Category Archives: Life

January 25, 2011 · 7:08 am

When My Mom Was My Age

There is an interview series called When My Mom Was My Age. I’ve wanted to participate, if only as an excuse to ask my mom some questions about her life at my age (37).

My hopes were that I would learn something from her, and gain some insight into my mother. I was going to post the interview up at my irl eponymous blog…but after hearing my mother’s answers, I balked. I didn’t even know if I wanted the answers up at all, because her answers felt so dark and filled with regret. It was, in sum, depressing to me to hear that my mother wasn’t happy at all at the age of 37, and was living, psychologically, day to day.

She regrets the many decisions made then–and coincidentally, or perhaps not so coincidentally, one of my life mottoes is, “Do not have regrets.” Listening to her, as I sit in the housekeeping years of middle age, I felt a deeper resolve to keep my life a happy adventure. I also noticed her child-centric answers, as I navigate my 30s unable to have a child and without child. Was it her children who held her back? Or her children who saved her? At the current age of 67, she still feels trapped by the decisions she made (or rather, didn’t make) in her middle age.

Which makes me feel awful. And yet enlightened. And awful. And yet enlightened. Who wants their own mother to feel their life is a cautionary tale?

And yet–I learned, even as my heart broke. And so, I’m posting the interview here on WUP.

I did decide to post a picture of my mom, when she was in her late 20s (I may remove it, later). She’s wearing her nursing uniform, back when nurses were required to wear hats on the job. She’s wearing eyeglasses–but she didn’t need them; she wore them because my dad wanted to obscure her youth and beauty. Or, as my mom put it once, “Daddy wanted me to look ugly, because sooo many doctors around me.” She’s smiling–and after you read the interview, you might think as I do, “What does that smile belie?”

Otherwise, there are no pictures of me and my mother, posted here on this anonymous blog. The interview is pretty much unadorned. She doesn’t go into details at points, and I know the dark context. It’s stark. Kind of like how I felt as I listened to her words, her voice creased and weary with time.

Where did you live?
I lived in Arcadia, California. I worked at Garfield Hospital.

What was a typical day like?
In the morning I woke up, I went to the hospital to go to work. I worked fulltime that time I was fulltime, working in the ICU, then coming home. Grandma was sitting on the sofa, and I had to cook, spend some time with you and your brother. Make dinner. Sleep. Then go to work again.

What did you worry about the most?
That time–ahhh, it was a tough time. Everyday, people picked on me, and give me a hard time. Grandma everyday was tough on me. Everything was a headache.

I only liked you and R. Everybody a work asked why I was smiling all the time; every time I don’t feel good, I just think about my kids, then smile. I was most happy face in the hospital. You two make my face so bright. I was the one, they called me the Happymaker because even though I have a lot of headache at home, my kids made me smile.

What did you think the future held for you?
My future. No. Just my children. Good school, and hoping when they grow up, they become doctors. Actually I wanted you to be a doctor and go to a good college. At that time, I was just thinking about your future, all the time. I didn’t think about my future at the time. Just my 2 kids.

How do you look back on that age?
If I had to do it again, I would have studied. Even if I fight with Daddy about school, I can study and make my life better at that time.

Do you have advice for anyone else at that age?
Advice. Just think of yourself for the future. Of course, children are there, but concentrate, do what you can do for your kids. If you’re hungry, don’t make your kids hungry. Do your best. Also, if Mommy goes to school, there are good effects to the children, because they can see Mommy study so hard, working so hard, making a good example for kids.

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Filed under Life, People

January 20, 2011 · 10:33 am

Day 18: differences

Day 18, and I’m noticing the differences between life in Berkeley and life in NYC. Differences other than the snow/weather, of course…

Recyclables:
If NYC could get on the recycling bandwagon, wow–what an impact on the world. Our NYC apartment building has recycling bins, but recycling isn’t enforced like it is in San Francisco, both by law and social order. (If you go to a party in SF/Berkeley, EVERYONE will come up to you with their empty bottles and ask, “You recycle, right? Where’s your recycling bin?”) Nevermind the fact that you can get FINED if you put your compostables in your regular trash bin!

I have a compost bin in Berkeley–all compostables (vegetable and fruit peels, egg shells, coffee grinds) go in my compost bin. I cook a lot–and over the course of a week, I’m tossing several big bowls of compost into that bin. It makes me feel virtuous to know I’m relieving burden on the environment, turning organic material back into soil…

But in New York? There’s no compost bin in an apartment in a sea of apartments. And there’s no green compost bin in the refuse room, either. Those compostables? They go in the trash. That makes me sad.

Which leads me to…The Refuse Room:
I hate taking out the trash. Hate.It. The only time I could bear taking the trash out was when I lived in a high rise Berkeley dorm, where there was…a trash chute. All I had to do was walk out in the hallway, and throw away my trash and shuuuuup! it would go shooting down the chute down to whatever depths below.

(Actually, I know the depths–one time, I threw away my rice cooker pot insert, and had to rifle through the building’s trash myself).

In Berkeley, there are trash cans that I have to (ick) touch and then roll out to the curb each week. In NYC? The aforementioned Trash Chute phenomenon. There’s a picture above–trash chute to the left, and recycling bins. I love the trash chute. It’s as close to the Jetsons as my life has gotten.

Hospital designs are all about hiding the corpses. I think NYC apartment buildings are all about hiding the trash.

Service:
Service in NYC is…da sheeit. Repairmen not only arrive early, but they CALL you to tell you if they can arrive early. And if you tell them to arrive 15 minutes later, they say sure! And then 15 minutes later call you and say, “Is now okay?” Heaven.

You go to the store–whether a big chain or a local place…and 90% of the time, you can have that stuff delivered to your house, so that you don’t have to carry a zillion bags on the way home. (I have developed some serious shoulder muscles in the few weeks I’ve been here). You can pick the timeframe for delivery. It’s amazing.

Walking walking walking:
Biggest difference: you don’t need a car. Walking suffices. You walk all day. You can walk most anywhere. I can’t be sure (I have to go get a tape measure, because this new weight scale I got is maddeningly inaccurate)…but I think I’ve lost a few pounds since being here.

As a consequence of walking, I notice the details of the City (e.g., all the remnants of dog shit, for starters). I rub shoulders with other people. I don’t just drive around in a “bubble” (aka the car), driving past the sections I want to rush through, only to focus on my destination. It’s an entirely different process.

I love the walking.

Berkeley Bowl (otherwise known as, “Where are the good grocery stores?”):
I miss Berkeley Bowl. I miss it. A. Lot. I knew that when I left Berkeley, I’d miss that store–but never did I think I would miss it this much! Berkeley Bowl is a one stop shop–it has international groceries, mainstream groceries, organic groceries, frou frou gourmet groceries…all top notch PLUS a bakery PLUS a deli PLUS a great butcher + fishmonger PLUS amaaazing and diverse produce.

We’ve driven to Jersey, we’ve tried no fewer than 12 grocery stores in Manhattan…and so far, the only thing that comes close is Whole Foods and Fairway Market. For the record, Whole Foods doesn’t hold a candle up to Berkeley Bowl.

I haven’t yet checked out the greenmarkets, so maybe it’ll get better. But for now–I miss you, Berkeley Bowl.

Smush Face Dogs:
New York loves its smush face dogs: pugs, French bulldogs, and English bulldogs.

Writers Room:
At The Writers Grotto in SF, each writer gets a private, dedicated office in which to write. There’s an enormous wait list, and everyone is eager to get on the “sublet list,” which gives a writer access to the occasional sublet opportunities.

Here, in NYC, there are a number of writing rooms, like Paragraph and The Writers Room. Whichever you choose–you’re unlikely to get an office, let alone a dedicated desk (although the The Writer Gym at the Asian American Writers Workshop offers dedicated desks). I kind of prefer the NYC option–to be in a sea of writers, so that you hear the collective work going on (it’s silent, but not without the occasional gulp of water, rustling of polyester jackets, and the sound of typing). If you don’t have a dedicated desk, you’re all the more motivated to get to the space early.

And lastly…:
And lastly–I love that there is NO RAMPANT HIGH TECH TALK here in NYC. It’s nice to go through a meal at a restaurant without hearing “Java /Javascript /JVM /Python /Ruby /Ruby on Rails /VCS /SAN,” etcetera, either at your own table or at the table one over, or the table on the other side of the restaurant. It’s a nice break. And I love that writers abound.

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Filed under Life, New York City

January 12, 2011 · 5:52 pm

Day 10 in the NYC life: Evolution of Snow

Evolution of NYC snow:
Yesterday evening, it began to snow in NYC…the night sky turned milky white with falling snow.  This morning, I woke up to pillows of the ivory stuff everywhere; by news accounts, 9 inches of snow fell in Central Park. By noon, there was a snowman in our apartment’s courtyard. By mid-afternoon, strong winds and snow blowing off rooftops. By late-afternoon, the white stuff turned to gray slush on the sidewalks and crosswalks.

Another reason I love NYC:
Did not write. Got my hair cut. I got to indulge my diva self; I received a personalized hair consultation, and experienced a transformation of my mane. My new hairstylist kindly tore the Vogue magazine from my hands and told me I had to watch my haircut this first time. I have a decades-long habit of reading magazines while getting my haircut, sometimes to my hair’s great detriment. I totally admired her for separating me from my magazine.

At one point, she asked me, “Do you like it so far?”

I said yes.

She asked, “What part do you like?”

Daaaamn. I fell in love with her at this point. She wasn’t letting me get away with platitudes. Man, I love this city. It calls me on my own bullshit, because I’m from this city. I pointed to the layers on the sides of my hair.

“I like that part, too.” And she continued to cut. Until she gave me the best haircut I’ve received in 10 years.

Yet another reason I love NYC:
Afterwards, I walked north, past men hired to shovel the streets of Tribeca. Where did they come from? Did the City hire them for the day? And why was I not seeing them anywhere else? Did the cobblestone streets of Tribeca require manual shoveling to clear snow?

I met a good friend for chocolate treats at Jacques Torres. I was wearing a Star Wars tshirt. Why is it that my husband gets mad props for the tshirt, but I get zero comments? (I’m now wearing it, because it shrunk in the dryer and it no longer fits my husband).

I love Jacques Torres. I use his chocolate chip cookie recipe. I love my friend. Best chocolate in the world + amazing friend = awesome time.

We walked towards the Village afterwards. Picked up Raffeto’s for dinner. Where I saw Vodka tomato cream sauce. Again. NYC is obsessed with:
1) Hamburgers (and does them extremely well)
2) Cupcakes (the overly sweet kind)
3) Vodka tomato sauce

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January 11, 2011 · 4:36 pm

Day 9 in the nyc life: where I sit down to write

Today was my 9th full day in NYC.

I found this blog called A Year In New York, where writer David Ferris documented a year in NYC as a writer (like me, he’s also from San Francisco). I’m addicted to his blog. I’m one who loves insight to the future, even if totally improbable; hence, my obsession with weather forecasts and fortunetellers…and blogs about a year in NYC.

And reading his blog reminded me: I need to update this blog more often.

I’ve been writing in my moleskine–but haven’t felt compelled to post online, partly because I haven’t blogged here for awhile, partly because I’m still absorbing this exhilarating whirlwind of change.

I signed up for Photojojo.com awhile back on my irl-name flickr stream. Photojojo.com sends you a few photos on a monthly basis, of photos taken a year previous. I quickly discovered that:
1) I DO the SAME STUFF EVERY SINGLE YEAR (going to see the golden aspens in Tahoe! making pumpkin bread! vegetable gardening!)
2) THE SAME STUFF HAPPENS EVERY YEAR
3) AT THE SAME TIME

Ohboy. Time for a change, I thought. And then an opportunity to live in NYC came along. We pondered the opportunity–we decided to go for it, and told ourselves that if we hit a roadblock in planning, we’d reconsider. No roadblocks whatsoever occurred; we found a place to live in an act of ultimate kizmet, and the timing was such that I could take a semester off from teaching. Additionally, other logistics fell into place. Like magic.

All of the above happened inside of a month. I didn’t even know what to pack. I ended up throwing everything in a box and sending it off to NYC (where we met the box, disheveled and falling apart, after driving to NYC in the car).

So we’re here in NYC–we braved Arizona blizzards (does that state have ANY snow plows?! We saw 5 spinouts and flipped cars inside of 30 minutes at one point) in our tiny MINI, and then outran the storms as best we could across New Mexico and Texas, until we reached New Orleans, where we spent NYE (amidst tornado watches). We love New Orleans. We pondered just staying put and refusing to move on to NYC. We ate at Jacques-Imo’s for NYE dinner, and vowed to return.

We ate at Waffle House (my first time! AMAZINGLY delicious) somewhere in Alabama, at Cracker Barrel (blech worse than dorm food) in Virginia, and I watched my husband eat a 24 ounce steak in Amarillo, Texas. The wiener dogs settled into the backseat of our car and snuggled for thousands of miles, happy as clams through aforementioned blizzards.

We got to NYC–and found a parking spot right in front of our apartment building. One of my friends called it a total Doris Day moment–too bad I was wearing the same pants and tshirt I’d been wearing for 5 days…if I’d known there would be a Doris Day moment, I’d have changed into a Dris Day shift dress and wool peacoat and put on some foundation and mascara.

It was magical. Surreal, even, to drive through the Holland Tunnel into Manhattan, and then walk through the doors of our apartment building. And stare out the windows at Manhattan, the Empire State Building lit up like a Bomb Pop popsicle in green and red.

We…were…here. I had realized a dream.

It’s now Day 9. We’ve settled into a routine after checking out no fewer than 7 food stores (Fairway, HMart, Sunrise Mart, Food Emporium, Whole Foods, Citarella, Ottamanelli’s Meats, just to name a few). I’ve seen 2 rats (one living, one dead), a falcon in the sky, a kazillion cupcake carts/trucks/stores, hundreds of naked post-Christmas Christmas trees awaiting garbage pickup, mountains of garbage (the city was behind on garbage pickup, post-blizzard), and had 8 bloody noses from the dry air.

And yesterday, I signed a contract at The Writers Room. It was hard to decide, but in the end I chose the Writers Room over Paragraph in an emotional decision; I woke up everyday imagining myself writing at the Writers Room–no matter how I tried, I could only imagine myself writing at the Writers Room and nowhere else.

Today, I sat down to write at the Writers Room–I could hear every gulp of water from the other writers, and I could hear that one writer was on a roll, typing with mad abandon. Every once in awhile, the radiators would hiss and rattle.

It was good. It was really really good.

(Also: I love NYC, but I miss my Bay Area friends. I miss you!)

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April 1, 2010 · 9:13 pm

anticipating

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I *cannot wait* until Spring Break, which begins after class tomorrow, at 11am PST. I also cannot wait until Summer break! This teaching semester has been a taxing and wearying one, as much as it has been a rewarding learning experience. I look forward to sleeping in, and relaxing and resting. Just a few weeks ago, I would have said I also look forward to writing, but I’m finally admitting I’ve got no writing mojo right now.

I cannot wait until May! May is when my allergies go away!

I cannot wait until summer break, which begins at the very end of May. I plan on making progress with my novel revision and CANNOT WAIT to return to its progress!!!!!! I hope by then that I can also make some travel plans, even if summertime is my least favorite time for travel.

My anticipation keeps me forward-thinking, but it also saddens me because I am not savoring the present as much as I’d like.

Also: I password protected yesterday’s post; if you would like the password, and you know me, email me or DM me on twitter for the password.

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April 1, 2010 · 4:36 pm

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March 25, 2010 · 12:40 pm

Hello, it’s March

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I’ve been thinking of a way to provide an update/insight into how my novel revision is going but there are no inspiring words to describe. In my head, the psychological video, if I were to play it for you on an uneven stucco wall, entails a lot of exhausted thrashing in lukewarm water. Not pretty, not productive, not comfortable. Not even organized or strategic.

A lot of panic and confusion. All the methodic/rhythmic progress I made on completing the first draft feels like a dream–was that me? Was that *this* novel? But I still love my novel and sit with that discomfort, because it’s worth it.

Some of my struggles stem from the fact that this has been a challenging teaching semester. A student who writes papers reminiscent of KKK philosophies, another student who plagiarized, and another who said made suicidal comments. An overenrolled class. TAs to train/mentor.

I like it, I even love it–but it’s as time consuming and heartbreaking and exhausting as it is inspiring. So, I haven’t had much time for this novel, either. I haven’t had much psychic space. I haven’t been very joyful in the last couple of months. In recent weeks, I have walked into my classroom with a positive attitude and outlook, and changed the dynamics within, so that we now have a strong and positive classroom community.

But I leave class exhausted this semester. Any energy I’ve mustered up is deposited into my students. I guess in life, I too, am thrashing in the water.

It’s March–springtime allergies are making me feel miserable; but my spring break is coming up, too–so I find myself preparing for a good writing week, somehow. That means doing an inventory on what I need to make psychic space and to feed my imagination for that week. Rest, exercise, good food.

I haven’t been getting enough sleep. I have slacked off on exercise this semester. And I certainly have not been eating healthy. Time to change all that.

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Filed under Life, Revising, The Novel, Writing

January 22, 2010 · 2:09 pm

Offending Family

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I was in tears over a piece of writing, and it wasn’t because of a poorly written manuscript or because it had been panned. In fact, the few people I’d sent this essay to read/preview/critique were excited and touched by the essay.

I was in tears because my family wasn’t happy with the essay, a personal piece about one particular in-law, someone who passed away in the last few years. I’d sent copies to get their blessing, assuming I’d receive the same kind of support I’d received from writer friends, but when I got the email saying, in so many words, that it was not a good idea to publish the piece, I felt destroyed. They asked for a few changes, but all I heard was “No no no no no no no….”

I hadn’t written anything derogatory–it’s just that they didn’t want family to be mentioned in my writing whatsoever. As a member of the family, I felt deeply hurt because I didn’t know what could be so wrong about a tribute to my relationship with that person; in fact, I felt that I was not being allowed to grieve, and display my grieving, in my unique way. At the same time, I understood their desire for 100% privacy, given circumstances. But as a writer, I felt censored, my creativity stifled.

A “good girl” at heart, someone rule-driven and eager for the approval and acceptance of others, I felt demonic for wanting to express myself. A writer, I hated the “good girl” for allowing myself to consider censorship for the good of the family and to the detriment of my work.

How did I deal with this internal conflict? I sat in the car in the parking lot of Trader Joe’s and cried, my sobbing breaths fogging up the car windows. Eventually the “good girl” and “the writer” working together, got me to call a friend intimately familiar with the conflict of artist/family expectations (her book pissed off her family), who texted me back with what I needed to hear: permission, for the “good girl” to allow the writer to thrive. She told me to go for it–to make some concessions, but to try to get the work out there.

So I’m putting the piece out there. (In the end, my family said it would be okay so long as I left out names). I know this will not be the last time my writing might conflict with family comfort levels, but maybe someday, I won’t have to call someone to give the writer in me, permission, to go go go.

And maybe maybe maybe, someday my in-laws will understand what it means for me to be a writer.

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January 16, 2010 · 9:10 pm

2009 good things

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There were plenty of bad things in 2009 out in the world (need I explain what they were?), and the bulk of my friends rang in 2010 with great anticipation and relief. But in the realm of things, I still don’t think my 2009 could be worse than my 2007 (the year that is now the marker for “the worst year of my life,” what with my stroke, inability to write, inability to read, my mother-in-law’s sudden death, and other things that are more private and painful). In fact, 2009 was pretty okay, despite its financial nadir.

Here are some things about 2009 that make me proud, make me happy, make me smile:

And last but not least–in the wake of the catastrophic earthquake in Haiti…I urge you to help your fellow humans and send money to the Red Cross, Doctors Without Borders, Partners in Health, etc., so that we can bring the people of Haiti, aid. Haiti is the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere–unlike Hurricane Katrina or the earthquake in Sichuan, this earthquake is impacting their entire country and infrastructure…they will be suffering for quite some time. I hold back tears every time I turn on CNN to watch the news updates…but there need not be tears of helplessness.

For those who would rather buy, or would like to, additionally, buy a cupcake to benefit Haiti…my friend Samin is holding a bakesale for Haiti on January 23, from 10am-2pm at several locations in the bay area: Pizzaiolo in Oakland (and Pizzaiolo is donating 100% of proceeds from its baked goods sale that day to the cause)….Gioia’s Pizzeria in Berkeley and Bi-Rite Market in San Francisco.

2009 sucked in a lot of ways–but let’s start 2010 with good karma and help those who need us.

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November 11, 2009 · 10:35 am

i can’t hear you

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I rarely talk about my stroke anymore, I am so determined to put it behind me. But occasionally, I’ll be reminded that I’m not exactly the same person I once was, and it takes me a little while to absorb that fact. Sure, we’re not the same person we were just 24 hours ago, because of all the things that happen to us in a day and all those things change us in tiny ways…but when you are changed by illness, especially at a younger age, there’s a sense that your life was…disrupted, that these changes don’t come about by normal process. Of course, illness is a part of life, but there’s an anger/discouragement attached to that…disruption.

I’ve been back to 99% with a few palpable differences for about a year now. A couple differences: I now like beer (I used to hate it), I have huge empathy with people who have learning disabilities, especially those who don’t have very visible/obvious disabilities.

Also–the stroke damaged my verbal/auditory short term memory the most. I had quite a few tests measuring brain functionality in the months following the stroke, and they all indicated an almost 100% loss of verbal learning. Over time, much of my brain function returned (the things I missed most and were glad to see back: being able to HAVE a short term memory..and my coping skills, so that I wouldn’t break down and cry or fly into a rage at every insult or setback). Apparently, the thalamus helps with coping mechanisms.

But these days, my verbal short term memory is still very nearly absent. I am not an auditory learner. I took a test alongside my students trying to figure out if we’re 1) auditory learners, 2) visual learners, or 3) kinesthetic learners. Many of the students came out in some sort of combination, with no one single learning style dominating. But when we shared our scores, everyone was surprised: I had nearly zero auditory learning capability. What I had suspected was confirmed.

That means–if you introduce yourself to me, and I don’t see your name written down (or quickly figure out a visual mneumonic device like “Robert is wearing a red scarf. R for Robert. R for Red. Robert. Robert. Robert. RED SCARF!….what was his name? Red scarf?”), it is nearly impossible for me to remember you. This was painfully obvious to me at a literary reading the other night when the other writers and I introduced ourselves to each other in a noisy room. I had to ask them several times what their names were, and still struggled. (The next day, when our group picture was published on the web, with our names written down underneath, I learned their names immediately–precisely because it was all visually enabled learning).

Now, some of you may think this is completely normal, and it may still fall within normal range–but for me, this is a CHANGE from who I used to be. I used to remember names like a wizard. (Now that I teach, I take the student roster and read it over and over again and over and over again so that I can memorize student names within 2-3 classes. It’s important to know people’s names).

At the reading, I stuck to the two other writers who were the kindest to me. I have learned that memory can also go through the emotional center/avenue of the brain–even in the day after my stroke when I was most addled, I remembered the name of my wonderful neurologist, and I couldn’t figure out why I remembered him and no one else. Two years later, my thoughtful primary care physician told me that I probably remembered him because he was kind, and his name was processed by the emotional center of the brain, bypassing normal avenues. Ahhh–and so to this day, if you are kind to me, I will probably remember your name even in a crowded room where your name isn’t written down.

Afterwards, a few Stegner Fellows introduced themselves. I asked for their names over and over–I still didn’t remember. Alas, there is no picture of them on the web with their names written underneath, so their names are now lost to me.

I have always favored one on one interaction over group interaction, but these days I avoid group interaction because it reminds me of the ways in which I struggle.

This deficit has helped me as a teacher, because I try to engage all learning styles: I will write things on the board, read what I’ve put on the board, I will pass out handouts, and then read what’s on the handout. I will put students in small groups, and have them act out exercises. When there’s class discussion, I’ll write key words on the board. After small groups, students will write their answers up on the board. I try to incorporate auditory, visual, and kinesthetic learning styles in my classroom, and at the same time, tell my students that many other teachers will just lecture and expect them to take notes (and thus I teach them note taking skills). I understand what it’s like when a teacher makes you learn in a way that is impossible to you.

When the school year began, I enrolled in a workshop to learn about all the district’s teaching software. The instructor sat us in front of computers, gave us handouts, and then said, “Do NOT turn on the computers. Do NOT touch the computers! Don’t open the handouts! Just LISTEN TO ME.”

Oh.My.G*d. I wanted to scream. None of what he said was going into my brain. I wanted to take notes, because instinctively, that was a way to visualize what he was saying, but he chided me for writing on the handout that was not to be touched. I put down my pen and gave him a dirty look. I wanted to walk out of the room. I suddenly empathized with students who have behavioral problems, I was so frustrated with the situation and my own helplessness. I was furious. I sighed.

I raised my hand and asked, “I am not an auditory learner. Can you please put something up on the screen? Can I open the handout?”

He said no. I was so mad, I disregarded him from that moment on. I tuned out.

Acceptance. It’s hard. Friends tell me this loss of mental ability/memory is just old age–and it very well could be (is 36 old?), and many times, I do shrug it off. I’m grateful to be in the place I’m in now–to be able to write, to just be myself again, to experience life and all its details. But occasionally, like when I’m at a party and I can’t remember people’s names, and I feel like I’m coming off like an absent minded dork for not remembering when everyone else can…I’m reminded of who I am now.

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Filed under Life, The Stroke

October 28, 2009 · 2:22 pm

Quick Blog, October

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Above: salmon (kokanee, to be specific), spawning, in a Sierra stream. Kokanee salmon turn a brilliant red when it comes time to spawn. I could have watched them for hours.

Read/Reading:
I read Nova’s debut YA novel, Dani Noir and felt myself bursting with pride. My friend. Wrote. An. Awesome YA Novel.

I read The History of Love by Nicole Krauss, and I have been aimless since, looking for a book with which to fall in love.

I just started reading Dan Chaon’s Await Your Reply, and am finding its structure very interesting: three separate stories–and will they ever collide?

I read Julie and Julia. I read it with great hope, but ended up skimming through the last half of the book. As a good friend of mine said to me, “it’s a book for people who don’t read.” In my words, I call it a “blog quilt” (for those of you who don’t know, the book is inspired by her novel, and reads like blog posts slapped together). I am starting to sound like Michiko Kakutani–I must stop.

(Oh, and I read a few book reviews in the nytimes. They convinced me to NEVER read book reviews, at least while I’m writing my novel).

Wrote/Writing:
The novel. I am refusing to write short stories until I finish a draft of this novel. I am bushwhacking my way through the gorgeous middle. Every once in awhile, I find myself surprised while writing–my character meeting someone new, a new, unplanned plot development. I love feeling surprised while writing my novel.

Viewed:
OMG. It’s Television Season Premiere time. Help me, Jeebus. The only thing I can do is NOT get hooked on new shows.

Memorable eats:
Persimmons. The other day, on my usual expedition for persimmons, the dude at our small neighborhood grocery store pointed at my bag of persimmons. (The store has been around since before the Great Depression, when the owner gave out store credit to everyone in the neighborhood because he realized that people couldn’t afford to pay for groceries–and it was, and still is, a beloved store–plus if you hang out enough, you can spot MIchael Chabon who lives in the hood). The bag was so full of persimmons, that when I picked it up, the plastic strained against the spherical fruit. He asked, “What are you going to do with all the persimmons?”

“Eat them!” I said, sounding very much like a six year old with a bag of candy.

“Oh!” he said, surprised that a thirtysomething woman would sound like a six year old with a bag of candy.

I am eating persimmons like a mad woman. The season ends soon, I have to get my entire year’s worth of persimmons in my belly NOW.

Ate Out:
Afternoon tea with an old family friend (and beforehand, gallery hopping, where I fell in love with a painting).

Cooked:
I ate spaghetti squash using a recipe from Kalyn’s Kitchen for the first time. And I LIKED IT.

Happenings:

  • Keeping up my exercise regimen. I’m up to 2.0-3.0 miles running nonstop. It feels GOOD. But I get bored sometimes, while running. What do runners do to keep themselves entertained while running? Other than the iPod?
  • Set a new goal with Foodie McBody: we’re going to lose inches in our waist. Our goal is to get below a certain circumference…she has 1-2 inches to lose, I have 3.
  • To that end, I stopped eating chocolate. That in and of itself, has made me lose three pounds. I’m also trying to eat more protein (even though I am still the carb monster, and have no intention of low-carbing it).
  • More litmag rejections.
  • Planted the winter crops for my veggie garden. Brussel sprouts! Oh. And I started getting ripe tomatoes in October.
  • Fall is here–crisp air, breezes, crunchy leaves!
  • I’m having an amazing semester teaching college composition classes. It has been psychically rewarding and fun. Time consuming, but fulfilling.
  • Opened the door last night to let the dogs out, and heard a commotion in the sky. And then, I heard a honk. Honk. Honk. Geese! Flying south for the winter. Have a good time in Los Angeles, geese.
  • Celebrated our 10th wedding anniversary. A prime rib dinner (I hate hunks of meat except for…prime rib!). And then a hike in an aspen grove in the Sierras.
  • My husband read my novel-thus-far and he LIKED IT. 🙂
  • Watched salmon spawning in a Sierra stream.
  • Smiled from ear to ear walking in golden aspen groves.

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September 17, 2009 · 9:49 am

D is for Dirty

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I used to carry around disinfectant wipes and/or a bottle of purell with me all the time. Before the days of wet wipes and packaged purell, I would carry little packets of rubbing alcohol wipes–you know, the kind they have in bulk supply at doctors’ offices. On public transportation, I would wipe down the seat before I sat down, or wipe down a pole before wrapping my hand around to hold. Or anywhere public, for that matter. During flu season, I’d wish I could sanitize the air of viruses, and all year round I feared bacteria floating through the air, let alone those residing on said seats and poles and handrails.

I was always this way–when I once rode the RTD (L.A.’s MTA used to be called the RTD–the misnomer, “Rapid Transit District”) to the LA County Museum of Art (LACMA) with my friend in high school (hello, from the suburbs of LA this is a huge expedition), I diligently wiped down my seat before sitting down, to the stares of other riders.

My mother was a nurse who, when she cleaned the house, called the act, “disinfecting,” using surgical grade cleaners to wipe down kitchen counters until she stripped the finish off of surfaces. Nothing was clean until the germs were gone. She would chant, “Once you get something dirty, it will never be the same again, never the same clean it once was when new.” That line stuck with me.

My friend would brush the leaves off a wooden bench. Was that bench clean? No, because the germs were still there. Wipe, wipe.

This compulsion only increased when I worked at a medical facility, surrounded by disinfectants and germ-killing procedures. It also didn’t help that there was a lot…and I mean A LOT of greed in that particular corner of the medical industry. Surgeons would scream at me if surgeries were cancelled; not only were they dismayed at the cancellation and the impact on their schedule, they were mostly furious at the loss of revenue.

Until then, I’d always seen doctors as role models, as highly educated and deft practitioners of saving lives and good health. Ok, maybe doctors could be super horny and full of drama, like in St. Elsewhere or ER or Grey’s Anatomy but no one’s a truly greedy asshole, not even McSteamy. It shocked me to see that patients could be seen as revenue sources, and it shocked me to see the behavior of very very greedy doctors. It felt…corrupt. I felt dirty. I felt unclean. I felt I would never the same as when I was new. I felt I would never be clean again. I felt dirty.

And so I would wash my hands.

I would wash my hands again.

I’d get screamed at. I’d feel pressure to make money in an industry vertical that I’d before seen as altruistic practitioners of medicine ala Marcus Welby, M.D. I would go into a dark empty room and cry. I’d never heard such profanity directed at me in a workplace before.

I’d wash my hands again.

I’d wipe my keyboard.
I’d wipe my desk.

I’d get screamed at–why is everything cancelled? We’d undergo inspection by the Department of Health Services. They’d scrutinize every single corner of our facility, pore through our procedural manuals. Were we clean enough?

I’d wash my hands. I’d wipe my keyboard. I wiped the surface of every single thing. I’d watch the scrub techs mop the floor of the surgical suite with a special mop only used for that room. With industrial grade disinfectant that smelled sweet and artificial. I’d wash my hands. I’d wipe my keyboard. I’d wipe the doorknobs.

I’d hold my breath. Once I even wore a surgical mask. I took it off at the behest of my coworkers, but I’m telling you, I felt SO MUCH BETTER wearing that surgical mask.

I quit that job. I applied to, and got into MFA programs. I kept carrying around surgical gloves and purell and wet wipes.

I went through a bottle of purell each week. I went through my portable packets of wet wipes more than once a week. I wore surgical gloves when I used the computer lab at school and had to use a shared keyboard. A fellow MFA student leaped up and said with a smile on her face and concern in her voice, “Jade, what is UP with the gloves?!” I would wear surgical gloves when I went to a buffet, the thought of touching the same serving tongs that some stranger had just used seconds before me gave me the heebies.

I quit going to buffets because the thought of people breathing on my food, and possibly coughing and sneezing onto the open vats of food gave me heebies I couldn’t mitigate.

And finally. And finally, I said I couldn’t deal with this. More specifically, my husband said to STOP. STOP. STOP. STOP.

So I stopped carrying purell and wet wipes. I put my hands on things. I washed them afterwards, but I did not use purell and wet wipes. No purell. No wet wipes. NO disinfecting.

I chanted to myself that viruses eventually die, and that shopping cart over there had probably not been touched in an hour. At first I picked abandoned shopping carts in the far corner of the parking lot. Even then, I made my husband push the cart when possible. And then I was, one day, okay with using one that someone had just abandoned a few seconds previous. And no wiping.

I still wash my hands a lot. But I refuse to carry the purell and wet wipes. I met a friend I hadn’t seen in years and years. She asked me if I had a wet wipe. I said no. She was surprised. I told her, I don’t carry them anymore.

She said, eyes widening with surprise, that’s good.

***

Joining Charlotte’s Web in working through the alphabet with short, memoir-like pieces. It’s called Alphabet: A History.

Previous letters:

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Filed under Alphabet: A History, Life, Memes, Memories