I once heard of keeping a gratitude journal in order to help focus on the positive things in life..the things for which one gives thanks. I write gratitude journal entries once in a while, and I thought it would be fun to write one here. It's amazing how wonderful the exercise makes me feel, and I'm sure I'll be adding onto it in the future. Please feel free to add your own under comments. Cuz I just love hearing of other people's warm fuzzies...
Things I dig...
When the ticket validator works on the first try at the Caltrain station.
CD mixes my brother makes me.
Fresh naan bread from my honey's restaurant.
The sound of people laughing.
Jon Carroll's collumn in the San Francisco Chronicle.
Realistic dialogue in movies and books.
My friend Kelsi's "K is for Kelsi" ala Cookie Monster voice mail message.
Snail Mail correspondence.
Adventurous old people.
Orange sunset light reflected off the leaves of trees.
Driving into L.A. at night.
People who say "hi" when they pass.
A well-articulated argument.
Having money in my account after all my bills are paid.
Being tickled.
The feel of October.
When newscasters lose their "composure" on air and act human.
Nicknames.
Scalding hot bath water.
Dilbert.
Suprise phone calls from my old friend Renee.
Beer at a ballpark.
Slippers.
People who refrain from using tired retorts like, "what've you been smoking?" when they hear something that sounds weird to them.
Shameless exaggeration.
The ends of semesters.
The beginnings of semesters.
A strong cup of black coffee.
Good questions.
When my parents tell me they're proud of me.
Macaroni and Cheese.
Feeling that something I said was completely understood.
A clean wipe the first time.
People who slap your knee 0r point at you when you are sharing a laugh with them.
Flower shops.
Intentionally cheesy commercials.
The way my boyfriend says "again" with his accent (uh-GAYN).
Riding my bike.
People who tell stories.
Having enough time.
Before and After photos.
Picking people up at the airport.
Folding clean laundry.
Knowing glances that I'm in on.
When somebody likes a movie I show them because it's one of my favorites.
Good Huggers.
Pants that are long enough.
When there's a room full of people but no single conversation can be heard above the others.
Gracefulness.
The Onion.
Mint chocolate chip ice cream.
When all my nails are the same length.
Teenagers with respectful attitudes.
Waking up and not feeling tired.
Text messages.
People who don't gossip.
Stories of survival.
Beautiful dresses.
Random bits of information.
Making out.
Legislation that promotes equality and tolerance.
People who accept compliments.
Friendly neighbors.
French fries dipped in a mixture of ketchup and ranch dressing.
Harmless shenanigans.
Northern California weather.
NPR.
Friday, September 02, 2005
Monday, July 11, 2005
Setting the Record Straight: The Real Story About Me and Kittens
I recently entered a graduate program in Professional Psychology with the goal of getting my therapy license (roughly four years and one million dollars from now…graduate school is expensive, cheesh!).
The program is infinitely fascinating, the classes small and personal, and the professors’ anecdotes from their respective therapy practices instructive, insightful, and—at times—very entertaining. I’m enjoying it so far, not only because I’m on my way to what I think will be an interesting and rewarding career (oh my god, I sound like those ads that come on during Judge Judy commercial breaks: you TOO can embark on an exciting career in insurance claims estimating!), but because it’s so different from my undergrad experience. The students are dedicated and mature, and the reading is always, always significant (there will be no selling back of books at the ends of quarters in this program).
Some things, however, are humdrummingly familiar. Take, for example, the obligatory introductions professors make students offer up at the outset of class. What’s your name? Tell us a little bit about your background. What brought you here, now? What’s something interesting about you? That last one is always the most difficult.
Some professors try to shake this whole song and dance up a little by suggesting we do it “a little differently this time.” This time, see, we’re going to interview the person sitting next to us, then share what we learned with the class. This is even worse…now it’s up to somebody else to decide what is interesting about us!
Well, the first day of my Clinical Skills Training A: Self and Group class, we did the interviewing thing. What is different about this class is that it pretty much follows the format of a group therapy session—we are going through the process of group therapy in the anticipation that we, ourselves, will be leading such sessions one day. So after we went around and introduced ourselves, we went around again and talked about what the process was like for us, how it felt to have another person introduce us.
The experience was pretty good, and I shared that with the class. I told them that these exercises always make me nervous because sometimes the information gets distorted, and I feel myself being represented in a way that’s somewhat inaccurate. I’m always afraid the other person will somehow turn me into a monster between the interview and the retelling.
The woman who interviewed me in this class was a very good listener; I was comfortable with the way she introduced me to the class and what she said about my motives for being there. So far so good.
I had another class right after that (Basic Addictions, where we learn about all the different drugs and addictions and how to treat them in therapy). In this class, the professor also thought she’d “do it a little differently” by having us introduce each other rather than introduce ourselves. Here we went again.
When the woman interviewing me learned my name, she asked what it meant, to which I responded that it means “kitten” in Russian.
“Oh,” she said. “Do you like cats?”
“No,” I said, “I don’t actually.”
“Kittens?” she asked, after a marked lowering of her spirits following my anti-cat comment.
“I mean, I guess kittens are all right, but no, I don’t like cats.”
After that we moved on to other details. Let me note here that we had about 2 minutes to interview each other, followed by introductions to the class that lasted about 20 seconds each.
And this, in what I’m guessing was her well-intentioned quest to present things in the most positive of ways, is what she chose to say about me:
“Ok,” she started, “this is Kisa. She loves kittens…”
I didn’t even really hear what she said after that because I became paralyzed with this idea that I love kittens (!). I mean, loving kittens is not a bad thing I suppose, but the point is that I don’t love kittens. I never think about kittens. I’ve never had a desire to own one, and I don’t imagine I ever will.
I think I might have made a face when she said it, I’m not sure.
Here’s the thing: Even if I could get past the idea that everyone in class would think I love kittens when I don’t, I continued to have a hard time with the idea that, given 2 minutes to talk about myself and my life, I would chose to take up however much of that 2 minutes I would need to convey something as cheesy as the fact that I love kittens. Who besides a veterinarian holds kittens (not her specific kitten, but kittens in general) that close to her heart?
I wondered if I should speak up. Nobody else was making verbal amendments to their introductions. How strange would I be to interrupt my partner to tell the class, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to say that, I know she told you guys I love kittens, but I don’t actually. I don’t love kittens.”? I imagine I’d antagonize at least half the class by making such a declaration, and to what end? So that others wouldn’t be mistaken in their information regarding my affections toward certain species of mammals? Is it worse to have them believe something untrue or to speak up just to make such a seemingly shallow correction? Help me!
Well, I didn’t have my say then, but I’m saying it here just to set the record straight. I don't love kittens!
Now monkeys, that’s a different story. But then, you all knew that by now.
The program is infinitely fascinating, the classes small and personal, and the professors’ anecdotes from their respective therapy practices instructive, insightful, and—at times—very entertaining. I’m enjoying it so far, not only because I’m on my way to what I think will be an interesting and rewarding career (oh my god, I sound like those ads that come on during Judge Judy commercial breaks: you TOO can embark on an exciting career in insurance claims estimating!), but because it’s so different from my undergrad experience. The students are dedicated and mature, and the reading is always, always significant (there will be no selling back of books at the ends of quarters in this program).
Some things, however, are humdrummingly familiar. Take, for example, the obligatory introductions professors make students offer up at the outset of class. What’s your name? Tell us a little bit about your background. What brought you here, now? What’s something interesting about you? That last one is always the most difficult.
Some professors try to shake this whole song and dance up a little by suggesting we do it “a little differently this time.” This time, see, we’re going to interview the person sitting next to us, then share what we learned with the class. This is even worse…now it’s up to somebody else to decide what is interesting about us!
Well, the first day of my Clinical Skills Training A: Self and Group class, we did the interviewing thing. What is different about this class is that it pretty much follows the format of a group therapy session—we are going through the process of group therapy in the anticipation that we, ourselves, will be leading such sessions one day. So after we went around and introduced ourselves, we went around again and talked about what the process was like for us, how it felt to have another person introduce us.
The experience was pretty good, and I shared that with the class. I told them that these exercises always make me nervous because sometimes the information gets distorted, and I feel myself being represented in a way that’s somewhat inaccurate. I’m always afraid the other person will somehow turn me into a monster between the interview and the retelling.
The woman who interviewed me in this class was a very good listener; I was comfortable with the way she introduced me to the class and what she said about my motives for being there. So far so good.
I had another class right after that (Basic Addictions, where we learn about all the different drugs and addictions and how to treat them in therapy). In this class, the professor also thought she’d “do it a little differently” by having us introduce each other rather than introduce ourselves. Here we went again.
When the woman interviewing me learned my name, she asked what it meant, to which I responded that it means “kitten” in Russian.
“Oh,” she said. “Do you like cats?”
“No,” I said, “I don’t actually.”
“Kittens?” she asked, after a marked lowering of her spirits following my anti-cat comment.
“I mean, I guess kittens are all right, but no, I don’t like cats.”
After that we moved on to other details. Let me note here that we had about 2 minutes to interview each other, followed by introductions to the class that lasted about 20 seconds each.
And this, in what I’m guessing was her well-intentioned quest to present things in the most positive of ways, is what she chose to say about me:
“Ok,” she started, “this is Kisa. She loves kittens…”
I didn’t even really hear what she said after that because I became paralyzed with this idea that I love kittens (!). I mean, loving kittens is not a bad thing I suppose, but the point is that I don’t love kittens. I never think about kittens. I’ve never had a desire to own one, and I don’t imagine I ever will.
I think I might have made a face when she said it, I’m not sure.
Here’s the thing: Even if I could get past the idea that everyone in class would think I love kittens when I don’t, I continued to have a hard time with the idea that, given 2 minutes to talk about myself and my life, I would chose to take up however much of that 2 minutes I would need to convey something as cheesy as the fact that I love kittens. Who besides a veterinarian holds kittens (not her specific kitten, but kittens in general) that close to her heart?
I wondered if I should speak up. Nobody else was making verbal amendments to their introductions. How strange would I be to interrupt my partner to tell the class, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to say that, I know she told you guys I love kittens, but I don’t actually. I don’t love kittens.”? I imagine I’d antagonize at least half the class by making such a declaration, and to what end? So that others wouldn’t be mistaken in their information regarding my affections toward certain species of mammals? Is it worse to have them believe something untrue or to speak up just to make such a seemingly shallow correction? Help me!
Well, I didn’t have my say then, but I’m saying it here just to set the record straight. I don't love kittens!
Now monkeys, that’s a different story. But then, you all knew that by now.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Crucifixes and Unibrows: A Reflection on Obsession
Once in a while (twice so far in my 26 years), I get a little obsessed.
My first obsession is so goofy it would be embarrassing if I got embarrassed about all my goofy parts. Freshman year in college, my best friend Nicole and I went totally nuts for the 1970’s musical Jesus Christ Superstar. This obsession was not born out of any obsession with J.C. himself (though I was at the very end stage of my Christian stint; Nicole never went through such a phase). My obsession had everything to do with the splendor and cheese of the music, the glowing (literally—it was made in the days when a movie’s star could get away with a slightly oily, pimply complexion), natural beauty of the woman who played Mary Magdalene, and the unabashedly exposed washboard stomachs and menacingly sexy eyes of a few choice villains, namely Caiaphas and Judas. Yum.
Every day we would watch this movie. No, really. We would watch this movie Every Single Day. Every day! Not only that, sometimes we would watch it more than once. Say for instance I came back from classes at noon. I’d sit down and—first thing—rewind the tape and hit play. Nicole might roll in about 45 minutes later, at which point she’d look at me with a knowing, I’m-asking-this-question-as-a-mere-silly-formality kind of smirk and say, “do you mind if we rewind and start over?” Music to my ears. I’d scoot over to one side of our little red, velour, thrift store special couch and sit through another round of songs with names like “What’s the Buzz?”
I don't know if it was just the comfort of the familiar that had us hooked (I mean, really, what could be more comforting than knowing that--no matter how shitty my biology field experiment was going--Jesus would have it worse than me, to the tune of 40 rhythmic lashes and a cruxifiction, every single time?). It was that: the familiar, the routine, when the difficulty of living in a tiny room 2,000 miles from my family started to get to me. Jesus Christ Superstar, to this day, takes me to a happy place that few other movies can. And to boot, I've seen it on stage 4 times, in 4 different cities. Freak!
Superfreak!
My other obsession is not like that. It doesn't have to do with the routine or the familiar. It has to do with perpetual curiosity--the absolute inability to ever have quite enough information to sate my interest, and the slight madness that ensues at this realization.
At the suggestion of a trusted former professor, I recently picked up a book by Julian Barnes called Flaubert's Parrot. The (anti-) novel tells the story of the main character's obsession with French novelist Gustave Flaubert (known for Madame Bovary, most famously), and the said character's quest to uncover the story behind the author's life. The book is beautifully written, literary, intelligent, and--to one who's become similarly preoccupied with the desire to discover the person behind the art--familiar.
A copycat novel, if I were to undertake it, would be called Kahlo's Monkey.
I first learned about Frida Kahlo during an art unit of my junior year high school Spanish class. We had to choose from a list of famous Spanish-speaking artists, write a biography of the artist, then replicate one of his or her works of art. I chose Dali just for the challenge of it, but another girl in the class chose Kahlo. When I saw her version of one of Kahlo's famously unibrowed self-portraits, featuring Kahlo's pet monkey sitting on one shoulder, my curiosity was piqued. Our teacher told us about the artist's tragic bus accident, the countless operations that followed, and Kahlo's unique talent for bringing the pain of her reality to the surreal surfaces of her canvases. The next year, my brother bought me a book of her published diary entries (complete with colored-pencil doodles and mini watercolors, and filled with pages of her thoughts and feelings: mostly musings about, worries for, and anger toward her husband, Diego Rivera...Kahlo had something of an obsession of her own, or you could call it crazy love, or maybe just love, I don't know).
When I look at Kahlo's paintings, I understand that there are no new wounds in life, that the things that bring us happiness and the things that bring us to are knees are the same, across cultural lines and through generations. I think she was a genius. But the more I collect--books of her paintings, postcards with her image, a page of the USPS stamp with her likeness on it, and (a gift from my parents) a nightlight featuring one of her paintings--the more I want to know about her. The more I want to climb into one of those paintings and swim around in the murky and mournful melancholy that was Kahlo, the kind of melancholy that seems to haunt all the best artists (how lucky for the rest of us: for the sparing of it ourselves and for the spoils that we have the fortune to enjoy because of these tortured souls).
Last year I purchased a print of Kahlo's Self Portrait Dedicated to Leon Trotsky as the finishing touch to my room decor (I chose this painting because I always thought her tryst with Trotsky was more interesting than her marriage to Rivera, mostly, though, because I feel a 50-year-after-the-fact-even-though-it's-totally-irrelevant-to-me-or-any-part-of-my-life sting every time I think about Rivera's having cheated on her with her own sister...grrrrrr). The problem was that I didn't have the money to have the painting framed the way I wanted to, so it sat in its packaging in the corner of my room until just last week, when I opted for the less interesting yet budget-savvy Cost Plus frame.
Kelsi laughed at me when I asked her opinion about putting some silver wall sconces on either side of the slightly gold-gilded frame. "The colors are fine," she said, "but it looks a little, I don't know, shriney."
I looked at Kahlo sandwiched between these two candle holders and realized Kelsi was right. Not only that, but my having given Kahlo that kind of status on my wall was not a fluke. I actually have even more admiration for her than I thought. If there's any woman in history whose mind, whose life I would like to wear like a costume for a day or two, it would be hers. I want to know what that kind of beautiful madness feels like. I want to know what it feels like to reach all the way into the deepest corners of my rueful soul and conjure up a masterpiece.
I had placed the portrait on the wall I face when I go to sleep. When I closed my eyes that night, I felt this kind of strength presiding over me-the strangest thing. It was a strength from which I felt I could draw. This print had achieved a Dorian Gray kind of life--even in all its lifelessness--on my wall. It made me wish I'd opted for the budget-savvy frame months ago. Who knows what I could have achieved by now?
Believe me, I know how borderline-creepy this borderline-obsession is, but, in my own defense, at least I didn't pick some kind of fictional character like Laura Croft or some really lame movie star like Keanu Reeves to immortalize and kowtow to (no actual kowtowing involved, by the way, but definitely some figurative genuflection). This was a real woman, one who survived some of the most heartbreaking sorrows and who turned that pain into beautiful art. I can only stand back and sing her praises; but on that subject, I do hope--for the preservation of her dignity--that Andrew Lloyd Webber never writes a musical about her.
My first obsession is so goofy it would be embarrassing if I got embarrassed about all my goofy parts. Freshman year in college, my best friend Nicole and I went totally nuts for the 1970’s musical Jesus Christ Superstar. This obsession was not born out of any obsession with J.C. himself (though I was at the very end stage of my Christian stint; Nicole never went through such a phase). My obsession had everything to do with the splendor and cheese of the music, the glowing (literally—it was made in the days when a movie’s star could get away with a slightly oily, pimply complexion), natural beauty of the woman who played Mary Magdalene, and the unabashedly exposed washboard stomachs and menacingly sexy eyes of a few choice villains, namely Caiaphas and Judas. Yum.
Every day we would watch this movie. No, really. We would watch this movie Every Single Day. Every day! Not only that, sometimes we would watch it more than once. Say for instance I came back from classes at noon. I’d sit down and—first thing—rewind the tape and hit play. Nicole might roll in about 45 minutes later, at which point she’d look at me with a knowing, I’m-asking-this-question-as-a-mere-silly-formality kind of smirk and say, “do you mind if we rewind and start over?” Music to my ears. I’d scoot over to one side of our little red, velour, thrift store special couch and sit through another round of songs with names like “What’s the Buzz?”
I don't know if it was just the comfort of the familiar that had us hooked (I mean, really, what could be more comforting than knowing that--no matter how shitty my biology field experiment was going--Jesus would have it worse than me, to the tune of 40 rhythmic lashes and a cruxifiction, every single time?). It was that: the familiar, the routine, when the difficulty of living in a tiny room 2,000 miles from my family started to get to me. Jesus Christ Superstar, to this day, takes me to a happy place that few other movies can. And to boot, I've seen it on stage 4 times, in 4 different cities. Freak!
Superfreak!
My other obsession is not like that. It doesn't have to do with the routine or the familiar. It has to do with perpetual curiosity--the absolute inability to ever have quite enough information to sate my interest, and the slight madness that ensues at this realization.
At the suggestion of a trusted former professor, I recently picked up a book by Julian Barnes called Flaubert's Parrot. The (anti-) novel tells the story of the main character's obsession with French novelist Gustave Flaubert (known for Madame Bovary, most famously), and the said character's quest to uncover the story behind the author's life. The book is beautifully written, literary, intelligent, and--to one who's become similarly preoccupied with the desire to discover the person behind the art--familiar.
A copycat novel, if I were to undertake it, would be called Kahlo's Monkey.
I first learned about Frida Kahlo during an art unit of my junior year high school Spanish class. We had to choose from a list of famous Spanish-speaking artists, write a biography of the artist, then replicate one of his or her works of art. I chose Dali just for the challenge of it, but another girl in the class chose Kahlo. When I saw her version of one of Kahlo's famously unibrowed self-portraits, featuring Kahlo's pet monkey sitting on one shoulder, my curiosity was piqued. Our teacher told us about the artist's tragic bus accident, the countless operations that followed, and Kahlo's unique talent for bringing the pain of her reality to the surreal surfaces of her canvases. The next year, my brother bought me a book of her published diary entries (complete with colored-pencil doodles and mini watercolors, and filled with pages of her thoughts and feelings: mostly musings about, worries for, and anger toward her husband, Diego Rivera...Kahlo had something of an obsession of her own, or you could call it crazy love, or maybe just love, I don't know).
When I look at Kahlo's paintings, I understand that there are no new wounds in life, that the things that bring us happiness and the things that bring us to are knees are the same, across cultural lines and through generations. I think she was a genius. But the more I collect--books of her paintings, postcards with her image, a page of the USPS stamp with her likeness on it, and (a gift from my parents) a nightlight featuring one of her paintings--the more I want to know about her. The more I want to climb into one of those paintings and swim around in the murky and mournful melancholy that was Kahlo, the kind of melancholy that seems to haunt all the best artists (how lucky for the rest of us: for the sparing of it ourselves and for the spoils that we have the fortune to enjoy because of these tortured souls).
Last year I purchased a print of Kahlo's Self Portrait Dedicated to Leon Trotsky as the finishing touch to my room decor (I chose this painting because I always thought her tryst with Trotsky was more interesting than her marriage to Rivera, mostly, though, because I feel a 50-year-after-the-fact-even-though-it's-totally-irrelevant-to-me-or-any-part-of-my-life sting every time I think about Rivera's having cheated on her with her own sister...grrrrrr). The problem was that I didn't have the money to have the painting framed the way I wanted to, so it sat in its packaging in the corner of my room until just last week, when I opted for the less interesting yet budget-savvy Cost Plus frame.
Kelsi laughed at me when I asked her opinion about putting some silver wall sconces on either side of the slightly gold-gilded frame. "The colors are fine," she said, "but it looks a little, I don't know, shriney."
I looked at Kahlo sandwiched between these two candle holders and realized Kelsi was right. Not only that, but my having given Kahlo that kind of status on my wall was not a fluke. I actually have even more admiration for her than I thought. If there's any woman in history whose mind, whose life I would like to wear like a costume for a day or two, it would be hers. I want to know what that kind of beautiful madness feels like. I want to know what it feels like to reach all the way into the deepest corners of my rueful soul and conjure up a masterpiece.
I had placed the portrait on the wall I face when I go to sleep. When I closed my eyes that night, I felt this kind of strength presiding over me-the strangest thing. It was a strength from which I felt I could draw. This print had achieved a Dorian Gray kind of life--even in all its lifelessness--on my wall. It made me wish I'd opted for the budget-savvy frame months ago. Who knows what I could have achieved by now?
Believe me, I know how borderline-creepy this borderline-obsession is, but, in my own defense, at least I didn't pick some kind of fictional character like Laura Croft or some really lame movie star like Keanu Reeves to immortalize and kowtow to (no actual kowtowing involved, by the way, but definitely some figurative genuflection). This was a real woman, one who survived some of the most heartbreaking sorrows and who turned that pain into beautiful art. I can only stand back and sing her praises; but on that subject, I do hope--for the preservation of her dignity--that Andrew Lloyd Webber never writes a musical about her.
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
No, MY Dad , of the Titanium Hips
My Dad’s an over-achiever. I mean, any way you care to gauge the over-achieverness of a person, my Dad qualifies. The most recent incarnation of his insatiable ambition has come in his early release from the hospital less than two days after a hip replacement surgery.
My Dad’s way too young to be having a hip replaced (he’s only 48), and way, way too young to have had both hips replaced in the span of a year, but throughout the years he refused to stop playing sports like racquetball and basketball at the urging of doctors, so now he’s got titanium hips to show for it. He doesn’t mind too much. My Dad’s a glass-is-half-full kind of guy.
So anyway, he was doing so well with his physical therapy exercises following the surgery that they told him to just go home. My parents hadn’t gotten around to telling me this yet, so I was a bit surprised this evening when I called the hospital and asked for room #8, as instructed by my Mom.
“Hello?” an unfamiliar voice said.
“Dad?”
“Yeah.”
“Uh, I think I got the wrong dad.”
“Is this Kendra?”
“No, this is Kisa. Close.”
“Oh, you sounded like one of my daughters.”
“Sorry to disturb you,” I said. “Have a good night.”
I called the hospital switchboard again. “Yeah, I just called and asked for room #8, and I got a dad, but he wasn’t my Dad.”
She looked him up and told me he’d been discharged, so I called my parents at home for the details. All went well, all’s looking good. I don’t know if you’ve ever had a parent in surgery, but it’s very relieving when you hear that all went well. You just never know—even the most routine of surgeries can go horribly afoul.
After I talked to my Dad for a while, I hung up to let him get some rest. Then, as I stood in the bathroom, drying my hair in preparation to go out, I started to think about Kendra and her father.
How sad—I thought—that this man thought his daughter was calling when she really wasn’t. I mean, his voice sounded genuinely happy to hear from me, even though I wasn’t the me he thought I was. I started to hope very strongly that Kendra would call her Dad. C’mon, girl, I thought. Get off your ass and call your father. He’s in the hospital, for cryin’ out loud!
All sorts of scenarios went through my mind. What if Kendra and her father are estranged and he was hoping beyond all hope that his brush with death and subsequent hospitalization would bring her around to reconcile? He has grandchildren he’s never even met. He’s never even seen the home she and her (cockamamie) husband built, gosh, was it already four years ago? For shame.
I’m sure the father in room #8 and his daughter Kendra are just fine. I have no reason at all to think otherwise. But it’s the slight possibility that they’re not fine that made me appreciate—as I curling-ironed the ends of my hair—what an amazing father I have and how lucky I am to have him.
My Dad has set the standard pretty high for my potential mates. He's intelligent, hard-working, fair- and open-minded, generous, fun, and always, always working to learn new things and become a better person. And he's never been lazy a day in his life. Men like this are rare, and they make wonderful fathers; I can't help but compare the men I meet to him and look for these qualities. I just wanted to take a minute to appreciate him and to wish him a strong and rapid recovery, publicly.
Thank you for everything, Dad. May you enjoy your rest.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
Between A and B is a Three-Toothed Mechanic Named Anna
I have incredibly good fortune where cars are concerned.
A friend once gave me her 1969 VW Bug when she and her boyfriend bought a new car. That little bug rumbled its way to De Anza College for 2 quarters before it finally retired itself with one final poof of non-regulated exhaust fumes, sputtering to a stop in front of my apartment building. I had transferred to San Jose State University (2 blocks from my house) by then, so all was good when the tow truck came to take it off my hands.
My current vehicle was similarly bequeathed. Three years ago, a friend of mine from Barnes & Noble told me his friend had bought a new car and was looking to gift his old one to a needy candidate.
So it was I came into the possession of a 1993 Suzuki Swift.
“Swift?” you say.
Never heard of it? Neither had I until I owned one. It looks exactly like a Geo Metro. The absolute tiny whiteness of it has earned it the name “Tic Tac,” and one of my coworkers’ favorite pastimes is making fun of its utterly ridiculous nature. (I like to think they’re just jealous).
Sure, it’s a deathtrap…a bloody mangled wreck just waiting to, begging to happen. But it gets me from A to B.
And it has no major structural problems.
There are, however, two functional problems with my Swift. The first is rather unfortunate because it happened at the hands of a friend who was trying to help. When I first obtained the car, it needed new brakes. This friend volunteered to help change them but in the process broke my door handle. So for the past 2 ½ years I’ve had to roll down the window and reach out to open the car from the outside when I get out. I don’t mind this; it actually gives me a humbling chuckle when I have to do it in front of people.
The real problem is that my car doesn’t idle. This means I have to put it in neutral at stops or it will stall.
At least that was the case until a month ago when I was rear-ended by a deranged holiday shopper near the mall. Miraculously, my rinky dink car showed no signs of damage on the outside. In fact, the only evidence that I had been hit (aside from the frighteningly loud crashing sound) was that my old school anti-theft radio (the kind you have to physically pull out of the console and take with you) flew out and landed in my lap.
But the best part of getting rear-ended was that it actually somehow fixed my idling problem. Now I can stop and sit at a red light for at least 2 minutes before the shaking begins and the car calls it quits.
Still, though, my car has begun to run poorly.
I thought an oil change would be a good idea. So I took the car to Jiffy Lube last week, where the young fellow taking down the car’s vital stats asked me questions that made me smirk in owner-sanctioned entertainment at the expense of my car.
“Suzuki Swift?” he asked. “Do you happen to know if that’s a 1.3 or 1.6 liter engine?”
I glanced at the back of the car, where stick-on numbers read “1.3”
“Um,” I said, knowing well that a 1.3 liter engine is just half a step above a moped, “I’m not sure. Do you think that 1.3 on the back means anything?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Yeah, that would be 1.3.”
“Now,” he added, “this is your air filter. It’s black here, and that’s bad. It can affect your gas mileage.”
“Oh,” I said, “you mean I’ll no longer be getting 45 miles per gallon? That’s gonna suck.”
They replaced that for an added 13 bucks. The sad part was when the girl who rang me up explained the other service they’d performed.
“We checked your tire pressure,” she said, with thinly masked, well-deserved disdain for people like me. “You had some serious problems there.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Your tires are supposed to be at 35 pounds. One was at 54, one at 43, one at 19, and one at 14.”
Ouch. Dad, if you’re reading this, don’t kill me. And I’ve sinced figured out that my average tire reading between the four of them was 32.5 pounds. Only 2.5 pounds off…not too shabby.
Anyway, the car’s been acting up all week, post-oil change, and today it stalled on the road and wouldn’t start again, leaving me to finally make use of my AAA membership.
My savior was a sparsely-toothed, contracted mechanic woman named Anna…boy did she know her stuff. She got me started and back on the road in about 10 minutes, adding that it would be a shame for me to have to pay the $10/mile it would have cost if she’d ended up having to tow me.
There are some honest mechanics out there, it seems.
But anyway, my fear is that I will—Anna or no Anna—be needing to invest in alternate transportation options soon. That’s a painful thought, mostly because I’m trying to save money right now and a car was not what I had in mind to spend it on.
Still, though, I do have good luck in this category. My most ambitious hope is that the Tic Tac will hold out for another 100K or so. But if the Swift decides to put itself to sleep, I’ll be prowling Craigslist for another piece of crap that oh-so-gracelessly traverses the space between A and B.
I just love a car with character.
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