For those of you old enough to remember, "lifts and separates" was the main brassiere ad when I was coming up. I believe it was for the "Playtex 18 Hour Bra". Jeez - It was like body armor and looked like Madonna's dominatrix cone bra. Its claim to fame, was, alas - its ability to lift, and then to separate. In the TV ad, they had some busty babe all strapped into the thing, and she criss-crossed her heart (another slogan) with a measuring tape ( ? ). As a kid, I couldn't wrap my mind around any body part requiring "lifting and separating". WTF ? And, is there a single article of clothing that I would wear for 18 hours straight ? If I keep shoes on for more than 45 seconds after entering the house, I break out into a rash...
If asked (and I realize that I wasn't) I would say that 2 things come to mind as being instruments of the devil and/or tools of the oppressor . Sprinkle in a little misogyny, and you've got yourself high heels and bras. Seriously. A bunch of men sit around, and say "ooh - this looks insanely tortuous - let's sell it to the gals !"
Now, I basically have been wearing the "sports bra" stuff since I had kids - after a brief and odd dalliance with the "nursing bra". Tank tops, camis, anything but a "bra". My old size in my 20's was something mind-boggling like a 34AA. I had little colorful, clip-in-front binders called "Sweet Nothings" (how dare they !) - and they were a cool $5 a pop. No harm, no foul.
Then, 2 wild pregnancies in 2 years, 50 pounds with each kid and then you are feeding someone off of your actual "body" for years (okay, Missy for 11 months and Sparky (drumroll please) for 3 years). And then, frankly, who gives a flying fuck if you're wearing a bra when you are wrassling 2 toddlers all day and dressing yourself in the closest thing on the bedroom floor with the least stains. (Oh. My. God. I just realized that only difference now is that I am wrassling teenagers. My face be red.)
So, Sparky asks me a while back : "So, how come we don't wear bras, Mom ?" I stared at her, thinking : "How the hell should I know ?" Then, I realized that these teenaged gals is wearing camis and stretchies and anything but a bra ! Oops. My daughter, myself - right ? Egads, no ! I'd like to mess them up in some different way, I think, than trying to make them just like me. Eew.
So I take Missy out binder-shopping. Good mom. 3 adorable little binders - cheap and colorful. A few weeks later, Sparky's turn : not little, not colorful; - but "grown up bras" that I know NOTHING about. Bad mom. I felt like a fecking nun. The time had come for me to take back the boobs. (Plus, I notice that my profile is starting to look a bit like Alfred Hitchcock's , if you get my drift...)
So I see a bra fitting at Macy's, and a pal and I and her 2 babies run out there to have strange women palpate our dirtypillows. I am apprehensive, at best. Do I get drunk first ? Do I nurse the fitter ? I SO don't have a blueprint for this. So, some skeletal 19 year old chippie whisks me into a dressing room. As we sashay behind what I now refer to as "The Pink Curtain", I try to bond and let "Mitzi" know that I have not worn a bra in over 125 years. I figure that she will be gentle with me, having this foreknowledge. She calls out to me as I follow her : " Ooh ! We gotta give the girls a little support !"
Naive, artless, don't get out much - I am feeling empowered now, like a woman. Like a womyn.
Im'a buy me a REAL bra like other girls and wimmins. I figure that Mitzi is talking about supporting girls in general : whether by taking back the night or breast cancer or equal pay for equal work or Rosie the Riveter...I'm on board. Bras.
For the love of the risen, risen Christ : the "girls" she was referring to were....my breasts. This junior slattern actually felt as if it were somehow appropriate to refer to my bustline as "girls". Speechless, I made a snap decision to roll with it, in all of its absurdity. Come on, Girls - don't be lollygagging behind - we gon' buy you some new clothes !
Mitzi ushers me into a divine dressing chamber, and urges me to slip into a lush pink robe (with the breast cancer, again). I inform her that I can only do that if she escorts me to home furnishings for a quick 2 hour nap. She titters (pun sort of intended). I'm dead serious. (Sparky and I Googled earlier, and she measured me, only to tell me I was a "size zero.") Mitzi arrived at a slightly different number, and sailed out onto the floor for some clothes for The Girls. I shouted behind her : "I want black and red and none of that old lady stuff !" (Meanwhile, my friend's 2 year old is crawling under the door, saying : "Trudy Sanders, an are you getting dressed?" Well, yes and no...
The Mitz returns with a score of what seem to be large widths of Ace bandaging with complicated trussing systems and enough wire to set off any airport alarm system. The Girls and I were taken aback, thinking : "Is this what it is for me now, Mitzi ? I had little cupcakey 34 AA's and then I grew up and lactating and fat and now I have putty-colored harnesses to choose from ?" She made some offhand comment re: "our" bodies changing as :"we" grew older. I then slapped her - hard - stating that she knew nothing about "aging" or "anything over a size 2". The Girls and I were mad now, and feeling mean and snarky.
Mitzi then spake of such things as "back fat" (rub it in, you tiny bitch), "spa strapping" and "load those Girls into those cups, Trudy !" I strapped, I loaded (Jesus - is this an Uzi or a fecking piece of
lingerie ??) I popped up then, perkily, I might add, and she exclaimed : "Ooh ! There's that cleavage !" Hearing my friend giggling in the "salon" net to me didn't help....fuck me bald.
So, 4 binders later (all Silly Putty beige - shike!) and I am bra-d. And unhappy. Sure, The Girls stand up and I load them every morning and I snap and fuss with things like "straps" and "hooks". There is a modicum of distinction between my belly and The Girls now. BFD.
Frankly, I whine and fuss the whole time I am trussed and/or trussing - I feel like I'm Miss Scarlett in GWTW getting squished into her corset. I can't breathe. Each time I bra up, I am know to shout "....Miss Skah-lett, I don' know nothin' 'bout birthing no babies !" I wheeze and gasp and threaten emphysema and throw myself around and launch into multiple tirades about women in the rainforest and men with tits and then everyone stops listening to me. I HATE my new bras, and they hate me. The Girls, while getting loaded every morning, long for the ease and comfort of a nice silk cami or a cottony bra-lette. If I stand very still, I can hear them saying, ever so quietly - ".....why....why..."
Why indeed. I still don't know. Maybe my breasts are actually boys...
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Admnistrative Duties..
Are more than expected with this goddamned thing. I hate "social media ", and everything that has to do with everything private becoming public and does the world really want or need to know every time I pop a zit ? So, then, what am I doing here ? I guess I'm just bored and testy. Deal with it.
My "blog" looks like a 2 year old is "administrating" it : different ugly fonts, spelling and spacing errors. I have no pictures or other clever things going on - it's like I've had a hemispherectomy (true facts - saw one on "Gray's Anatomy"). So, I pop in here last night before bed, and a dear friend of mine has checked in and appropriately blasted me for not reading his blog while referring him to mine. I'm such a bitch !
He gently (yet firmly) suggested that I bite him, which, is general communication for us. I have been bidden to bite him many times in the last 15 years or so. What is is, is, I was conducting a quick seance in the dining room before toddling off to the marriage bed, and something went wrong all over the pages. I got upset and sad and offended and everything looked ugly and I was tired and I thought it would be a good idea to be snotty and erase all biting requests.
Surprise : it erased nothing, except my blogging dignity. I was suddenly foist into the role of "administrator" and my petulance was etched in the blogosphere (my friend's word - he coined it years ago) for all eternity. There was an empty trash bin icon (wait - didn't an "icon" used to mean a painting of Jesus used for worship ?) and a terse administrative statement under my friend's name. I am as mean as a snake.
So now, I am saddled with all of these administrative duties I hadn't expected : mounds of paperwork, staff meetings, snack rotations, performance evaluations, no overtime pay, supervising the office Secret Santa name draw, and endless shit from my supervisors. (Every "supervisor" I ever had told me I had "authority issues". After hearing it many times, I just started to tell them "thank you".)
I so did not know what I was getting into with this strange new world..
Moral of the story ? I blame my neurons and my ovaries for any aberrant behavior. I take responsibility for my human interactions, but God forbid we should not look closely at the extenuation circumstances. Crazy-ass woman. As for my bite me friend, only one of the funniest writers, cartoonists, social commentators, and former kindergarten teachers I have ever known - he does not overtly hate me, and can presently be found on the high road (which is often to high of an incline for me and my hamstrings...). As for this blog, what the feck ? Live and learn. And administrate with wisdom, prudence, forebearance and coffee.
My "blog" looks like a 2 year old is "administrating" it : different ugly fonts, spelling and spacing errors. I have no pictures or other clever things going on - it's like I've had a hemispherectomy (true facts - saw one on "Gray's Anatomy"). So, I pop in here last night before bed, and a dear friend of mine has checked in and appropriately blasted me for not reading his blog while referring him to mine. I'm such a bitch !
He gently (yet firmly) suggested that I bite him, which, is general communication for us. I have been bidden to bite him many times in the last 15 years or so. What is is, is, I was conducting a quick seance in the dining room before toddling off to the marriage bed, and something went wrong all over the pages. I got upset and sad and offended and everything looked ugly and I was tired and I thought it would be a good idea to be snotty and erase all biting requests.
Surprise : it erased nothing, except my blogging dignity. I was suddenly foist into the role of "administrator" and my petulance was etched in the blogosphere (my friend's word - he coined it years ago) for all eternity. There was an empty trash bin icon (wait - didn't an "icon" used to mean a painting of Jesus used for worship ?) and a terse administrative statement under my friend's name. I am as mean as a snake.
So now, I am saddled with all of these administrative duties I hadn't expected : mounds of paperwork, staff meetings, snack rotations, performance evaluations, no overtime pay, supervising the office Secret Santa name draw, and endless shit from my supervisors. (Every "supervisor" I ever had told me I had "authority issues". After hearing it many times, I just started to tell them "thank you".)
I so did not know what I was getting into with this strange new world..
Moral of the story ? I blame my neurons and my ovaries for any aberrant behavior. I take responsibility for my human interactions, but God forbid we should not look closely at the extenuation circumstances. Crazy-ass woman. As for my bite me friend, only one of the funniest writers, cartoonists, social commentators, and former kindergarten teachers I have ever known - he does not overtly hate me, and can presently be found on the high road (which is often to high of an incline for me and my hamstrings...). As for this blog, what the feck ? Live and learn. And administrate with wisdom, prudence, forebearance and coffee.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Cuke-Tinis On Haight Street (7/9/08)
Martinis are strong - or so it would seem.
We did the daytime drinking thing (how ghetto, really). Despite my...reporting from the field, we really don't drink that much. It's just memorable when we do, somehow. I really can't - I'm an Addict-in-Waiting, and must behave accordingly. Most of the time. PLus, we mostly tend to go cocktailing with Rosy and Zeb (Rosy being Chief's "work wife" who got a new job...God help us all, the home wife in particular. Zeb is her adorable absolute keeper of a mate. He's, like, 10 years old compared to the rest of us - a fact we never let him forget.) They are our Zeitgeist partners (a cool bar, like, under the freeway that has the best Bloodies in town and quirky outdoor quasi-biergarten seating. Very cool. Rosy and Zeb can hold their shit - the quintessential bar buds. The Reverend Chief (no shit !) performed their wedding in The Big Easy a coupla years back.)
So, we meet upon Haight s Street of a Sattiday afternoon at about 4 (so at least I wasn't suckin''em down at noon) We stand in the street, Rosy saying "just go to the closest bar !" And, what ho ! There's the Persian Aub Zam Zam. Oh, yes indeed - what else but go into the the tiny, dark (but neat as a pin) bar-room in the Haight, one with a history, a vibe, unwritten (and oft-changing) rules and regs. On a beautiful sunny day. I have both earth-rocking cramps and a 3 day headache. (Getting worse ? Get in line, temporal lobe - everything's "worse" at some point, and has been since forever, or at least since 2007-ish.)
Miss Rosy asks the babes next to us at the bar what refreshing and fascinating libation they are sipping : yes, it's The Subject Line. I had a few cucumber martinis, a couple of Bloody Mary's, and , if memory serves, I may also be running for Mayor...
Hold that thought, and go back a few years to The Zam Zam in what I consider to be its heyday - like, 25 years ago, even... I bet it's had a few heydays, actually - remind me to Google it. It alternately sickens and delights me that things happened that long ago in my life and how cool but then it also means that I am as old as fuck. Anyhoo, I had a boyfriend that lived on Haight (long story) and he used to drink the famous 70 cent Martinis at The Zam - apparently excellent. Me, I didn't discover The Martini until my 40's - and that's likely a good thing.
So, Bruno, in the day, the seeming owner, operator, the only bartender, even. He looks kind of like an old Moroccan guy, minus the fez. He is no-fecking- nonsense : a man of few words and equally few facial expressions - the steely gaze and down-turned mouth being constants. It's all in the eyes with Bruno. Truly.
Many bar guides have referred to Bruno as "a curmudgeon". They are right. Bruno - the man, the myth, the legend. And you can better believe that the place looks like it was literally plucked up out of the late 1950's and plopped down. There could be....Armageddon on Haight Street, but Bruno's area is secured and disturbance-free. It's like he doesn't take shit from the universe.
There are unspoken rules that you need to know or else just leave the bar. Some are iron-clad - others, you learn not to break again, with a virtual slap to your wrist. Some are more general and, after a while, seem so obvious (i.e. "of course he took the pay phone out in 1968 - duh !")
1) You must sit at the bar. No exceptions. To not do so is the hight of rudeness. No one is allowed at a table. To not sit at the bar is a personal attack on Bruno, and will not be tolerated. He will neither acknowledge you nor serve you.
2) There is no pay phone - it was taken out in 1968. Hasn't had one since. Do not ask to use it.
3) If you don't order a Martini or equally neat and simple drink (I shudder to think of Bruno's reaction to a cucumber martini..) Bruno may take offense and/or insinuate that you are pretty much a fag. Chief ordered a Black Russian once years ago (or, God forbid, a White Russian - which I'm sure we can all agree that, for some unknowable reason, just seems...faggier, somehow). Bruno lifted his hooded eyes slowly, and burned a hole right through Chief : "Don't serve no sissy drinks - never have." Amen, Bruno - bring me a shot glass and a bottle, bitch !
4) Ladies act like ladies. Go ahead and cuss a little if you must (and I must) - but know your bounds. The Persian Aub Zam Zam Lounge isn't some cheap beer hall, missy.
5) Be polite, even deferential, while Bruno gets to know you
Once, I went into the mens' room at The Zam Zam. I know, right ? Death wish city. (Parenthetically, I have been in a number of mens' restrooms in my life and I can't say exactly why. Maybe the fact that most of them were in bars or nightclubs is a factor. Or not.) Anyways, I did this, and was impressed to see ice in the urinal trough...with cherries and limes and stuff. maybe I'm naive, despite my history with mens' restrooms, but I had never before seen the ice trough display - let alone gussied up with bar garnishes. (It was weird, as it blended the elements of both liquid intake and output. Like peeing and drinking a beer at the same time.) And if Bruno had found out, I'd have been banned for life or worse.
Okay, good times, present day. The vodka cucumber 'tinis are fabulous : refreshing, beautiful to look at, and who doesn't love a vodka-soaked cucumber slice ? I didn't know I did until just then. I wanted to put it on my eyes, like a spa treatment. I might have... I began to wax on about the Cuke-tinis, and about my feeling that they seems to be a rather strong drink. Zeb, in his infinite wisdom, laughs and says : "Dude, it's a Martini - you can't really dress up straight booze !" Maybe he's right - maybe that's why, for example, the Cosmopolitans seem to be so fast-acting. Ah, the demon rum. White man's fire-water.
Either way. So, most folks are seated at the bar on this particular Saturday - it seats about 12 or 14. I think. Bruno must be long gone - he was old 20 years ago. He'd be, like, 160 or something. Today, we have a well-groomed ginger : mid-40's, neat beard and 'stache, friendly demeanor, but the perfect bartender in that he is present, ready to be friendly, but terse enough if he knows you just want to drink in peace without any of that coyote ugly shit. A coupla guys come in and (wait for it) sit at...a table. As if. Anyone who's been there more that once knows what'll happen next. Bruno lives !! The "table people" left in a semi-huff, with the bartender shrugging knowingly at their departing backs. Okay - so the bar is full. We can all see that. But come up to order, lean for a while, and then gesture your way over to a table. There's a way to do things in this bar. Still.
We had a few pops, and needed to go sop it up with some Escape From New York pizza. Not a minute too soon - some guy with crazy eyes sat down and started chatting up me and Rosy (like the guy who pissed his pants while talking to me one that time at the Zeitgeist - I am a certified freak magnet. Always have been.) He looks crazy or high or both, I'm guessing a stimulant. He is a poet and a hip-hop artist from Marin County , "....but I'm not, like, Marin rich or anything like that - I'm a poet." Rosy and I look at him and say, in unison : "Marin City ?" He finds a way to bring Rosy's butt up in conversation, orders ice water from the bartender, and we bid him adieu.
The moral of the story ? Well, it would seem as if you can make any damned flavor martini you can think of, and Bob's your uncle. I guess it's basically vodka (no gin here, except in the rare Ramos Fizz of yore) with anything tossed in to soak. Green olives. Beets. Almonds. Lychee. Edamame. Cheese. After one of these "anything martinis", it's all generally good. (Remind me to tell you how delicious a...white wine and vodka sangria was, many many years back. Really - went down like water after the first cup. What it came up like is another story...)
Even butter lettuce, I bet.
We did the daytime drinking thing (how ghetto, really). Despite my...reporting from the field, we really don't drink that much. It's just memorable when we do, somehow. I really can't - I'm an Addict-in-Waiting, and must behave accordingly. Most of the time. PLus, we mostly tend to go cocktailing with Rosy and Zeb (Rosy being Chief's "work wife" who got a new job...God help us all, the home wife in particular. Zeb is her adorable absolute keeper of a mate. He's, like, 10 years old compared to the rest of us - a fact we never let him forget.) They are our Zeitgeist partners (a cool bar, like, under the freeway that has the best Bloodies in town and quirky outdoor quasi-biergarten seating. Very cool. Rosy and Zeb can hold their shit - the quintessential bar buds. The Reverend Chief (no shit !) performed their wedding in The Big Easy a coupla years back.)
So, we meet upon Haight s Street of a Sattiday afternoon at about 4 (so at least I wasn't suckin''em down at noon) We stand in the street, Rosy saying "just go to the closest bar !" And, what ho ! There's the Persian Aub Zam Zam. Oh, yes indeed - what else but go into the the tiny, dark (but neat as a pin) bar-room in the Haight, one with a history, a vibe, unwritten (and oft-changing) rules and regs. On a beautiful sunny day. I have both earth-rocking cramps and a 3 day headache. (Getting worse ? Get in line, temporal lobe - everything's "worse" at some point, and has been since forever, or at least since 2007-ish.)
Miss Rosy asks the babes next to us at the bar what refreshing and fascinating libation they are sipping : yes, it's The Subject Line. I had a few cucumber martinis, a couple of Bloody Mary's, and , if memory serves, I may also be running for Mayor...
Hold that thought, and go back a few years to The Zam Zam in what I consider to be its heyday - like, 25 years ago, even... I bet it's had a few heydays, actually - remind me to Google it. It alternately sickens and delights me that things happened that long ago in my life and how cool but then it also means that I am as old as fuck. Anyhoo, I had a boyfriend that lived on Haight (long story) and he used to drink the famous 70 cent Martinis at The Zam - apparently excellent. Me, I didn't discover The Martini until my 40's - and that's likely a good thing.
So, Bruno, in the day, the seeming owner, operator, the only bartender, even. He looks kind of like an old Moroccan guy, minus the fez. He is no-fecking- nonsense : a man of few words and equally few facial expressions - the steely gaze and down-turned mouth being constants. It's all in the eyes with Bruno. Truly.
Many bar guides have referred to Bruno as "a curmudgeon". They are right. Bruno - the man, the myth, the legend. And you can better believe that the place looks like it was literally plucked up out of the late 1950's and plopped down. There could be....Armageddon on Haight Street, but Bruno's area is secured and disturbance-free. It's like he doesn't take shit from the universe.
There are unspoken rules that you need to know or else just leave the bar. Some are iron-clad - others, you learn not to break again, with a virtual slap to your wrist. Some are more general and, after a while, seem so obvious (i.e. "of course he took the pay phone out in 1968 - duh !")
1) You must sit at the bar. No exceptions. To not do so is the hight of rudeness. No one is allowed at a table. To not sit at the bar is a personal attack on Bruno, and will not be tolerated. He will neither acknowledge you nor serve you.
2) There is no pay phone - it was taken out in 1968. Hasn't had one since. Do not ask to use it.
3) If you don't order a Martini or equally neat and simple drink (I shudder to think of Bruno's reaction to a cucumber martini..) Bruno may take offense and/or insinuate that you are pretty much a fag. Chief ordered a Black Russian once years ago (or, God forbid, a White Russian - which I'm sure we can all agree that, for some unknowable reason, just seems...faggier, somehow). Bruno lifted his hooded eyes slowly, and burned a hole right through Chief : "Don't serve no sissy drinks - never have." Amen, Bruno - bring me a shot glass and a bottle, bitch !
4) Ladies act like ladies. Go ahead and cuss a little if you must (and I must) - but know your bounds. The Persian Aub Zam Zam Lounge isn't some cheap beer hall, missy.
5) Be polite, even deferential, while Bruno gets to know you
Once, I went into the mens' room at The Zam Zam. I know, right ? Death wish city. (Parenthetically, I have been in a number of mens' restrooms in my life and I can't say exactly why. Maybe the fact that most of them were in bars or nightclubs is a factor. Or not.) Anyways, I did this, and was impressed to see ice in the urinal trough...with cherries and limes and stuff. maybe I'm naive, despite my history with mens' restrooms, but I had never before seen the ice trough display - let alone gussied up with bar garnishes. (It was weird, as it blended the elements of both liquid intake and output. Like peeing and drinking a beer at the same time.) And if Bruno had found out, I'd have been banned for life or worse.
Okay, good times, present day. The vodka cucumber 'tinis are fabulous : refreshing, beautiful to look at, and who doesn't love a vodka-soaked cucumber slice ? I didn't know I did until just then. I wanted to put it on my eyes, like a spa treatment. I might have... I began to wax on about the Cuke-tinis, and about my feeling that they seems to be a rather strong drink. Zeb, in his infinite wisdom, laughs and says : "Dude, it's a Martini - you can't really dress up straight booze !" Maybe he's right - maybe that's why, for example, the Cosmopolitans seem to be so fast-acting. Ah, the demon rum. White man's fire-water.
Either way. So, most folks are seated at the bar on this particular Saturday - it seats about 12 or 14. I think. Bruno must be long gone - he was old 20 years ago. He'd be, like, 160 or something. Today, we have a well-groomed ginger : mid-40's, neat beard and 'stache, friendly demeanor, but the perfect bartender in that he is present, ready to be friendly, but terse enough if he knows you just want to drink in peace without any of that coyote ugly shit. A coupla guys come in and (wait for it) sit at...a table. As if. Anyone who's been there more that once knows what'll happen next. Bruno lives !! The "table people" left in a semi-huff, with the bartender shrugging knowingly at their departing backs. Okay - so the bar is full. We can all see that. But come up to order, lean for a while, and then gesture your way over to a table. There's a way to do things in this bar. Still.
We had a few pops, and needed to go sop it up with some Escape From New York pizza. Not a minute too soon - some guy with crazy eyes sat down and started chatting up me and Rosy (like the guy who pissed his pants while talking to me one that time at the Zeitgeist - I am a certified freak magnet. Always have been.) He looks crazy or high or both, I'm guessing a stimulant. He is a poet and a hip-hop artist from Marin County , "....but I'm not, like, Marin rich or anything like that - I'm a poet." Rosy and I look at him and say, in unison : "Marin City ?" He finds a way to bring Rosy's butt up in conversation, orders ice water from the bartender, and we bid him adieu.
The moral of the story ? Well, it would seem as if you can make any damned flavor martini you can think of, and Bob's your uncle. I guess it's basically vodka (no gin here, except in the rare Ramos Fizz of yore) with anything tossed in to soak. Green olives. Beets. Almonds. Lychee. Edamame. Cheese. After one of these "anything martinis", it's all generally good. (Remind me to tell you how delicious a...white wine and vodka sangria was, many many years back. Really - went down like water after the first cup. What it came up like is another story...)
Even butter lettuce, I bet.
Mad With The Heat
So,
As you know, the Native San Franciscan gets agitated and weird at any temperature over, let's say 75 degrees. We are not now, nor have we ever been, cut out for temperature fluctuations. Most especially heat. We are presently ebbing out of a Mini-Wave, and I am loopy and cantankerous. It is 93 degrees at the time of writing.
Yesterday was Wet Rat Hot - to wit, I looked like a drowned rat by the shank of the afternoon, and had to take a post-prandial cold shower. Yipes. I had a headache (really ? The return (as if it ever left) of the 8 year headache. Good times.) I pretty much just puttered and sweated and Trader Joe'd. I had a brainstorm which included cooking in the oven in a house that was actually 85 degrees. Really ? Yes. I went for my famous Jelly Chicken and a modification of twice-baked potatoes : the skins were all janky and I just ended up stuffing the potatoes and cheese into a casserole dish. Chief (The Husband ) called it "mashed potatoes". It so was not. So the oven is on and on and I have a TurbyTwist on my head and I am almost 100% liquified. Sparky (The Youngest Child) gets home and tells me I look beautiful. Tell me something I don't know
The food is eaten, the hogs are slopped - the cold shower then occurs. I am revived. But am I ? Apparently not. The body and the wet rat part of things have been addressed, but I am still agitated, it would seem. The big fan is on in the living room, and I have assembled in The Mother Ship (my seat in the living room) with my coffee, my book, my iTouch, peanut M&M's, and a personal fan.
Mind you, the neighbors next door have been involved in some kind of fucking "construction" for ages : nights, weekends, bullshit, most likely undocumented, unlicensed ne'er-do wells. All day long - the relentless SAWING and other assorted awful sounds. It does not occur to me that I have been actually listening to the electric saw ALL DAY LONG in the heat...until I suddenly find my self screaming in the living room things like : "STOP SAWING !", "NO MORE WITH THE SAW !", IT'S NIGHTTIME - STOP SAWING RIGHT NOW!", etc. After each outburst, The Sawing stops for a second. Then, whirrrrrr whizzzz all over again. Goddammit. All the windows are open, to boot. Sparky is totally oblivious, Chief is cringing.
I start ranting about the police and local noise ordinances and just common human decency and sharing the planet in a responsible manner and can't I have an evening at home with the family and...wait - I know - CALL 311 !! For you non-locals, 311 in SF is a # to call if you need to know....anything. Any damned thing. I love it, and (surprise) use it often. So I dial up and ask what the legal cut off point for loud construction is. He asks : is it emergency repair, street, house ? He says non-emergency stuff is okay until 8 p.m. - if the noise level is below 5 decibels (an electric screwdriver). It's 7:45 p.m. and I am estimating about a skillion decibels at this point. Can I have a nice evening at home anymore ?
Miraculously, They stop The Sawing at 8 p.m. Not because they knew the law, but likely because they were afraid of the crazy woman yelling. Bitches.
Next day. I return from the gym, a little embarrassed in the light of day re: my outbursts of the previous night. WHAT ? I am hallucinating - it's either the opiates the heat or a combination of both. One of the construction trucks is parked (gasp) IN MY DRIVEWAY !!! I am speechless. I lay on the horn, nicely, and they come out to move it. Then, my neighbor comes out and attempts, in broken English, to apologize - whether about last night's debacle or this morning's effrontery is anyone's guess. 24 years and I still can't understand a damn thing she says. I nod and smile a lot. I decide to go all "when in Rome" on her, and speak to her in broken English, as well. "No more at night ! No tools and saws after dinner time ! Not at night ! Not okay !" She (copycat) nods and smiles and I exit.
Now we are caught up - and, as we speak, the SAWING is deafening. I am twitching and it is so hot. But wait - what is this ? Suddenly, a police van squeals up and jumps the curb (in my driveway - what is it with this ? Is it National Park In Trudy's Driveway Day?).
I jump to my post at the front window, and watch as the po-po slowly approach one of the construction vans and appear to be taking secret pictures or something. I have no idea what is going on, but I have it worked out in my head that these people are getting dogged by SFPD because their Night Sawing made me upset.
Things move pretty fast around here
Happy Now ? Happy ?*
Trudy, you should blog, you should write, I'd pay for it, write write write.
Okay, okay - after decades of nagging from loved ones, I am trying this.
The reason ? The straw that broke my writer's cramp ?
Drumroll, please....Nicole Christing Richie has just published her SECOND novel.
Now, don't get me wrong - she's as cute as a button. But an author ? When ? Why ? Why not ?
If 6 (six) monkeys are locked in a room with 6 (six) typewriters ( ? ) and can come up with the complete works of Shakespeare, then..
* Points and prizes for those who can identify the movie from this quote ....
Okay, okay - after decades of nagging from loved ones, I am trying this.
The reason ? The straw that broke my writer's cramp ?
Drumroll, please....Nicole Christing Richie has just published her SECOND novel.
Now, don't get me wrong - she's as cute as a button. But an author ? When ? Why ? Why not ?
If 6 (six) monkeys are locked in a room with 6 (six) typewriters ( ? ) and can come up with the complete works of Shakespeare, then..
* Points and prizes for those who can identify the movie from this quote ....
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