My dad -to me- is the king of quotes. Not that he quotes anyone in particular, but he deposits little adages here and there in such meme-worthy bite-sized-ness that he is nothing but a series of Jack Handy advice quips. My mom screams out the same advice repeatedly so she represents a broken record to me.
The more bizarre (and yet I somewhat do take into consideration years down the line) advice I’ve received from them include: Read more...
I was sick a couple of weeks ago and since work wouldn’t allow me to come into the office (although I had a tower of stuff to do that was time-sensitive and no one else to do it), I decided to go to the doctor and get swabbed for strep throat which was making the rounds in Oakland. Hey, while I’m at the doctor’s, I should just go toddle off to the OB/GYN and make sure all that miscarriage stuff is cleared out of me just in case.
So imagine my surprise after being gagged with a strep swab and then poked by an ultra sound wand and a chuckle of “Well, you’re still pregnant.”
-”No I’m not.”
-”Yes you are.”
-”No I’m not.”
-”Look at the monitor.” Read more...
I stare at the text. It’s 830am and I’m packing to get on the road for a 6pm go-time of a long-anticipated wedding way up in the California foothills.
Leonardo is dying. It’s been just a little over a year since his Stage IV cancer was diagnosed. Honestly, I thought he was going to beat it. He increased his positivity and prayer and looked on no side that boded ill. If you doubted him, you were against him and he was going to prove you wrong. Read more...
I had braced myself for a hit. A slap. I opened my eyes. He had sat there staring forward out the front window shield, his hand lightly resting on the driver’s wheel while his mouth hung slack-jawed. It was 10pm at night and we had been sitting in his parked car outside the Fox Theatre in Oakland.
That’s how I remember him when I uttered “I’m pregnant,” to him as fast as I could before my courage waned and before he had to get back on stage.
We agreed to talk about it later when he had time to think about it.
“It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.”
“At least they died doing what they love.”
These are sayings that suck. They SUCK. They especially suck when you lose your partner and people say this to cheer you up.
My best guy friend just lost his wife. Poof! One minute she’s riding her bike in front of him, next minute he’s giving her CPR. Two days later he’s delaying pulling the plug on life support because he still wants to hold her hand even if her pupils are fixed and her brain has no activity. Heart attack. She had just turned 40. Read more...
I’m at a party with an old friend who is telling a funny story.
He goes, “So we’re picking up a friend who’s staying at the Hilton in the Tenderloin….” (The Tenderloin is a historically harder neighborhood in San Francisco that has a high number of homeless and drug users, mixed in with the touristy stuff of downtown.) “And there’s this homeless guy, and he doesn’t have his back to us or anything, he’s doing it while face the street..” My friend inhales as his eyes get wet with excitement, “He’s MASTURBATING! Like full frontal! Not even trying to hide it?!?!”
Guffaws of laughter and disbelief from the crowd. Read more...
I love listening to NPR’s Radiolab and this week they had an interesting 20 minute short called For The Love Of Numbers. In it, they discuss how people have favorite numbers and we justify it very strongly. Even numbers are ‘solid’ and ‘dependable’: odd numbers are ‘edgy’ and ‘mystical’. And people have favorite numbers throughout the world despite cultural differences, and yet cite the same characteristics for numbers “it’s a feminine number” or “it feels strong”. But apparently everyone has an affinity for a number.
Come on number 9!!!!!
My favorite number flips between 3 and 9, simply because they are round and I like that. And 3 is the power number for me: the holy trinity for example. And more personal for me, I was raised an only child so it makes me think of me and my mom and dad… Like a little island of three unto ourselves.
Wow. Here I am. Art Murmur. The transformation is now complete. I am a (gasp!) gentrifier.
Bacchus would be proud.
I went from living in my parents’ basement (due to special circumstances) to owning my own little wee (and I mean SMALL!) condo in Oakland, which apparently is the West Coast version of ‘New Brooklyn’. I’m sure it got that moniker because San Francisco proper is repulsively expensive (average rent for a one-bedroom is somewhere in the upper $2000s/low $3000s unless you know of someone willing to rent a room out of their rent-controlled apartment).
Little post WWII housing of ticky-tacky houses? From $600k- $1.2m now. Say WAAAAAAA?
Sometimes it’s better to stay home and deal with your tween fantasies there than in public… In front of your hero.
“Will you sign my book?”
I’m terrible with being star struck. I’m shy and I have a habit of staring at my toes. Once about 10 years ago, I was in a Starbucks and Jack Nicholson came in and sat down no more than 10 feet away from me. I remember him glancing in my general direction and I promptly choked on my coffee and had it dribbling down my chin and into my bra. Sigh. I’m terrible.
I work for a Shakespeare company and my boss was sick so I was promptly ordered to attend -in his absence- the Shakespeare workshop of a brash Brit named Ben Crystal who was touring the nation. Read more...
I confide this to fellow SAF Seeking blogger Annika as I sit in a parking lot on my lunch break. She had just given me a quick sample of what she had written for the weekend and I was squealing with delight. Oh the embarrassment! The adventure! Giggles galore!
But after thinking about it, I felt sad. I don’t know where it went, but I have absolutely no sex drive. Since my fiancé’s passing a year ago, I’ve looked at pretty men but have had no tingle in the panties. You know that feeling? It seriously is a tingle, a momentary moistening, a signal that you might actually have to grind yourself against something to make it stop. Read more...