15-ten, 15-ten, and Three of a Kind*

S's parents stayed at his house over Thanksgiving weekend. So did I. During their visit last Christmas, we got over the uncomfortable moment when they realized that their son is dating a hussy who is 'loose with her favors', so this year, they didn't blink an eye when I came rolling downstairs in the mornings, stumbling directly towards the coffeepot.

The weekend has gone remarkably smoothly. His parents have more humor than any other boyfriend's that I've been exposed to, and despite their voting history, are quite liberal-minded. After all, they ARE allowing their son to date a Bi-Racial Hussy.

The greatest bonding tool has proven to be my request for them to teach me to play cribbage. During the afternoons, I would run errands and head back to my apartment to keep my cat alive. When I'd return, S's parents would invariably be sitting at the dining room table, playing cribbage. Masterful players who follow the Hoyle Rules to the T, their scorekeeping rattle sounded like so many foreign phrases that incorporate soundbites that you THINK you understand, but why in the heck don't they actually make sense? And so I asked for a lesson.

The debate ensued over which of them should teach me. After the lessons began, they couldn't keep from interjecting, interrupting and over-ruling each other. S stood in the background, rolling his eyes and clearly staying out of it.

And we played. And I learned. Game after game, I scored well, had luck on my side, and by the end of the night, they declared that they'd 'created a monster'.

Which is a slightly better perception than hussy, right?


::
*10 + 10 + 6 = 26

Grocery Shopping (or, how long ago 21 was)

Last night S and I shopped for Thanksgiving Dinner. We have 12 mouths to feed, and several dietary restrictions to work around, so our menu is diverse and encompassing. I'm not a glutton (for punishment, anyway) so I compiled recipes that were delicious, but fell under the EASY to MODERATE catagory. 80% can be prepped early and slid into the oven as guests arrive.

I had compiled a list of the needed ingredients into catagories of when to buy: a week ahead, 3 days ahead, 1 day ahead. I have a gant chart identifying when each item must be prepped, compiled, and when it goes into the oven. I've verified that all the racks and casserole dishes and baking sheets will fit in S's extra-wide convection. I've noted which serving dishes are for what, so when the potatoes are ready to be split between bowls, we don't find them filled with crackers or ice.

S laughs at my micro-management, but that's because this is his first time hosting a large group for a formal dinner. I know better. I've done this before, and learned a heap of lessons.

Back when I was 21, newly engaged, and eager to prove myself as Happy Homemaker despite also being Full-Time Student/Architectural Intern/Waitress, I agreed to host my future husband's family for a holiday dinner. And my fiance and I nearly didn't make it past the grocery shopping.

Our schedules had left us shopping the day before Thanksgiving, which in itself was pure chaos. I'd made a grocery list, and we lassoed a big cart for the task and headed down the aisles. At each item, we'd pull up to the rack, and eye the options. I'd grab one, while he grabbed a similiar, yet generically branded version. And we'd face our dilemma. I wanted the brand, which to me represented quality, while he wanted the generic, which responded to the reality of our household economy. At each item, we'd pause, then cringe. At each item, we were in conflict.

This was completely foreign to me, as I'd never faced the dilemma of disagreeing over something as mundane as cream of mushroom soup. In terms of a relationship, I was prepared to debate religion and politics, but was inept at negotiating concensus over toilet paper. I didn't know how to vocalize my emotional need for my soon-to-be-inlaws to approve of my cooking - and thereby approve of me. I didn't know how to negotiate to reach a compromise - my choice for certain items, his choice for the others. It wasn't even a fight, because in all honesty, we didn't know how to. I didn't know how to do anything more than to stand in the aisle, clutching my perferred item, and be frustrated. And he didn't know how to do anything more, either.

Our conclusion on that shopping fiasco, so many years ago? We split up. Split the list and split into two shopping carts, that is, and each shopped our own way, to meet later at the checkout line and secretly grudge against the other about not getting what we wanted. In retrospect, that 'splitting and grudging' approach didn't mature much over our 8 years together, and ultimately, we reached the ultimate split.

That tell-tale episode of grocery shopping was when I was 21. Now, so many years later and hopefully so many ways wiser, S and I got one cart, one list, and defined some parameters, before even starting down the overlit aisles. Organic where it really mattered (meat, veggies). For everything else, basic was better. We turned it into a scavenger hunt, text messaged our next quest, and laughed.

Nearly $400 later (that's why they call it WholePaycheck!) we wearily carted the bounty back to his house, sorted it out, and stared at each other in a daze. And then he said some of the sweetest words I've ever heard:

Don't tell anyone, but I had fun shopping with you.


:::

The Science of Seventeen

My office works with a lot of material reps. Carpet folks, window and door manufacturers, tile suppliers. They often conduct 'lunch seminars', where they hold us captive (but well fed) for an hour while they describe their wares and outline their product's attributes. Some even perform miracles, but sad to say, they are few and far inbetween.

One of our favorite reps, Vicky, came by this week to show us a fanciful new line of carpet tiles, more just for the fun of it than really pushing them. The patterns would never fly for our more conservative corporate clients, but if we ever got a commission for a Chuck E. Cheese, we'd know exactly what to specify.

We got to talking about the why/how that complex carpet patterns get developed, and Vicky produced an amazing fact: There are exactly seventeen 'tiling' groups for area, or "wallpaper" patterning. This was a factoid I couldn't resist investigating, and it's well documented, from a super-nerdy mathematics proof to a wacky visual demonstration of the seventeen pattern arrangements.

In theory, you could take ANY image, and using one of the 17 wallpaper group arrangements, could arrive at a full field symmetry group. This is how those complex website backgrounds are created, the ones that seem really random, but load really fast, therefore they are in actuality a very small graphic that is programmed for complex tiling. [commence mental gears churning]

I'm fascinated. These are like graphic palindromes, exponentially! I could very easily become obesessed with this phenomenon, but I still have my Thanksgiving menu to plan, recipes to itemize, a matrix of 'buy 3 days before, buy 1 day before' and a timetable schedule to work out.

Aurgh! I gotta go... tile amongst yourselves...!


::

Fear of 14

In American culture, 13 is the hexed number, but to the Chinese, 14 is very un-auspicious, indeed.

The root of the belief stems from the unpopular number 4, which is spelled the same as and pronounced very similarly to the word for death (si)*. The addition of the 1 (sure) preceeding 4 (death) results in the colloquial interpretation of "certain death", an interpretation so deep rooted that many buildings in China do not have 14th floors, much as western culture occasionally omitted the 13th (triskaidekaphobia : fear of the number 13).

Personally, I am astounded that the leap from spelling to meaning would take such a conceptual leap and be so culturally pervasive, but I suppose the belief that one's fate and fortune could be influenced by digits isn't rare, as many cultures have deeply imbedded beliefs in numerology, and as the root of mathematics and science - believed to be supernatural practices themselves - it stands to reason that numbers have befuddled, bewildered and, yes, bewitched.

Reading through a listing of generally regarded "occult powers" of numbers, I'm amused.
2 = union? 11 = disorder? 16 = love? 29 = departure?
Apparently, in numerology, my previous marriage could be defined as 16 + 2 + 11 = 29, which might be why a person would put stock into this philosophy at all - not unlike astrology, one can easily rationalize it into a custom fit.

Then again, I'm definately a Leo and I'd never move to 666 Anywhere, USA.

But if someone were to hand me a $1M SF condo, located on the 14th floor, I'm pretty sure my Irish-English-Scottish-German half would override the Chinese half, and snatch that baby right up. After all, why be scared of "certain death"? I'm much more inclined to fear taxes.


* In Cantonese (as well as other Chinese dialects) a single vowel can have several pronunciations, with the resultant tonal variations having very different meanings.

Primary Palindrome*

pal·in·drome
Pronunciation: 'pa-l&n-"drOm
Etymology: Greek palindromos running back again, from palin back, again + dramein to run; akin to Greek polos axis, pole
: a word, verse, or sentence (as "Able was I ere I saw Elba") or a number (as 1881) that reads the same backward or forward

I love word games. I'm a compulsive punster, a habit fostered and cultivated by my father, encouraged by (certain) friends, and now endured by my boyfriend. Barely.

Now, I admit, most of the time they are corny as all get out, and even I cringe immediately upon releasing them on the world. But, not unlike other by-product 'functions', some things you just cannot hold in. It wouldn't be good for you.

And the raw material is all around us. Last week I met up with two friends at Hidden Vine, a basement level wine bar, and we perused the night's offerings list, highlighting wines from South Africa.

A: I'm looking at the reds. Maybe the Cabernet flight.
Me: I'm doing the pinot/cab/syrah grouping.
P: I'm going to try the whites.
-pause-
Me: Seriously? You're supporting White Flight out of South Africa?

[pa-dum, CHA!]

S audibly groans when the puns fly. Part of it is just ribbing me, though, because he happens to be a word geek, too. He loves palindromes.

Now, aside from the 'a man, a plan, a canal, panama', I can't recite palindromes. S can. It somehow ties into his other fascinations, I suspect.

One evening, we had settled in to watch a movie after dinner, and he excitedly opened up his Greencine shipment and announced the movie selection. Todd Solondz' latest film, Palindromes. I was game for it, being that Solondz's Welcome to The Dollhouse is on my list of favorite dark comedies.

We loaded up the DVD, and then spent the next 100 minutes in absolute agony, watching the most painfully disjointed, socially offensive and just downright CONFUSING films I've ever seen. It got to the point where we couldn't turn it off, because we were sure there HAD to be some redeeming element that would bring it all home, have it all make sense, and somehow - somehow - tie in to the title. Didn't happen.

After the closing credits, we both sat in stunned silence. I then cleared my throat and announced, "I think I get carte blanche on all my forthcoming puns, after that bomb of a palindrome."



* 11

A list of english sentance palindromes (oddly enough, some sound perfectly normal!)

10 Things

(this is kind of a cheat post, since most people put this stuff up in their profile, but hey, deal with it.)

1. I have a very hard time being still. I can sit in one place for several hours, but only if my mental gears are churning away. If I'm not processing something, it is impossible for me to be idle.

2. My dreams have scared people. Not just the halloween one, either. I once woke up in a sweat over a dream about a horrific car crash involving my sister. I called her up in the wee hours (yeah, they loved that) just to check in. They kinda laughed at me, until they realized how shook up I was. Two days later, a terrible car accident happened RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME, and the struck car jumped the curb and smashed into a pole RIGHT where I had been standing 5 seconds earlier.

3. I don't own that many shoes. S has even commented that I don't have enough shoes. But really, I do, it's just that most of them are task-specific: XCski boots, sherling-lined apres ski boots, steel shank hiking boots, light day hikers, trailrunners, trackrunners, indoor soccer shoes, non-marking deck shoes. The shoes I wear to work are either Dansko boots (to jobsites) or Franco Sarto pumps, the most comfortable dress shoes I've found. Now that I think about it, I have a LOT of shoes, I just wear the staples 90% of the time. Whew. I'm a 'real girl' after all. Just not a stiletto/strappy girl. And open-toe? To me that is akin to walking down Mission Street nekkid. Blech.

4. I like manual labor. I own an Estwing framing hammer (from building Habitat for Humanity houses in Texas), a random orbital sander (from remodeling my house in Oregon) and a stretcher/stapler gun (for stretching my own canvases). I once assembled a Craftsman table saw on my own (granted, I ducked the first time I turned it on). My sailing org has fought over me for maintenance weekends. My freelance work once centered around designing and building sculptural room dividers for loft apartments. I've welded aircraft parts.

5. I'm still a delicate flower.

6. I was a delicate WALL flower, until, at age 29, a good friend of mine taught me how to talk to strangers. Not in the fliratious way, but in the 'tell me a good story about your world' way. Aside from my father teaching me how to change a flat tire, it is the best life lesson - the best gift - that anyone has ever given me. And I am thankful for it - and her - every single day.

7. I procrastinate. I am learning that this has much to do with my #1, and that if I remove all other stimulus and allow myself to concentrate on something uninterrupted, that I will plow through it, and that procrastination is my minds way of saying that there's too much distraction. I guess this means I have a form of ADD, but then, I ask you - who doesn't?

8. I have a cat, but I am a dog person. A big, sleek, bird-dog person. The Charch and I tolerate each other, but if I could turn her into a Short-Haired Pointer, a Ridgeback or a Vizsla, we'd be inseperable.

9. I'm an existentialist. 90% of the time, I'm observing the world as if I'm not in it, just marveling at how it works (or doesn't), completely separate of how I work (or don't). I attribute this to reading Robert Persig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance during my first year of college. It's a tough read - I've literally had to re-read sections numerous times to really absorb it, but once you do, it doesn't undo.

10. If I could have one wish, it would be to be fluent in every single language in the world.


:::

Nein

A few years ago, I was one of the first handful of members to join a regional online social network: Bay Area LinkUp. The engine actually was born to be a networking tool for business people - and as a freelancer new to SF, I was very interested in meeting other freelancers and forming my own network. I ambitiously signed up to host a monthly lunch meeting to discuss marketing and self-promotion, and at my first lunch, the only person who showed up was the mastermind programmer behind the newly minted tool. He assured me that the member list was growing, and encouraged me to keep scheduling.

The member list DID grow, but the business social network soon morphed into a purely social event network - which was fine, but wasn't going to facilitate me paying my rent, so I rarely participated. What made this social network different, it is worth mentioning, is that it emphasized accountability. If you signed up for an event, and then didn't show, you received a lowered reliability rating - a 'black mark' so to speak. Once your rating sunk below a certain level, you were ousted from the network.

This actually DID create a unique effect - events had 90%+ attendance. There were rumors of the 'blacklist' - people who's flaky behavior got them banned from the network, and speculation on the Machiavellian founder - the man I'd had my first lunch event with. But the network grew, and branched out to 20+ cities. The conceit that evolved was that THESE people on THIS network were decent, well behaved, honorable folk. Just like You and Me.

At one event, a black and white photography shoot in the arboretum of Golden Gate Park, I met the GBM (German Business Man), an older gentleman whom I got along great with. He was an exceptional photographer, and we shot side-by-side all afternoon, exchanging tales about what got us interested in photography. We were both shooting digital, so between shots, we'd screen each other for input.

That's a great juxtaposition, I commented.

Danke. I like how you position your focus, he said, in his Teutonic accent, unconventional, yet balanced.

Bitte. You have great f-stop control, I noted.

Sehr nett. You have a keen eye for composition, he stated.

During the couple of hours of shooting, GBM and I lingered along the succulants bed and commenting on how different they were from the foilage we grew up surrounded by. We traded tales of how he'd XCski'd to school as a child, and got all kinds of ridicule because his father, a botanist, had painted flowers on his skis. I told him about my first frozen-lake ice skating experience, visiting a friend's relatives in rural Germany, and how they'd sat along the bank and laughed at me as I flailed and fell.

It was one of those great afternoons, where you've serendipidously met someone new and interesting, and felt immediately comfortable with.

And then, as the sun was sinking below the tops of the trees, he turned to me.

I'm parked just alongside the park - do you want to come to my car and have sex with me?

[deer in headlights expression] Uh, Nein.

So much for 'well behaved'.


:::

Ate (or, the fate of 8)

I had a cruel nickname growing up: Olive Oyl. The monikor was the result of me being the emcee of my elementary school's May Day festivities, and while all the participants wore costume garb of the regional dances each grade performed on the school's playing field, I wore a long, straight dark skirt, a white blouse, and had my shoulder-length hair pulled back into a chignon, out of the wind. What started it was the notion that if everyone was in costume, what costume was I in? Hmmmmmmm. You can see where that went.

Granted, I WAS Olive Oyl. I was tall, gangly, and gawky (geeky didn't kick in until high school). Bone thin. My parents couldn't buy me a single pair of pants that didn't need to be severely altered to stay perched on my gaunt, boyish hips. Even throughout high school, I couldn't ever just buy pants off the rack - only in my senior year could I FINALLY fit into the smallest standard size - a 2. And by then, I was over 5'-7".

I was under the minimum accepted weight to join the military. My recruiter presented me with a 42 ounce fruit punch to drink the morning of my physical, in the hopes that it would make me legal. It did, but just barely. (No wonder my parents were freaked at the thought of me in the Army - the bayonet blade was thicker than I was.)

Four years of intense physical stress added both height and weight - by the time I was discharged, I was 5'-10" and 124 lbs. All muscle. I could do 57 military standard push-ups in 2 minutes, and ran a sub-7 minute mile. And I married my physical trainer.

Flash foward 17 years.

I'm still 5'-10", but I now weigh considerably more - still at the slim end of my physicians BMI chart for my height, but this body now has curves. Significant curves.

On one hand, I'm thrilled. Having spent my entire adolescent life being ridiculed for being rail-thin, it is entirely refreshing to realize that men find my current body attractive - sexy, even. On the other hand, being a human stick was so EASY - carrying my current weight makes me literally envision my former self hoisting a sack of spuds with me wherever I go.

Now, I'm don't wish to trigger a diatribe on healthy body imagery. I AM at a healthy weight for my frame, and I accept that. What I'm having difficulty with, is that I'm on the verge of changing jean size, and I'm having to accept the fate of an 8. I have 5 pairs of jeans, all purchased within the past couple of years. 4 are size 6, one is size 8. And I now find myself digging through the laundry basket, searching for the 8. And I'm not really okay with that.

Now, I know I'm being taken. I've read all of the media reports about how clothing makers are surrepticiously 'downing' their clothing sizes, based on the psychology that a woman will prefer to buy clothing that is sized at what she WANTS to be, rather than what she really IS. And I believe it's being done. And there is my dilemma. I'm OKAY with being an 8, but by outgrowing my 6s and accepting my 8s, I'm really having to acknowledge my transition into the double-digits - the 10s. And I made a pact with myself, when I realized I could no longer do 5 of the 57 pushups, that I'd not ever let myself hit the double-digits.

And yet, here I am.

In the past year, I've given up running (thus sealing the fate of 8) and my degenerative knees have made serious noise that I'll likely never take it up again. Without that primary caloric-burning activity to engage in, I'm forced to face the grim reality: strong measures must be taken. Strong dietary measures.

And thus, I'm starting a food diary. A hard copy record of my consumption. To rate what I ate.

Visions of Bridget Jones' diary footnotes (4 fags, 5 alcohol units, 6,257 calories), and I'm cringing already.

:::

Who's in Aisle 7?

They say that what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger. (Which 'they' is that, again?)

Some people thrive on putting themselves in hazardous situations, as a means of tempting fate and testing themselves. I am not one of those people. Granted, I have taken on challenges, both physical and mental, with the anticipation that I'd be mettled as a result. And in the grande scheme, that has held true. But there have been a few times when I've reviewed the odds, and I'm lucky I beat them.

My second year living in SF, I was facing the continuing downward spiral of the economy, and wondering if I'd survive it. I was working at a very small architecture firm and doing contract freelancing on the side, but neither of my employers had strong legs of stability. I was facing a renewal on my $1600/mo apartment lease, and was getting anxious.

So, I began weighing my options. I definately wasn't open to taking on roommates. I had a cat, a bike, three computers, and a mountain of camping gear. I scoured the listings for more affordable apartments that were still walking distance from my office. I looked at dozens, and grew disheartened.

Then I came across these words: "Newly remodeled kitchen with new appliances. Gas stove and full granite countertops."

They had me at 'granite'.

Compared to the apartment I was in, which had a serviceable yet tiny kitchen/dining nook with no counterspace to speak of, I could have slept on the generous countertops of the new place. I immediately envisioned myself happily cooking up a storm, and with that myopic vision, I mentally blocked out the proximity of the centralized recycling facility across the street. I signed the lease, and made plans to move in.

The first evening in the apartment, after the moving crew had deposited the furniture and I'd secured a location for the cat's litterbox, I threw open the double-paned windows facing the front street and actually ENJOYED the tinny-clamor of the cable car bells, the whir of the underground chain, and the bustle of the arterial streetscape below. Enjoyed, that is, until 2am, when the corner bar (The Hyde Out) released it's patrons out onto the street. That particular night, an inebriated, arguing couple SCREAMED each other's indiscretions at each other the full length of several blocks. The sound carried and bounced off the tall building canyon walls and triggered barking dogs.

In addition to the lively local fauna, the neighborhood 24-hour supermarket stood opposite the wide street the apartment fronted on. I have always lived within walking distance of a market, so I wasn't bothered by the idea of being across the street - but experiencing the reality? That went downhill fast. The market was ALWAYS active. The lower parking lot echoed squealing tires, the clatter of collecting aluminum and glass canisters. The tall windows of the market glowed 24/7, radiating fluorescent rays directly my way.

I tried to make the most of it. After all, my overhead had dramatically decreased, and there WERE those granite countertops. I played a game I called "Who's In Aisle 7?" where, whenever my insominia kicked in (with the aid of the cable car bells, the churn of the subterrainian cable, the fractured rainfall of recycling glass, or the screaming local denizens) I would stand at my front bay window, and look down into the market - and see who was shopping for what, and imagined a full story behind them. I even had visiting friends join in on the practice, and we'd place bets on people turning down the aisle of what they were shopping for.

The building also had a recessed, sheltering entry alcove, which during the winter months, attracted the homeless on a regular basis. On numerous occasions I'd head out for a morning jog only to find the front entry fully blocked by a slumbering mass of humanity, swaddled in moving blankets, or more poignantly, newsprint. Initially, this tore at me, and I would retreat to the utilitarian service side alley to exit. Eventually, it galled me, and after seeing one vagrant harrass an elderly widow who lived in the building, I began calling the non-emergency police line to have the neighborhood patrol clear them away at dawn.

This wasn't the only brush with low-lifes that occurred. Although the building address was situated directly between two tony, gentrified neighborhoods - Nob Hill and Pacific Heights - these particular blocks dipped down into the lowlands that formed the central north-south corridor out of a 'transitional' 'hood - the Upper Tenderloin as it evolved into Russian Hill. In a city confined to a 7X7 square mile peninsula, the transition between grime and glitz can easily happen within three blocks, and the Lower Tenderloin was a hotbed of drugs and prostitution (male and female and all manner in-between).

One sunday morning, I returned to the building from a run, and climbing the central stair, looked up to find legs - many, many legs - standing on the second level landing. Uniformed cops and suited investigators, who immediately 'shusshed' me, then let me pass up to my own floor. One of the suits followed me, and once out of earshot of the action on 2, asked me if I knew who lived on that floor. I didn't. Warily, I asked what was going on, and he calmly stated that they had a warrant for the guy. Great. A warrant that warrented 8-10 strongarms waiting to surprise him on a sunday morning.

I retreated to my apartment, thankful I wasn't positioned directly above the lodging of the individual being sought, so I didn't have to worry about errant bullets coming through the floor.

That was when I realized it was time to start up The Great Apartment Search once again.

Six

Since moving to California in 2000, I have had six different living situations. Six in six years. Now I'm a person who has moved a lot in my life, but that statistic startles even me. Granted, moving to the Bay Area in 2000 was like a miner showing up at the tail end of the Gold Rush and wandering from stream to stream, looking for a vein. The housing situation was dire. People were living 2 to a room, camping out on sofas, sleeping in the tub. AND THESE PEOPLE ALL HAD GOOD JOBS AND WERE PAYING PREMIUM RENT. I kid you not.

My move was prompted by family pressure to leave the town where my marriage had dissolved, to be closer to family and - they blatently admitted it - closer to where the eligible bachelors were. I didn't give a rip about eligible bachelors, I was on the hunt for a square of living space that wouldn't involve multiple roommates walking past my bed en route to the bathroom. Little did I know that I was dreaming the impossible dream.

Living situation #1:
My sister & her (then) husband's spare bedroom, in an elite town 30 miles south of SF. This was a very nice space, albiet small. It had it's own adjoining bathroom and was located at the far side of the house from their bedroom. The biggest downside is that staying there made me feel fourteen, and therefore I spent as much time as possible away from the house. When I wasn't working 14 hour days, I camped out at coffeeshops and bookstores, and realized that those places are filled with everyone else who's avoiding going home. Three months into my move to California, and I was already a cynic.

Apartment #2:
A short-term stint in a 2BR/2BA with Susan, an engaged accountant who was planning her wedding. Just before the wedding, I was to move out, so that after the wedding, her new husband could move in. They were very nice, but the hugest couch potatoes I'd ever, ever seen. Maybe it had to do with saving money for the wedding, but it astounded me. The apartment had a generous, west-facing balcony, with nothing on it but a gas grill and two plastic chairs. I commandeered the space, unpacked my dozens of glazed flowerpots, and cultivated what friends in the complex called 'the garden restaurant', as I ate all of my meals amid the fragrant blossoms at a tiny french bistro table to avoid sitting at Susan's classic dining table with the giant vase of dusty dried flowers on it.

Apartment #3:
Shared a 2BR/2BA with Delphi, an Egyptian woman who taught me to make lamb-stuffed peppers. We would watch the Food Network Channel for hours on Sunday mornings, then take our freshly transcribed ingredient lists to the market and cook up a storm. Delphi was prone to pining over a lost love, and the only thing that would shake her out of it was for us to go dancing 'til dawn. Yes, I'll do that for my friends, when they need it.

Apartment #4:
After 18 months of checking out over a hundred advertised apartments (aka: cubbyholes) in San Francisco, I finally found one. Apparently the mass exodus of recently laid-off tech labor had released a cache of housing, and I found a decent apartment, where I could live alone, with my cat. The address was on one of the busiest streets in SF, but the rear of the apartment faced an extremely steep grade, and the next apartment building was 20 feet up the hill, leaving a lush, overgrown garden in the gap between. I loved it. The place was freakin' expensive - more than 50% of my base income - but I was freelancing on the side, and what better way to celebrate having your own place in the city than by spending every night in it working until 2 am? That's what I thought.

Apartment #5:
Proof that the city's economy was still reeling, all of my firm's million dollar remodels were shelved, indefinately. I was facing the very real possibility of being laid off myself, and having noted all of the "Nevada or Bust" UHauls leaving town, thought it wise to not lock myself into another year lease on a place that was costing me ALL of my unborn children. I found a smaller place in the next neighborhood down, a little grittier but a LOT cheaper, and I didn't have to sign a long lease. The night I moved in, I realized why it was cheaper. On the cable car line, across from a grocery store's recycling center, kitty-corner from a popular bar. There are SO MANY stories to tell about living in this apartment, that it deserves it's own post. Seriously.

Apartment #6:
At the hint of job stability, and having worn down my last nerve living in #5, I moved yet again. Apartment #6 was literally only six blocks away, but those were six UPHILL blocks, and if you've lived in a town with topography you know - UP is the way to go. Shopping carts can't make it uphill. Trash blows downhill. Traffic of all manner is less at the top of the hill, with the exception of little dogs in expensive sweaters. Granted, my current neighborhood is a bit too homogenous and gentrified for my taste, but walking up the hills keeps the tush toned, and SF is so small that all the good seedy neighborhoods are always just a short cab ride away. I have been in this apartment for going on three years, and that number stuns me. It is the longest that I've stayed in one place in well over a decade.

Six homes in six years.

I guess it shouldn't surprise me - I'll be the first to say that I'm a nomad, a wanderer. My migrating pattern started when I was seventeen, and hasn't let up, yet. I don't know what this says about me - or maybe I just don't want to know. Will I be here next year? Will I add six more locales to the list? I really can't say. I want roots, I really do, but there is and always will be a streak of wanderlust in me, that can't be quelled. I happen to think that's a good thing.

And really, if home is where you hang your hat, why not test out six (or more) venues, and see where your hat hangs best?

Five (people in the family)

I loved going to the movies when I was young. These days, I stick with mostly indie flicks and documentaries, and ignore the blockbusters. Since I live without a television, I don't see any previews, so if something does peak my interest, I've most likely been swayed by an intelligent review rather than marketing hype. Or so I like to think.

As a kid, I wasn't so discriminating. We saw everything we were allowed to see, age-wise, at our local theatre. I'm sure I've even seen things that weren't age appropriate, due to the fact that small town theatres don't necessarily heed censor guidelines.

Our summer routine was to walk to the theatre for the late matinee, then call our father at his office and have him pick us up on his way home from work. From the onset of this pattern, my sister and I had decided that in order to memorize my father's office phone number, we would make up a jingle, ala schoolhouse rock, on our way to the theatre.

Five (5) people in the family,
Four (4) legs on the cat,
Three and Three is six (6).

Five (5) people in the family,
Michael is six (6),
Nancy is eight (8),
One and two is three (3).

This worked perfectly. Clearly, if I can recall it some 2+ decades later, it stuck. In fact, the proven long-term lodging of this jingle supports my theory that we will retain information much better if we tie it to music, thus triggering two sections of the brain to retain, rather than just relying on one.*

At age 19, while planning a trip back home to visit my parents before embarking on a 18-month stint in Europe, I delightedly told my father that before my flight departed San Francisco, I'd call him at his office - and wait! I'd remembered the number, even after all of these years! - and recited the jingle to him.

Through the phone line, there was a pause. Then, in his kind, yet stoic manner, he calmly stated,
"Well, the number has changed."


:::


* I know at least a dozen Schoolhouse Rock songs from the 70's, and I'm pretty sure that if I wrote a score with catching lyrics to the Uniform Building Code, I'd never have to look up ADA required clearances and mounting heights ever again.

Well, until they change, too.

Fore!

I am one of those people who while being truly outdoorsy and reasonably athletic, is bad at sports. I've jammed my thumbs numerous times in my feeble attempts to play basketball. I have permanent bruises on my shins from indoor soccer, AND became legendary for 'headbutting' the ball, however, it was rarely intentional. But that's nothin'. I am downright dangerous with a golf club.

One of my closest woman friends is an avid golfer. Having grown up mere steps from the fairway, it is in her blood (quite literally, as while still a toddler, she once stepped into her older brother's backswing, and earned a shiner that would make Petey from Little Rascals envious).

When we met, she used to frequent the driving range on summer evenings after work, to decompress from the day. As we often commisserated with each other about our gigantic work loads, she offered to take me with her and teach me to swing. The idea of whacking away my worries appealled, so despite my non-jockette genes, I agreed.

At the range, we each got a bucket of balls and being both tall gals, we shared clubs. Queued up next to each other on the popular range (it had an island with a moat around it), we'd alternate swings, with her coaching me on interlocking my fingers, straightening my elbows, turning at the torso. And I started to get the hang of it.

With the exception of having a wicked slice. No matter how I angled myself at the tee, nor how far I twisted, nor how much I envisioned my trajectory, I would slice. The first few were feeble shots that barely tracked any yardage, but as I got accustomed to the odd physical dynamics of the swing, I picked up force, only to launch a now powerfully loaded slice. Straight towards the adjacent parking lot.

With the writing on the wall, we moved to the far end of the range rows, to keep my balls in bounds. I continued to pick up speed and power. And yes, continued to slice.

After several of our range sessions, I had an opportunity to play in a casual tournament with several other design firms, and our team of four made its way through the par3 course. I was holding my own, managing to not humiliate myself off the tee, and to make a presentable showing on the first few holes.

By about the 5th hole, I was getting tired. I teed up, and took a minute to shake my shoulders out before assuming the stance. During the pause, a red-breasted robin hopped happily on the fairway. After a few jokes telling me not to whack the bird, I stepped up to face the ball. I interlocked, shifted, straightened, twisted, and swung.

At the resounding whack, both the ball and the bird alighted off the green. Each witness would later agree, it was in acheing slow-motion that the projected path of my stoke - my killer slice - triangulated with flight path. Two masses of similar size, one a flash of red and brown, the other dimpled white, collided with a sick thump, then plummeted back to earth.

We gaped while the robin, alive but dazed, attempted to shake itself off, then drunkenly staggered off the fairway into the rough.

Our foursome finished the tournament in decent standing, and during the tongue-in-cheek awards session following, I received my first sport-related award. I may suck at basketball, wheeze my way through soccer, but I can now lay claim to the fact that in the challenging precision sport of golf, I once got a Birdie.


~

Three

The front room of The Alibi is pure 50's tiki, filled with dusty artifacts of questionable exotic origin. The giant fishtank begs to be filtered, the plastic palm trees need a good dusting, and the faded fabric leis and artificial grass hula skirts would make a Fire Marshal call a 3-alarm - if he wasn't drinking a toxic Mai Tai at the carved wooden bar himself, that is.

The back room of The Alibi is pure 70's psychedelia. Fluorescent paint on the surrounding walls, black velvet esconced booths, pleather benches. A haphazard plywood ramp up to the raised dias where the action occurs. The mic is tacky from both peeling ducttape and spilt spirits, and reeks of stale beer.

Three women - red, blonde and brunette - enter on the arm of their tall, bald, gold-earringed escort, Mr. Clean. He sidles up to the bar and collects a round of vodka, while the girls scan the room with their kohl-lined sloe eyes. The event emcee nods slightly, and motions to the dj.

No need for the play list. The master of the mic half-bows and ushers them up the plywood ramp. The silently arrange, centering around the brunette, the tallest. The speakers pop with feedback as the dj lays the needle on the vinyl.

What you want
Baby, I got it
What you need
Do you know I got it?

They don't belt it out, despite Ms. Franklin's precedent.

They roll it out - heavy and sensual. A touch of Marilyn Monroe but mostly Robert Plant band, one shade from stoic.

I ain't gonna do you wrong
when you're gone
I ain't gonna do you wrong

It isn't the singing that pauses the room. It's the eyes. As the three alternate beween chorus and backup, they work the room, locking gaze table by table, man by man.

The other women in the room notice. By the song's end, the men are leaning in, ever so slightly, while their dates bristle, upright.

The three women - red, blonde and brunette - shake their last shoulder shimmy, toss one more pout over the red's shoulder, and slink back over to Mr. Clean. He hands them olive-laden cocktails, then wraps an arm around the blonde, possessively. Two clinks, and the cocktails are drained. Two beats, and the women and their escort disappear back through the fringe of faux foliage, past the day-glo mural of topless hula dancers, past the dimly lit aquarium, past the flickering neon.

The side alley at The Alibi is pure, ungentrified 'hood. The broken asphalt is riddled with liquid pools of rain, beer, and more. Flattened cigarette butts lay scattered, saturated and swollen. The three women - red, blonde and brunette - slide into the waiting cab. Mr. Clean hands the driver some bills, then stands back, takes a deep draw on his home-rolled unfiltered, and watches the car roll away into the night.

Beyond trendy, The Alibi is an institution. The club with a legacy of local c-listers, out-of-town rockers, an the occasional sighting of Courtney Love*. You'll be served strong drinks, spicy hot wings, and in the back karaoke room you can throw a few back, don your fantasy personna, and as long as you don't dawdle over the song list, get a little r-e-s-p-e-c-t.



*or at least, a tipsy, statuesque, brazen blonde who eerily resembles her.

To

Towards.

Where are we going to?
Even when we stand still, we are still moving forward. Hurdling through space and time, with our free will only slightly steering the trajectory, but powerless against the speed.

Where am I going to?
Heaven knows I ask myself this question on a daily basis. In the immediacy of my day-to-day, the answer is simple: to the kitchen, to the office, to lunch, towards home at the end of the day. But in the grander scheme? That's a tough one.

Where do I want to get to?
There are days when I'm quite satisfied with the here and now - and I allow myself to be content. Other days, I yearn for so much more. In conceptual terms, I want to be in a state of stability, with space to grow. Maybe that's just malarky, but that sense is what I want: to feel strong and anchored like a tree, with the ability to sprout, bud and blossom.

How am I going to?
I've learned enough about myself over the years to know that I'm not the vine-type, looking for a trellis to anchor myself to. I need to be a tree. Today I'm still a sappling, unrooted, but I have extended a taproot - the career - that is still searching for a stable source to ground itself to. For futher stability, there are offshoots, the interests and hobbies, which spread out and provide me lateral support.
It's not exactly the 'straight-line' approach - the rational voice in me (yes, there is one!) says to pick one route and mine it deep - but my brain just doesn't work that way. There is SO MUCH out there - to see, to do, to be.

And I'd just die if I didn't get to.


:::

One

One is the loneliest number
that you'll ever do
Two can be as bad as one
it's the loneliest number
since the number one

~Aimee Mann, One


As much as I love Aimee Mann, I have to disagree. I believe that One is much maligned.

In our aspiration to become two, and henceforth more, it is The One that we seek.

One is melodic. It takes two to harmonize, but One is the melody that conveys the message.

One is symbolic. A single Gerber daisy in a bud vase is a statement that a full bouquet cannot communicate. It triggers a pause, it invites contemplation.

One is a beautiful number, not exactly Prime, but the perfect factor to the nth degree. And in that calculation, One can become All.


:::