Earth or Bust

Are UFOs really graduate students from the future, researching their past?

Hell if I know! But it does bring up an interesting possibility. Make that an interesting set of possibilities, with infinite outcomes and mind-blowing disillusionments. Mind blowing!

This may sound like a Blogger profile question or the headline to a National Enquirer article, but it's actually the promo line on a full-color new novel advertisement I received at the bookstore today.

This, my friends, is the kind of thing that gives the Sci-Fi genre a bad name. I'm told by many that science fiction novels can be interesting, can be good, but I just can't put my preconceived notions aside long enough to pick one up. I just know that the minute I read about a character with a name like Zorfax or a place like Mypos (oh wait, that was Balki's home island in "Perfect Strangers") I'll be turned off to the point of chucking the book across the room.

People have told me that this instinct speaks of my lack of imagination or appreciation for creativity. Perhaps. But I've always felt that the most interesting stories are the true ones, or the very plausible ones at least. I love movies and novels based on real-life events, which is probably why I love the "fourth genre"--creative non-fiction--encompassing interviews, personal essays, auto/biographies, etc. It's also probably why I blog.

My honey and I once watched a movie that I can't remember the name of, in which a couple gets lost at sea after scuba diving. They have some interesting conversations, a little bit of argument, and in the end they're both gobbled up by sharks! For some reason, I had been under the impression that the movie was based on a true story, but even if it was, the entire movie was hypothetical because nobody survived to tell of those interactions between the couple.

In a way, it was a creative imagining of the storyteller, but I just felt ripped off. I spent two hours putting up with an annoying couple, only to have them disappear in the end, engendering absolutely no emotional reaction on my part. I'm not saying I only like true stories, but I don't like so-called true stories that are really all fiction. I'm not sure that movie was based on a true story, though.

I guess I'm a little given to life-affirming stories, even if (maybe even especially if) they involve much pain and trial. I just need a little something to hang onto.

But this is away from my original point, which is that I don't care about the UFO graduate student plot line or any other plot line involving outer space, time travel (ok, "Back to the Future" caught my interest at the time), or names that sound like prescription drugs.

David Letterman once had a top ten list titled something like "Top Ten Ways to Get Kicked Out of the Library." One of the ways was to sweep all the books in the Science Fiction section off the shelves, shouting, "Nothing but Earthling lies!!!"

I loved that one.

Workplace Shenanigans

A few days ago I went to the bi-annual regional meeting for my company. The first day was spent in a hotel conference room, discussing financials and standards and all that stuff. A day full of customer-is-always-right reminders and strategies meant not for "solving problems," but for "addressing challenges" and "capitalizing on opportunities." Oh jeez. But the next day was more interactive and fun, because we went to another bookstore to learn about what they're doing and how. This store is by far the biggest in the region, serving a school with a huge enrollment. The text manager and store manager of this store have about 20 years experience between them, and for this reason the store serves as a pilot for all the new service programs and accompanying software the company rolls out (how's that for corporate speak?).

For one part of the day, the meeting's attendees were split into groups and set up to travel through 8 different stations in this other bookstore, listening to mini-presentations given by employees of this other store and watching demonstrations on how to use software .

So, introduction over...

The first station my group went to was in the receiving area, and we were to listen to the store's Receiving Manager as he explained new methods for receiving product. From the outset, things were a little strange because our receiving guy wasn't there yet; we'd arrived earlier than he was told we would, so he had to come off a break to come talk to us.

I put myself in this guy's shoes (we'll call him Tim), and imagined how much he was hating all of us in that moment. If you've never worked in retail, I'm going to let you in on a little secret. Nobody is busy at all times. Nobody. But when people come to visit from another store, particularly managers and their bosses, you have to be on your best behavior, cleaning things you've never even looked at before, moving shit from one useful place that makes sense to some other place that isn't useful and doesn't make sense just to look busy, censoring your comments, smiling, you know, all the stuff you would never do on a normal day.

This is especially true in the receiving department. I know because I spent a lot of time working in a receiving department, and it was fun as long as nobody in a suit was around. The people who work there work there for a reason. They want to wear jeans to work, they don't want to deal with customers, and they want to listen to music that would never make it onto the sales floor. Basically, it's hard physical work, but few headaches and even less ass-kissing. The receiving department is also the place where other employees go to escape the sales floor and the customers that come with it. It's the place where they can go to be themselves.

So here's this guy trying to enjoy his break, and along comes a group of corporate monkeys, there to rain on his parade. He seemed to be making the best of it, and when he got over his initial annoyance, he was friendly and helpful.

Here's the scene: he's standing facing us in front of a waist-high counter, on which sits a computer screen. We're all looking between him and the computer screen, watching what he's doing and asking questions. At one point, about 8 minutes into the demo, and about 2 minutes before we were to move on to another station, I happened to glance behind him at a shelf with many little post-its and scraps of paper taped to it. The first one that caught my eye had nothing but the word "iPoo'd" written on it. This store sells iPods, so I guessed that was some little inside play-on-words joke. I smiled and then looked back at him.

After a little bit, I looked to the other side of him, to the scraps of paper hanging behind him on the left. One of them was from a pad of company letterhead paper (not my company, but one of the vendors). A part of the company name had been whited out and changed, so instead of saying "Barcharts," it said "Barfarts." I smiled again.

The doozy was a scrap of paper next to the "Barfarts"; it had a hand-drawn picture of a big, circular lump with little lines floating up from it. Written next to the drawing were the words "Big, Steaming Pile o' Poo." I made a little choking sound, trying not to laugh. I couldn't completely tell if "Tim" was aware of my observation, but I sensed he was, saw the tiniest trace of smile on his face, and I wondered how he felt trying to give this serious demonstration to a bunch of people in suits having just realized he left all his poo-reference evidence lying around. I had to look down and cover my mouth...I was laughing at the drawing but also picturing myself in his place, which was making me laugh even more.

I can be very immature in this area...this area of stifling laughter at the stupidest things in the most inopportune times. Once in Humanities class in high school, this elderly classical piano player from Germany was a guest speaker in our class. A kid raised his hand and asked the man to "compare the pianists in Germany and in the United States." The man looked confused and asked "what?!" in this way that made it obvious he thought the kid was asking him to compare the penises of his countrymen to those of American men. When he realized what had been asked, he answered the question, but I swear I could not stop smirking and choking down laughs for about 10 minutes, and not despite of the fact, but because of the fact that I was sitting front and center. I kept re-living the moment and imagining the face he made in his first second of confusion, and also imagining how funny it would be if the kid really had asked this old man to make such a comparison for our educational benefit. Classic.

Anyway, this moment was just like that. Now, if it were just me standing there, I would have told Tim I liked his drawing (or whosever drawing it was), but I couldn't say anything and couldn't stop smiling, so I had to excuse myself and the group, saying that it was time to move to the next station.

The thing is, we have done this sort of thing in every place I've ever worked. Doesn't everyone? You have to do what you can to amuse yourself and your coworkers, de-stress, pass the time, let all your sillyhearted sillyness flourish, just to keep yourself sane. You write things and draw things and tape things to walls that would never seem worth your time or funny if it weren't for the fact that they represent tiny little acts of rebellion. Tiny things you can do to say, "you can suck my time and my energy and--at least for the next 8 hours--my will to live. But you can not have my SOUL!"

I give a shout-out to Tim and his Pile o' Poo for adding a little sanity to my day.

File Under Poodoos

I once wrote a post about things that make me happy, a kind of tribute to the practice of gratitude journaling. It occurs to me now that I don't share enough when I'm unhappy. It's as though a part of me is truly ashamed when I'm feeling bad...like I'm not allowed to feel that way.

So to add some yin to my yang, or vice-versa, and without throwing myself a public, virtual pity party, I thought I'd share a few things that make me sad, angry, or frustrated beyond belief...with an obvious invitation for others to do the same.


Victimhood (read "the mood I'm in now")

The smell of mold

Self-righteousness (another thing I am guilty of)

Spilling things (especially ground coffee)

When the volume is too high on anything

Violence

Boredom (there's no excuse)

Reckless drivers

Spiders (I'm sorry spiders...I know it's not your fault...but you seriously freak me out)

Cattiness

A disappointing meal ordered in a restaurant (Boooo!)

Obsessing

Louis Vuitton bags and Burberry scarfs. I just don't get it. How is it possible so many people have agreed on these ugly patterns? How is it possible so many people have agreed it's acceptable, even prestigious, to spend so much money on ugliness?

Self-righteousness again! (Check yourself, girly!)

Being too hot

Being too cold

Arrogant college boys (of which I see plenty at the ole bookstore)

Nagging self doubt

Irresponsible journalism

Interest (the credit kind)

False compliments or false general niceness

Waking up thirsty or having to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night but being too tired to get up, finally getting up, and then not being able to fall asleep again

Getting a bad hair cut

Too short pants (there I go again on that one)

Paying full price (what's the female version of "cheap bastard"? You'd think I was raised during The Depression. Or maybe it was growing up shopping for school clothes at Target. P.S. I love you Target!)

Lack of sympathy

Corporate speak

Passive-aggressiveness

Movie theater whisperers

Losing socks to the evil dryer

When things break

Jealosy (guilty there too)

Dust bunnies

Bullies

Clueless male characters and mothering wives (like on "Everybody Loves Raymond")

Real life people (and I think it's usually women) who buy into and perpetuate the above stereotypes

Fashion trends (like ridiculously huge sunglasses)

Mad political correctness

Lies!

Parents who don't discipline

Gossip


Jung said that we dislike characteristics in others that we don't like about ourselves (our "shadow" sides, whether or not we let that side out). If I think about it, this is true for me a great deal of the time. But I also think there are some things I don't like because I just don't like them..because I find them annoying or hurtful. Anyone have thoughts on that?

Grammarians to the Rescue?

I know there are some excellent grammarians reading this blog, so I thought I'd enlist your help in two questions that always bother me. I suppose I could look these up in a text or online, but where's the fun in that? Plus, this gives you Super Grammartrons a chance to flex your know-how (hyphenated?)

Help!

This one always kills me: How do I express possession for multiple subjects, like for a thing that belongs to two people?

"I'm going to Mumford and Rupert's house." or

"I'm going to Mumford's and Rupert's house."

another example

"It's my and my brother's secret language." or

"It's mine and my brother's secret language."

Both sound awkward and wrong.

The other problem is verb tense when referring to one in a group of people. Like this:

"He's one of those people who like to complain." or

"He's one of those people who likes to complain."

I realize the verb in this sentence is the "is" in "he's," so "like/likes" is not a verb but part of the description of the predicate. But does the description refer to "one" or "people." I'm sure we probably covered this in the Grammar Nazi of all Grammar Nazi's class: Professor Rew's Editing for Writers (and thank goodness she doesn't read this blog), but I am at a loss.

Is there anyone out there who can set me straight? Thanks in advance!

Oh yeah, and P.S...what about that "Grammar Nazi of all Grammar Nazi" thing? If the second "Nazi" were singular, then my punctuation is correct, but in this case, the second "Nazi" is plural (she is one of many), but the class belonged to just the one Nazi. Wow, I never encountered this one before. Should it be "Grammar Nazi of all Grammar Nazis's class"?

Golly.

On Forgetting and Remembering

On the radio today, I heard a trivia question in which they were asking the name of an area of northern Canada where a near-extinct old Scottish language is spoken. I know nothing about Canadian geography, so the only mental guess I made (which was wrong) was that it was the place where my maternal grandpa was stationed as a firefighter in the air force during WWII. He used to talk about it all the time, and we used to tease him because it seemed about as far away from war action as a soldier could get. What was the name of that place again?

A few minutes passed and I couldn't come up with the name. What was it?! He talked about it all the time! The name even appeared in a short story I wrote a few years ago, and now it was eluding me completely. Out of nowhere, I began to cry.

It amazes me sometimes, how emotions can sneak up on me. See, my grandpa died almost 6 years ago (has it really been that long?). I started to have a feeling of panic while I was driving, trying to come up with the name of this place. My thought was that if I couldn't remember, it meant that I was beginning to forget him. It makes me cry again now thinking about it. The rational part of me countered with the thought that I could always call another family member and ask, but what did this mean about where he lived in my own memory? What else would I start to forget?

There's a scene in Sleepless in Seattle where the young son wakes up from a nightmare and, in tears, tells his dad that he is starting to forget his deceased mother. The dad (Tom Hanks) answers by sharing a detail about his wife and the boy's father. "She could peel an apple in one long strip. The whole entire apple."

I've always appreciated this scene. The father does not try to make the boy feel better. He doesn't tell the boy that he mustn't forget; he just helps him remember something specific, something to bring her memory back into the space for a moment.

I would like to do the same now.

When I was 18, I moved out to Redondo Beach, L.A. to escape from the Ohio winter I was suffering at the time. I moved in with my grandpa, whom I've always known as "Tata." If you say the word to yourself, you have to say it right, with the softer "t" of the Spanish language, more like "tda tda," because if you say the "t" too strong, as in the word "town," you'll picture him wrong in your head, and I can't let that happen.

My grandma ("Nana") had died about 4 years before that, and Tata, though he didn't seem debilitatingly lonely, also didn't seem to mind the company. My grandparents' house had belonged to them for some 30 years, and it was a house I lived in from ages 4-7. I loved that house, so while I had moved a considerable distance away from my parents, it still felt like home.

My Tata wasn't the kind of retired man who travelled the world, or the country, or even the county. He didn't tinker in a workshop or golf. He didn't grow rosebushes or purebred dogs or attend town meetings. Mostly he watched t.v. Mostly he seemed happy like that, at least as happy as I'd always known him.

At the time, I was working nights as a restaurant server, so I would wake up late in the morning like he did, and we would spend a good part of many days, he in his not-too-low wooden kitchen table chair with hot tea or instant coffee on the t.v. tray in front of him, I on the end of the couch, both of us facing the screen through a steady stream that went something like: 11 o'clock news, Jenny Jones, Montel Williams, Jerry Springer, Judge Judy, another Judge Judy, then various cooking shows. Then I'd go to work. All through the day, Tata and I would watch and make jokes, about the guests, about the hosts, and especially about the commercials (always some two-bit (one of his phrases) insurance company, a trade school, a bail bondsman, an add for 1-800-dentist or a doctor who performs "breast augmentations"). This was about as close as I got to my grandpa, emotionally, during the day. During dry hours. I enjoyed every minute.

Once I walked into the kitchen in the afternoon to find him pouring salsa on a recently heated, Healthy Choice t.v. dinner. "Mija," he said, "watch how I incorporate the salsa." A little joke referring to the cooking shows we always watched. I told him I was impressed, and we laughed.

My Tata was a master story teller. None of us minded his exaggerations. They were harmless and they undeniably made the stories better. There was the time he was chased by a roadrunner, and the ghost who overturned a table behind him one spooky night when he was all alone (eating Cheetos--it was all about the details) in his childhood home on a ranch in Brawley, a small town in the desert of Southern California. There was the man who walked miles through the desert, asked for food and water at their little house, and disappeared only a minute after stepping back out into the hot day. And of course, there was the time he and his buddies were unloading an incoming shipment on the air force base when a box fell and some medals of honor tumbled out, which he and his buddies promptly swiped. Where was that base again?

He always used his hands for illustration when he was telling these stories, hands strong, tan, and calloused from a lifelong career building fighter planes at Northrup after the air force. And sometimes, when there was music in a commercial on t.v. he would use those hands to drum along...that was the other thing--Tata spent a lifetime as a jazz drummer, on the weekends, in the evenings, whenever there was time. When he died I found an address book just specially for local musicians he knew and would sometimes play with. The entries would read like Salvador "Chava" Rodriguez, tenor sax, and then a phone number.

I would come home from work late at night to find Tata still awake and in front of the t.v. By this hour, he'd be watching the fights or Jay Leno or an old black and white movie on Telemundo. The coffee or tea would be replaced by a can of Budweiser in a foamy keep-cool holder. Sometimes he would just say hi and ask how my night was. Sometimes he would say, "Mija, I'm glad you're here," and he would tell me he was proud of me. That he rarely said such things when he was sober mattered little to me. I knew he meant it.

On the day of his funeral a few years later, 2 years after I'd come to settle in Northern California, the house in Redondo was full--of all things--of laughter. There was family. There were lifelong friends. There were my parents and aunt and uncles, and all of their lifelong friends. My aunts' and uncles' spouses parents were all there, and many of these people came from out-of-town or out-of-state. That's the way both my grandpa and grandma were. Their love had spread far and wide. Most of the people my mom's age or younger had at one time lived in my grandparents' home; it had always been a welcome refuge and a place of warmth.

I sat in the small and packed house that day listening to stories from all these people who had been touched by my Tata...not planned, walk-up-to-a-microphone stories, just people sitting around sharing what they remembered. Just joyful reminiscences of a man who was hard to forget.

The name of the base in northern Canada was Goose Bay, Labrador. I remember now. I suppose that even if I never had, I would be assured knowing there will always be so much about him to remember.




Thank you for reading while I brought his memory into this space for a while.

My Secret Love for Mustangs Football Paraphernalia

The other morning I was at work when a man drove up our driveway in a pickup truck, parked, and wandered into the bookstore. He asked very politely if I could help him find the place he was looking for and pulled a raggedy piece of scratch paper out of his t-shirt pocket. Glancing it over, I recognized the name of the nuns' residence, which is right across the way from the bookstore (it's a Catholic university).

I pointed to the nunnery (as I like to call it), and he then asked whether I knew if they'd been doing any construction over there recently. He was apparently a construction work there to do the finishing touches. I told him yes, that people had been redoing their patio all week, and walked him outside to show him exactly where to go.

We were done with this little conversation and the man was about to walk away when he said this: "You like that hat, huh?"

I was baffled. My first way of making sense of this in my mind was this thought: 1) 'I'm not wearing a hat; he can't be talking about my hat,' and 2) this incredibly strange follow-up: 'Is he making fun of my hair? Is he saying my hair looks like a hat?'

I said, "Excuse me?"

And he said, "You like that hat huh? You're looking at my hat." He pulled the brim of his hat down to show me. This man was taller than me, and the brim of his hat was up kind of high, so until he did that, I couldn't even see anything about his hat other than the color.

It would have been great if his hat had somehow been so awesome, I could have just said, "yeah, that's a great hat!" But it just said, Mustangs Football on it, some sports hat. What could I say? I don't have it in me to give a false, after-the-fact compliment.

I just said, "oh, no I wasn't actually," smiling and trying to say it in the nicest possible way.

"Oh, okay," he said, "okay then, thanks."

He didn't seem hurt or anything, but I felt kind of bad. He was the nicest man, and he had seemed so happy at first when he thought I was admiring his hat. But then I don't know why he thought I was looking at anyway. I was looking at his eyes while we were talking (?)

Anyway, this whole interaction struck me as funny and reminded me of a line I loved from the first short story in the book Franny and Zooey, by J.D. Salinger. I don't remember the title of the story, but the main character is in the elevator, and the woman next to him is staring at his feet. He makes some comment to acknowledge this fact, and she denies having been staring at his feet. In the end, he says something to the effect of, "Look lady, I don't mind if you're staring at my feet, but you don't have to be a god damned sneak about it."

I wonder if the man thought I was trying to be all sneaky about my obsession with his hat. I had the feeling he wanted to tell me the story behind it. Maybe I should have asked.

How is it Possible that George W. Bush is Still Using the Non-Word "nucular" in Public Addresses?!

How?!

The Blah in Blogging

This afternoon, Sajid and I were sitting in the room adjacent to the living room (some might call it a dining room, but I don't because dining rooms are stuffy. I prefer to think of it as the eating nook.), when we heard a woman on the T.V. say this:

"Do you think Maddox never smiles for the camera because he's sick of the Paparazzi or because he was forced to get a Mohawk??!!"

Sajid: Who is Maddox?
Me: Angelina Jolie's adopted son.
Sajid: Oh, the Japanese kid?
Me: I think he's from Cambodia.

Pause

Me again: I don't know what recess of my brain I pulled that information from.

But I do. I do know. The woman who made the comment was in a commercial on the channel serving as the playground of my most shameful guilty pleasure. The guilty pleasure is soaking in 1/2 hours' worth of inane chatter set to images of famous people; the playground is the E! Network.

There. I said it.

I think of it this way. I don't watch much T.V. When I do, I might as well do it right. I mean, why pretend there are shows that are "good for you" or "intelligent?" Ok, the occasional show on the History Channel, Discovery Channel, or PBS might be good for you or intelligent. But I mean, I listen to informative talk radio, I read books. Why not let the T.V. be the place to really just let my mind turn to mushy goo for a while?

I don't really feel that way about it. I truly do feel guilty every time I watch anything on E! The lamest part about it is that I don't even know who half the stars are or what they're famous for. I have seen many many images of Eva Longoria and heard a fair bit of commentary on her, and I have no idea what she does. Actress? Model? Singer?

Here's the loop:

Do you see me in it anywhere?

And yet, and yet. I know who Maddox is and where he's from. I stop short at caring, but I do know. What to make of this?

I think what I like most about pictures of stars is seeing what they're wearing. There's a dress shop in the Pruneyard shopping center that often has beautiful gowns in the window. I've walked by that window so many times and thought, 'now if I only had an upcoming red carpet event to attend.' But alas, even if I had an event, the carpet would likely be closer to the shag variety. Famous people get to dress up all the time. The whole 9, all the time! They probably get sick of it, but still.

As nice to look at as the gowns are, what I really marvel at is the pants that famous women wear. So many of the woman are of amazon height like me, but miraculously, their pants are always, always long enough; they can even wear heels and their pants are still long enough.

I told Sajid that if I were rich, I wouldn't buy a big house or a crazy car or bling. No, my big indulgence would be a personal tailor who crafted special pants just for me. They would be long long long, big enough in the hips and tight enough in the waist. And they wouldn't have the mega long crotch that most "tall" length pants do. Hey! I said I was tall, not long-crotched. What is that about?!

While I'm on the subject, I did find a decent pair of jeans after an intense search that lasted weeks. Recently, my friend Nicole sent me the link to a website her honey Raul had worked on. Zafu is a site solely devoted to helping women find the right pair of jeans. I tried it out, plugged in all my stats, and like magic, the website brought up about 20 pairs of jeans in all prices ranges. The pair I had found on my own after the exhaustive search was among them. Gals, save your precious crude oil derivative and check it out!

Well, we're a long way from where this started (refugee children from Cambodia, to refresh your memory), but that's what put the blah in blogging right?


Yeah. What he said.

Somebody Find This Dog!

This small sign (the size of a piece of copy paper) has been taped to a post on my street since, well, 8/11 (some time in the pm).

It makes me laugh every time I pass it. The obvious questions arise. What kind of dog? Why no picture to help us identify the dog?

The desperation in the exclamation marks!!

And the sad face. The sad face! Aww. Is it meant to depict the owner or the dog? Both?

It makes me want to find the dog just so I can make that sad face go away.

Has anyone seen a lost dog with a look on its face like it's been missing since the evening of August 11th?

What the World Needs Now is...

It looks like this

...but also like this

It moves like this

...and like this

...and like this

But whatever it looks like or moves like or sounds like, it feels like this

Yaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!

It's the San Francisco Love Fest and before I go on I should mention that it happened last weekend. But I wanted to share the love here so any future would-be revelers have the 4-1-1. The Love Fest begins with a parade of floats, and each float hosts a different DJ (the DJs all play different styles of trance music). The parade ends at City Hall, and all the streets nearby are then closed to traffic. The floats park and then people just dance until evening, then spill into nearby clubs for after parties.

According the website, these are the values and intentions of the event:

...a free parade that celebrates music, love, diversity, tolerance, dance, and community is something we believe in strongly, and believe America needs now more than ever. Dance music has always had a special ability to bring people together in the shared beauty of a universal vibe. Our community by and large remains 'underground' in U.S. pop culture due to very little support from radio and MTV, etc. We know that in a culture awash in conflict, materialism, superficial concerns, and greed, an event of this kind can lift the spirits and the hopes of those who to surrender to its power. The power of dance. The power of music. The power of community. We're taking it to the streets letting the vibe and the cooperation and respect of the people taking part in it be a message of hope in dark times. We intend to make the event a platform for dance music to reach more ears in America and beyond, to carry a message of love and hope, to be a vehicle for helping organizations doing good in the world, and for dancing our asses off surrounded by friendly freaks.

The Love Fest definitely attracts its share of friendly freaks, friendly being the operative word. I've really never been in a place where people seemed so incredibly kind and accepting and truly just interested in having fun. There was none of the super-sexed vibe found at many other such gatherings or at any club. In the trance music realm, it really seems like boys and girls are equal creatures, just out for music, out for movement, out for fun. We had a great time.

Only in San Francisco can something like this happen on the steps of City Hall. Beautiful.

Lage Raho Munna Bhai!

When was the last time you watched a movie that had an intermission (chai and samosas available for snacking in the lobby)? How about one during which, without warning and having no apparent connection to plausibility, all actors on screen broke into song and dance?

If the answer is "never" or "not recently," you haven't been spending enough time in places like the NAZ8 Cinema.

Sajid and I often rent Bollywood movies at home, and many times they are so ludicrous we end up turning them off or falling asleep. Sometimes a really good one comes along, and during crucial moments I make myself imagine that everybody in real life sings and dances spontaneously, in public, in a highly choreographed manner, thereby allowing my mind to temporarily suspend disbelief. I'm okay with musicals as a genre, but when every drama, comedy, or action movie doubles as musical, it strikes me as a little strange. Anyway, during the better movies, I get over that.

Last night was the first time we went to see a Bollywood movie in the theater. What got us there was this movie
which is the second in a series ("Lage Raho Munna Bhai" means, roughly, "Carry On, Childlike Gangsta Bro"), the first of which I haven't seen but have heard many good things about. If the title and movie poster make it seem like a super-cheese, antic-filled goofball comedy, the marketing firm responsible for it has done its job well. However, to my surprise, this movie had a lot more to it.

The whole premise of the plot is that the guy in the red blazer decides to learn about Mahatma Gandhi in order to impress the girl, whose grandfather (and hence, her, as the dutiful granddaughter) holds Gandhi in high esteem and hosts a sort of club that honors the late leader. Red blazer (whose name is "Munna Bhai") is a con artist and thug of sorts, and lies his way close to the girl. Man, if I had a nickel for everytime that old pretent-you-know-about-Gandhi-to-get-the-girl plotline was used...

What happens is that, in studying to learn more about Gandhi (referred to affectionately as "Bapu," meaning Granddad, by his admirers), Munna Bhai begins to hallucinate conversations with Bapu and starts living his life in accordance with Gandhian values and practices. I know, I know, it still sounds ultra cheesy. And yes, it was. But it was funny, and at times very moving. I, no sucker for romantic comedies, believe me, believe me (!) and usually critical of movies to the point of cruelty, found myself crying a few times as I watched how the introduction of Bapu's ideals changed the lives of the characters. Ultimately, the movie had a strong effect on me. It was so fun and positive and sweet that I left the theater happier than I've ever left a movie since I don't know when.

And the thing is, Gandhi's preachings of peace, goodwill, patience, honesty, humility, empathy...they are all timeless and relevant. I left the theater re-thinking the post I wrote yesterday about my neighbors. I wondered what a peace-loving, patient, honest, humble, empathetic person would do in a similar situation. Oh my, do I feel a "What would Gandhi do?" bumper sticker coming on? No. But I can't say I didn't ask myself the question.

I think I've been short on kindness lately. I think I've let my cynical, critical, yucky poopoo side out to play way too much, even if only in my thoughts, and it leaves me feeling, well, yucky poopoo. I needed last night's kick in the ass, and I'm grateful.



I'm keeping this picture on my desktop for inspiration.

Who ARE the People in Your Neighborhood?

The first thing our neighbor Dennis ever said to us was, "hey, you wanna put a lock on that garage door?" And that was a fitting welcome to the neighborhood, given our experience since.

We met our neighbors "Betty" and "Josephine" (real names unknown--firstly because they never introduced themselves; I haven't seen "Betty" since and "Josephine" and her family moved away after we'd been living next door for about 3 months) when they came to our front door bearing a list of grievances.

The way they came to the door is almost as strange as the complaints they brought with them. I had just left the house and Sajid was in the bathroom. They banged on the door and he asked if they could hold on a minute because he was in the bathroom. They insisted, "it'll only take a minute." Sajid came to the door and these two elderly women launched into a tirade about the laundry I'd left hanging to dry on our front porch.

Sajid apologized, though he was then as confused and I still am about what is so offensive about hanging laundry (no underwear, no bras, just clothes). They also complained that we come home late at night and that Sajid parked his car in the driveway (of all places). Okay. We entertained their complaints for a while. No laundry hanging to dry, tiptoeing in at night, and no parking in the driveway until we realized everybody else was. Then we figured it was okay.

The second time "Josephine" came to our front door, she asked if we knew anything about her teenaged daughter's missing (read stolen) bicycle, which we did not, to the suspiscious disappointment of Josie.

We first met Rebecca when she came to our front door with a similar matter. Did we know anything, by chance, about her missing (stolen) laundry basket, which she'd left in the laundry room? No, again.

Doesn't anybody shake hands and introduce themselves anymore? Or is the default to meet when you have some bone to pick?

One afternoon, we were having a barbeque with some friends at the park across the street. Sajid found a plastic table in a storage maintenance area by the apartments and picked it up to use for our barbeque. He was halfway across the street when he heard Dennis's voice from the darkness beyond his closed screen door. "Amigo," the voice said, "that's my table."

So Sajid took that to mean, "That's my table and you can't use it," and he put it back. I'm wondering if Dennis thinks my husband is Mexican or Spanish-speaking of some other country origin, or if he just addresses everybody as "amigo," even when the rest of what he has to say is not the least bit friendly.

We pretty much resigned ourselves to the idea that we would not be friends with the neighbors. Except for Greg. Greg lived across the way, and he was very friendly. He used to volunteer to fix things and was generally helpful to everybody. He was a nice exception. We thought he got along with everyone until the night he knocked on our door as we were about to go to dinner. He told Sajid he was planning to kick Dennis's ass (or something like that, I don't know it was very strange). He handed Sajid a pair of plastic handcuffs and a sock, all the while saying something about how there would never be any marks (?). I don't know what all was going on between them, but Greg kept talking about how Dennis was drunk and about to drive and how it was his (our?) responsibility to stop him. We went to dinner while Greg took off after Dennis, plastic handcuffs and sock in hand. We have no idea what happened after that.

One day, after Josephine and family moved out, her husband, another nice but very quiet exception to the rudeness we'd encountered thus far, came back to the house to do a final clearing out. He had a conversation with Sajid that afternoon and ended up telling him a story about when he was growing up. He said an African-American family moved into the neighborhood when he was about 10-years-old, and that he always felt bad about the way people (all white until then) treated that family. Sajid took this as a kind of apology on behalf of his wife, and figured it might not have exactly been his imagination that the neighborhood was a little chilly.


Why do I bring all this stuff up now, here? I'd been okay with the not-so-friendly neighborhood, but it's on my mind again. A new couple moved in last month, young (younger than us, I believe), and friendly. We both met both of them on separate occasions, and they seemed pleasant enough. But last week I said "hi" to the girl, and she totally ignored me. The same day I was cleaning out the garage, and the guy took one step out of the house, saw me there, and went back inside. I don't get it. What happened? I haven't even seen these people enough to have the chance to offend them, and neither has Sajid.

Believe me, we are nice people. We are even friends with Rebecca now, now that she no longer thinks we stole her laundry basket. I don't know what the deal is with the rest of the neighborhood. I'll say that it's very patriotic, very much of the older demographic, and somewhat conservative (the first question "Betty" asked Greg when he moved in was (not if, but) where he went to church). Could it be that we just don't fit the profile when it comes to welcome neighbors? I don't know.

Part of me thinks that neighborliness just isn't what it used to be. When I was young, we lived with my grandparents. We knew the Guataramas next door, one-legged Bruce across the street, Pat from two doors down, a real Betty across the street from her, the Banuelos' a whole block away. We knew everyone in the neighborhood, and all their kids, too. The families had been there for generations.

Are there places in San Jose where this is the norm? I would like to find one and live there. There is this idea I have in my head that somewhere, neighbors still come over to borrow a cup of sugar, still have block parties, still acknowledge each other's existence.


Who are the people in your neighborhood? For your sake, I hope they are nicer than those in mine :(

Next Man, Please (Please!)

This space left intentionally blank.

I'll explain why one day.

The Not-Worst Thing That Could Happen

I’m writing this from a terminal at O’Hare International Airport in Chicago. It’s 8:44pm and I was supposed to have been in the air for 1 hour and 45 minutes by now. Upon checking in, I learned that the flight had been delayed by ½ hour. When boarding time came at 6:00, I learned that the flight had then been delayed further, with an ETD at 9:00pm.

For the past few hours, I and a bunch of other hapless travelers have been seated in the terminal, hanging on the occasional updates from the less-than-sympathetic airline personnel. How could they care? They see this stuff everyday.

The reason for the delay is that my flight does not have any captain or other pilot-type crew. We’ve got a plane; we’ve got flight attendants; but we’ve no drivers.

So.

A couple of minutes ago, the airline personnel woman came on the speaker and announced that they’d found a flight crew for us. They’re coming in on a flight from Texas that is scheduled to land at 11:00pm. So our revised departure time is 11:30.

You should have heard the angry roar/groan that this news elicited from my fellow travelers. I looked to my right to see a young woman telling this news to somebody on the phone with the look of somebody who’d just smelled the most horrible fart of her life. Quite miserable and upset are many of these people.

As I took in the collective groan, I couldn’t help but think of the news that’s been invading the television and newspaper for the past couple of weeks—the news of hundreds of deaths, injuries, and uprootings in the Middle East. Going back further, the news of thousands of deaths, horrible bloody, violent deaths in Iraq and Afghanistan over the past few years. Oh, we could go back further and further until the beginning of time. There are plenty of horrible, bloody, violent deaths to ponder. Plenty of people have been unbelievably inconvenienced. Plenty of plans have been permanently delayed, altered beyond recognition.

I’m not saying it’s not annoying to sit around an airport for a few extra hours. Hey, we still have an airport! It just occurred to me.

I’m just saying a little perspective is good for the soul.

Feeling Safer by the Day

Last Friday I flew down to Los Angeles for the wedding of my dear friends Kelsi and Jeff. The wedding took place at Aunt Suzie's House. Really, that's what it said on the invitation, which was so cute and fitting for the kind of intimate, backyard engagement it turned out to be. Kelsi's talented, musical family served as the reception entertainment. Jeff's sister Jeannine was the photographer. Kelsi's mother's best friend Claudia (a kind of second mother to her) was the officiant. It was lovely.

That was how I felt after the wedding...just full of all the lovely of it. Before the wedding was a little stressful, only in the way that any kind of travel can be when there's a schedule to be kept. Sajid and I had some trouble finalizing our plans for making it down to L.A., partly having to do with the fact that I was to be there for a 5:00 rehearsal on Friday evening, and he couldn't leave until Friday night. So I ended up booking a flight at the last minute, and he drove.

I always stress out a little when it comes to the airport. I hate to rush, and I really hate to bring luggage onboard, which I did this time because I only had one small suitcase. It turned out the plane was too small to handle even this carry on, its overhead compartments measuring roughly the size of a toaster oven, and I ended up having to check the small suitcase at the end of the staircase (yes, incredibly we still use staircases up to the planes in San Jose) anyway.

Without the luggage I might have avoided having to endure the bonus screening I was treated to when I passed through security. I don't know how the security people decide who makes the first cut and who doesn't. Maybe it truly is just random. But whatever they use to determine who gets the extra dose of security screening, I must have had it written all over me that day. The second I passed through the little imaginary doorway (without beeping, I may add), and without even glancing once at my face, the man holding my boarding pass snapped his fingers and said, "female screener needed."

Ambling along came not one, but two(!) female security screeners, who told me to follow them to a huge x-ray machine at the end of the screening area. They had a somewhat lengthy discussion about whether or not they should offer me a chair, they giggled incessantly at some kind of secret funny thing, and they got in each others' way a lot as they rifled through my luggage. At some point I clued in to the fact that one of the young women was training the other, though I honestly would have had a difficult time telling who knew better what she was doing if I'd been asked at any point before the clue in.

With my luggage determined non-threatening (whew), it was time for my pat down! The trainer turned to the trainee and said, "Okay, search her now." I might point out here that I was wearing a long straight skirt with no pockets and a simple summer blouse, neither of which could have possibly been disguising something dangerous. But they had their jobs to do, I understand.

With this new set of instructions, the trainee looked at the trainer with a face that seemed to say she wasn't sure how to go about this next step. The trainer nodded at the trainee reassuringly, and the trainee looked me up and down, trying to decide where/how to start. She ended up squatting down in front of me, and the trainer told her to have me take one half step forward on one leg. I did so, and then the trainee began patting me down.

With this, the trainer leaned down next to the trainee's ear and--in a mocking accusatory tone-- said, "slut."

I guess it was meant to be a whisper. The two ladies shared another giggle, and they dismissed me shortly thereafter. I walked toward the gate thankful for the new stringent security measures and the sober, security-minded folks we've hired to enforce them at our airports.

Not Applying to the CIA

Today I got a phone call at work from some company that sells graduation caps and gowns. This call was immediately filed under the telemarketer category in my mind because the bookstore I manage has always and I suspect will always buy graduation caps and gowns from the Microsoft of graduation matters we all know as Jostens.

When the telemarketer asked me if the person responsible for making cap and gown buying decisions was available, I told her "no." This was not a lie. I'm not responsible for making that decision. However, when the woman on the line asked me the name of whoever makes that decision, I lied. I am unbelievably bad at thinking on my feet when it comes to false information. See, the reason I lied was that I didn't want to have to dig up the contact info of whoever makes that decision because I have no idea who it is. So, in a moment of brilliance, I told her that the name of the person who makes that decision is "Kisa."

I can't stop laughing as I'm writing this. Who, when attempting to avoid taking responsibility for something, falsely gives her own name as the responsible party? See, my thinking was that if I gave the name of any other employee, the telemarketer would call back asking for that person. And why not just tell her the truth: that nobody on site makes that decision? It would even have been the easiest thing to say.

Then the lady asked when "Kisa" might be available, and I told her that "Kisa" would be in the following afternoon. What kind of strategy is this? So when she calls back tomorrow I'm gonna pretend to be "Kisa"?

And the thing was, I noticed this kind of hesitation in the woman's voice, this kind of, "uh, okaaaay." I was thinking, 'how can she tell I'm lying? I can tell she can tell. But how does she know?!"

It was then that I remembered the very first part of the conversation, the part where I answered the phone and identified myself by name. The part before I knew I'd be lying to this woman in the very near future.

So a transcript of our little chat would look about like this:

Me: Thank you for calling NDNU bookstore. This is Kisa. How can I help you?
Her: I'm so-and-so from so-and-so cap and gown company. Is the person who makes the cap and gown buying decision available?
Me: Uh, no. She's not in right now.
Her: Oh. Could you tell me who that person might be?
slight pause
Me: Yeah. Her name's Kisa.
slight pause
Her: Okay, and uh, when will she be in?
Me: She'll be in tomorrow afternoon.

About 2o things went through my mind in the time it took for this conversation to transpire. I thought of when I'd be able to talk to her again, what would happen if I gave her a totally fake name, who really would make that decision, etc.. And in all that thinking and scheming, that's what I came up with...that I would be in tomorrow afternoon.

So it looks like I'll be talking to her again. Wonder if she'd give me up for a lunatic if I answered the phone without identifying myself, then when she asked for Kisa, I said, "Sure, could I put you on hold for a second?" then covered the mouthpiece with my hand, coughed, and then answered in an obviously and badly altered fake voice: "Uh, this is Kisa."

I think I'll try that.

This incident called to mind another from a few years back that involved my feeble attempts to fake someone out on the phone. Just before I graduated with my bachelor's degree, I was dirt poor and behind on my Discover card payment. I came home one afternoon to find a carefully written message from my roommate Lisa. It gave the name and number of somebody from Discover and said they'd requested I return the call. In all my then-financially irresponsible evasiveness, I did not return the call.

I was home alone the following afternoon when the same woman from Discover called back. "May I please speak with Kisa?" she asked.

"Um, she's not here right now. Can I take a message?"

"Sure, to whom am I speaking?"

Trying to stick close to what could be a true story, I said this: "Uh, this is her roommate, Lisa."

Amazing little record keepers there at Discover. She replied with, "Oh, I believe I left a message with you yesterday."

And this is where it gets really dumb. In that moment, I thought of the dilligence with which Lisa had taken that message and I felt guilty for letting this woman think that Lisa had neglected to perform her roommate secretarial duties. Lisa is one of the most responsible women I've ever known. I couldn't misrepresent her this way!

So my solution was this line: "Oh, no, you must have talked to my girlfriend. Her name is also Lisa."

Which met with this now-common response: "Uh, okaaay."

We ended it there. And the funny part is, the story was not as far-fetched as it seems. I really did have a roommate named Lisa, and Lisa's girlfriend at the time was also named Lisa (rare but sometimes occuring homosexual relationship phenomenon).

I hung up the phone and put these imagined words in the mind of the Discover lady: 'Man, this girl is so lame, she can only think of one other name in the whole world to lie with, and it's a name that rhymes with her own name?!'

And today proved that the reality is even worse than that. I can't even think of a rhyming one anymore. Cheesh.

I Want One of Those

Saw this great t-shirt worn by a man marching in this year's Gay Pride Parade in San Francisco. It read:

I Like Booty. Who Doesn't?

Don't Worry...I'm Not Really Smart

I once laughed at the truth I found in a book of definitions and usages of American slang words. Under usages for the word "like," there was a description of the "like" filler insertion that works to convince the audience that the speaker isn't really intelligent or doesn't really read, even if it might appear that way based on the content of that speaker's words. Example:

"I think that's called, like, quantum physics, or something."

I've heard this sort of thing a lot. There are other words one can use to take whatever kind of edge off the words that might otherwise be there if the naked statement just hung in the air without its (for lack of a better description) edge taker-offers.

For example, I once heard a tough-looking guy on a bus say this to another tough-looking guy: "Nah, I try to be in town at Christmas, so I can watch my kids open presents and shit."

The thought of sharing the desire to watch his children open presents was simply too touchy-feely for such a tough guy. "And shit" proves that he's aware of this, definitely aware that tough guy number two is aware of it, and he finds a way to express something close to what he means while maintaining his position in the tough guy circle. It's a useful defense, a kind of survival instinct at work.

I experienced something like this when I went to get a haircut yesterday. My hairstylist was a young woman I'll call Amy, who was sweet, friendly, tan, beautiful, and somehow able to work on her feet all day in wedged espadrilles that matched her gorgeous summer dress. I think it would be safe to say that both man #1 and man #2 from one of my recent posts would have put Amy into the hottie category.

I had pretty much just arrived and she was about to get started on the wonderful aromatherapy scalp-massage shampoos they do at this particular hair salon. We started talking about t.v., and she was telling me how she doesn't watch it. Then she was about to tell me about a study she'd read on excessive t.v. watching and internet surfing and their connection to cognitive (in)abilities. Before she told me about this, she said, "I don't remember where I read this...I think it was some science magazine...I don't even know why I picked it up."

This wasn't said in the tone of somebody who just forgot where she read something. It was an apology of sorts. It also came across as an assurance to me that she wasn't really into this sort of thing, this reading thing, just in case I didn't approve of that kind of activity.

And I'm not making light of what she said. I can understand exactly where the inclination comes from. In fact, incredibly, a lot of people don't really approve of the whole reading thing, and I wondered how often Amy ends up dumbing herself down in order to keep inline with customers' expectations of her and her interests. Hair, right? That's what she's into.

I ended up having an interesting conversation with her, and I wondered what we'd have ended up talking about if I had responded to her science study with a shrug or a blank stare.

It's weird. You know most people do this to an extent. It's not always a matter of not wanting to appear smart or nerdy. Mostly it's just two people wanting to find out what common ground exists among them, then deciding to talk about that, because it's more fun to talk about things they can share than for one to just talk at the other. At least it is for most of us. There are plenty of exceptions that popped up in my mind as I was writing that.

I like the common ground; I usually seek it out, too. What I don't like the idea of is any person feeling the need to apologize for having feelings to share or for being intelligent.

That's just, like, so sad.

People Watching on Paper

For the rest of the voyeurs out there, check out Found Magazine online. It's a collection of items (mostly pictures and notes) found by people on streets, in old couch cushions, just wherever. The guy who started it says he just appreciates anything that gives a peek into other people's lives. Some of the stuff on here is funny, some just random, some really sad. And I'm always curious about the story behind the story.

My favorite contribution so far: A post-it note that reads, simply "OUCH! Barb, I thought this was a cookie!"

Enjoy.

A Fly on the Wall

Last Friday, following two weeks of Strep Throat passed between us, Sajid and I decided to go out and enjoy our renewed health. Our place of choice was Molly Magee's in Mountain View, a supposed pub that has no pub-like qualities--it's a bit loud and clubby for that, but they have a nice patio out back, so we like to go there.

As a sidenote, I want to mention that I love going out for drinks with my husband. It's a great feeling to be able to sit and have a beer with him and people-watch as various men and women try to hook up with one another, knowing all the while that we will go home in the same car, wake up in the same bed, and spend the rest of the days together. I never liked bars all that much before, but the feeling of going with him is totally different.

Anyway, sometimes Molly Magee's is filled with mellow people having mellow times, and sometimes Meat Market is the only accurate description for it. On those meaty nights, I find myself caught in awkward, middle school dance mode during brief moments when I'm alone--usually if Sajid is at the bar getting our drinks. I learned quickly that it is not a great idea to make eye contact, because that can be followed by instant, unwanted actual contact with a likely drunk man who then makes his own awkward middle school escape when I mention that I'm waiting for my husband to return. I guess it's somewhat rare--a husband and wife out at a bar together on a Friday night...well, this bar anyway. So during those moments, I take remarkable interest in things like lighting fixtures, the legs of bar stools, and the lone T.V. playing some sporting event that I can neither hear nor see very well.

Last Friday, I had a fascinatingly strange experience. When we arrived there and Sajid went to get drinks, I went to sit down and wait for him to join me. As I passed by a group of three men, I noticed they noticed me, and then I heard this from one of them: "She's cute," followed by this response from an incredulous other, "You think so?!"

Whoah. I'm pretty sure I wasn't supposed to hear that. And I'm definitely sure I wasn't supposed to hear what followed. I guess these men were just drunk enough, or the place just loud enough, that they didn't realize I could hear everything they were saying. And I just looked away as I could see them all looking at me out of the corner of my eye.

What followed was a full-on debate attempting to answer the question brought forth by the first man: the question of my attractiveness (or not). I listened with interest as he made a case for me. And I listened with more interest to the case made against me. 'Yeah, I guess that's true,' I thought in answer to the first. 'Yeah, that's true too,' I thought, in answer to the second.

The first guy made a good argument on my behalf (thank you anonymous drunken man), and their willingness to continue this debate was surprising to me. Ultimately, though, I lost to this statement from guy #2: "Well, I guess my standards are higher what with all these gorgeous hotties around."

Huh.

As strange as that was to take in, this was a dream come true. How many times did I wish I could be an invisible witness to whatever Jeremy Denny had to say about me when I was in the midst of my 5th grade crush on him?! (I came to realize eventually that he had likely never said anything about me; that came painfully clear when we took a field trip to the local roller rink and he skated with Crystal Moline during the couples skate--they were a blonde-haired, blue-eyed match made in heaven.)

But this was really happening...I was, finally and absolutely, a fly on the wall. Two things made this experience less gratifying than I imagined it would be. The first is that I didn't know these men and knew they didn't know me beyond a quick visual judgement made in a bar. And when I did finally sneak a peek at them, I had the somewhat cruel, yes defensive, but honest thought that these men didn't strike me as the type that had, just, you know, the whole world of women available to them for their choosing. It brought to mind a line from the movie "Say Anything":

John Cusack (as Lloyd Dobbler): "So if you guys know so much about women, what are you doing at like the Gas-n-Sip at 3 o'clock in the morning with no women anywhere in sight?"

Something like that.

But the second and more important reason the invisible eavesdropping experiment was a bust is that how could I care what these men had to say about me when I was just about to be joined at that table by the most wonderful man I have ever known?

It felt good when Sajid got there, when I told him what was going on and we laughed at the goofiness of the situation. When I looked him in the eyes and felt my love for him, his love for me. It felt like absolute redemption. Like the permanent erasure of all those awkward middle school moments, the awkward high school ones that followed, and all those between high school and that moment, there at that bar, being sized-up by three unknown men whose opinions I did not and would never care about.

When the men became aware of my company, they turned their attention elsewhere, seeking another woman to discuss and dissect, make cases for and against. And I put my hand in Sajid's, took a sip from my beer, and was thankful for all the meat markets in which I'll never be consumer nor goods.

What it's Like to be 28

It's great. It's been, by far, the best year of my life, and I woke today with the knowledge that I'm surrounded by a wonderful husband, family, and friends who love and support me. What more could I long for in this life?

Liberated!

It was time.

:)