San Francisco, The Memory

Because it's another sunny day in San Francisco, I owe him a drink.

Snow is what I bet on. And vodka martinis. It's the second bar of the night and I find myself ordering two. I came to San Francisco on my first business trip alone, an adult working and traveling in the professional world, and discover myself acting like a college student. He and I drink far too much far too late every night, I use my lunch break on the second day of conference to throw up, and too much money disappears as we gallivant through the city until last call. I am drunk most of the time, but, importantly, happy.

We chat our way through San Francisco, mainly on foot, after the end of my 5 pm work-day, everyday. He points at things we pass and recites history facts he learned in grade school. I don't know most of what he tells me about his California home. It's show and tell and it's exciting.

Our climb to the top of every steep street is rewarded with a view of the city, each time different but each time with lights twinkling in the darkening distance. The stars in San Francisco look the same as the stars in any city I've been to in the east, I make a note. We do all exist, people beneath the same sky.

Fisherman's Wharf may be my favorite part. We catch a cable car there and, like in the movies, you catch them in slow motion! And then the Chinese man in a rain coat tells you not to stand where you are standing, smack dab in the middle of the forbidden yellow area. So you move, closer to the person you came with, and you view the city in a more human way. You take pictures through the rain droplets, and it feels unreal as you aim your lens behind you, towards the rushing traffic, while he tells you to please, put the camera strap around your wrist. You return to reality.

You aren't brave enough to stand on the step ladder while the cable car moves. But it's okay, no one else is, either.

At the Wharf, it is cold, windy and rainy. I see Alcatraz in the distance and it is not too cold to pause and snap a picture. The Wharf has fresh seafood stands, sweet factories, and a Houdini magic shop! Behind one of the stores, floating docks provide a place for 50 wild seals to huddle together on their backs, for warmth (and connection, I suppose). They are safe from sharks here, I remark, and he laughs, obviously, and agrees.

We buy a handful of flauntingly flavored salt water taffy and eat it before dinner, listening to a man play the flute, classic, and watch another man swallow fire, pretty average. I feel like a kid at a carnival.

We decide on decadent hot chocolate in Ghiradelli square. Our blood pumping sugar and chemical energy, we hit the first bar before dinner. I find myself playing a pathetic game of pool and paying my dues in vodka martinis at the second bar. But it's the light beer I order with my late-night enchiladas that puts me over the edge.

The next morning I have to leave San Francisco to go home east. I feel something, besides hung over. Inspired? I feel new. And I felt sad when I said goodbye.

San Fran: Day 1

It doesn't snow in San Francisco. Apparently, the prospect of this is laughable, especially when suggested by a newbie from the east coast. Perhaps this was a ploy devised by San Franciscan weathermen to ensure that west coast aliens lose all bets on the potential of snowfall.

I had departed Baltimore during the young hours of the morning and had sat on the plane in taxi for far too long while its encasing of ice was chemically melted away. Freed, I time traveled to a sunnier San Francisco, excited, but anxious for the long work day ahead of me. I had been awake since 3:45 in the morning and would be gaining 3 hours, which means I would arrive at 10 AM but it would feel like 1 PM to me. Looking back, this day felt endless.

Boy was I elated when I learned that once I had set up my exhibit (did I mention I was traveling for work and not play?) I did not have to work until after noon the following day! So, plane landed at 10 AM, exhibit set up by noon and my hotel room would be ready by 3. Not yet feeling adventurous or bold, I changed out of my work clothes, got a cup of coffee, answered some emails and CHILLED OUT at the hotel bux. T'was... necessary.

A college friend and native San Franciscan called to list the overwhelming must-sees we would see... but not until tomorrow. Left to my own devices, here was my Day 1, en list:

1. Eat granola for lunch.
2. Attempt to check in to pretty, conference hotel and get told your hotel is actually "right across the street."
3. Become nervous you won't know what "right across the street means." There's a good chance you will get lost forever and never make it to work by noon tomorrow.
4. Realize you are overreacting and get pointed in the right direction (and ah, it was down the block, not across the street).
5. Check in to the right hotel.
6. Enter your room, which is far too small for what work is paying you.
7. Get over it.
8. Discover a map on room desk!
9. Get text from friend suggesting a museum.
10. Attempt to utilize map, but fail to find the MOMA, just "a few blocks away," for 2 hours.
11. Find the over priced liquor/convenient store conveniently across the street from hotel!
12. Purchase a bottle of strawberry champagne and chex mix.
13. Clutch treasures in brown paper bag and be judged by business women in the elevator on the way up to your room.
14. Realize you don't have a cork screw.
15. It's a twist off!
16. Ten minutes later, wonder where half of the bottle went.
17. Finish bottle and chex mix and decide you are bold enough for dinner at a restaurant, alone.
18. Find a diner with skinny waitresses and order an entree and desert and a glass of wine (it's company dime ::wink wink::).
19. Become way too full and drunk, by yourself.
20. Stumble and roll your way back, in alternating increments, hitting the sack by 9, removing shoes.
21. Sleep 12 hours.

Goodnight San Francisco.

When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.

We are all familiar with this saying. It's symbolic. Turn something sour, sweet. Make the best from a bad situation.

Given recent developments in my life, this saying has taken up residency in the part of my brain that is trying to silence the sirens and extinguish the fires blazing in the aftermath of the explosion. Was a bomb dropped or set off? I can't tell. Perhaps I tried so very, very hard, to ignore the subtle ticking. More symbols.

I digress.

This morning, dragging myself off the couch (bed is cluttered with laundry that needs doing) I stood in the shower and thought about this echoing message, this attempted optimism.

What does it mean?

Lemons are sour. Lemonade is sweet. You make lemonade out of lemons and sugar. If you are me, you would probably use Splenda. You should also use a juicer, so your beverage does not contain floating pits. And you should probably make sure you have some ice on hand, because lemonade is best cold on a hot day. It's the first day of November though and it's chilly. It is unlikely I will want lemonade anytime soon. Again, I digress.

What I realized amid digression, however, is this: I cannot make lemonade out of only lemons. I need other ingredients. And this is the point. If I want to make lemonade, I need sugar too. I can get sugar at the store... Oh... I have to make the effort to get the sugar, myself. I have to choose to recognize that I have lemons, decide I'd rather have lemonade, get in my car, drive to the store, and buy sugar. Or put on a coat and walk to the corner cafe and stuff my pockets full of Splenda packets. Either way, I have to choose to do some work to turn the sour, sweet.

Of course I could always choose not do anything. I could let the lemons rot beside the tomatoes and butternut squash on my kitchen table. But haven't I done this already? In the end, it's only wasteful. And really, a sweet treat would be a nice change of pace. I need a change.

So this November, I am going to do something a little odd and much different. I am going to drink lemonade.



Square one, my slate is clear,
Rest your head on me my dear,
It took a world of trouble,
It took a world of fear,
It took a long time, to get back here.

Mermaid Mall Wishes

I remember being a child with my parents at a mall, tossing a coin into the fountain and wishing to become a mermaid. My wish was my secret. In secret, I saw my legs grow together into a silvery, green tale. I saw my body slide onto the floor. I would not be able to walk. I would not be able to breathe. I would need to be taken to water. I imagined my parents replacing me, a flailing mermaid, with my baby brother, in his stroller. The fountain would be the closest source of water. They would need to rush me, wheel me, through the crowds of sauntering shoppers. Or perhaps my father would carry me. They would let me go in the fountain. They would leave me to swim in circles and collect the coins of others' tossed wishes. My wish caused me great anxiety that I always kept to myself. And I always made this wish again, after it did not come true and I found myself at another mall, another fountain, tossing another coin. Again, I would fear not being able to walk, not being able to breathe. Be careful what you wish for, I presume, was the message that I was too young to fully grasp here. I was so young, young enough to wish. I am older now, and know that wishing, well, it's just ridiculous.

Blinded, I am, blindsided.

I didn't see it coming, but, here I am.

Something I wrote:

Pull a little too hard, what’s supposed to be a slow drag. Let the smoke scratch your throat and inflate your lungs and choke you a little, on its way out. Let it make you a little lightheaded and sooth your fiery nerves, aloe on a burn. Let the old man in the cute, newsie hat sit down at the table at which you are standing, but don’t let yourself notice until he asks you what you smoke. Look a little startled, because you didn’t know anyone else was there, and naturally reply “I don’t smoke.” Listen as he tells you that he quit smoking but his friend from another continent got him two cartons for twelve bucks. Your reply hits him suddenly, like a cloud of smoke, which he’s watching you blow into the clear air. “You don’t smoke?” You are caught, red-handed. Let yourself be caught, red-handed. Pause to look for an answer and realize, there is only the truth. “No. I’m having a rough time with the boyfriend.” He lights up and tells you, “Well I am a marriage counselor so maybe I can help.” You believe him because you are naive. He follows up, half-chuckling, “Not really, but I am...” Pause. He searches past you for an age. “...72, so I know a thing or two.” Then he’s serious. “Don’t let yourself take all the blame.” You feel the familiar lump in your throat. Listen as you tell him to enjoy his twelve dollar cartons. Walk away now, inhaling smoke and exhaling relief. You have your walls. But secretly take the stranger’s words to heart, and don’t take all the blame.

Office Coffee

Sitting here in the cubicle I share with an intern, I am sipping on, quite possibly, the crappiest cup of coffee I have ever had. It's 11:10 AM and its cup numero 3.

I'm on edge and I'm not sure if it's the coffee or the irritating caller who can't figure out the difference between clicking a URL or Google. What kills me is this person has credentials. And she doesn't understand, in her thick, southern accent. Sipping my coffee, I shudder.

I have nicknamed the office coffee "Espresso Mud." A coworker thinks I am funny.

I am typing diligently. Another coworker thinks I am a hard worker.

I complain about my job, and, a friend tells me I should quit.

I click my heals three times, close my eyes, and repeat "this cannot be my life, this cannot be my life, this cannot be my life."

On "Secretary Spread"

I totally get why people eat all day at office jobs. I understand how folks succumb to something my mother likes to refer to as "secretary spread."

In layman's terms, "secretary spread" is a common condition among office employees caused by an increase in consumption and a decrease in motion. The individual's ass grows, spreading across her desk chair (on wheels), which, as the condition progresses, she leaves less and less, with the exception of trips to the office kitchen or vending machine. The condition is more common among women and is both progressive and contagious and can be, in extreme cases, debilitating. Secretary spread is primarily attributed to boredom or stress, causing one to "eat until s/he feels better." Doesn't everyone in the office look the happiest when lunchtime rolls around? Known cures include ditching the comfort food for plain green salads, walking during lunch breaks, and switching to light beer at happy hour. Preventative methods include packing healthy lunches and snacks, walking to the file cabinet instead of rolling in your chair, and getting your ass the gym at the crack of dawn because by the end of the day, you are just too damned tired to go.

Having been awake since 5 AM to work out, it is 10:38 AM at the office and I believe I have held out long enough to enjoy my mid-morning snack. These are the things I think about.