Frankenfinger
November 12th, 2008 by Mariana
Incisive neighbor: “Wow the ER is nothing like on TV.”
Doctor: “Yeah, we’re not all good-looking, and nobody’s having sex in the closet.”
That exchange took place while I was sitting on the ER bed, waiting for a tetanus shot and anticipating stitches. It was the first time I’d had stitches (not including surgeries), so I asked the doctor if I could watch. I managed to watch for a couple of stitches, but then the combination of my cut-open finger, the blood, and the needle going through my skin became just too much to bear.
So what the hell happened? It happened so fast, I couldn’t tell you. I was shaking a bottle of salad dressing, it slipped out of my hand, I tried to catch it. Next thing I knew, I felt some pain. I looked at my hand and saw a cut. Then it started bleeding. A lot. I’m proud to report that I had the presence of mind to put a towel and some pressure on my finger, and to turn off the oven and take the food out. I thought I’d wait a second to see if the bleeding would stop, but when I removed the towel, the depth of the cut freaked me out. I knew I would need stitches.
I knocked on my neighbor’s door and she walked with me to the firehouse. The guys were happy for a diversion, but they wouldn’t stitch me. They gauzed me up and offered an ambulance. Instead of sirens and melodrama, I let my neighbor drive me (in my car; of course the one neighbor who was home doesn’t own a car and hasn’t driven a stick-shift in a long time) to the ER. Luckily, Tuesday in Burlingame is a slow night, and the gauze was already blood soaked, so I moved to the front. A few x-rays, a couple of shots, and five or six stitches later, and I was almost good as new. Well, except that I look like Frankenfinger.
(BTW, after the firehouse, I went back into apartment to get insurance card, etc. I went back to the sink and figured out that the salad dressing bottle hit a pyrex bowl in the sink, breaking the rim. I don’t know if a shard came up and stabbed me, or if my hand slipped down over the jagged edge. All I know is ouch. The med tech said that besides power tools, glass cuts are the worst. Oh, and I know that my neighbor is a sweetheart. I owe her cookies.)
High on democracy
November 4th, 2008 by Mariana
As jaded as I can feel at times about politics, and as much as I am reticent to talk politics, I get totally excited when I go to vote. Today will be historic no matter which presidential candidate wins, but every time I vote, I feel lucky and grateful to live in a country with free elections. I can just breeze in on my lunch hour, give my address to the sweet volunteers, and proceed to privately register my vote! I don’t have to fear for anything, I don’t have to bribe anyone (or be bribed), and I don’t even have to tell anyone for whom or for what I voted. That’s not something to take for granted.
And though my parents’ votes pretty much cancel out mine, I have them to thank for my love of voting. They used to take me with them when they voted, back in the days of the big ballot booths, with the curtain and the giant voting swtiches. Dad would let me pull the switches: “That one” and “Now that one.” He’d double-check his votes and let me pull the final lever that tallied them all in a big clatter and swung the curtain open like magic. It was all so fun and mysterious, even though I didn’t understand the power of voting then. All of that goes with me when I go to the polls, and though it’s just a little table now, it has that same aura for me. No absentee ballot! I want to feel the power of the polling place, see my fellow citizens taking part of the process, and get high on democracy.
Amen.
Wednesday’s Wackiness. Or Whackjob. Or WTF?
October 29th, 2008 by Mariana
I am trying to come up with a theme for a regularly-scheduled blog post. My friend Kristy does “Six Word Sundays,” and I like that, but my camera’s acting hinky these days. Derek suggested “Derek’s Dumb Ideas,” where he sends me six words or less, and I write an index-card sized story on that. His first submission, “Calculus textbook discarded on the sidewalk.” I may yet do that. Stay tuned.
Meanwhile, I was thinking Wednesday would be a good day for a WTF, or wacky blurb, or general wackiness. It started with me asking myself “What the f—k did I just do?”
To answer: I just registered for the 17th Annual Sharkfest. (I picked this particular Alcatraz swim event solely because I like the title. Talk about bragging rights!) I’m now scheduled to jump off a ferry by Alcatraz and swim to shore. On August 15, 2009, if all goes according to plan, I will plunge into the cold waters of the bay, and swim to Aquatic Park without flippers, fins, or a motor. And I paid for the privilege.
C’mon, do it with me. http://www.athleteslounge.com/events/event.php?eventid=2551
If your answer to that is “I don’t even like swimming in my own bathtub,” I invite you to come cheer me on. Granted I won’t hear you while I swim a mile away, but I will love seeing you as I emerge from the water quite possibly cranky and most definitely cold.
Does this mean that I’m now a swimming stud? that water polo’s a breeze? that I’m a skinny fish? Not so much! But maybe this will help. Here’s to hoping.
(P.S. - You may not root for the sharks!)
Gentlemen callers (named Chaos)
October 13th, 2008 by Mariana
This weekend, in Santa Cruz, a guy on the street waved and said “hi.” When I waved back and smiled, he said, “You have a very nice smile.” I mumbled thanks, and kept walking. Later I walked by again, and noticed he was panhandling with the line, “Got forty-thousand for yacht repairs?” The next day, a different and much more distinctly homeless man smiled and winked at me. I kept walking. That’s what I always do, or try to do – keep walking.
I started thinking about all the times that my chaos-attraction has led random men to make unsolicited comments. Here are all that I can remember right now:
- “May I please kiss your feet?” He asked politely, so I politely declined and kept walking, that time to my final job interview.
- “Where have you been, and will you marry me?” He was lying on the street.
- “Ay. Buenas tetas.” He was ancient, possibly walking with a cane.
- “I like my women like you…all big & healthy, mmmm….and all that backyard.”
- “Ooh, just look at that shake, that’s how I like it.”
But my favorite of all time was not leery or disgusting at all. The man wasn’t degrading me or trying to bolster himself. You know how there are people in your neighborhood who you recognize but don’t actually know? (Cue Mr. Rogers theme song.) There was a man like that when I lived in Madrid. He was on his way to work every day while I was on my way to school. He was at least twice my age, a businessman, a respectable señor. We probably nodded “Buenos días” to each other, but that was the extent of our acquaintance. Then one morning as I made my way to the Metro, he turned to me and said, “You look very nice today.” It was a simple compliment, for no reason. Still, to this day, some twenty years later, it makes me smile. That’s the power of a compliment.
Travels with Tricia
August 21st, 2008 by Mariana
My dear friend Tricia turned 40 on Tuesday. At her surprise party, we were supposed to roast/toast her. I wondered, “How do you narrow down to one anecdote when you’ve known someone so long?” I decided you don’t. After all, our friendship spans 19 years, 8 foreign countries, and 4 degrees. That’s much more than a sound byte.
I always wanted to travel across the U.S., and write the modern-day version of Travels with Charley, except my title sidekick would be Tricia, instead of an oversized prize poodle. That journey never happened, but many others have — probably enough to fill a book of my own. So, with apologies to Steinbeck, here’s my roasty toast. Lessons learned through Travels with Tricia (in chronological order):
- Spain – it’s ok to pick up boys, but only if you find some for the other guapas.
- Portugal – it’s ok to use the fish knife for your butter, as long as you do it with a smile, then can-can down the stairs of a palace with Maureen.
- France – it’s ok to use your friend for personal gain, especially in the case of French pastries.
- England – it’s ok to drive on the left side of the road. Just remember the golden rule of stick shift driving: The driver may sing but the driver may not dance!
- Ireland – it’s ok to pick up hitchhikers, but only if they’re Irish octogenarians on their way home from paying off cattle debts. It is NEVER ok to pick up your Guinness from the bar before the bartender has finished the multi-step pouring process that is distinctly Guinness
- Germany – it’s ok to yell at the train conductor, but only if you’re standing on train seats and pointing to your luggage.
- Italy – It’s ok to ogle the Italians. Oh, wait, that was me. It’s ok to tell your friend, “I love traveling with you, but damn, Venice is so romantic, I wish I were with a boyfriend.”
- Argentina – It’s ok to let your friend horn-in on your family vacation.
Here’s to many more years, lots more adventures, and NO more degrees.
Who sucks?
August 16th, 2008 by Mariana
The other morning, after a meeting with a great volunteer, I left all happy and content with the world and my lot in it. As I went to put stuff into my messy car trunk, I noticed something was wrong. It took me a second to realize someone had scraped off my registration sticker. Grrr! No longer loving humanity, I thought, “People suck!” The worst part is there is NO way the person could have used the sticker. It came off in chunks. Chunks! I have since decided it was just some punkass. That doesn’t change the situation, but I like screaming “Stupid punkasses suck” more than “People suck.” It’s much more specific. I don’t want to disparage everyone, just the sucky ones.
And how much do I suck? I have a picture of said destroyed registration sticker, but I cannot figure out how to get my ancient digital camera to communicate with my new laptop. Stay tuned for that.
UPDATE: I figured it out! Check out the damage. Derek said I should have cropped myself out of the photo, but I think it’s a weird & fun little distorted self portrait.
Newsflash
July 7th, 2008 by Mariana
Water polo is hard! Really hard. I’m sure this comes as no surprise to anyone.
What surprises me is my head has not exploded. Learning water polo is hard enough. I’m also trying to learn a new job and belly dancing, not to mention the names of all the people I’ve been meeting!
The good thing about water polo being so f**ng hard is there’s no WAY I can expect to be good at it. I can’t worry about being a perfectionist while trying not to drown. When I’m attempting to both tread water in a whole new way AND throw or catch a ball at the same time — believe me, I am only trying not to sink. If I’m sprinting across the pool, I’m not worried about my imperfect stroke. I’m happy if I get there with any air left in my lungs.
Some say it’s character-building to try completely new things. Others would say I am enough of a character already. I say water polo is hard. Really hard. But it’s fun.
(Belly dancing is a story for another day. No recitals any time soon, so don’t ask!)
Monsters real & imaginary
April 22nd, 2008 by Mariana
These monsters are fun to imagine, design and make (my coworker’s ahead of me on the monster creation). Craft Magazine — http://www.craftzine.com/ — says you’re supposed to name them and give them a back story. Meatball Monsteropholes likes cats, though he fears one day becoming a cat-snack to one of his two kitty-housemates. He’s decidedly nocturnal. He dislikes rutabagas but he saves the fury of his rancor for squirrels, decrying “They’re just rats with good PR!”
Other monsters aren’t so amusing to think about. We try to forget nightmares. And I’ve done that quite well; I can’t remember a single childhood monster nightmare. I must have had them, though, and need to remember to ask my folks next time I see them.
We also monsterize our fears. Whether it be job-hunting, learning waterpolo, or whatever icky situation we face, we distort it. (Maybe I should stop saying “we,” and just say “I.”) I overblow things sometimes, worrying and making them much worse by avoiding them. Guess what? Job hunting sucks. But it’s not lurking under the bed, waiting to kill me. If I face the ogre often enough, eventually I will find a job. In fact, my new one starts next week!
Even the real monsters out there — the sociopaths and illnesses and whatnot that can harm us — they’re much better faced than avoided. I have friends who are facing cancers and other life-changing, if not life-threatening, diseases. Their real struggles put my worry-worsened everyday fears in check.
I’m going to keep making stuffed monsters to remind me that monsters are mostly our own creation. I’m taking requests: I’ve already got a dissertation monster and a job-hunting monster in the work for friends. Special precedence given to those who have really compelling reasons or already have a monsterlicious back story for me.
Overheard
March 24th, 2008 by Mariana
“I was at Guantanamo before it was hip.” Spoken by some old guy in a bomber jacket outside the Blue Oyster Cult (aka Geezerpalooza) concert at Slim’s on Thursday night. Don’t ask me if he was serious or delusional; I decided it was best not to ask.
This wasn’t even eavesdropping, since he was talking loudly enough for the whole block to hear. I must admit, though, I sometimes tune into these weird conversations, but only when I don’t know the people. How can I help it? I’m curious, I’m constantly trying to come up with fictional backstories for the people around me, and I had a fiction teacher in college send us to the quad and the coffeehouse to listen to the world around us. I’d never realized before that just how quickly a snippet of conversation could be spun into a whole story. It makes bus rides and waiting in line much more interesting. Unfortunately, more often than not, people are talking about the inanities of life: how many calories they consumed, how their pet poodle is a genius, or worst of all, who might win American Idolatry. No thanks, I’ll tune into my own private conversation at that point.
Chaos calling
March 4th, 2008 by Mariana
An old friend once called me a “chaos attractor,” which sticks years later because it is such an apt description. I can be in a crowd of people, and the wackadoo will come talk to me. Or on a BART train with plenty of seats and only a few people, the raving lunatic will come sit next to me and try to engage me in conversation.
Dad says that this is my aunt’s legacy, that in airports or anywhere, strangers would start talking to her and tell her their whole twisted life story. Yay, thanks.
As escape isn’t always possible (Transbay Tube, for instance), I’ve tried to come up with means for averting chaos. There’s the iPod, a book, avoidance of eye contact, feigning sleep. This weekend, on BART, the conductor came over the loudspeaker, “Bicycle riders are not allowed to have their bikes in the lead car. Please move your bicycle to any other car.” Suddenly, from somewhere behind me, a voice said, “That’s the way to tell them!” I giggled to myself, and kept on knitting.
Next thing I knew, Chaos disguised as a semi-homeless man was nearing my seat, and saying, “I think the conductor just needs to smoke some more marijuana. That would make her more amiable. Don’t you think that would make her more aim-ee-a-buhl, if she just smoked more marijuana?” The voice edged closer to me, and I could see Chaos moving into the seat directly in front of me. Argh! All I could think was, “Don’t look up. Keep knitting.”
My internal dialogue was something like this: “Purl four, knit eight, don’t look up. 1-2-3-4, don’t look at crazy, he’s talking to the couple in front of him. 1-2-3-4.” I could see he was scruffy, could hear he was stoned (but, shockingly, more annoying than amiable), and could sense the discomfort of the poor couple he was talking to. He offered them pot and asked them how they become happy. When he said “I can tell you’re happy Irish people like myself,” my dialogue went from counting stitches to self-coaching, “Do not look up! If he sees your freckles and your Irish face, you’re doomed! Knit, dammit, just keep knitting.” I noticed he had a crusty homemade scarf on, and feared that he might see me knitting and engage me in the story of the scarf.
Instead, he started singing, “I’ve been riding down the road, trying to loosen my load…” and meandered off at the next stop. I held my breath through the “Doors are closing, please stand clear of the doors,” and joined in the collective sigh of relief as they closed behind him.
So, as I was channeling my grandma through my knitting, I managed for once to avoid her daughter’s knack for chaos-attraction!