog food -- and then having someone blindfolded taste it and guess what it was.

"Could Have Been," Tiffany

Bob: A year or two older than me; Margaret had the biggest crush on him, even though he didn't bathe often; nice guy, though; took a lot of ribbing from us with good humor.

TO BE CONTINUED ...

* Unfortunately, I could not locate the picture of you devouring a whole bag of Oreos in my room at 837 Lehigh. Also AWOL were the photos of us dressed as cats the Halloween we descended uninvited on Dickinson dorms while in high school.

** 1980s reference

*** In an effort to enhance your multimedia experience, I am peppering this post with links to video of the songs playing as I write.

This Just In: There's E-mail Access in Heaven!

2008-01-31T16:07:00.000-08:00

This is the best press release I've received in a while; thought I'd share (It's also a cheap and easy way to log an entry, as Shaken Mama will boot me from her blog roll if I slumber). As one of my reporters mused: "Wonder if the FCC would be interested in this?"

Among my questions: What's the domain name? Who's teaching people like Laura Ingalls Wilder the Internet? What if you're illiterate? When are Hell, Limbo and Purgatory going to get Internet access? Finally, to hell with e-mail, let's get 'em on the Skype line!

P.S. A search for an illustration for this post brought up at least one other similar service, http://www.heavensmail.com/hmail. Is nothing sacred?

SoCal Psychic Mediums Email Dead People - Get a “Letter From
Heaven” at AfterlifeLine.com

AfterlifeLine.com, the metaphysical website that enables users to communicate with deceased relatives and friends, has formed an Internet partnership with renowned psychic mediums, Melanie and Michele Morgan, it was announced today by Hardy Warren, President of AfterlifeLine, Inc.

“The SoCal psychic sisters are unique among mediums,” says Warren. “They are able to conduct fluent conversations with departed spirits and thus provide word-for-word messages containing language and references that are instantly recognizable. We call
their signature service a Letter From Heaven.”

The Morgan Sisters, also classical musicians and recording artists, have been using their psychic gifts to bring comfort, healing and transformation to their clients
for more than twenty years. “But now, with AfterlifeLine.com,” says Melanie, “we can service our clients remotely and forward Letters From Heaven over the Internet. Now we have a world-wide reach; we can help spiritualseekers everywhere.”

Warren and the Morgans see AfterlifeLine.com as filling a universal need. There are millions of people who have lost someone and are yearning for evidence of a life beyond this one. “So many of us are grieving,” says Michele. “It’s comforting to know that this life is neither the beginning nor the end. There is always a new opportunity to express love and forgiveness.”

In addition to their work with private clients, the Morgan Sisters are nearing completion on the first in a series of books entitled: STARS IN HEAVEN – The Dead Celebrity Archives, a collection of scholarly interviews they’ve conducted with dozens of departed quotable notables from the arts, sciences, politics, sports and
entertainment, including The Marx Brothers, John Lennon, Albert Einstein, Babe Ruth, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis and many others. Transcripts of some of these interviews are currently available at http://afterlifeline.com/.

Of Wooden Spoons, Moamar Khadafy and Cancer

2008-01-27T20:34:00.000-08:00

My childhood best friend Margaret is pregnant with her third child and is stuck in a hospital on the "other" coast until she gives birth on or around Feb. 6. Things get pretty boring there, and I have promised to entertain her with my blog, which she dutifully checks on her Blackberry. So expect a lot of M. between now and then. And don't expect all of it to make sense.

For those of you who have checked out my blog roll links, M. is Lyrissa's mom. Three years ago, little Roo, not quite two, was diagnosed with neuroblastoma, a rare, deadly cancer. It just so happened that at the time, M. was very pregnant with her second child, Nicholas. It was a long, long road for M. and her family, and Lyrissa's life hung in the balance. There were many days M. didn't know if her firstborn girl was going to live or die. Miraculously, Lyrissa is clean now. Still, she has to use hearing aids from side effects of the treatment, and she had to fight to catch up to kids who didn't have to spend months on end in the hospital at such a crucial developmental age.

But enough of the sad stuff. I just wanted to include that to show you what an incredible person M. is, and to encourage you to check out Lyrissa's page and others at caringbridge.org. They're some amazing folks.

I promised M. that I would begin by regaling the myriad (ha ha) readers of Stella's blog with The Story of the Wooden Spoon. Y'all are going to just have to wait to see what in the world a Libyan dictator has to do with the price of eggs in China.

When M. was in first grade, her teacher had a yardstick she used as a pointer. So M., who liked to "play school" at home, located an old mop handle that she would bang against the cement walls of her basement while teaching her imaginary pupils. The tactile sensation became a habit, and by the time I met her about six years later, she always had a pencil (unsharpened, mind you) or stick on hand to bang on the ground, her palm or side of a building as we worked through our adolescent angst.

One day we were in the kitchen with my mom, who had the misfortune to break the spoon end off a wooden spoon in a bowl of batter. M's eyes lit up as she covetously eyed the handle in my mom's hand. "Can I please have that?" she asked. My mom handed over the wooden stick, laughed and said, "I have never seen someone get so excited about a broken wooden spoon."

When I spoke with M. the other day, I asked her if she still "banged." "Oh yeah, I have my pencils," she said. "My kids know to go get them for me." Among the things her husband packed for M.'s stay in the hospital? You guessed it: her pencils. Unsharpened, of course.

As for Moamar Khadafy, I can't even really remember when we latched onto his name in the newspaper, but he certainly deserves royalties for the number of times we've used it since then. We liked the sound of it rolling off our tongues, and from then on have called each other Moam. Generally, I'm Moam Sr., since I'm two years older. Often my signature gets a "J.D.," "PhD" or "Esq." after it. Variants include Moamus, Moamius and Moamdigger. Twenty-odd years later, I'll answer the phone and hear a tentative, "Moam?" On one of my last visits, we drove Lyrissa crazy singing the Moamdigger song. (Of course there's a song!) "Mommy, STOP SINGING!" she pleaded.

Fat chance, kid. The Moams are here to stay.