Hey - I'm Game !

I love board games.  

    Always have.  As a kid, I really loved them.  It seems like I spent a significant amount of time campaigning to get grown-ups to play games with me.  Whether adorable or irritating (kind of like me now) - I could often be seen carrying dice, a deck of cards, or one of various Milton-Bradley creations.  We never had the flashy games that I coveted.  TV commercials for MouseTrap, Tip-It, Mystery Date (don't get me started.  I always thought the Dream Date was kinda gay (even before I knew what kinda gay was) - and thought the "Dud" was hella fine) always left me with an indescribable longing for these more complex and exotic boxed pastimes.

     Oh, to build the wacky MouseTrap and make it fall on the unsuspecting colorful rodent and his tricky wedge of plastic Swiss.  Surely a heaven only enjoyed by the Only Child.  Youngest of 6 (a busy 15 years for The Breeders), I'm lucky they didn't tie a pork chop around my neck to get the dog to play with me... I was used to having what we needed, not necessarily what we wanted.  Spoiled ?  Sometimes.  Spoiled enough for MouseTrap ?  Dream on.

      Of all of my game-buddy hunting expeditions - a few stand out.  One was at an annual family heat-on when I was 7 or 8 years old.  We all used to gather on July 4th to ostensibly celebrate a grown-up's birthday.  Even at 8, with age-appropriate lack of understanding and vocabulary - I knew this was the day that everyone got shit-faced drunk.  Just one of many events that I interpreted as being rather ho-hum. (ed. note - this goes on for quite a number of years.  Go ahead - try and shock this kid.  Then, comes a day that you compare yourself to "other" families and are forced to redefine "normal".  Shit.)  

     One of my shining moments at this party was the almost...preternatural way I knew to duck down under the table as the fucked-up birthday asshole decided to "shoot the candles off of this motherfucking cake !".  I thought I had the best seat in the house : directly behind the cake - guaranteed to get to lick the frosting off the candles.  I was golden.  Except maybe for the gun pointed at me.  No thought, no real sense of alarm on my part. I saw the gun, the drunk waving it at me/the cake, and I very coolly slipped down under the table.  Plop.  Never even gave it a second thought.  What a goddamned ninja I was.  Frosting notwithstanding.

    People shouting, setting fires in the grass, vomiting, jumping off the roof and hoping to land in the swimming pool, using a handgun to hammer in a loose nail on the patio furniture, birds being shot at, old straight men drunkenly making out for keepsake photographs.  Add some BBQ and suntan lotion and you have what was The Fourth of July for me.  For decades.

   So, I remember that I looked so adorable that day - a smart red shorts set and a jaunty, like, Peter Pan-type hat adorned with a feather.   I was clearly steppin' out. (Don't shoot - I'm cute !).  Who could resist a request for a quick card game from such an adorable 

urchin ?    Nobody with a heart, surely.

      I went out to the patio that evening, drawn to the sound of toxically-inebriated relatives.  My blood line - whatta buncha guys.  Surely my mark could be found in this group of revelers.  I was good to go - they were ripe for the picking.  Wait until they saw how well I was learning to shuffle cards !   They would stand in awe.  No doubt.

     I wiggled my way through the seated adults and asked the closest guy how he felt about a quick game of War, Fish - I knew all the good card games.  Amused looks made a quick rotation around the table.  Maybe MORE people wanted to play !    "Well hey there, little lady !" my partner-to-be said.  (In retrospect, said in that smarmy, condescending way that some adults talk to kids - as if they aren't yet fully-formed and aren't worth serious consideration.  Dickhead.)  "Well, sure, honey - you just go find yourself a deck of cards and bring them to me."

     We were all in luck !  Unbeknownst to the adults, I had the foresight to have tucked a tiny deck of cards in my shirt pocket.  All the planets were surely aligned : we gon' play some cards !   Without missing a beat (comic timing : either you're born with it or you ain't - I come from a long line of cut-ups) - I magically produced the cards   No flies on me - not a one.  At that moment, there was no one as clever or prepared as I.  Sweet.

    There being a snag in every plan - my little cards weren't the only thing in my pocket that night.  What self-respecting kid doesn't have candy on their person at all times ?  Obviously rushed, I only carried a pocketful of loose Jujube nuggets.  As I, almost as if on cue, whipped out the mini-deck  - the candy stuck to them and flew everywhere.  I was mortified !  My moment ...ruined by a secret candy stash.  They'd never take me seriously now !  Shit !  Hilarity ensued...all the grown-ups were laughing at me !

   I turned beet red - as I figured them to be laughing at the Candy Flying/Card Incident.   Any street cred I might have had was shot to hell.  I remember looking around, crushed, feeling so embarrassed - like the joke was on me, somehow.  Not fair.  I was a kid.  Goddamned adults.  Drunken bastards.
      Time and distance being such...filters - I now know that they weren't laughing at my flying candy.  They were laughing at my precocious preparedness : my potential partner thought he could give me a virtual head-pat and send me on my way - searching for a deck of cards I'd never find.   Not so fast, buddy boy.  I came prepared, bitch : I'll shuffle , you cut.

     If memory serves, no cards were played that night.  After some fake fawning and cooing, I was dismissed.  Feather in my hat and all.  Cards back in my pocket, mouth full of sticky candies.

      My kingdom for a game of Go Fish.

Good Fiction - 3/1/09

I read such a funny story some time back,
   I hate that newspapers and such are going belly up, because you know how I cherish the printed word, and love my books.  Christopher Moore has a new one out entitled "Fool".   But, if you haven't read his entire ouevre yet, then what : am I talking to the fucking wall here ?
   A lot of society's favorite books, movies and TV shows contain characters we can readily relate to : either by gender, circumstance, or predicament.  It is comforting, and allows us to laugh at "ourselves" whilst saving face .  Seinfeld, Friends, The Big Chill - and all of those well-done "one zany night in the life of a relatively cool, yet centered teenager ".   Good "art" is relatable, in some fashion (I know, I know - "I don't know art, but I know what I like ".)
      Well, it seems that there were these 2 old married couples - ranging in age from 37 to 53.  They joke with the youngest one, stuff like "I could have changed your diapers before I left for my senior prom."  A lot of witty repartee ensues - these couples are good friends. The town they lived in was both beachy and foresty, and it was a cool, but brilliant day.  That is the extent to which the physical surroundings were described in the story.
     Most of the action in this short story occurred in a car : an old thing that was bought, used , almost 20 years prior : a trusty steed of a car, apparently  The people are on their way to a surprise party at a bar, and decide to detour on the way, through some area that contained ocean shoreline, acres of old foresty growth, a few out-buildings, and some historical landmarks.  They are on a curvy road, and one  of the old guys suggests that they smoke some doobage.  What ?  These are old straight-arrows, or so it seemed...  So, they somehow have everything they need for this, and start clumsily toking away.  Old people - kinda pathetic.  As they drive on windy (curving, not breezy) roads, they (inexplicably) see what seems to be law enforcement a little bit ahead, circling in their Crown Victoria.  A little panic, some channelling of now-dead hippies, some coolly evasive driving, and all is well.. Jeez, whew -  what were they thinking !?
       Then, as most stories do, it gets funnier.  The people cross a road of some kind, so that they are, like, almost driving along the shoreline itself.  They, I guess not rattled enough by the sighting of The Man, proceed again with the doobage.  Any story reader can see the foreshadowing here.  It's like the horror movie where the person in the haunted house goes down the basement alone - the observer wants so badly to stop him !  As they tool along, it almost looks as if a cop car pulls in front of them.  Then, in the blink of an eye, there are cop cars in front and back of them, and the driver is saying, in a mantra that the oldsters are remembering form their crazy teen years : "We're being pulled over, oh, fuck, we're being pulled over - everybody be cool."  The back seat advises no sudden moves, as cops always watch to see what ensues immediately following the lights and sirens.
       The one old lady absolutely freezes - almost has a flashback.  It is described so well : the pounding of the heart, the absolute dead-weight stone thrumming in the pit of her stomach, "oh God, I'm high and there are cops everywhere.  I'm an old lady - I never do this, and look at us now - how will I ever explain this ?!"   The guy in the back seat, somehow, starts spraying air freshener, ( ? ) someone is saying  " nobody move - they're watching us from both sides." These poor innocent people cannot believe this turn of events.  Oh, they'll surely rue this day.
       Even as a youth, I always remember that, any conversation starting with "is there a problem, officer ?"  bodes ill, no matter how sweetly one is smiling while asking.   Somehow, breath mints have made it into the mouths of the characters, and the guy (the young one) in the back seat has dropped the paraphernalia into his coffee cup.  Bricks are still being shit - no one likes this kind of a confrontation, it seems.
      Then, the story goes on, and another bone-chilling statement is issued by the potential arresting officer : "Do you want to know why I pulled you over ?"    Well, for fuck's sake, of course not !  The characters would rather know anything besides why they were pulled over : they know, and they are fucked.  The cop says : "Your registration tags are expired."  The one woman character who absolutely froze a few pages back now takes the lead in a chatty, ridiculous way as she addresses the authorities through what can only be described as a miasma of sweet smoke.  The other characters are likely horrified : oh my God, what is she doing babbling and giggling ?  Somebody stop her !!   A urine-soaked jail cell (or at least a citation - we're not sure what state the story takes place in) surely awaits them, and this woman is not helping matters any.
   Something along the lines of : "Oh my God, this is totally all my fault !!  It's my job at home to renew registrations and stuff, and I swear I found the thing buried on the table, and I just mailed it in 2 days ago, honest, you can check !"  The driver, her husband, glares at her menacingly at this point.  Not daunted, she continues in a cute, 'aren't I just an airhead' fashion : "Gah, I totally can't believe this - I'm NEVER late with the important things !  You get a stack of bills and stuff and you think you paid it all...I'm so lame !  Man, I guess I'm gonna get it when we get home, don't be mad, honey."
    The cop apparently can't even get a word in edgewise as the woman prattles on, and there is a deathly silence from the back seat.  Joe Cop fills out a "fix it" ticket, and gives instructions.     The loud-mouthed little law breaker leans forward (such balls) and whines : "Cant we just take it to our local police station - do we really have to go downtown to clear the ticket ?"  The cop replies that it's not up to him, and she says "Well, it certainly should be !"
   Another day, another savvy short story that, once again, proves that art can imitate life, or a reasonable facsimilie thereof.

   I love to read.

               

A Christmas Carol (aka Street Meat)

So,    We haven't had a working doorbell in years, and have not only adjusted to it, but almost prefer it.  You want in ?  Toss a wee pebble at the window or pick up the phone.  Or have a key.  It only gets dicey around Christmas, what with e-tail and all.   Also, let's face it, I really love the anonymity.       The Electrician offered to "throw in the doorbell" during his last light-giving visit.  Sure, go ahead.   Little did I know.  Bad idea.        Especially on days like today.  I have had more...odd interactions through my front gate in one day than I have had in my whole life.  So far.  (Wait - that has to be a lie.  I got a million of 'em.)       My first visitor : I looked out and saw a young man in a Giants hat.  I thought it might be our neighbor.  In fact, It was someone selling.....meat.  Mostly beef.  A door-to-door carnivore situation.  I thought it was a joke.  Seriously.       He's all earnest and friendly and then I have to stop him and say : "..dude - you are offering to sell me meat at my front door - don't you find that a little weird ?"  He's all, "..no, no - I do this for a living, we're like Omaha Steaks only we deliver, blah blah blah."  I keep repeating to him that door-to-door meat sales (never mind that this is something whose day has obviously come !) is just too bizarre a concept for us to not even comment on.  I then make it very clear to him that I am not buying meat at the door.   Is he high ?     But his partner is across the street chatting meat with the neighbors and my guy , the earnest Giants fan, has actually begun throwing packages of raw meat at my feet, all the while extolling their value and flavor.  Again : "Dude !  You're throwing meat at my feet !  Stop !  "  He asks permission to enter.  Not knowing why (then and still) I said : "Would you let a random traveling meat salesman past your gate ?   Me neither.  Seriously."  He shows me their price list.  I tell him the cheapest thing he has is shrimp and traveling shrimp sales is 10 times worse that traveling beef sales.  I liken the entire interaction to what I'm sure is the exact start of a slew of teen-aged horror flicks.  It's that weird to me.  Uncanny.  Meat.    The meat cost him $500, he'll give it to me for $199.   Then, I actually DO accuse him of being high - I said  $200, $2 million - it you don't have it, isn't not there.  Dude.   $200 worth of traveler's beef, my husband will, in fact, kill me before sunrise.   Fact.     We bat back and forth at each other for some reason, like bored and cranky siblings on a long car ride.  We discuss the Giants latest roster : nervous about Tejada, concede that Uribe is both a bitch/shoulda gotten a few mil more  At one point, I am hanging off of my gate, yelling for his partner to come over.   Plenty of neighbors are milling about.  I keep telling him to pack up his fucking meat (yep - I'm swearin' at the guy) - and I end up saying : "Look, now you're acting irritated with me - that makes me uncomfortable.  Unacceptable."  He's so apologetic and (again) earnest and looks like a nice person.   After a long, odd battle - he says " ...any package $40."  Shit.  I bat my eyes (through the gate, still) at a 8 pack of NY Steaks, curse him aloud - we cut a deal.   $30 and no discussion.  I insist he trust me and give me the meat first.  He complains, I stand firm.  He says all right, you seem cool.  I assure him that I am in no way "cool".    No dice, Chicago.         I run upstairs with the Meatbox, grab his damned blood - money.  And he then gives me his personal phone number.  Wrote it on the actual Meatbox.  Am I supposed to call him now ?  And ask how his girlfriend is and is he still upset that she doesn't treat him nicer.  When he told me this (again - why) - it took everything I had not to blurt out something about meat.   (Go ahead - try not to.)            Is it me ?  Why is this my day ?  Do people sense me through closed doors ?  Am I awake ?        2 hours later, ding dong !  Second visitor :  Friends of The Urban Goddamned Forest say that I am eligible to plant a tree and blah blah blah.  I say only if it's free, if Heather can take a blood-sister oath that the roots will never interfere with my plumbing, I'm not the owner, etc.  She tries to argue these (solid, I think) points.  I wonder if she works on commission, she wants me to plant this darn tree !   I tell her "I will not be choked out of my own house by tree roots !"  Only thing better would have been if I had then said : "Good day, madam !"        If I have a 3rd visitor today, is this actually me living through my own version of "A Christmas Carol ?"  Think about it.         In terms of the almost life-long weird people popping into my life.. especially lately.....why did I almost instantly trust Maurice.  Probably shouldn't have.  This afternoon's Meat-Pushing Elan (I know - right ?  Elan... ) looked and acted like someone I have known for years and would see a game with...he was not only soundly denied access but yelled at repeatedly about his meat.       Good question.     I wonder if Maurice ever purchased street meat.

"Close Your Eyes"

Is what an old man said to me at Safeway today,      And I'm not quite sure what to make of it.  Has me a bit flummoxed.  I run the risk of over-interpreting it.  Like I'm all "what if God was one of us..."       It's not unusual that a stranger said something random to me : that is actually something I am...famous for.  It literally happens everywhere I go.  I can only surmise it is a vibe or a pheromone or a dog whistle type of a situation.  I am a certified freak magnet : ask anyone.  I have the oddest interactions out in the world : a security guard at The Embarcadero showing me pictures of his kids, an addled lady in Target, upset that someone put the Hickory Farms cheese in the wrong spot, comes to me for help, during a total blackout in a casino (and don't think the generators didn't kick in thisfast) someone approaches me and asks if I have rolling papers, the man who came up behind me once in Sausalito, put his arms around me, and kissed me (wetly and drunkenly, if memory serves...clearly, I used to look awesome from the rear.  I think I was all of 18 at the time.  Shoot me now.)    (ed. note.  The Sausalito Incident remains one of the absolute highlights of my life.  After The Kiss was slathered all over my neck and the neanderthal arms encircled me from behind -  everything went silent.  Except for some whooshing in my head.  Instinct kicked in - no thought.  I spun around, cocked my arm back, and backhanded the shit out of him.  The look on his face was/is priceless : shock, amusement, incredulity, respect...  He put his hand up on the affected area, and said : "You just hit me !"   Cocky bitch, even at an early age : "Damn right I did,and I'll do it again."  Me and my sister, Aunt, went on our merry way(s), and I swear, I was like a cat on a hot tin roof : I was actually looking for him so I could do it again.  Such is/was my madness.     But surely I digest : the fact being that I ...attract things.  And people.       So, the old man in Safeway and his cryptic comment was not weird at all.  The thing that struck me is that, it didn't make sense in a whole different way.  See, the minute I stepped into Safeway I was overwhelmed by a massive and fuzzy torpor.  I yawned, rubbed my eyes like a tired baby, sighed, leaned on things.  Anyone who saw me would have said "open your eyes", not close them.  Plus, I could have interpreted the shit out of a sage elder telling me to open my eyes.         But "close your eyes" ?  Close my eyes and it will be over real quick ?  Close my eyes while you dig an Uzi out of your coat and this becomes the First Grocery Store Massacre of 2011 ?  Close my eyes, this won't hurt a bit ?  Close your eyes, you won't want to see this ?  Close your eyes and count to ten ?  What the hell ?        What does it all mean ?  Is it Opposite Day, and I am supposed to wake up and smell the coffee or else ?   What if God was one of us ?   Why me ?       Maybe he was just a senile old man.

Maurice After Christmas

      Christmas is over.  Paper and boxes and candy and electronics and gobs of filthy lucre litter the area (s).  We be paying this one off for a long time.  A day without bone-crushing debt is like a day without sunshine.  The amount dropped at The Giants Dugout alone is astonishing.  Go Giants.  Go turn us upside-down and shake until our pockets are empty.  We love it - it feels good. 
      So I get a call on the cellular this morning - it is Maurice from the parking lot.  Long story embarrassingly short - I did give this complete stranger my cell phone #.   Say what ?   When I first got a cell phone, only 4 people were allowed to have the number : husband, kids, and mother.   Even that was a push.  They had to earn it.   Like voting : a privilege, not a right.
   You must know that this is extremely atypical behavior for Trudy, this giving of information to anyone.  I often comport myself as if I am living in the Witness Relocation Program.  It's just better this way. (Remember : you're only paranoid if they're NOT really after you.  Fact.)    Completely against type and unprecedented.   For what it's worth, and now that the offspring are grown, the message is and always has been this : trust no one.  Ever.  There IS a boogey man.  Mommy has seen him and he will get you.   Bad people happen, so best to just assume they're out to get you.  It's just a matter of when and how bad..  
    As awful as this may seem, it is somewhat of a relief not to have to dress it up for the kids anymore.   I guess you really, in good conscience, cannot raise a child in this way.  Children have to learn to trust and develop good judgment and be cautious and curious at the same time.   They need to experience and experiment and try and fail and learn.   If a child is raised to fear the world, that is wrong.  But if a child gets hurt by the world, is that not wrong, 
too ?     Especially if a simple warning would have helped ?  Think about it.
  So, Maurice calls, and he says he has a gift for me.  I had told him his was so not necessary - the man parks cars 7 days a week, and has a family to raise.  Chief and Sparky are all over me : who called, who was it, they woke us up, etc.  I am loath to confess my security faux pas.  I admitted that it was my new Christmas pal, Maurice from 5 Star Parking on Bryant Street.  He invited me to stop by the parking lot so that he could give me a gift.  I think it is terribly sweet.  The family is appalled.  Oh, the sputtering and yelling and just utter disbelief.  I stand at the ready to take endless shit from these people who purport to love me most of all.  But what could I do when Maurice wanted my number so he could gift me  ?   Be nice and kind to him and then basically admit that he is "the help" and nothing more?  I had almost accepted the fact that, for whatever reason, Maurice was just a nice person who.. got past the moat for a brief time.  Alligators, barbed wire, and land mines notwithstanding.
   I invite Chief to go with me, since he was so concerned about my judgment (or lack thereof).  He says no way - I insist, just so he can see that Maurice is, oddly enough, NOT the boogey man.   We get to 5 Star, and there is Maurice - grinning and waving as we pull in. He leads us to his car and produces a Target gift certificate.   He apologizes for it being "...a bit light ."  He is beaming and blushing. So am I .  I told him he shouldn't have.   He says he wanted to.  He tells me that his children loved the cookies I baked.  We report nice Christmases, and offer wishes for the new year. 
    We hug and shuffle our feet in an " aw shucks" kind of a way.  He proudly offers us "free parking anytime !"  I tell him I don't want to jeopardize is job by him giving freebies.  He stops, grabs my hand and says : "No, it's okay. The boss told me that my family and really best friends can park free."
   I am not sure which category I fall under : but surely the boogey man would consider me neither friend nor family.

Calm and Bright - 12/11/09

So,

  I pick up Joe College yesterday for a whole month of fussing at home over her.  Her favorite potato soup was made, she ate until she had a tummy ache, poor lamb.  I imagine it is either rank gluttony, or the body's gradual adjustment away from dorm fare.

    We check the Advent calendar(s), and discover that Christmas is pretty damned nigh.  Shitfire.  No money, no spirit, no energy to even decorate the damn 50 degree house.  If I wait long enough, the spirit and/or decorating will take care of itself in the spontaneous formation of icicles.  Yessss.

    Chief, meanwhile, never stops plotting and planning odd things.  It is not only past time for a tree, but the Annual Sanders Christmas Card Photo is so overdue.  We start tossing around ideas, much to the..NOT delight of The Girls.  I like Chief's first suggestion : to go to Home Depot (where they push all trees thru a contraption and, like, enrobe them in netting for easy travel) and wrap him in netting like he is a big tree.  I instantly warm to the idea a bit (subsequently warming the house a bit - bonus!!) - and start wondering : will they allow it (he assures me that a big enough tip will make any holiday temp worker look the other way), can we just wrap him up without running him through the machine, would it look better with his hands stretched over his head or by his sides like a little tin soldier...

  Sparky alludes that this is "ri-Goddamn-diculous". Missy is apoplectic (it makes no sense, it's crazy, who would ever even think of something like that, there is something wrong with you).  We grab the camera, wait for Missy to choose the right shoes (boots or white Converse ?) and for Sparky to 'de-lesbian " her hair ( ? ) - and off we go.

   So, we decide to panic, since there is not time to buy a tree, and our favorite discount tree lot (FloorCraft in the Bayshore) is...closed.  Every other tree lot in town charges way too much, so we begrudgingly head out to Home Depot and hope that no one sees us enter or leave.

   The tree part of the store is roofless, which we find cool - but they only have the kind of tree that we hate (the stick-ish noble fir) .  I linger longer than I should by the tree-wrapping machine, and finger the netting thoughtfully.  Then, cold (no roof) and sad (ugly trees) - we time-wastingly enter The Depot - lured in  by shiny balls and inappropriately-large holiday inflatables.

    It is like an oversized psychotic winter wonderland: Santas, snowmen, Rudolphs - all a minimum of 15 feet tall : plastic, tinsel, "soft glitter", snug villages, sleighs, ugly wooden shit, and hundreds of clear boxes of huge colorful ornies.  One snowman has fallen over and is crushing a small village : I can almost hear the tiny screaming as Missy gleefully takes a picture with her phone.  

    The wheels start to turn in my head - and my first thought is that we need to take cover.  The backside of this immense display is hidden from the rest of the store - but all the front-facing decor and joy that would be good to pose with is facing the other way.  Dang. Okay - necessity being the mother of invention and all....  

      Sparky, unbidden, starts loading up a cart with hundreds of fancy decorations for a possible photo.  I tell her "where were you when you were a baby ?  You guys in the cart with all that stuff would've been adorable !" 

       Our first stop is near some shelving which is chock-a-block with the afore-mentioned large colored ball boxes.  Boxes and boxes - 6 deep.  I immediately envision my offspring sitting and lying on these store shelves - cozily surrounded by ornaments.  I roll up my sleeves,and start tossing boxes and stacking - hissing for Sparky (who will usually do anything) to climb on the shelf.  I say  : "It's a Home Depot shelf fer Chrissakes - it's made to be sturdy - get up there, quick !"  I decide that she should be on a shelf : feet back to the wall, head sticking out and cradling her little Christmas head as she peeks out.  Missy's place will be on the very bottom shelf, crouched whimsically.  

      As Sparky gamely starts to climb among the ornament boxes, Missy (party pooper) is backing away, looking appalled and mumbling disbelief and saying things like : "MOM !  This is too crazy, even for you !  I am NOT doing anything of the kind.  I am 18, you can't make me."  I gently remind here that, in her deepest heart of hearts, she knows now who Santa is and he is not only watching but expecting her to pose for this picture...

   Knowing that Sparky is now a given, I start a system of quick movements, mindless chattering, subterfuge - and other flim-flamming that I employ when trying to manipulate a "tough crowd".  I have moved down the aisle, toward the fallen snowman (who I instantly right so he can be sat under by teenagers). Chief, camera in hand and knowing me for 34 years and knowing his part (s) - instantly starts moving boxes around and stacking cases of pretty Christmas wrap all around.  Good man, that one.  Mind you, the whole time, there is a veritable cacophony of hissing, giggling, teen outrage, and my insistent voice whisper-yelling things like "Come on !  Shoosh now !  Can we just do this ?"

 wrapping paper.  Missy stands there, grimacing and freaking out : "I absolutely refuse to do this, I want to go back to college are we near a train station, if I pay $50/day to live in the dorms over Christmas, that's my whole savings, Mom

 (aside: why me?) I can't believe you."  Everyone (except me) keeps saying we're going to get caught/get in trouble.  In for a dime, in for a dollar : the only way we'll get caught is if you girls don't do as you're told.

   Chief snaps away, like a real photo shoot.  The Models smile gamely (although I'm thinking we can't use the one where Missy is miming shooting herself in the head).  I am darting all around the shoot,  getting yelled at for "being in the wide shots".  I get yelled at constantly, as Sparky is certain there will be breakage.  I bravely grab a big old Nutcracker (the most hideous and Satanic of all Yule decor, second only to the creepy, homeless-looking "Old World Santa").  The shooter calls for "more ornaments - quickly !" 

 I scamper over to the original shelf, and, what ho ! I spy cylindrical stacking packs of ornaments !  Eggs-cellent !

     I run them over to a group chorus of : NO !!  These are apparent;y inappropriate.  Whatevs.  It is hell being the shot designer.  I slam them down on some fake show, and run back for more boxes.  I deliver, and get behind Chief so I can make the Nutcracker pop over his shoulder.  How funny is that ?

   Uh oh - what's this ?!  It's A MAN and he's coming back to see what we are doing.  I assume (as do the others) that he is an employee and we are SO about to get busted and then some.  We have made a shit-mess of this department, all in the name of a Christmas photo.  In unison, and without planning, we do the only thing we can : we totally ignore him and refuse to look his way.  Daddy keeps snapping.  (There is a big part of me that believes 2 things  : a) if you stand very still, people cannot see you and b) if you have sunglasses on, people cannot see you.  It's worked so far...).  Finally he speaks, softly " "Well, that's an interesting idea."  He departs - just another customer.  Whew.

     Finally, Missy can take no more.  We wrap up the shoot, and I make a feeble attempt at replacing some of the props.  If we linger too long, we will likely have some 'splainin' to do, Lucy.  We sky up outta there, giggling, through the roofless Garden Center (still cool).  The camera is loaded with about 20 pictures, one of which we sincerely make it to the finals.

    FYI : other ideas include : a) setting up the silver Christmas tree in Golden Gate park for a groovy juxtaposition of flash and flora and b) the all-pink and frosty Barbie Christmas tree on the beach in a storm.

Maurice At Christmas

So,

   An important part of Jury Duty (JD) is parking one's car.  Where, when, why (check the Constitution here), how much, how far, can I get a deal, oh God they're all full, can I park in a bail bonds spot, is this a level of hell down here on Bryant Street.  For many, yes indeed it is - Dante himself would have to remove his belt and keys for security.

    Cheap and close (like my men) are the key considerations.  This time around, I opted for close.  Right across the street - if I was to inexplicably get jailed, the hope is that I could see my car from my cell.   Cool.  

    All lots try to lure you in with taunts of "flat rate !" ($6 for the first 20 minutes), "all day special !" (times restricted), "Park HERE !" (too pushy).  The Court even offers a "juror discount" : $5 in a certain lot that generally fills up before Court is open.  Not too far, but at the end of the day (literally) anything out of sight is "too far" in this neighborhood.   So I go for across the street, like, Ampco 5 Star or something.   I am wondering if they actually have a  ***** rating from a reputable source and, if so, is there a certificate framed and mounted in the kiosk ?   I'll ask the attendant.

   First day in, got my juror grump on, pissed that of my eventual $15/day juror salary, after gas and parking, I break even for participating in jurisprudence.   Jeez.   The parking attendant greets me...and he is smiling.   Kind.   Seemingly happy.   Gracious.  Helpful.  Wishes me a good day.  Seems to mean it.  What the hell is he up to ?  Will he take my keys, have copies made, and ransack my house because he knows I'll be all day in Court ?   I am taken aback, and instantly want to slice his forearm with a knife and check for wires or something else robotic and non-human.

   Sure enough - he just seems to be... nice.   My car and keys are safe at day's end, there were no prowlers in my home with shiny new keys on strings around their felonious necks, and maybe I will park there tomorrow.   Just to say hi.   Even if it is cheaper down the street...

   So, I park there every day.  He is always happy, one day I just tossed off a "thank you, my friend" - he looked incredulous and

 said : "Am I your friend ?"  I told him "yeah, I see you more than I see most of my friends".   After he'd only been on the job for 3 weeks, he told me he lost some important keys, and hoped he didn't get fired.   I told my new friend that I would vouch for him if he got in trouble.

  Trial almost over, and we introduce ourselves.   Maurice trusts me enough to give me a secret code for the machine that gobbles up my Visa card.    I learn that he works 7 days a week at 3 different jobs.   He parks cars all over town, and has a wife and 2 kids.   He tells tales of rich people tipping him 50 cents.  We wondered why the people who have the most seem to give the least.  A woman upset with the parking lot fees and "..she yelled about my mother, my father, and told me to go back to Mexico".  He looked hurt about this.  "My mother, she died ion 1992, my father has cancer - I'm just trying to do my job."  We wondered why people treat other people so badly.

  Finally, the jury reaches a verdict - I will likely never see Maurice again.   Our worlds just don't meet very often.   He has been a nice start to my day these past few weeks -  a smiling face, a good wish - I walk into the Courthouse smiling.  I am the only one who does this.  I wish Maurice goodbye and good luck.  I will no longer need 5 Star Parking.  We shake hands, share Merry Christmases, and part company.

   I stop on my way out, and inexplicably tell him I'm going to bring him some homemade cookies tomorrow.   Chief thinks I am crazy : you don't even have jury duty tomorrow, why are you bringing some strange guy cookies, have you lost your mind ?

   Maybe I lost my mind a long time ago.  Sometimes, you have a brief encounter that stays with you, for whatever reason.  Maurice was an oasis in a sea of assholes and mean people.  Maurice works honestly hard for his family, always ready to smile, grateful for every day.

   I baked all morning, dragged my butt Downtown.   Maurice grinned as I pulled in and handed him the cookies.  Still warm, fer Chrissakes.   He repeated how he wanted to do something nice for me - he didn't understand that he already had.

  As I pulled my sleigh out of 5 Star Parking, Maurice was starting to cry as I sped down Bryant Street.