I dream in caramel.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Foolish Wanderer: A Brief History of My Brother the Nomad
My oldest brother is traveling to India, Tibet and China for the month of April. This is slightly worrisome, given that he has a somewhat checkered traveling past.
His first trip abroad was a three-week journey to Australia. He'd had a stomach virus for several days prior to departure, and despite my mother's apprehensive flutterings, remained unconvinced that wandering alone into the outback was an unwise plan. Thus, we dropped him at San Francisco International, his scrawny frame burdened sherpa-like with several massive backpacks containing all the necessities to brave the wild new continent. My family and I waited, his own four-person cheering section, while he stood in line to check in. I pranced back and forth impatiently, eagerly anticipating the moment we could unload my troublesome sibling and be bound for the Ghiradelli Chocolate Factory, where my parents could make good on their promise of a Cable Car Sundae for yours truly (no, I wasn't 12. I was 21. Yes, I have a problem).
I stood there, staring at the exit signs, daydreaming of clouds of marshmallow fluff, rivers of caramel sauce and mini chocolate cable cars riding through treacherous canyons of ice cream, when suddenly my brother swayed beneath his baggage, took a step backward in line, and unceremoniously collapsed. He fell straight backward, buckling onto the terminal floor, eyes rolled back, head lolling. My mother shrieked and ran - my father and brother raced immediately to First Aid. After a moment of reflection - curses...there will be no sundaes today - I joined my mother in dragging him off the ground.
The paramedic's verdict was that the flu had simply rendered him too weak to travel (or remain upright, for that matter), so his trip was delayed several days while he recuperated, though given the level of my mother's anxiety he was fortunate to leave her sight at all. Aside from several possibly melanoma-inducing sunburns, the remainder of his voyage proved uneventful. He brought back a crippling fear of the sun and a wide-brimmed hat which he subsequently persisted to wear on any remotely sunny San Franciscan days (yes, they exist). This charming accoutrement never failed to illicit incessant cries of "Hey mate, put another shrimp on the barbee!" from neighboring hoodlums.
On his next journey, a trip to Japan, my brother was looking forward to visiting the famed snow monkeys that dwell in the northern part of the country. Apparently, as it watched the curious young foreigner trudge through the snowdrift in approach, the monkey decided it was not feeling particularly cordial. It bared its teeth and lunged. My brother managed to escape unscathed, and much to my mother's dismay now enjoys regaling audiences with tales of the malicious Japanese monkeys.
His most recent expedition was to Egypt. Roaming through the desert for several weeks left him in such a state of such extreme dehydration that he found himself flat on his back in a grimy Saharan hospital tent, IV-fluid drip in his arm, surrounded by sand dunes with no English speakers in sight. My mother was duly hysterical.
Given this tumultuous traveling history, she is justifiably anxious as her first-born sets off on his next escapade, the most ambitious to date. She called me during breakfast the other day to vex about it. Eager to put the kibosh on her lamentations and thereby return to gnawing at my organic toaster pastry, I assumed my most confident tone: "Don't worry, Mom. I'm sure he won't wake up in a bathtub with his kidneys missing."
Damn. By the shrill screeching that followed, I can only assume that my reassurance did not serve its intended purpose.
Good luck leaving the country, brother. And keep an eye on those organs.
His first trip abroad was a three-week journey to Australia. He'd had a stomach virus for several days prior to departure, and despite my mother's apprehensive flutterings, remained unconvinced that wandering alone into the outback was an unwise plan. Thus, we dropped him at San Francisco International, his scrawny frame burdened sherpa-like with several massive backpacks containing all the necessities to brave the wild new continent. My family and I waited, his own four-person cheering section, while he stood in line to check in. I pranced back and forth impatiently, eagerly anticipating the moment we could unload my troublesome sibling and be bound for the Ghiradelli Chocolate Factory, where my parents could make good on their promise of a Cable Car Sundae for yours truly (no, I wasn't 12. I was 21. Yes, I have a problem).
I stood there, staring at the exit signs, daydreaming of clouds of marshmallow fluff, rivers of caramel sauce and mini chocolate cable cars riding through treacherous canyons of ice cream, when suddenly my brother swayed beneath his baggage, took a step backward in line, and unceremoniously collapsed. He fell straight backward, buckling onto the terminal floor, eyes rolled back, head lolling. My mother shrieked and ran - my father and brother raced immediately to First Aid. After a moment of reflection - curses...there will be no sundaes today - I joined my mother in dragging him off the ground.
The paramedic's verdict was that the flu had simply rendered him too weak to travel (or remain upright, for that matter), so his trip was delayed several days while he recuperated, though given the level of my mother's anxiety he was fortunate to leave her sight at all. Aside from several possibly melanoma-inducing sunburns, the remainder of his voyage proved uneventful. He brought back a crippling fear of the sun and a wide-brimmed hat which he subsequently persisted to wear on any remotely sunny San Franciscan days (yes, they exist). This charming accoutrement never failed to illicit incessant cries of "Hey mate, put another shrimp on the barbee!" from neighboring hoodlums.
On his next journey, a trip to Japan, my brother was looking forward to visiting the famed snow monkeys that dwell in the northern part of the country. Apparently, as it watched the curious young foreigner trudge through the snowdrift in approach, the monkey decided it was not feeling particularly cordial. It bared its teeth and lunged. My brother managed to escape unscathed, and much to my mother's dismay now enjoys regaling audiences with tales of the malicious Japanese monkeys.
His most recent expedition was to Egypt. Roaming through the desert for several weeks left him in such a state of such extreme dehydration that he found himself flat on his back in a grimy Saharan hospital tent, IV-fluid drip in his arm, surrounded by sand dunes with no English speakers in sight. My mother was duly hysterical.
Given this tumultuous traveling history, she is justifiably anxious as her first-born sets off on his next escapade, the most ambitious to date. She called me during breakfast the other day to vex about it. Eager to put the kibosh on her lamentations and thereby return to gnawing at my organic toaster pastry, I assumed my most confident tone: "Don't worry, Mom. I'm sure he won't wake up in a bathtub with his kidneys missing."
Damn. By the shrill screeching that followed, I can only assume that my reassurance did not serve its intended purpose.
Good luck leaving the country, brother. And keep an eye on those organs.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Barefoot in the Park
My husband and I love a picnic. Mind you, we’re not those irritatingly pretentious yuppie picnickers, the kind you see in the park with $200 Pottery Barn picnic baskets outfitted with stainless steel cutlery and portable wine glasses, the people you really hope get shit on immediately by a large flock of passing pigeons. No, we picnic ghetto style – drag a blanket off the bed, cruise by Trader Joe’s for some cheap snacks, and find the nearest available bed of grass.
Our fourth date was a picnic – we lay in the park near my grungy-fabulous single-girl apartment, gazing droolingly into each other’s eyes. I read poetry. We ate cheese. Romance ensued.
Last spring, on a trip to Manhattan, we decided to have a picnic on a boat on the lake in Central Park. When he originally suggested the idea, I was immediately suspicious that there was a proposal afoot (mainly because every nosy prick under the sun had begun harassing me about when said proposal would occur, and their rampant curiosity had begun to rub off). Post-red-eye flight, we stumbled bleary-eyed and zombie-like about the mean streets of the Upper West Side, stopping to buy deli meat (serious lapse in the veg aspirations) and cupcakes (blargh) from cranky New Yorkers before wandering into the park. Out on the water, I lackadaisically lounged in the beautiful spring sun while he rowed like mad to find the perfect spot, unabashedly playing bumper-boats with passers-by.
Bobbing carelessly along during a particularly romantic interlude consisting of staring adoringly at one another like two mindless idiots, he took a deep breath and asked me to...make him a ham sandwich. My nervous anticipation was immediately shot - after all, what kind of crazy fool proposes after a ham sandwich whilst tasting all hammish?
Evidently, my husband is that crazy fool.
Post-sandwich, after indulging in some cutesy sweet nothings, the man dropped to his knee in the middle of the boat and asked me to be his wife. I’m still shocked that I didn't capsize the boat and drown us both with my joyous shrieks and spastic flailing of enthusiasm.
Clearly, we have a picnicking history. Post-wedding, we have promised one another that the romance will continue, and set a lofty goal of one al fresco outing a month. This was, of course, immediately shot to hell in favor of Law & Order reruns and tequila on the sanctity of our couch. Today, however, was different – today, we were pro picnickers. There was a grassy hillside, blanket, fresh deli fare. There were oogly smiles, covert kisses, Frisbees thrown. And there was plenty, plenty of dirt.
After two highly competitive Frisbee-pelting hours, during which I triumphantly managed to hit both a small child and her mother, my bare feet were black with filth. We were headed straight from the park to dinner with friends, and I was perfectly amenable to being Dirty Foot Girl for the evening, operating on the theory that perhaps the bar really hasn’t been set that high for my personal hygiene, so no one would suspect today's filth was anything out of the ordinary. My husband, chivalrous bastard that he is, had other ideas.
I quickly found myself sitting in the car in a mall parking lot, shoeless, dress hiked to my thighs while he (not that, you dirty monkey) fanatically scrubbed at my feet with a carwash brush in a particularly sacreligious Jesus/Mary Magdalene fantasy come to life.
That’s right – nothing but class with us. But oh yes, the picnics shall continue.
Our fourth date was a picnic – we lay in the park near my grungy-fabulous single-girl apartment, gazing droolingly into each other’s eyes. I read poetry. We ate cheese. Romance ensued.
Last spring, on a trip to Manhattan, we decided to have a picnic on a boat on the lake in Central Park. When he originally suggested the idea, I was immediately suspicious that there was a proposal afoot (mainly because every nosy prick under the sun had begun harassing me about when said proposal would occur, and their rampant curiosity had begun to rub off). Post-red-eye flight, we stumbled bleary-eyed and zombie-like about the mean streets of the Upper West Side, stopping to buy deli meat (serious lapse in the veg aspirations) and cupcakes (blargh) from cranky New Yorkers before wandering into the park. Out on the water, I lackadaisically lounged in the beautiful spring sun while he rowed like mad to find the perfect spot, unabashedly playing bumper-boats with passers-by.
Bobbing carelessly along during a particularly romantic interlude consisting of staring adoringly at one another like two mindless idiots, he took a deep breath and asked me to...make him a ham sandwich. My nervous anticipation was immediately shot - after all, what kind of crazy fool proposes after a ham sandwich whilst tasting all hammish?
Evidently, my husband is that crazy fool.
Post-sandwich, after indulging in some cutesy sweet nothings, the man dropped to his knee in the middle of the boat and asked me to be his wife. I’m still shocked that I didn't capsize the boat and drown us both with my joyous shrieks and spastic flailing of enthusiasm.
Clearly, we have a picnicking history. Post-wedding, we have promised one another that the romance will continue, and set a lofty goal of one al fresco outing a month. This was, of course, immediately shot to hell in favor of Law & Order reruns and tequila on the sanctity of our couch. Today, however, was different – today, we were pro picnickers. There was a grassy hillside, blanket, fresh deli fare. There were oogly smiles, covert kisses, Frisbees thrown. And there was plenty, plenty of dirt.
After two highly competitive Frisbee-pelting hours, during which I triumphantly managed to hit both a small child and her mother, my bare feet were black with filth. We were headed straight from the park to dinner with friends, and I was perfectly amenable to being Dirty Foot Girl for the evening, operating on the theory that perhaps the bar really hasn’t been set that high for my personal hygiene, so no one would suspect today's filth was anything out of the ordinary. My husband, chivalrous bastard that he is, had other ideas.
I quickly found myself sitting in the car in a mall parking lot, shoeless, dress hiked to my thighs while he (not that, you dirty monkey) fanatically scrubbed at my feet with a carwash brush in a particularly sacreligious Jesus/Mary Magdalene fantasy come to life.
That’s right – nothing but class with us. But oh yes, the picnics shall continue.
Friday, March 7, 2008
A moment
I used to be an actress. I used to create things. I made characters. I built people. I had talent.
It was a miserable life. I couldn't hack it. I didn't like other actors. I didn't want to be a waitress/substitute teacher/bum forever. I didn't want to be Blonde #3. I didn't want to be poor.
So I quit, in the most transformative decision of my young life. I gave up my identity, and I have no regrets. My new world opened up a realm of possibility I never fathomed. I work, I earn, I have pride. I have friends, my husband, a home.
I don't miss it. On the rare occasion I go to the theatre, there is a brief moment when the lights dim and I know exactly what is going on backstage. I feel the energy, the anticipation, the nerves. It almost brings tears to my eyes. Yet I don't miss it.
What I've missed is something to call my own. Lately, my creativity was restricted to hanging photos, baking, planning new outfits. It wasn't enough. I needed something for me. For the first time in a long while, writing these words, creating this blog, I feel full.
It was a miserable life. I couldn't hack it. I didn't like other actors. I didn't want to be a waitress/substitute teacher/bum forever. I didn't want to be Blonde #3. I didn't want to be poor.
So I quit, in the most transformative decision of my young life. I gave up my identity, and I have no regrets. My new world opened up a realm of possibility I never fathomed. I work, I earn, I have pride. I have friends, my husband, a home.
I don't miss it. On the rare occasion I go to the theatre, there is a brief moment when the lights dim and I know exactly what is going on backstage. I feel the energy, the anticipation, the nerves. It almost brings tears to my eyes. Yet I don't miss it.
What I've missed is something to call my own. Lately, my creativity was restricted to hanging photos, baking, planning new outfits. It wasn't enough. I needed something for me. For the first time in a long while, writing these words, creating this blog, I feel full.
Fun is
...making Merriam-Webster.com's pronunciation guide repeat profanity over and over and over.
Yes. You're welcome.
Yes. You're welcome.
Attack of the Enormous Feline
Last night, in the middle of emptying the paltry contents of our fridge into a frying pan and calling it a meal, my husband and I heard something outside. It was a distant, mournful meow. We ignored it, too busy haphazardly rooting about in our barren cupboards, determining what exactly we could mix with egg whites in order to fashion something resembling dinner.
In the midst of chopping our remaining clove of disturbingly mutated garlic, I heard it again - closer this time, and approaching rapidly. The cry grew louder and increasingly plaintive until I realized that it was coming from our porch. Being a cat person, I squealed eagerly, flung open the door, and in wandered the most tremendously obese feline I have ever seen. My extremely allergic husband backed quickly away, looking at me like I'd just thrown our newborn in the river. In a rare moment of rational thought, I realized oh shit...if this creature proves unfriendly, it can kick both our asses. Eager to make peace, I babbled and baby-talked at the cat, inquiring as to where he was from and whether he would like something to eat. Fatty totally ignored me, proceeding instead to waddle straight for our bedroom as fast as his stubby little legs could carry him. He moved at breakneck speed for a 400 pound cat, yet I managed to intervene just before he made contact with my husband's pillow. Cooing apologetically, I then hoisted his massive carcass over my shoulder, and, knees buckling under the strain of his tremendous bulk, chucked him once again onto the porch.
Corpulent Cat continued to wail right outside our window for the next hour, continuing straight through our dinner and leading me to believe that all the fat bastard really wanted was a taste of our soy meat egg scramble. Perhaps he's dieting.
Later, doing the dishes and murmuring reassuring things and false promises out the window in the direction of the screeching porch-dweller, I suddenly heard human-variety scuffling, followed by the triumphant yells of our neighbor. Upon opening the door I learned that Fatty was actually Oliver, a house cat who had made a break for it earlier that night. Evidently he got as far as our balcony, got hungry, and was bitching at us for not providing snacks for his vacation.
I want a cat. I promise I would feed it better than I feed my husband.
In the midst of chopping our remaining clove of disturbingly mutated garlic, I heard it again - closer this time, and approaching rapidly. The cry grew louder and increasingly plaintive until I realized that it was coming from our porch. Being a cat person, I squealed eagerly, flung open the door, and in wandered the most tremendously obese feline I have ever seen. My extremely allergic husband backed quickly away, looking at me like I'd just thrown our newborn in the river. In a rare moment of rational thought, I realized oh shit...if this creature proves unfriendly, it can kick both our asses. Eager to make peace, I babbled and baby-talked at the cat, inquiring as to where he was from and whether he would like something to eat. Fatty totally ignored me, proceeding instead to waddle straight for our bedroom as fast as his stubby little legs could carry him. He moved at breakneck speed for a 400 pound cat, yet I managed to intervene just before he made contact with my husband's pillow. Cooing apologetically, I then hoisted his massive carcass over my shoulder, and, knees buckling under the strain of his tremendous bulk, chucked him once again onto the porch.
Corpulent Cat continued to wail right outside our window for the next hour, continuing straight through our dinner and leading me to believe that all the fat bastard really wanted was a taste of our soy meat egg scramble. Perhaps he's dieting.
Later, doing the dishes and murmuring reassuring things and false promises out the window in the direction of the screeching porch-dweller, I suddenly heard human-variety scuffling, followed by the triumphant yells of our neighbor. Upon opening the door I learned that Fatty was actually Oliver, a house cat who had made a break for it earlier that night. Evidently he got as far as our balcony, got hungry, and was bitching at us for not providing snacks for his vacation.
I want a cat. I promise I would feed it better than I feed my husband.
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