The Ride
Posted on: March 26, 2009
With the exception of taxicabs and an occasional subway, it had been years since she took public transportation. Lori was visiting her friends for the week and loved how their house was on the suburban/city transit route. So on that Thursday morning, she ignored the rental car and headed towards the bus stop with the advertisement emblazoned bench.
Autumn…she thought as she watched the jewel toned leaves swirl around her feet. “I miss Autumn.” Lori said it aloud, just as her bus pulled up to the curb, unexpectedly smooth for a vehicle so massive. She boarded.
Surprised at the number of passengers, she found a seat next to a woman reading a newspaper. They exchanged quick perfunctory smiles and paid no further attention to each other. The bus was too crowded for proper “people watching” – one of her favorite pastimes – so she allowed her thoughts to wander, brain on autopilot.
With each stop the bus got more crowded until finally passengers were standing in the aisle, trying to not jostle each other. Instinctively she pulled her parts in – knees, shoulders, elbows, ethereal body – to avoid bumping those same parts of the strangers.
It was in this “pulled in” mindset that she first saw him. Or part of him, at least. He was turned three-quarters away from her, wearing khakis and a forest green Izod-type shirt. The cotton knit top was casual and loose-fitting, except for how it stretched across the broad shoulders and the sleeve band around the tricep muscles on his right arm. The way he was able to comfortably reach out and over to hold the hanging loop designed to steady standing passengers, she judged him to be maybe just at 6’ – no taller, but tall enough.
As she watched the arm flex and relax in rhythm to the movements of the bus, she speculated on reasons for the muscles and dark skin. Muscular but on the lean side, with especially toned arms…the woman thought it was more likely due to manual labor than working out. The skin tone could be from the sun (a construction worker?) or due to genetic ancestry. Hispanic? Native American? Polynesian? Or maybe he’s one of those gorgeous beings of undetermined mixed ancestry. His hair was dark brown, cut very short, so it offered no further clues. As a friend recently reminded her, you couldn’t really judge ancestry that way. But in this case, her fascination with ¾ of her mystery man got the best of her.
The bus stopped suddenly, causing a few of the standing passengers to nearly lose their balance. “Her” man reacted quickly to steady the arm of an older gentlemen standing next to him. As he turned to do so, he glanced up, right into the path of Lori’s gaze. The unexpected and accidental eye contact gave her a start …BUSTED.
But then he smiled. Warm, open and without guile or even surprise – the smile coming from his eyes as much as from his mouth. His attention continued a few seconds, as though he had a comment and was calculating the distance and din to determine whether it was worth trying to speak. Lori could feel herself returning the smile.
Just then a package-laden shopper began to make her way up the aisle to the door. The man moved to the side to allow her to pass, but after she had done so, a teenager took his original standing place, eliminating any chance of verbal communication.. The man looked back at the her and smiled with an “oh well” kind of shrug and chuckle, before facing the front once again.
But now Lori was fully engaged. As she watched his well defined backside move with the rhythm of the bus, she imagined what it might look like under the khakis. She notice that his hand was now holding a different loop, and fixated on that hand once again. What might it be like, close up? Is it calloused? Soft? And how would it feel against…her thoughts trailed off as she noticed him reach for the bell line. He’s getting off the bus at the next stop, she thought, never to be seen by her again.
As he pulled the line, he slowly turned back, looking at her again with the same warm and open smile. Could it be her imagination, or was that an invitation? Oh my goodness – could she DO that? It was so unlike her.
Actually, she thought to herself, just getting off the bus would be fine. For all he knew, that could be her stop as well. She could nonchalantly stroll down the sidewalk, giving him a polite smile as he passed. Maybe he’d speak, maybe not. If not she could just keep walking, knowing she at least took a shot. And if he did speak, then…
The bus swooped into the curb for the next stop. This is it – now or never. Her heart beat in double time as she tried to find the courage to stand. Do it! She told herself. Just fucking DO IT! She would never know for sure, and would always wonder. Take the shot. Stand up now.
She peered into the crowd of passengers, looking for him. She saw him at the door, as he walked down the steps, head turned in her direction as though he was looking for her.
The doors closed with a pneumatic whish and the bus began to move. Looking passed her seatmate, she saw him on the sidewalk. They made contact one last time, as the bus pulled away.
Chiaroscuro
Posted on: March 26, 2009
It was quite a week. Intense, but good intense. So I treated myself to a vacation day.
Started the morning on my deck with a lovely, lovely meditation. Then I wandered around the apartment, emailing, chatting until I finally got whacked with a sudden inspiration to hit the gym – first time in nearly two weeks.
I took life’s “stuff” out on the Elliptical Machine, from deadline concerns to thinking unkind things about whomever the gym member is that insists on the TV being set to Fox News. I marched furiously forward into nowhere, while that damn screen mocked me. Hoping the culprit was there to see me take a swig from my Obama08 water bottle (take THAT, Conservative Gym Guy) I changed course and decided to laugh at my silliness and own it. On to the weight machines, headphones in place…
Ever notice how often a random song matches the external situation? From Beatles to Rascal Flatts to Transiberian Orchestra – it all fit. Digging on the synchronicity … kind of like my own little Life Soundtrack…I got into the movie of it. Gawd, I love music.
Yes, I tend to live in my head. But even I have to admit – there’s nothing like a physical workout. It’s tough and sweaty and occasionally monumentally unpleasant but when those endorphins kick in….
Finished.
Happy and tired – blissfully so – I left the gym and walked towards my car. Catching a glimpse of something shiny in my peripheral vision, I turned to look. It was the sunlight dancing across the turquoise blue Pacific. Twenty some years later it never fails to take my breath away. Forgetting that my tunes were still plugged in to me, I walked across the lot to fully enjoy it.
I was hot and sticky but felt oddly cool. Know that thing that happens when the breeze wafts across wet skin? Yeah, that.
Just as I was being swept up into yet another island girl moment, a familiar piano riff began to play in my head. WTF??? In my head? Oh that’s right – the headphones. Listening to that solitary and deliberate prelude, I knew what was coming–
“Some folks want to get away, take a holiday from the neighborhood…
Hop a flight for Miami Beach or Hollywood
But me, I’m taking the Greyhound on the Hudson River Line.
I’m in a New York State of Mind…”
Followed by that sax…
Oh, there is something about a slow, bluesy saxophone that touches me like only it can. From the very first note, it insinuates itself into a place within me that nothing else can reach. Don’t know why or what it means. It’s just so.
So there I was…lost in the paradox of tropical breezes and saxophones and breaking waves until the song about the City played itself out. Made my way back to the car and drove home, slowly, deliberately. Just the way Billy played it, I guess.
I walked up my stairs, thinking about doors – closing, opening, closing, opening…There is a wistful magnificence to life sometimes. A little melancholy perhaps, but oh, so exquisitely beautiful.
(Here it is … https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ol0dPJdzm1M )
“Health Food” at Our House
Posted on: March 25, 2009
I love food. I mean, really. Other than black licorice and strongly recognizable body parts like feet and faces, I pretty much love all food.
In a given week, my diet can range from tofu and fish to baby backs and steak. I seriously love good ribs and they will probably be my downfall someday. But I also love how Down to Earth does this weird Mock Chicken thing. It isn’t anything even remotely resembling chicken, in appearance or flavor, but damn, it’s good.
So when I discovered the local Health Food store on the other side of the parking lot of my new apt last week, I decided to check it out.
First of all, it has that third generation hippy street cred thing going on. What was my first clue? The “Beware – your cell phone may be giving you cancer!” poster on the front door. Surreptitiously repositioning the verizonwireless in my pocket, I went in.
Okay, lemme interrupt myself for a minute. WHAT is it that those places, particularly the ones that serve prepared food, smell like? Is it a combination of spices, or is it one particular thing? “Back in the day” they smelled like patchouli oil in the front and curry in the back. Love curry, hate patchouli (which always struck me as a weird variation on spice gumdrops, which , ironically, I DO like) but the combination really sucked. Anyway, back to the post–
I passed the Frozen Yogurt station and made my way to the Hot Food Buffet.
Okay, another digression:
Whoever invented the charge-by-weight buffet bar is a marketing genius. I think $6.99 per pound sounds like a very reasonable price. But damn…healthy food is VERY HEAVY. Being consciously frugal, I walked to the register and…$11.03???!! Shit. Making a mental note to step away from the steamed asparagus and move towards the raw spinach salad the next time, I bought a fructose sweetened frozen yogurt topped with diced fresh papaya and started back across the parking lot with my bounty – already feeling pounds lighter! No, wait – that’s my wallet. Anyway–
I got back to the apartment, grabbed a real fork and settled in to eat. My son came over to investigate and pointed to a clump of something on my plate.
“What’s that?”
“My lunch.”
“I know. But I mean, what is it?”
“Uh, it’s uh, I think it has some, uh, that looks like it might be…” I pause before admitting defeat.
“I have no idea.”
Then – like a 2008 version of the Life Cereal Mikey commercial, we both lean towards the plate as I take my first tentative bite. There’s some kind of nut in it, and I think I recognize rice but that could be something else. Ah, cheese! It has a hint of parmesean cheese! I go for the second bite.
“This is good!”
The kid looked at my plate, considering the un-considerable.
“So,” I tempt him, “wanna tryyyyyyy some?”
This child, this fruit of my loin, who has bungee jumped, driven the Hana Highway like a champ, has even dived off Black Rock for heaven’s sake, glanced up with a look of total fear and said simply, “I’m afraid.”
So I continued eating. And I’ll tell ya…I have no idea what it was, but “it” tasted really, really good. I wolfed it.
About 1/2 of the way through he yelled, “Wait! I wanna taste it.”
“You sure?”
Holding a fresh fork like a lance, he takes a deep breath. “Yep, I’m going in.”
And then…
The little &^%$#@ ate the rest of my lunch.
Relative Humidity
Posted on: March 23, 2009
On that unbearably sultry day in July, the woman smiled while she folded the last towel. “Humid. They don’t know from humid. 85 degrees with 71% relative humidity…they couldn’t handle this.” Weather to melt by, that’s what she called it.
Finished with the laundry, she moved to the other project – cleaning out the luggage, the closet and the memorabilia folder – alternating among all three. She found, remembered and then tossed each item into one bag or the other. Goodwill or Garbage; no in between. Nothing was going to make the cut today.
Catching a glimpse of herself in the bedroom mirror, she paused to survey the reflection. The pile of clothing on the dresser partially blocked her view. Well, it saved her, really, from the reality of the middle age upper arm waddle that she so hated. Instead, her eyes were met only by a direct and purposeful gaze and well sculpted tan shoulders that strained at the olive green tank top that her eyes decided to match in color today. Having a generally awful reaction to mirrors, she was surprised to note that this glance was actually pleasing. “Thank you, pile of clothing” she thought. Her Too Humid Today Glisten only added to the illusion of fitness. She smiled at herself and winked, then returned to the task at hand.
By now her project had taken on ritual proportions and she wouldn’t stop until she was finished. She couldn’t.
Tomorrow she would hit life running. Work, community, kid – would all be clamoring for her time and attention. Order would come from the chaos, and life would continue, as though never interrupted. It would be rather pleasant and generally upbeat. If all went well, she’d have renewed drive, cobwebs would be shaken off and she’d be ready to plan out the next phase of her life. But today she knew where she wanted to be and why. And it wasn’t here.
Now Here’s a Word I Like
Posted on: June 24, 2008
I wrote this one about four years ago, right when I was stretching my writing jones. I want to rip it apart and re-write it, but decided to keep it as is.
Last Saturday I was sitting at Ruby’s Diner with my kid, waiting for our lunch to arrive. Ruby’s is a crowded, noisy, colorful, touristy kind of place, with lots of things to watch and hear. Being the nosy person that I am, I passed the time doing some people watching. Sometimes it’s better than a movie, y’know? Hand me some popcorn and I’m in.
Anyway, my attention was drawn to a large booth that was literally overflowing with various members of a happy, animated and highly interactive family. I could determine three generations, with the grandparents being a little older than me, 30ish parents and children from toddler to young elementary age. Everyone in this family seemed close and to genuinely LIKE each other. The 30ish “prodigal son” was obviously adored by his parents and his wife – though still somewhat tentative – was in the process of developing a loving relationship with her in-laws. And the grandkids were practically bouncing off the walls. Pretty normal stuff.
But in the midst of this active family and restaurant hustle and bustle, my eye was drawn to a very specific relationship – the interaction between the grandfather and a girl of about six. They appeared to communicate on a level beyond that of the rest, which was supported by the warm and knowing glances of the other family members regarding them. After mulling it over a bid, I finally found the word that describes the specialness of their bond. They share a degree of intimacy.
I love that word.
Yourdictionary.com lists six definitions for the word “intimacy.” The first five are as follows: 1)Marked by close acquaintance, association, or familiarity 2)Relating to or indicative of one’s deepest nature 3)Essential; innermost 4) Marked by informality and privacy 5)Very personal
In relation to these two, I’m putting my money on definition #2.
Here is a relationship where, for the rest of this girl’s life, she will have an absolute favorite lap to crawl into, and absolute favorite voice to hear on the other end of the phone and an absolute favorite person to tell her most important things. And this man will have the honor of watching her grow and become the person she was meant to be, knowing that he will be lucky enough to be the one who is given special glimpses of the process as it unfolds.
It got me to thinking about the relationships in my own life where I’ve experienced that sense of intimacy, and how special it is when it occurs. Often, it’s in the context of friendship. And yes, there were six definitions of intimacy, with the 6th being: “of or involved in a sexual nature.” I omitted it because I didn’t want to confuse the issue.
At one point I got busted for my people watching. I glanced around and the mom/wife/grandma was watching me watch her husband and granddaughter. We smiled at each other warmly and I looked away. Luckily about that time our food came and I refocused my attention on the biggest Cobb salad I’ve ever seen. Eventually the family left without me being aware of them doing so and life continued. I am, however, thinking I should start wearing sunglasses in restaurants.
Yes, intimacy. I like that word.
The Rest of the BAD MOM Story
Posted on: March 31, 2006
Written in March, 2007, for another blog.
Last week I posted a ‘Bad Mom’ experience, to which you gave me some excellent feedback. I had temporarily turned into a lunatic, scary mom and felt terrible about it. The update is that things are good between my son and me and at very least he has been reminded that I am not his bud, pal or peep, I am The Mom. And I am reminded of how much his good stuff outweighs the questionable.
Now that the dust has settled, I am able to tell you what else was going on that night. So as Paul Harvey would say, here’s the rest of the story:
A couple of weeks ago, the door knob on my front door began acting a little weird. It was too ‘wiggly’ or something. And a few times we had to really jiggle it to get it open. I live in a small town and frankly, I haven’t even seen my front door key in a decade.
Anyway, on the evening of the conflict that I previously wrote about, my son and I had just walked in the door when our confrontation began. I was angry, so I closed the door harder than was my intention. Okay, fine. I slammed it.
Within a few seconds, our argument escalated to me slapping him and him becoming rather hysterical. I was very angry so I was still yelling at him, but I was also alarmed at what I had done, so I wanted to leave the house and get cooled off. So as my mouth was screaming, “I’ve had it with this SH**,” my hand was trying to open the door, which of course, I couldn’t do, because the latching mechanism chose that particular moment to get totally S-T-U-C-K.
So my rantings and ravings at the kid were intercut by me yelling “And help me get this damn door open!” My son, wanting me out of the house just as badly as he wanted to avoid further antagonizing me was torn between keeping his distance and helping me get the door open.
Now for those who’ve never been to Hawaii, let me explain the houses. They are one thin board thick, windows are always open and they are close together. So the bottom line is:
There are no secrets in the neighborhood.
We hear each others’ fights, we know each others’ dirt. Frankly I like this, as it creates a bit of a level playing field. Our skeletons aren’t in the closet; they’re out in the open tropical air. Right along with everyone else’s.
So whenever someone gets into a knock down drag out argument, we all listen and pretend we don’t. It’s all good. That is, unless things escalate to an alarming degree, and then we sometimes wonder where the ‘step in’ point is.
Well on that evening my neighbors (who are all friends) were treated not only to me screaming bad words at my kid, but also to witnessing such intense door rattling that it caused my whole house to shake. It was quite obvious that someone was trying to get out but couldn’t. What WASN’T obvious was why.
About this time I gave up and just went out the OTHER door (duh – what did you expect? I was upset and not thinking clearly). I went to the store, got calmed down and I came home, entering via the “other” door of course.
My son and I had acheived a truce by now, so we became focused on one goal – to get the damn door open. We decided he’d go around to the outside and he’d try from there while I tried from the inside.
Well we jiggled and we screwdrivered and yelled and shook and pushed and pulled and could not get the *&^%damn door open. Finally we gave up for the time being. He walked around to the working door, came in and we called it a night.
What I DIDN’T realize once again, was how this looked from the outside.
Later I learned that about the time he was frantically trying to open it from the outside, my neighbor Lei called her mom and sister, who are tenants in my cottage, to figure out what to do about this situation. The conversation was along the lines of:
Lei: “You don’t think she’s gonna make him stay out all night, do you?”
Aunty: “I don’t know – she was really screamimg at him earlier and wouldn’t even let him out of the house. I thought they were gonna break the door down!”
Lei: “Well if you can get his attention, tell him he can sleep on my sofa. Just don’t tell his mom.”
Geez, guyz…
It wasn’t until yesterday that I found this out, and quite by accident. If it wasn’t for the big hole in my door where a doorknob used to be and the shoelace that’s tying it closed, I don’t think anyone would believe me.
I’ll spare you the parts about winds that could have blown us to Munchkinland, trying to barracade the door and finally giving up and nailing the sucker shut for the night.
But anyway…that’s the rest of the story.
Is There Life After Retirement? 