Author: sychela

Categories
Being a girl cars

Flotsam, Jetsam, and Lagan

(Side note: For years now I have remembered that there was a third type of wreckage besides flotsam and jetsam, but I could never remember what it was.  So I typed “flotsam, jetsam, and” into the search bar and Google filled in “and lagan.”  I love the internet.)

(Flotsam: goods that have are floating on the water, not deliberately thrown in, as after a shipwreck.  If found, remains the property of the original owner.
Jetsam: goods that have been thrown into the water (jettisoned) by the crew deliberately, so as to lighten the ship in an emergency.  If found, becomes the property of the finder.
Lagan: goods tied to a buoy, so the owner can find return and find them later.
Derelict (bonus word): property abandoned at sea without hope of recovery, including shipwrecks.)

On Wednesday I parked my car in a valet lot in San Francisco.  The backseat of my car has been collecting goods for some time now, and although I knew it was mostly stuff of little or no value, it made me nervous leaving it in a lot in the middle of a big city, probably with the windows down and the car unlocked.  So I took a giant Target bag out and filled it up with everything worth keeping, filled a Safeway bag with stuff that was obviously trash, and stuck the “save” stuff in the trunk.  I now bring you a list of the things that have been so important they’ve been riding around with me for probably thousands of miles.

-A binder with scripts and various notes from each of my 3 shows at MTC
-A box of Lipton decaf tea bags
-A UC Davis hoodie
-$1.84 in change
-1 sock
-5 single-serve packets of Crystal Light raspberry lemonade
-My high school graduation tassel
-The purple sunglasses I don’t wear anymore because they leave marks on my nose
-The end of a roll of black gaff tape
-The bill for my car registration
-3 scarves, none of which I’ve worn in at least a year and a half
-Roseanne Barr’s autobiography, My Life As A Woman
-My cigarette-lighter phone charger (I actually use this frequently)
-3 empty plastic bottles
-Aimee Bender’s The Girl in the Flammable Skirt
-Thank you notes from 2 of the MTC shows
-Varying feminine hygeine products

I need to simplify my life.

Categories
Fiction Friends Sentiment

Finishing

Katie found this in her house.  It’s from Music Circus 2004.  Don’t have any more background than that, but I kind of like it.  At least it’s not angsty, right?

Categories
"Other people" Work

The Phantom of Data Entry

As I flip through the stacks of prospect cards that have been mailed back by people interested in more information about the SF Opera, I like to visualize each person from only the clues I have in front of me.  It’s limited, but I can put together a stereotype in my head, and then I can either welcome that person to the Opera, if it’s a new account, or I can chastise them for checking the box for “special introductory offers” when they have clearly been in the system since 1994.

Incidentally, let me say that I have some mad skills at this job.  I know, I know, it’s just data entry, but some people (I assume) would type in the name, and when nothing came up, would just enter a new account.  (I’m guessing that’s how some of the dozens of duplicates I’ve found this week came into being.)  But I have, like, this sixth sense about these things, and I have found lots of people hidden under alternate names (nicknames or in one case, a maiden name) or misspellings or a spouse’s name.

So far, the cards that have made me smile out loud:

-An older person’s handwriting and name (Georgena or Ingrid or Henrietta, something like that), and under “email address” she wrote “NONE – AGE 86.”
-A woman named Carolina North, which actually made me giggle as I typed it in last-name-first.
-Upwards of 5 distinct (elderly) people who check the boxes next to “free performances,” “family performances,” and “subscription” to indicate their interest in receiving materials, and then next to “LGBT” draw an arrow and a ?
-Conversely, I adore getting the cards from old men who want info on LGBT shows.  I love it even more when the second name on their account is another old man, and their address is and has always been in a nice part of San Francisco.
-A woman wrote in large print “The writing on this card is ILLEGIBLE” and then just wrote down her name, address, and phone number, paying no heed to the lines provided.  They were too illegible maybe?
-A woman had written “I was a subscriber for 40 years” in old-lady handwriting, but when I looked up her account, I saw that she was marked as deceased.   I think her husband was actually the one who had died because the account was under “Mrs John Halloway” and her card read “Mrs Virginia Halloway,” but it was all the same address and phone and everything.  I tried to contain myself and asked the girl who’s been training me what to do, and she told me that once someone’s been marked as “inactive” you can’t undo that, so I should just set her up a fresh account.  Then I noticed that Mrs Virginia Halloway’s email address was @live.com.  Beautiful.

I’m realizing a pattern, and it has to do with the age range and demographic of the average SF Opera patron.  To mix it up:

-The girl whose last name I absolutely could not read (Drayton? Drayter? Draglen? Oh well), so I glanced down for her email address to see if it could help me out.  It was much more legible, but unhelpful: puddin69@.

Who in this day and age doesn’t have an email address that is just their name at some reputable domain?  I’m also surprised when I see people still have an email address with msn, juno, netscape, even hotmail and sbcglobal.  But it’s the “lilbear1986” ones that makes me want to email them a gmail invite.

Okay, really quick, the sad ones:

-I noticed on one old man’s account that he’s been buying tickets since the late 80s, and he only buys 1 ticket for each performance.
-I’ve gotten at least 3 that are marked “Please remove this person from your mailing list – deceased.”
-Today I got one from a Mr-and-Mrs pair, and the only box checked was “Free performances” and underneath it they had written “We can’t afford to go – only on social security.”  Hopefully they can afford some regular theatre tickets, if they want to, because opera tickets are seriously ridiculously expensive.

And there’s just one more.  What I wanted, was to steal this card and scan it in so you could read it but I’m 95% sure that violates the confidentiality agreement I just signed, so you’ll have to bear with my paraphrasing.  (It’s real close though – I knew I’d want to remember this.)

There’s no information, just scrawling over the lines.  It reads:

“Are there so many homosexuals supporting you that you feel obliged to cater to them?  I previously canceled my subscription 2007 because of your favoritism.  There are no special nights for Chinese, Hispanics, monkeys, cab drivers, politicians, etc.”

I was desperate for an email address or something so I could a) learn more about this person and b) write them about their troubles, but no luck.  It’s probably better that way.

(PS. Names and identifying details have been changed.)

Categories
Being a girl Not awesome

Cue lightning

The scene: Katie, my parents’ second-most skittish cat, is sitting on the windowsill, pressed up against the screen. As I walk past her to the fridge to get more Diet Coke, I say in the babytalk voice I can’t seem to shake, “What are you looking at? What do you see out there?”

When I turn back to look at her, she’s looking at me with big eyes. To cover my bases, I say:

“Nothing. The correct answer is, ‘I see nothing out there.'”

I’m currently reading Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, and I’m really into it, but I’m hesitant about settling down to read it if I’m going to keep pricking up my ears at every little creak. Katie just took off running and skidded on the hall runner, which slid along the floor! My stomach just growled! Oh jeez…

[I was trying to insert a picture here from the movie The Grudge, of the little boy looking absolutely terrifying, and shirtless. The computer knows better than me, though, and is refusing to upload it.]

UPDATE 7/15/10: Well, at first both cats settled in on either side of me to guard me, but then they got bored, so I woke up about 10 times last night, each time one would run across me or jump onto the bed. All in all not a very restful night. Also I’m now covered in cat hair and see no way of ever getting myself clean again.

Categories
Awesome Books Drew Sentiment

At least mine were human, Agatha.

I recently remembered this game I used to play when I was a kid and couldn’t fall asleep.  I would lay in the middle of my bed and make up this family for myself – all my own children – and take as long as possible thinking up all their names and ages.  There was always at least one set of twins.  There was no father involved, I don’t think that even occurred to me.  Then I would imagine the circumstances leading to our poverty, and why my 10 children of varying names and ages, and I, all had to share a bed.  I would assign them places around me.  Usually by the time I got to this point I was tired from all the cogitating, and would fall asleep.

When I told Drew about this, he said, “You used to daydream about being a single mother of 10?” which really put it into perspective.

But kids play weird games when they’re by themselves, and I offer this proof, from Agatha Christie: An Autobiography, published in 1977:

From as early as I can remember, I had various companions of my own choosing.  The first lot, whom I cannot remember except as a name, were “The Kittens.”  I don’t know now who “The Kittens” were, and whether I was myself a Kitten, but I do remember their names: Clover, Blackie, and three others.  Their mother’s name was Mrs Benson.
          Mrs Benson was terribly poor, and it was all very sad.  Captain Benson, their father, had been a Sea Captain and had gone down at sea, which was why they had been left in such penury.  That more or less ended the Saga of the Kittens except that there existed vaguely in my mind a glorious finale to come of Captain Benson not being dead and returning one day with vast wealth just when things had become quite desperate in the Kittens’ home.
          From the Kittens I passed on to Mrs Green.  Mrs Green had a hundred children, of which the important ones were Poodle, Squirrel and Tree.  Those three accompanied me on all my exploits in the garden.  They were not quite children and not quite dogs, but indeterminate creatures between the two.

This only makes me love her more.

Speaking of kids and their trains of thought, here’s an excerpt or two from Drew’s third-grade in-class journal.  These are all responses to writing assignments.

And my personal favorite:

This is turning into Blast from the Past week.

Categories
Beginnings Exercise Friends Work

Opera, free weights, and gyoza, oh my

Today was notable for a few reasons.  I’ll go chronologically.

First of all, I started my new temporary part-time data entry job at the SF Opera today.  So far, I love it.  I really like every single person I met today, and the environment seems friendly and comfortable.  I love the office (the admin offices I’m in are on Ivy Street, not in the Opera House) and it reminds me of New York lofty spaces, like the TACT (The Actors Company Theatre) office.  For that matter, I love the Opera House itself, and will try to go there as often as possible.  I like taking BART into San Francisco and walking a few blocks through the city.  Granted, the job is not particularly challenging, but I don’t mind data entry, and there’s enough information that it’s not just like typing and hitting return, typing and hitting return.  I like the Tessitura database system.  I am happy.  My new goal is to impress the pants off of them in the next 6 weeks and get a real full time job there.

 

The second notable thing was that today was the last day on my one-week free pass at 24 Hour Fitness.  I celebrated with strength training, which the internet tells me burns more calories than cardio. 

When I went in last week to 24 Hour Fitness, the woman I talked to was very nice and encouraged me to take advantage of their membership offers, but understood when I said I wanted to wait a week.  She also revealed that if I have a friend or family member with a 24HF membership, I can piggy-back on their membership and get a discount.  So…I will be doing that.  (Thanks, Molly!)

I actually like the 24HF facility better than Bally.  There are more women working, which I appreciate, and everyone has been friendly when I show them my pass and then they leave me alone.  Oh!  And, each machine has a little box on it, and you plug your headphones into it and then you can change the station so you can listen to whatever’s on TV. Instead of just reading subtitles.  So the other day I watched this episode of Who Wants to be a Millionaire, slash, Real Housewives.  The questions were themed accordingly, and each contestant was a “housewife” and then had a Real Housewife as her partner.  No one won more than $10,000.

So I’m happy there and I am going to sign up for membership…but there was a crazy long line at the front desk today, I think there was some kind of mother-and-child Zumba class.

The third great thing about today: I think I can say with conviction that I have been fully accepted by Drew’s friends.  I was invited over solo tonight (Drew had to work) for a ceremonial watching-the-making-of and assisting-in-the-eating-of gyoza, accompanied by rice and (inexplicably) meatloaf.  Once everyone was gathered we all partook of the sacred Strawberry Shortcake, and there was much cheering.  I think I can say I have fully infiltrated now.

This was the second batch.
Categories
Beginnings Drew Friends Memoir Religion Sentiment

Wives and husbands

Yesterday was the wedding of our friends Laurie and Dale.  The thing about weddings is, no matter how prepared I think I am for them (for instance, having been at the rehearsal), I always get emotional.  There’s just something about the intimacy of seeing the ritual of two people promise themselves to each other.  When Laurie entered I kept looking from her face to Dale’s face to her face.  It was like they didn’t even know anyone else was there.  In a good way.

I did the Scripture reading, which Laurie approached me about a couple months ago.  Initially, I was a mix of honored to be asked, and terrified to be in front of all those people, and I was honest with her about that.  But I also know that what the bride wants, goes, and I was honest with her about that too.  She was honest with me about appreciating my honesty, and repeated her request.  I worried about the reading, especially as it got closer, because I’m just not a performer, or even a read-out-loud-to-other-people-er.  But I kept the verse forefront in my mind and practiced it when Drew wasn’t home, and just concentrated on generic public speaking tips: take a deep breath before you begin; keep your feet flat on the ground (when I get nervous I tend to roll them to the outside edges); read slower than you think you need to.

Some people might laugh at me because I know this is kind of an irrational fear – but it was a challenge for me. ( Hello, do I not still have dreams where I have to take an actor’s place onstage and it ends up being  just awful?)

But I am very glad I did it.  I was very flattered and honored to be a part of their ceremony and their special day, and I would have really regretted it if I had chickened out and had to watch someone else take my place.  So, Laurie, if/when you read this, thank you for asking me!  I hope you guys liked it.  (Although, if I remember correctly, when you’re up there in the dress and the makeup with the jewelry and the guy, it’s really hard to focus on anything else.)

At the reception, we were at a table with 3 friends of Laurie’s we didn’t know (but I think they traveled from afar), and 3 friends of Laurie’s that we did know, plus a boyfriend and a fiance.  Ten people…and only eight little pats of butter.  Luckily the travel-from-afar friends didn’t seem to care about the butter, and the people on the opposite side of the table didn’t even see the butter.  So there wasn’t a scene.  But there could have been.  Joe P (who we moved to New York with oh so long ago) and Drew and I made up the plot to a blockbuster film that I think could be a box office hit:  it revolves around the fastest, slickest pickpocket in the world, who goes around to weddings and sneaks the garter off the bride when no one is paying attention.  Then, when the groom goes to get it for the garter toss, there’s no garter there!  That’s when the pickpocket casually walks by and drops the garter in the bride’s lap.  The movie begins at the wedding of Luke Wilson and Dakota Fanning, and she’s got the last garter in the world.  The pickpocket is played by Colin Farrell, possibly doing an accent, but not Irish.  He and the bride originally hate each other, but by the middle of the movie have fallen in love.  At the end you find out that Luke Wilson, who has turned out to be a drinker, didn’t sign all the papers correctly and so they’re not technically married.  Then she’s free to marry to the pickpocket, who turns in his…tool that pickpockets use, and vows to walk the straight and narrow.  I may be forgetting something, but this is the gist.

At one point Joe P asked Drew and me what we were thinking while watching Laurie and Dale make their way around to each table to say hello.  He asked if we were reminiscing about our wedding.  Well, I don’t know how you can go to a wedding and not reminisce about your own, especially when it was fairly recent.  I just remember how surreal it was: an event that we had been planning for and paying for, for almost a year, and it was over in a day.  And it was a trip to see people from all different parts of our lives together in one room, sometimes at one table.  And from everyone – from our parents down to the computer teacher at my high school whose class I was never actually in – there was just an incredible amount of joy. 

I feel like, even though this year has been rough with the job searching, scraping and saving, and not always knowing how we’re going to be able to pay rent, that joy has stayed with us.  I’ve heard that the first year of marriage is actually pretty hard, because there are bank accounts to be combined and new rules to be established, but the last 8 months has felt easier in a lot of ways than the 5 years that preceded it.  Or if not easier, then happier.  Surely, more joyful.

So, while I will forget the anxiety of always feeling like there was no money (and I am assuming Drew agrees), there has been plenty this year to make up for it, that I won’t forget.  Here’s a little jewel I’ve been saving up:

There’s a path down by the ocean by the Pacifica pier, and you walk out parallel to the beach for maybe a quarter mile, and then up a staircase to the top of a crest, where you can pretend to push each other off into the ocean.  This spring, on top of this crest, hidden back in the grass, were three large puddles filled with tadpoles.  We checked on them a few times over a couple weeks, getting nervous as the water levels went down and the tadpoles didn’t seem to diminish in number.  We encouraged them to sprout legs and leave their overcrowded quarters. 
          One morning, Drew got up before me, and I dozed until I felt him sit down near my feet.  “It’s raining,” he said.  “Mmmmmm,” I said.  Then he said, “It’s good for the tadpoles.”  And I thought, Awwww.

I wouldn’t trade that kind of relationship for years of paid rent.  I’m not sure I’m saying that right, but the cheesy theme has probably rung true, so I’m going to shut up.

Categories
Awesome Fiction Sentiment

This post can be summed up simply: “Everyone writes awful stuff when they’re younger. Right?”

In my “Last 5 Books I Read” post, I talked about a story I had written when I was 14, about waking up 10 years in the future in my “perfect” life, and how unrealistic it was because clearly, as a 14-year-old, you know nothing about the real world.  Also, I had bestowed upon my future self all kinds of ridiculous honors and riches, which is just silly, because in real life, 24-year-old me worked customer service at a publishing company and watched a lot of Bridezillas and shopped at Old Navy.  And was (and I still am!) really happy.  But it just goes to show you how stupid teenagers are.

Erin left a comment suggesting that she needed to see some of this story pronto (actually, she only asked for outlines, but I like to go above and beyond), because she is very smart and recognizes the potential for entertainment when she sees it.  So, I found the story where I had hidden it (on the floor in the open, no one will look there) and I bring it to you now.

My note on the top of this small pile of papers indicates that 14-year-old me felt that this “Basically needs to be fleshed out – well…I don’t know. I think it’s too short.”  26-year-old me thinks that is a less-than-accurate representation of what the final edits need to be.  Here on out, 26-year-old me will comment in [italics], not to be confused with regular 14-year-old “thinking” italics.

THE STORY I WAS VERY, VERY, I MEAN LIKE UNREALISTICALLY PROUD OF WHEN I WAS 14

I woke to a hand on my shoulder and warm puffs of breath on my face.  There was a moment of relaxation before the initial panic set in…the very beginning of a 72-hour panic session.

I sat up in bed.  The covers were thick, and they held out the freezing cold air.  [Sounds like San Bruno sometimes, actually.]  Air that was just a few degrees too low for Lakeport temperatures.  I racked my brain, trying to come up with the date, but the closest I could come was September 8, 1998, which couldn’t be right.  The weather was supposed to be warm…even in the very early morning.  It would have to be December or January to even come close to achieving the 30 degree weather I was feeling.  [What’s all this “weather” nonsense indoors?]

All of this – my inner monologue, that is – [LOL] took place in but a few seconds, and before I could stop myself, I turned my head slightly to the left and saw someone next to me in the bed!

Beyond the sleeping lump in the covers was what I assumed to be a clock.  [But who am I to say? I’m just a 14-year-old…right?]  I could see only red digital numbers communicating to me that it was 3:51 a.m.  In the corner, tiny numbers proclaimed “9/7/08.”  I assumed that was the date [oh, I can figure some things out, but I’m baffled by a “clock”], but “08”?  Maybe it means “98,” I thought.  But the question remains: who is this beside me???

Too afraid (for reasons even I did not completely comprehend) to contemplate my present situation, I looked around the room, expecting to see my belongings: CD player to my right, desk to my left, and mirror straight ahead of me.  But oh, what I saw instead…

The first thing I noticed, as my eyes grew used to the dark, was that the room was twice as big as my bedroom.  Since I saw everything in gray in the darkness of the early morning, I wouldn’t know until daylight that the walls, instead of being the ghastly pink that they should have been, were instead a gorgeous pale green.  The bed was not my twin bed, but a king-sized bed.  The closet doors were still mirrors, but they were framed with a green marble.  And of course, the format of the room was entirely off.

I could see an open door on the far side of the room, and through it I could see what appeared to be a bathroom.  A larger door looked to lead out of the room.  [And this may be one of my favorite lines:]  The entire room is tastefully decorated, I noted appreciatively, but how did I get here?

I threw back the covers and got out of the warm bed, the cold air hitting my bare legs in a shocking gust.  I shivered, then threw on a nearby robe sporting three initials in a swirly writing.  Too preoccupied to take the time to decipher these letters, I quickly forgot about them.  Although I must have recognized them subconsciously, for the sight of them sent a rush of excitement through my system, but I blamed it on my confusion about my surroundings.  I opened the ornate door and stepped into the plushly carpeted hallway.

I moved carefully down the hall, feeling like a stranger in (what seemed to be) my own home.  I stopped at the first door on the left and pushed it open gingerly.  I was looking at a beautifully furnished bathroom, with gold faucets and white porcelain.  After a few seconds of gazing in, I moved on.

A grandfather clock at the end of the hall announced the time was 4:00 am.  I jumped when it chimed its resounding bong because my heart was already going 160 mph.  I had an instinctive feeling that I was going to realize something both wonderful and hideous very soon.

I ended up in the kitchen; I opened the fridge door.  I needed a drink.

A drink? I thought curiously.  Surely I mean, like, a Coke or something.  After all, I’m 14 years old, I don’t drink.

I steered my hand away from the bottle of wine that sat on the bottom shelf and instead grabbed a Pepsi.  [In reality, 24-year-old me, oops, spoiler alert, anyway, we never had Pepsi unless the Chinese food delivery guy brought it unexpectedly.]  Then I sat down at the kitchen table.

He found me like that.  Sitting at the kitchen table with an unopened can of Pepsi, staring off into space.  I was vaguely aware of him waving his hand in front of my face and calling my name, but I didn’t come fully “awake” until he slapped me lightly on the face.

===
[And, with that little glimpse of spousal abuse, I’m going to skip ahead.  What you’re missing: a description of myself seeing myself in the mirror for the “first” time, and I’m very pretty.  And 5’8″.  Also a description of how this mysterious man and I got married – when I was 20!  “Just post-college”!  Also,  “he” pretty instantly believes me about being only 14.  And lastly, a scribbled note written to myself: “Sex Romantic scenes?  I really don’t know…”  We can only wish.]
===

All that day, I did things on the pretext of waiting for his return.  I cleaned the house, although it only needed a light dusting and vacuuming.  I could tell that in the future, or the past, or whatever it was, I kept the house nice.

I went into my writing studio [Okay, side note: The use of “writing studio” instead of “office” reminds me of this other story I wrote when I was in kindergarten, about orphans. And I just remember that because I couldn’t remember or think of the word “orphanage” I kept writing “adoption agency” or “adoption place.”  I hope that I have since learned my lesson about how, if you can’t remember the simplest word, you shouldn’t just substitute another word or phrase that means sort of the same thing], sat down at the large mahogany desk [on purpose sentence fragment?].  I stared blankly at the dark screen of the new computer.  I made no move to turn it on, however.  For one thing, I was in no mood for writing; for another, I figured if I ever got back to the past, I wanted to live each moment brand new.  I had no desire to read some of the material I had become famous for…at least, not a strong enough desire to overcome the knowledge that I shouldn’t.

So I did menial tasks to keep my hands busy.  When I had nothing to do, I sat and stared out the window at the view of Mendocino.  Living high on a hill, we had that luxury.  [Hey! I live high on a hill now!]

The phone rang about noon.  I jumped practically out of my skin.  Staring at the receiver, I tried to telepathically figure out who it was.  If it was him, I wanted to talk to him.  But I didn’t feel like talking to anyone else…especially if I would have to figure out who it was and how I knew them.

My worry of it being someone I should have known was offset by my desire to talk to him.  I tentatively picked up the phone and said “Hello?”

“Hi.”

Good.  It was him.

“I’m surprised you answered the phone,” he said.  “I thought you would have let the machine get it.”  [Oh yeah…that would have been the smart thing to do.]

“Yeah,” I replied.  “I thought about it.”  [Liar.]  “But hey, a coward dies a thousand deaths, a brave man only once.”

He laughed.  God, how I loved to hear him laugh.  [Gag me here twice please.  Once for quoting Shakespeare (it’s Julius Caesar, I think?) and once for the sappiest line yet.]

“Good point.  Anyway, the reason I called was to say three things.  One: hi.”

“Hi,” I said.

“Two: What do you think about going out to dinner tonight?”

“Sounds great!” I said enthusiastically.  “Like, where?”

“Someplace nice.  Look,” he directed me, “in the closet there’s a long black and silver dress.  It’s pretty fancy, but I think it would be the most appropriate thing you have.”  [I am now imagining Drew picking out my clothes based on memorizing my closet.  Right.]  “I’ll be home around 6:30 tonight, okay?  I’ll call right now and make reservations for 7:30.”

“Hey, what was the third thing?” I asked.

“Oh yeah.  Three: I love you.”

“I love you too,” I said honestly.  “See you at 6:30.”

I hung up the phone gently.  Sitting in the chair, I thought about how it would feel for me to miss so many years of my life…did I want to just stay here or did I want to figure out a way back to the year where I belonged?

Then I remembered the dress.  I ran to the closet in the bedroom, threw open the doors, and rifled through the clothing until I found what I was looking for — a gorgeous (obviously designer) long black dress.  I could tell right away that this was something I had saved for.  From what I could tell about our living conditions, we had an impressive amount of money, but we weren’t rich.  [Vague, vague.]  Yet this dress…I’d bet that even a princess would be exceptionally proud to own it.

===
[Even I knew this paragraph was not great, I have notes saying “New dress – mo. one?”  I’m not sure what “mo.” stands for.  Something amazing I’m sure.  I also have a note saying “Deal with $$$ better.”  I may have been trite and a little sappy, but I was no fool.

After I try on the beautiful gown, I realize that I have to go back to the 90s where I belong.  We go out to dinner, and let me just show you the description of the restaurant.]
===

Dinner was wonderful, although I hardly tasted a thing.  I was too involved with the surroundings and the company.  There was stained glass in almost every window, and chandeliers hung from the ceiling in various places.  The atmosphere was romantic, yet tasteful.

===
[I was big on “tasteful,” right?  And yet something tells me my sense was a bit off.  You can clearly tell that at this point my experience with fine dining was JJ North’s Grand Buffet in Santa Rosa.

So then I decide to tell him that I have to go home.  The foolproof way of doing this is to go to my house in Lakeport, and spend the night there.  But we’ll wait a day or two so we can hang out.  A couple days later…]
===

At 8:30 that night, we left Mendocino and headed east.  Two hours later, I was home.

And shocked.

My house was gone.  I had not as of yet thought about what I would say to the current owners of the house when I got there, but luckily I didn’t have to…

[Not sure where I thought my parents would be at this point.  I guess when you’re 14, 24 does seem a lifetime away.]

There was an empty field, grassy and gorgeous, even at night.  I regretted not bringing a sleeping bag, but hopefully I wouldn’t have to wake up out here.  If I could just go to sleep quickly, everything would be fine.

And I had the means for that.  In my pocket was a package of (perfectly safe) tranquilizers.  [I might have meant sedatives.]  I was prepared to make the journey back to 1998.  I gulped the 2 pills dry, ignoring the bitter taste.

I lay out in the field.  It was a warm night, not yet winter weather.  I stretched out my blue jeaned legs and tucked my arms behind my head.  Looking up at all the stars, I could easily imagine that I was already back in 1998…but no, because there was the sound of his Jeep starting up.  We had agreed that he should go home and go to sleep, same as me.  Waiting for him on the counter at home were 2 pills identical to mine.

My eyelids grew heavy after awhile…how long it was I couldn’t tell.  The stars were adding to my weariness and right before I slipped off to sleep I whispered his name.

“I love you…”

I barely got the sentence out before my eyes shut and I was gone.

EPILOGUE

I sat up in bed and stretched.  The air was cool but not cold, just like usual.  My cat, Gabe, jumped on the bed and pushed his wet nose into my face.

“Yuck!” I exclaimed.  The clock on my nightstand read 6:48, and music blasted out.  It was Madonna’s “Frozen.”  [LOL]

What a way to start the day, I thought sarcastically, but not bitterly [thanks for clarifying] as I threw back the covers.  I got out of bed and started my day.

An hour later, I was in my room applying makeup to my 14-year-old face.  [FYI, I don’t think I ever wore makeup when I was 14.]  I went to spray myself with body mist [a note here reads: ?really?] and the strangest thing happened.

The mirror seemed to…change…and I saw myself as an adult.  I looked older, but not extremely different.  This flash was for a split second, but I caught it.  And I reacted the way any normal person would.

Whatever, I shrugged it off completely, saying it was a trick of the lighting, the angle, the fact that I was still a little tired, you know.

Then I remembered how I had been feeling last night.  After a day of annoying peers and condescending teachers, I had been ready for a vacation.  Unfortunately school had just begun.  I remembered thinking, If only I knew there was something to live for.  Something to work for.  Something to look forward to.  If only I didn’t feel so alone.  [Drama queen?]

I knew that feeling alone was an adolescent thing, and I was supposed to feel that way.  That didn’t help soothe my ego, though.  With the way I was feeling, it would have taken a miracle to make me feel better.

I wonder, I thought, amused, if something happened that would have made me wake up in such a good mood.  Something between last night and now.  Something amazing and wonderful.

I looked back in the mirror.

Nah.

===
And there you have it.  I know it was long, but I wanted to try to get in the good parts.  I mean, everyone writes awful stuff when they’re younger, right?  I know there is a lot more where this came from…

Categories
Awesome

Motorola Laughs

Robb’s birthday was Monday.  He turned 24.  I texted him, Welcome to the mid-20s.  He texted back, Thanks, senility is already setting in.  I texted him, Do you have a nose hair trimmer yet?  He texted back, I just use my toenail clippers.  But now I have athlete’s foot in my nose.

Clearly we’ve both inherited our dad’s sense of humor.

While asking him about how the wedding planning is going (looong story there), I tried to text, Is Geremy coming?  Geremy is the oldest of our four cousins who live in Spain.  He’s a couple years younger than Robb and even though he’s spent most of his life something like 5,724 miles away, they’ve always been friendly.  We have a plethora of girl cousins, so they may have bonded young out of desperation.  Geremy recently got Facebook and so they’ve been talking, which I think is nice.  This is what Facebook is good for.

Now, I know “Geremy” is not the common spelling, so I expected my phone not to know it.  What I didn’t count on was my phone suggesting “Gerchanovsky.”  I LOLed about it and updated my FB status to something humorous and forgot about it.  But this morning I found myself in one of those internet situations where you are chatting with someone, but need something else to do in between the times they’re responding to you?  So I Googled “Gerchanovsky” to see who he was.  I figured, Famous composer, Famous chef, Famous Russian who did something.

Imagine my amusement when all that was returned to me was posts on other people’s blogs and “Yahoo! Answers” types of websites, asking, “Why does my Motorola phone suggest ‘Gerchanovsky’?  Who is this guy?”  Also an urbandictionary entry defining Gerchanovsky as “a jerk who plays with himskelf daily and cant get a gf and tends to talk in aim language such as lool wow and gthfctrgdghd or (get the hell for cars to row god dang goblins hide dope). In other words a total loser.”

Oh yeah, and one more link – to the LinkedIn profile of Alex Gerchanovsky, a Principle Software Engineer at Motorola Mobile Devices.  Touché, Mr. Gerchanovsky.  I hope someday I too can inspire blog entries by strangers.

Categories
"Other people" Awesome Exercise

Bally update

So “John” calls me 4 times in 2 days, and with some coaching from Molly and Drew I’m ready to stand up to him.  I call him back (his voicemails were all marked “urgent” by the way, which annoyed me) and get him on the phone.  (BTW, this really happened, I wish I had recorded it or something because I was super proud of myself.)

“Okay, listen,” I say, “I just wanted to call you to let you know that I was really disappointed and frustrated by the way things went yesterday.”  He starts to make some kind of “oh no, how could that be?” noise but I barrel over him.  “All I wanted was to come in and do some cardio, and you guys wouldn’t leave me alone.  I fully intended to use the free guest pass – YOUR CLUB’S PROMOTION – for a week, and then pay for membership.  You had my money.  But you kept trying to pitch to me, and now I’m not coming back in.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says.  “My manager and I just wanted to let you know about the deals and discounts, and we’re trying to help you get the best rate.  It seemed like you were on the fence about it–”

“How was I “on the fence”?  I keep telling you and I kept telling you yesterday that I knew what I wanted, and you guys wouldn’t let me go.”

“It’s just dollars and cents, and we’re just trying to help you save money–”

“John, you’re still trying to sell to me RIGHT NOW, even though I’m telling you it’s not going to work.  I just wanted to let you know that your strategies were a turnoff and way over the top, and you lost me as a customer.  AND, I was just on Yelp for the South City Bally, and it looks like a lot of people have had this experience.  [He and the manager were both actually mentioned by name.]  And I think it’s worth you guys sitting down and talking about it because apparently it’s not working.”

“Well, Syche, you’re still welcome to use your guest pass through the end of the week.  So why don’t you just hold on to my number and give me a call back when you’ve thought about this.”

7-8 seconds of silence while I process what he just said, almost respond with, “Okay, bye,” then pull it together.

“Nope, I’m done thinking about this, and I’m not going to change my mind.  I’m going to find another club and you don’t have to keep calling me to “check in with me.”  It’s not happening.”  He starts talking again.  “Okay, thanks, bye.”  Click.  (In a movie or book he would hear the dial tone here, but not on my watch.)

Then I got a promo email from them with the manager’s full name in it.  I unsubscribed but part of me is wondering if I should send him an email.  That part of me is also sort of hoping John will call back today so I can give him the short prepared speech I worked on last night, which ends with, “and if you call me again, I’m reporting you to the Better Business Bureau.”  Drama queen.

Also, I’m still super sore from the (short, tiny) workout he put me through 2 days ago.  The hamstring and ab soreness?  I recognize and accept.  The backache?  I’m not so okay with.  Hoping this will all dissipate soon, as it’s embarrassing to have to go down the stairs like a 2-year-old (step, together, step, together).  I’m going to try to walk it off some today.

PPS. Would you look at that?  The promotion they kept saying was ending on June 30th.