Undoubtedly, I’m driving M. up a wall. The thing I can’t write about, because it may negatively impact my ability to pay my half of the mortgage, is all I fucking talk about.

Here’s the tangential fun of it all, though. In the midst of a work brouhaha, I ended up having a long conversation with someone I only know by phone and only have known on the surface. One of those folks who you might chat with in a group, albeit virtually, maybe both your names float on the cc list of an email or two. The constant flow of people in your life that aren’t really in it.

Now, though, because of a little cause and effect fall out, we were on the horn swapping info and tales. Turns out, it was strangers bonding over dead mother stories. Better yet, it was the kind of story sharing where it could be alright to call them dead mother stories.

Her loss is much, much more recent than mine. But, at 93 and still of sound mind, her mother sounded ready to go and by consequence so was her family. There’s actually a great story in it. After a fall from possibly a mini-stroke, she declared herself ready to die and announced it as a done deal. Her dutiful daughter politely waited in the next room. Time passed, and then a shout of “It was a fake. I’m not going to die today.”

There’s something about the “It’s a fake” line that kills me. Not only can I imagine Pat in a state of kind of pissed off resignation making the same declaration there’s something about the wording. Although in truth shouting “It’s a fake” sounds more like my favorite aunt (and Pat’s sister).

The family email that was circulated, which my new confidant shared, has the same kind of irreverent affection I can totally get behind. I shared with her the eulogizing of Pat and her “balls like an elephant.”

In a great parallel, her mom tried to convince the mechanic to remove the airbag entirely after a fender bender set it off in her car. When he refused, she ultimately just said, “To hell with it,” and stopped driving entirely. For Pat, it was her stated conviction that her car wasn’t running right at all, despite mechanics unable to fix the problems. Better not to risk it and just stop driving.

I’ve been lazy and regretful and rueful and all sorts of shit piling on myself inside my brain about writing. I can’t even begin to sort out the blackness and inadequacy. Seriously, I suck.

But, here’s my little sun-dappled, rainbow, puppy, unicorn, smiley faced nugget of hope. Everywhere I go, I find folks who can laugh and do laugh at their own mothers, death, all of the squirming of earthbound existence. There’s a weird bond to those who have been there and chuckled.

Ironically, this connection all came up, because someone else in our mutual acquaintance can’t laugh worth shit at herself. I cry a thousand blessings on Pat and my memories for CONSTANTLY taking enough of the piss (as the Brits say), mocking and deflating just enough to realize life is short and pomposity is fucking lame. How do people who can’t laugh at themselves and each other get the fuck through the misery of human existence?

In the end, we all sleep, piss, shit, fuck and die. Cheers to the folks who do it with style, elan and humor.

Technorati Tags: death, motherhood, Pat, tradition, work, women, writing

I’ve been itching to write about work. But, you know, you know I know how that kind of shit works out. With a recession and all, I don’t want to get axed for idle shiv talk and other blade-related humor.

So, I won’t write about the workplace. I’ll write about my pathetic little emotional life. You know that pea-shaped little bit of me that I like to keep all covered up with faux bravado, of the sorts like comedy talking while naked.

Here is the emotion on which I was fixated yesterday and into today. (My emotions tend toward the partially cloud with a chance of rain kind of passing through temperatures.) Tomorrow, we have high hopes of the fixation lifting, life going on and the sun coming out, obviously while Lil Orphan Annie sings.

One thing I will never be good at no matter how much anyone pays me or how light the ditch-digging is. I will never have grace dealing with the subset of humanity that needs to work in a style of keeping you in your place. Well, not really your place, their perceived notion of your lowly place. Vocal condescension, blunt order giving, that sort of thing leaves me cold.

I’m pretty sure in a past life I was a distant bitter relation to this dude, but somewhere along the way I evolved. Now, I just am not very helpful to those sorts. If I can get away with doing little or nothing for you, whilst you stand arms akimbo, demanding, finger-wagging, wheedling, pushing, I’ll push back with the strength of an immobile brick wall.

Really, in this universe, today with video cameras and everyone being Youtube movie stars and 30-plus years passed the bullshit personal empowerment movement, does rudeness work with anyone? Actually, in any age, any time, any place, isn’t life a bit short to win the douche bag Olympics?

Conversely, I’m pretty willing to roll up my sleeves, if I get the occasional bon mot of please and thank you tossed into conversation sincerely. Funny enough, I use those words my own self, and they seem to help.

Technorati Tags: Bay_Area, CurrentTV, economy, urine

I am officially overloaded on Bay Area lifestyle. I yearn, I pine for the simple, narrow homogeneity I left behind in good old, parochial Boston. Faraway from multi-culti, rainbow, LGB&T, harmony and diversity.

Today is both the anniversary of Scots poet Robert Burns’ birthday and the eve of the Chinese Lunar New Year. In the words of Toddish McWong, Gung Haggis Fat Choy.

Last night was a feast of a Bobbie Burns dinner. The food was straight up tradition–cock-a-leekie soup, a steaming haggis, neeps and tatties and generous glasses of scotch whiskey. Of course, this being the foodie land that it is, there was also a vegetarian “haggis,” honey baked ham and a crusty Obama loaf.

Delicious.

For the script, tradition was a bit bent, especially in the gender sense of toasting the lads and the lassies. And, far from the shores of Loch Lomond, one among us here in the new world sported a distant Scots bloodline, for the rest there was Irish, Chinese, Cuban and a wee bit of French representing, and who the hell knows what else, including different nations, separate from ethnicities and a whole slew of languages. Very melting pot it was. Did I mention there was whiskey? I was there for a dram or two.

Today, it was a steamboat of homemade goodness in a home full of revelers for the coming Chinese New Year. Before I left Boston, I don’t think I had a clear sense of from just how many places Chinese people could have hailed. Clue: More than just the main land. Today’s meal included Indonesia, Singapore, Malaysia, China, the Philippines and the U.S. of A., with food from everywhere and some fusion-ing.

Also delicious.

After chatting my way through cultures and ethnicities and countries and traditions, I’m happily lying on the couch all back in my vanilla cocoon. People and open-mindedness are fucking exhausting. But tasty.

Oh and an even better coda, and why I don’t really mind diversity. If life is all about the stories you hear, I got a good one today. A woman afraid of all betoothed mammals because of an unfortunate monkey biting as a toddler. It was impossible to say to her face how cool I thought a monkey bite to the chin story is, while she was backing off from the family dog.

Technorati Tags: Bay_Area, California, Chinese, family, food, friends, Scotland, tradition

We talked about going out and partying it up in the big city of San Francisco. And, who wouldn’t want to party for this inauguration in a town with such fine citizens as laughing squid, who document the wonderful hack of renaming Bush Street in downtown SF.

In the end, we stayed home. Bellies full of grilled steak, hearts full of good byes to George and Dick. (M. has embraced the home life and realized cheaper eating and the joys of suburban grilling.)

At my work, folks were plenty glued to televisions in most of the conference rooms (and fun it was watching Cheney’s limo drive away and Bush’s helicopter fly into the horizon in a room with people similarly smiling to see the moment take flight, as it were). A lot of people have connections, and personally, I’m pretty sure I could get quite a few foreign policy wonks who will be tapped for jobs in the new administration to return my call. However, there’s always an insider reserve going on politics wise in my place of employ, kind of a cool think, like not squealing at a celebrity and demanding an autograph.

M.’s work is at a whole other level, though. Unapologetically and un-self-conciously, they partied it up. He reported flags all around and special meals in the cafeteria. Better yet, he brought home this special munchie from the self-same cafeteria, which also sells holiday pies and such befitting various occasions, to share in our new deal in DC celebrating dinner:

Behold the Obama LOAF OF BREAD.

I think he’s speaking to M. and really moving him. Deeply.

Happy days are here again.

Technorati Tags: America, Barack_Obama, bread, campaign, Campaign 2008, Dick Cheney, elections, George Bush, Inauguration, photos, Politics

I spent MLK day laboring in the manual vein. We bought some assemble yourself furniture that needed to be assembled. I’m now profoundly tired of the allen wrench.

Meanwhile, I’m debating on rising and shining all early like. I just might want to watch that sad little historic moment that will be all that more special this time around. The helicopter dispatch of the dude who’s services are no longer needed on Pennsylvania Avenue. I think it’s awesome the new guys walk out the old guys and they are flown away. You know, gotten rid of quickly.

Even better for that final walk with Joe and Jilly leading out Dick and Lynne, it now looks like Dick will be rolling along. They, as in his already prone to lying staff, say it was on account of Dick’s moving boxes around in his new less noteworthy digs in Virginia. I so believe he does his own lifting.

The real beauty of Cheney’s back pain (and mostly I don’t wish him actual pain) is how it will look on the television. How great is it, he’ll actually look like Lionel Barrymore’s vindictive Mr. Potter, rolling along bitterly wheel chair bound?

Technorati Tags: America, George Bush, Barack_Obama, Dick Cheney, campaign, Campaign 2008, Inauguration, GOP, Politics

Too bad I learned my lessons about mixing workplace and weblogging. There’s a lot of fodder out there these days. About all I can say is I’m pretty sure I was the cause for someone to go home, yell at the wife and kids and kick the dog. What can I say? I’m incorrigible.

Of course, that’s the cute, self-deprecating version. Not the movie in my head, where I am super hero.

Meanwhile, back at the California ranch, here’s something I never could do back in my Beantown days. The other day a bag full of tree-ripened tangerines appeared on my desk. In turn, I am to share some of the vast lemon crop. Citrus exchange, fresh and in the middle of January.

On the lemon obsession, it abides.

Here’s my thinking. Given that by nature I am more of a destroyer than a nurturer, and M. ain’t what you’d call handy-like, the trees may be numbered just because of proximity. It is there citrus-y misfortune to have fallen into the hands of non-gardening boobs. Maybe they will survive, as trees have done untended for eons. But, it is just as likely by sheer horticultural ineptitude they will wake up one day to find themselves stripped of leaves and fruit, victims of abuse and neglect.

For that future, I am using what I can until the gravy train stops. Making hay while the sun shines, or some other agricultural-like, farming cliche, as it were.

In other news, M. and I seem to have survived the week despite a shared (emotionally not in some ghastly “watersports” way) gastrointestinal nightmare. M.’s conceding the culprit for our malaise was likely some Oakland-based fried rice, chicken wings and tofu. Tofu, I’m looking at you. All systems seem to have returned to normal, but we are weary from the battle.

I think I vomited for only the second time since moving to California. That stunning record of infrequency may be directly attributable to the fact that I drink exponentially less, measured in gallons not glasses. Ah sobriety.

Technorati Tags: Bay_Area, California, home, lemons

I was so busy digging into my cave after escaping from Boston, that I haven’t had time to write. Just time to put up sand bags, no trespassing signs and join up with the learn by mail militia. Hunkering down in every way I can. I mean I even fired up the crock pot.

I may never leave this hut. I have three hots and a cot. And, wood. Much fire wood for like survival and romantic firelight and whatnot.

Once I landed back at SF Airport, and after we found our way out of the thickest fog I have ever had surrounding me on the drive from the airport, it’s been California lifestyle all the way. We even brought our bikes up to a shop for air, tuning up and lubing. Turns out, and I now know with certainty since we can’t find a bike rack that will fit on our convertibles, that while it is much warmer here than Boston in January, an open roof in San Francisco cruising around in January is fucking cold.

Nothing makes me feel that sweet freedom of a world of possibilities like blazing down suburban streets on my bike just exploring. Instantly, I’m 12 years old and instantly the universe is blocks larger and easier to access. I found out the other day that we live really near some kind of ranch/horse farm dealio, and I need to work on being able to scale the steep trail between beaches without jumping off and walking. On bike, it’s a great way to catch the sunset.

Without disturbing the neighbors.

On my bike I also scrounged up supplies for a series of home-cooked dinners in the new year. It likely won’t be a trend, but with ample time off it was a fine divertissement. I’ve used more flour in the new house than I had in the whole time we lived in our last apartment. Ain’t nothing like slow-cooked pot roast and freshly baked white bread if you are planning to never leave the house again.

Sadly, the freedom of time off and nothing I had to do ended today with work. But, after seeing snow again and regressing to a mental age of an unhappy 14 whilst in the bosom of my family, I was happy to be back. I mean, like any office job, it’s Occupational Therapy with the complexity, stimulation and comforting repetitiveness of making potholders, slightly better pay and the occasional free pen.

Technorati Tags: Bay_Area, Biking, California, home, Pacifica, photos