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FRANK

2010-11-19T15:17:00.000-08:00

I got up this morning at 7. This is early for me.

I had a very important meeting with a start-up lawyer who I would hope to convince to take on my start-up and defer costs even though at the moment I have no "live" product and no partners. Hope springs eternal.

I met Joshua C. at a place in SF called The Summit... it is a quasi-cyber cafe meets incubation headquarters for start-ups. If you don't live in SF then you are probably saying, wth?

That was fancy for "it is a cafe full of 25-35 years old nerds with coffee, hopes, dreams and macs". Just above us nerds in an open second floor lives what they describe as:

"I/O Ventures incubation space, The Summit is home to 40+ telecommuters and 4 startups, which receive mentorship and funding from leaders in the tech industry. I/O Ventures is backed by the founders of seminal tech companies: MySpace, BitTorrent, and YouTube. The Summit is their public living room"

Not sure how relevant it is to my story, but I figured it might help paint a picture.

I walked into the place and spotted my lawyer. Picture a really tall and uncomfortably good looking guy fresh out of a Burberry catalog. So now, not only was I super nervous to show this guy my start-up wares, but I had to worry about whether I had croissant in my tooth. It doesn't matter that I am very happily engaged to be married and that he is happily recently married. Gorgeous guy = goofiness. I told my fiance that Joshua was sickeningly attractive and he said, "well, I guess we won't be working with him."

I presented to Joshua and to make matters worse, he is super nice. Needless to say, I did not eat my croissant. I slurped up my potent Blue Bottle Macchiato and could feel my eyeballs beginning to buldge. We ended the meeting and I wondered what would be? I guess we will see.

I decided to stick around the Summit and chill when I realized that I needed to feed the meter. I looked toward the end of the long and expensive oddly shaped table and found my neighbors to be engrossed in conversation and no matter how long I stared at them, they did not budge. Finally, I saw a really old guy walking towards me with a cup a joe and I said, in my caffeine high voice, "um, would you mind watching my computer"? and then I joked that he could take it if he wanted… he looked at me quizzically and said, "I don't know what to do with that, but ok."

I ran to the car and put 12 more minutes in the meter. When I returned, the old gentleman put his hand out and said, "I'm frank" and I said, "I'm Claudia" thank you for watching my stuff. He then explained that he has nothing to do with computers. I smiled across the table with one butt cheek off the edge of the stool and my purse still over my shoulder, ready to pack it up and go. I had 12 minutes.

Frank proceeded to tell me that he is a native of San Francisco, a rare specimen, and that he now he lives in Las Vegas. He explained that he was in town because he had written some memoirs and was getting some help from a local guy to put them together. I told him that this was exciting news and he replied by telling me that he wasn't really a writer. He was only compiling these stories for his family, for posterity. I then said someone was most likely going to be upset or at the very least surprised when they read them. His eyes opened up huge and he smiled. He said, how did you know that? and I said, well, I know that if I wrote my memoirs and shared them with my family that shock and anger might ensue. He said, well actually, my sister is a nun and I had an affair with a friend of hers years ago. We are both still friends with this woman. He seemed embarrassed and stated that he probably should not have said the word "affair”. He said that in the book he mentions that if you are ever walking in Golden Gate park that you would have been lucky to have this lovely young woman as a companion. I guess this is what he and his "lover" used to do. I can't wait to hear what the nun says about that!

I decided to put both butt checks on the stool and hang out with Frank. If I got a $55 ticket, I figure Frank was probably worth it. Afterall, he must be an expert on a few things. He is 87. Consultants cost way more than that.

Frank had lived in the Basque country in Spain where he coached basketball. He said he had traveled all over the world and that he loved the Spanish language. I told him I was Colombian and he said that his wife was Peruvian. I also told him that I was engaged. He smiled and said, oh, I thought that you and the good looking fellow were together to which I responded, yes, he was good looking, wasn't he? and thank you for the compliment. We both agreed that he was sort of "crazy good looking" Joshua, if you are reading this, A. I am embarrassed B. tell your wife I mean no harm and C. I hope you are my lawyer at this point, which knowing me, might be a day after writing this, so that might be a lofty goal. Digression over.

Back to Frank.

So Frank says to me, I want to tell you something, I'll make it short. "next week I will be traveling to Las Vegas with my 13 year old grandson who I met three months ago." He said that he had a daughter who died. He said she was beautiful, but that she had emotional issues and major problems with drugs. She had a son who had been in foster care all this time, but nobody knew. Someone got a hold of Frank in Las Vegas and frank’s 50 year old son in Gilroy 3 months back to tell them about Mark. I told him what a blessing that must be and that I could see how happy he was. He said that he took Mark out the other day to have coffee, which is what Frank likes to do.

Mark brought his Labrador with him to coffee. A little girl walked up with her dad to pet the dog and asked if he was friendly. Frank then introduced Mark as his grandson. On the way home from coffee Mark turned to Frank and said, I was really proud when you said I was your grandson. So here I am holding Frank’s hand across the table, both of our eyes, welled up with tears and connecting to a perfect stranger.

I had mentioned earlier in the conversation that I really wanted to read his memoirs. Just after our sappy moment, Frank said that he was going to get me a copy of his memoirs, but that he wasn’t sure how. I suggested that he ask the guy who was transcribing to make me a pdf. He said, no, I am not sending my book through the machine. I will send you a real copy.

I told Frank that I had to split. He got up and walked me to the door. He looked at me and said, I live my life in short moments. I am old and I could die walking out that door. I said, DON’T DIE! And smiled. He said, the point is, that if I do die, the last 15 minutes of my life would have been amazing.

I didn’t get a parking ticket.

Celsio

2010-02-01T16:36:00.001-08:00

There was a knock at my door at around 11 and as expected, Frieda barked as if she sniffed Satan.

I swiped her up into my arms fearing that this would be the one time in 8 years she decides to bite someone. Weighing in at a hefty 9 lbs, comprised of mostly hair and a collar, she wouldn’t make much of a dent anyway, but one needs to be cautious.

When I opened the door I discovered a short brown and hairy fellow. Don’t let me forget, dirty. It was the plumbing guy that was here to fix the heater. The heat stopped working yesterday only to coincide with the one time in two years that my body decides to cough and have a fever. I bitched internally about how cold it was and how untimely this malfunction was as I gazed outside the full length windows of my apartment overlooking the San Francisco Bay. Woe is me.

My internal bitching quickly transformed into internal guilt over bitching. Afterall, not too far from comfy Pac Heights there are people in the Tenderloin suffering far worse ailments and with zero shelter. Thank Goodness for residual Catholic guilt.

Back to the brown guy. He began his work steadfastly and without much interaction with me. He spoke English to me when he arrived and I assumed he was Mexican. After a few minutes of wondering whether he really knew what he was doing, I asked him if he wanted some tea, coffee or water. He answered that he would like some tea, which honestly took me by surprise. I offered herbal, black or chai and he said chai to which I deduced that he was Indian. The stereotypes were in full bloom.

He took his tea with only honey. I was dieing to put milk in it. Chai with no milk? Guess he's not Indian.

He thanked me for the tea and I watched him attempt to repair the heater. He wore very large shorts that were 3 inches short of being full length jeans. In the upper hemisphere, he wore a grey turtleneck covered by a white t-shirt. It has been very chilly in SF lately. His feet wore very worn leather boots which led me to believe he had been working in plumbing and heating for a while. Inexperienced laborers usually wear sneakers.

I sat on the arm of the couch and continued to watch when he asked me if I spoke Spanish, to which I replied, “si”. We spoke for a few minutes and then got into figuring out where each one of us swam over from. He asked me what ethnicity I thought he was. I guessed Mexico. He said, no keep guessing. I guessed Nicaragua and El Salvador. I was wrong, but they are all the same right? Wink. He is from Guatemala. When I told him that I was from Colombia, he said that he wanted to visit Colombia and that he felt that Colombians were intelligent and that unlike his country, Colombians actually invented things. It was nice to have someone recognize Colombia for more than the usual American pastimes, pot and cocaine. Ok, that wasn’t nice. He said that he loved his country, but that people weren't innovative and didn’t teach their kids how to acquire wealth. I rebutted that Guatemala was rich in folkloric culture and amazing art and textiles, but I knew what he meant.

I am not sure how we got off of the subject of our countries, but we began to talk about this country and the state of the economy. He is hopeful that things are looking up. He said that this is truly the land of opportunity, but that things were out of balance. He didn’t say, the rich are getting richer etc. He said, too many people were living beyond their means and buying homes they couldn’t afford and that a few people were getting paid too much for their jobs.

After a while I forgot that he was the repair man who was here to change my heater and was enjoying a nice chat with a smart man. We talked about relationships and children. We talked about business. I told him I was working on launching an internet start up for people who love food. His eyes lit up and he said, “you can do it”. I needed to hear that. I asked him what his plan was and whether he intended to go back to Guatamala. He had not returned to his country for 5 years. He said that he had three businesses in Guatemala, a liquor store, a boutique and a small grocery store. He started all of them with money he makes here and he employs 5 people that are not family. He also said that any money he makes he re-invests into his businesses and has never taken a loan. This mans stock was pretty high by this point. Mine was dropping.

I told him that I was really impressed and that I hoped I could be successful too. I asked him who taught him about life and business. He said his parents told him that they didn’t want him to inherit their poverty. They told him to work hard and learn and create something for himself. I had never heard of someone referring to poverty as something you “inherit”. I guess there are a lot of things you can inherit from your parents that don’t involve wealth. His parents gave him the desire to want more and the determination to make it happen.

He asked my name and told me his name was Celsio. I asked him to spell it. It was a peculiar name for a latin american male. He said that his father was Celsio as well as his grandfather and great grandfather. Celsio, the fourth.

Celsio plans to return to Guatemala in a year or so and re-join his family. He will take his 6 year old half African American son with him and I am sure he will continue to be successful there. I only hope that I can make my business a success and buy my mother a home like Celsio did for his mother.

This was the most enlightening sick day I have had in a while. Thank you Celsio.

SWIMMING IN OLD SOUP

2007-09-24T13:24:00.000-07:00

So today Marcy invited me to be her guest at the YMCA. I am renting a room from Marcy while I find an amazing place to live. So Marcy asks if I would like to join her for Pilates. My memories of the last Pilates class that I took were that it was boring and boring so I decided that I would do some swimming. I love me some pool time.

So we arrived at the Y… changed in the locker room in the company of female wrinkles, ripples and nobby knees, not to mention a very intersting array of saggy boobies and wild pubic hair. Marcy took off to her Pilates class and I ventured into the showers where I ran into the above mentioned features, now covered in soap and water.

Next. I finished showering, with my suit on… I stepped through one set of doors into a tiny and wet space to find another door that leads to the pool. This is a safety feature so that any little boys that might be walking by the entrance to the ladies locker room don’t catch glimpse of something that might make them decide to become gay.

Okidoke. Pool time. Alright, so the pool is chock full of skinny, fat, short, tall wrinkled and hairy versions of older ladies. I would say that the average age was about 90. Outside of the pool stood a blonde woman, late thirties with a micro phone and pit stains. She was teaching some type of water aerobicsy type of class. So. After being informed that the class would last for at least another 25 mintues I decided that I would join in.

Stretching. The instructor asked us to carefully put a leg out and stretch our toe up. We then followed suit with the other leg. Then we were asked to stretch our arms over our heads. When we were instructed to walk forward to back in the pool, one or more of the swimming cap clad ladies would inevitably step right into me. So it was interesing to be in this very large indoor pool surrounded by ladies that would more thank likely be dead in the next five years. The instructor was probably wondering what the hell I was doing there. So, I wondered when the aerobics part would begin and the stretching would end when mrs. Blonde instructor lady says, “thanks ladies!... good job”

So most of the bouyant raisins scattered for drier territory and I decided some laps would be nice. So I dodged a few swim caps and ended my wet and wrinkly adventure with a dip in the jacuzzi. The water was very hot and next to the little steps was a strange tube like contraption that gargled water and spit up occasionally, like something out of MASH.

There I sat, now accompanied by the male version of sagging boobs, wrinkled skin and knobby knees. He had bright blue eyes and tan skin. One of the ladies looked a little like me… a nutter butter with legs. I watched everyone carefully and occasionally closed my eyes and breathed in the chlorinated air. You probably wouldn’t guess by my descriptions that I love old people, but I really do. These particular folks inspire me. They could be at home in the barka lounger complaining about their hip replacement, but instead they schlep over the the Y, strap on their spandex and dive into life because they know it is short.

I think I will go back this week for senior water tai chi.

A tribute to my senses.

2006-10-03T17:14:00.000-07:00

Today is one of those days that makes being here worth it.

Woke up this morning just like any other morning. Telling myself how to get rid of that anxiety that I wake up with every day by saying that I will make today better than yesterday.

Well, today, unlike most days, I actually did it and it is only 12:47.

So I got up and took a business call. Was anxious, but it went way better than expected. I didn’t meditate as I had intended, but instead decided to go forage in the kitchen.

I pulled out the package of bacon and fried it up in a pan. Decided that toast with strawberry preserves sounded delightful, only to find out that the vehicle for the jam was growing penicillin. Then I remembered that in one of my more anal homemaker moments, I had frozen baguettes in little serving sizes precisely for moments like this. So I chucked a freezer-burned baguette in my favorite gadget, the toaster oven, and proceeded to flip the bacon and boil the water for my coffee.

I made the entire package of bacon because I thought that it might lure my room mate out of her room. Things have been kind of tense around the house since we had our first blow out a few days back. I began to smell the wonderful crispy bacony goodness when I heard a girly voice say, “bacon?” so it worked. She came into the kitchen and picked up a piece, exchanged a few words, and just like that, over a strip of charred pork fat, the feud was over.

I finished the wonderful breakfast and appreciated the sweet silkyness of the strawberry jam. Strawberries cooked up with some sugar and pectin. So simple. Yum. Then I decided to be bold and ask the room mate through IM if she would hit some balls with me. She graciously turned me down and I didn’t take it personally.

So I decided to schlep over to Golden Gate park and hit some balls by myself. It is a beautiful day to be out. So I don’t know how I am going to pay my rent next month or anything else for that matter. I don’t care. I was happy to be outside. I arrive the court arrange my stuff and start to hit balls. I blamed the cheap balls for my poor performance, but didn’t let it stop me. After hitting about 20 balls outside of the court and into the vastness of the park, I decided to change sides where there were less holes in the fence for my balls to fly through.

I had been hitting poorly when a 90 year old guy entered the court from the left holding a ball that I had hit over the fence. He brought it to me and then proceeded to pull out his own racket and balls and set up ball-hitting-shop right next to me. On MY wall.

Ok, this new zoning development would force me to hit the ball in a limited area, which required more skill than I thought I had. I began to hit and to my very fat surprise, not that I am fat, just the surprise, I began to hit with a beautiful stroke. The stroke that my friend has been trying so hard to teach me. Yes, siree, I was hitting every ball with Federer precision and I hoped that everyone in the neighboring courts was catching a glimpse at my beautiful form. I am sure I didn’t look as good as I thought I looked.

Meanwhile, to my right, stood the really old guy who hit one ball to my 10. I wondered if he had been a huge tennis star in his youth. So he hit and I hit and I looked over at him occasionally and felt so grateful to be outside on a beautiful day like today and next to a really old guy who could just as well be on an IV in some convalescent home.

So it was time to go. I walked up to him and yelled..
"hi, do you come here on Tuesdays?", And he said that he was there all the time, but that he couldn’t play tennis anymore because he had a balance problem. I asked if he could hit with me sometime and in his red baseball cap and brown polyester shirt and pants said, “if you see me then come up and we can play.” His name was Mac.

So me and my sweaty pony tail decided to high-tail it out of there, but not before I made a pit stop at the Conservatory of Flowers. Today was the first Tuesday of the month, so it was free. The scene was out of a movie. Blue skies, people on bicycles. A cool wind blowing through the wet hair above my neck. An old asian couple doing Tai Chi in the park. The smell of trees, grass and of my own sweat. Not gross, just real.

Chicken Soup for the Soul. MY ASS.

2006-09-12T23:03:00.000-07:00

What about the chicken soup for your belly? You know the kind the friend brings over in a can, take-out box or powder form?

The kind you need when you just moved to a new city and you are lying in bed with a tonsil the size of a walnut, a puss filled walnut, that hurts like a mother. Please excuse my gentle prose.

The kind you need when you have a fever such that you wonder, with the only part of your brain that functions to wonder… am I freezing to death or melting to death? When this is over will I have forgotten some of my most unpleasant moments or that most happy moment when I could finally afford to take all of my friends out to dinner? (Yes, I am mother Teresa, but this is my story.)

So I know it is not easy to form that team of people who will drop anything to bring you the “soup”, but more importantly, rush to your side so you know you are loved. I know what you are thinking, “bitch, there is a hospital down the street with dying children.” Bitch knows this, but once again, let me write.

I do have a chicken soup friend here. He is in Canada for the week. I have a few other friends that would probably do it if I asked them, but we don’t know eachother well enough for them to know that I don’t really mean it when I say, “I’m fine, REALLY. Continue watching the first season of the Sopranos for the 10th time because you have nothing better to do.” I really mean, “ get the f- over here. I am dying”

You may be asking.. “am I a chicken soup friend?” Well, the answer is yes. I am the chicken soup friend that makes sure it is hot, that feeds it to you, brings your favorite mags over and tells you that you don’t really look like shit. I am the chicken soup friend that brings vegan not-so-chicken soup if that is your desire. I am not a martyr. Something from my childhood likes to be needed. And after years of therapy, I am happy to say that even though I have high self esteem, this aspect of me has not changed. Believe me, I am not without faults. I would be Jesus. (ha)

I think I was spoiled back in the LBC. My girlfriend Jill. (The biggest germaphobe on the planet called when I was sick.) I think she was actually afraid I would infect her through the phone. But, this did not stop her from baking me a beautiful chicken and dropping it off on my door step with 7-UP (the miracle drink) and other love-filled snacks.. in a brown bag. She knocked, dropped and ran. I didn’t even see her car when I went to the door. Jilly poo. I will never forget that day, even after I found you in bed with my boyfriend. (joke)

So now I have to thank a few people. Those that are reading this and saying, “bitch I offered like 50 times to bring you what you needed. I feel like I am recieiving an Oscar. I have to thank Daniel, my roomate, who brought me the cold soda when I asked for it and felt my forehead when I asked for it. And a fella that I am seeing who offered to help, but I would have been too embarrased to see anyway. And my room mate Patty that went to Albertson to get me soup yesterday. And my girlfiend Amelia who said she would keep her phone on tonight, just in case and my mom for implying I have Typhoid and my dog for smelling like rotting carcass because she got into the lamb chop bones.

Oh, shoot, I think I feel better. The fever has subsided as I finish this tale. And it didn’t melt any of my memories. I AM ALIVE!

(my chick soup friend in Canada just texted me to see how I am doing. I am lucky!)

I met him at the pool.

2005-05-21T15:36:00.001-07:00

I am a professional pool crasher. If I find out that you have a pool, I will most likely invite myself over at some point. So I am at Esmeralda and Ismael's pool. They are getting married in June. I invited myself to come over and hang by the pool with Es, but she has wedding stuff, so she left me the key. I have no shame.

I am laying next to the pool. It is a beautiful warm day. There is a perfect warm breeze and not a cloud in the sky. There were a few kids.. no biggie.. about 5 six year old girls. little damp twigs running around the pool and piling onto floatees. There was a young couple sitting close to me.. they were visiting the guys older sister. She was overweight, blond and loud. The couple was not loud, but wouldn't stop talking. They talked about how they had met at a bar and how she was studying to be a nurse, but was making ends meet with babysitting. They were both about a bag a chips and a couple of packs of donettes from being very overweight themselves. They spoke of romantic things like flatulation and the first time they farted in front of eachother. She did it first, but it only paved the way for him to fart constantly with wild abandon. She had a little girl voice.. I had heard once on love line that grown women that spoke with little girl voices had often been molested during childhood. It makes sense. You hang onto what can't be taken away.

I crept slowly into the pool. The first time is always hard. Your legs freeze and then the worst part.. your belly. Ew.. so cold. Then I dove in and practically lost my bottoms. I don't like to wear a tight bathing suit because it makes me feel pudgy, but the downside is it's "staying power" when diving or standing in waves. No biggie.. I can usually pull' em up before anyone sees me. The pool felt wonderful. Not too cold and not too warm. The sun glistened through the trees and all of my worries faded away.

I'm at the shallow end. The little twigs had taken a break to go open presents in the rec room. I sat quietly and breathed in the day. And that is when he appeared. His head popped up out of the water about three feet from me. He had the most beautiful almond shaped green eyes I have ever seen. His eyelashes were thick, long and stuck together in little perfect equal clumps. He had big beautiful white teeth and tanned olive skin. When he smiled everything became a little brighter. I noticed he had a long white buggar hanging between his nose and his mouth, but I didn't say anything.

He asked me if he could ask me some questions, so I said sure. First he asked how many teeth a fly had.. or maybe a mosquito .. and most of the time when people as me a question like this.. I assume the answer is going to be a little outrageous, so I try to outsmart them. I answered.. "200?" He smiled and said, no, 47. I said oh, that's still a lot of teeth. Then he asked me if a worm was a girl or a boy. I said, " a girl" and he said, "both" so then I told him that it was a "hermaphrodite". He looked confused and repeated the word incorrectly twice until he got it right and proceeded to shout across the pool to a plump pale woman that was laying in a lounge chair.. "hey a worm is a hermaphrodite!"... She looked a little concerned, but continued to lounge in the shade.

I returned to my chair and spent the rest of the afternoon answering questions and being enlightened by Isaac. He asked me for my number, but I giggled and didn't say anything. Then he told me the apartment number of the plump pale woman on the lounge chair. #31, he said and then asked me to come over next time I was around. I considered it for a moment. He is one of the sweeter and more sincere men I had met in a while. The only problem is, he is nine.

I told Isaac that he was very smart and cool and that I was very happy to have met him. I also wanted to tell him never to let anyone tell him that he wasn't. He was shorter than most nine year olds and his parents were divorced. The plump woman was his great aunt. I had the feeling that Isaac spent a lot of time being passed from relative to relative. He had no problem approaching perfect strangers... especially women.. from what his aunt told me.

He is a little beautiful, smart beam of love and this is one pool mooching day I won't forget for a while.

KING OF HEARTS. He Is a Man.

2005-04-07T11:53:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, I volunteered for a few hours at the convalescent home. My job was to lead the Pokeeno game. Like bingo, but with playing cards. So I was carefully and seriously instructed by Marci, the Phillipino volunteer... that I had to read the cards like this: At the top of my lungs: KING OF HEARTS..... KING OF HEARTS.. HE IS A MAN........ QUEEN OF DIAMONDS.... QUEEN OF DIAMONDS... SHE IS A WOMAN....

So I did and tried really hard not to laugh every time. It is funny and not funny at the same time. These older people have a hard time telling the cards apart. Occasionally I would break it up and say KING OF DIAMONDS... HE IS A GUY. Only one of the people thought it was funny, because the rest were just "there" enough to find the card and place the chip.

There was a woman sitting directly to my right. She had the winning streak that day. Litereally, she won 5 times in a row and there was growing suspicion that I was cheating. She couldn't talk and couldn't close her mouth. I think she had had a pretty serious stroke, so she would drool a little the whole time. I took the napkin between card readings and wiped her mouth. She couldn't express whether she was happy that I was doing this or not, so I was in a mild state of angst the entire time. I hope she didn't mind. Anyway, it is just hard for me to grasp that everyone at the table at one point was young like me and also looked at old people and couldn't ever imagine being old themselves.

There was LULA and LOLA and let's not forget

2005-03-30T16:08:00.000-08:00

Carrie and Julia. Today was my first day volunteering at the Convalescent hospital about a mile from my house. I am not doing it for Karma, because I don't really believe it exists and if it does.. I am not sure what the details are.. so I am doing it for mostly selfish reasons. I need a wake up call from time to time that reminds me that I am not getting any younger... that my body won't maintain itself and that I shouldn't waste time on the wrong things... sure the last one is relative, but we all know in our hearts what the "wrong" and the "right" thing is at any given moment, but we chose to ignore it.

So I was thrown into the fire as soon as I arrived... no orientation.. no nothin. There were about 5 older ladies in wheelchairs sitting around a few tables and Puni, the assistant to the head of volunteers, was giving manicures. She said "great" we need help.. so in I went... introduced myself and hoped that most of them could hear me. I don't get manicures very often, but I do enjoy giving them... I used to give manicures and pedicures to my grandfather on the weekends when I spent my summers in Colombia.. I also gave manicures and bad haircuts to anyone who would lend me their head. Looking back I can't believe anyone let me. I was only 12 or so. No one was hurt.

So, nervously, I set forth to soak Lula's hands in warm water. I don't think she was all there, but she didn't know it, so it didn't matter. I cleaned under her nails and had to tell myself that a little dirt and food was no big deal.. and it actually wasn't. I figured that if she was my mom or grandma.. I wouldn't care... so I took a deep breathe and cleaned every one of Lula's nails carefully as to not hurt her. The elderly are a lot more sensitive to pain. So I filed a little using one of the really crappy used nail files that they had and then Lula picked the brightest ass red/orange I had ever seen. I painted her nails and she was a pretty good sport. I was later informed that Lula doesn't like anyone and I was lucky she didn't curse me out. She didn't. She just thanked me and smiled. Oh, I'm sure she'll curse me out at some point.

Then I moved onto Lola. She was only in her 70's.. quiet, but I think "all there" mentally. She smiled and was very sweet. I also gave them hand massages. She was black and her skin was a lot younger that Lula's. Lula's was white and paper thin. So when it came time to choosing a nail color.. I presented her with about 5 colors and she chose 3. "you want me to do all three? , I asked and she quietly replied.. yes. So I used a bright red, metallic mauve and cotton candy pink. She seemed happy, but asked if I had any gold. I showed her a copper and a silver and she told me she wanted me to paint over one of the colors with the silver, so I did.

Carrie, whose nails I did not do, sat on the other side of the table where Puni patiently painted and repainted her nails after Carrie would ruin them. Carrie is a small framed black woman about 80 years old. She says "baby after every word. So funny. "Baby come ear and tell me watcha gonna do, okay baby." She was not all there, but so cute. After all the nails were done, I walked up to her and mentioned that she should turn her yellow stuffed animal fox over cus it couldn't breathe. She was quite startled and flipped it over. Puni suggested that I not say things like that to Carrie because she might very well have a heart attack. And baby we don't want that to happen.

And finally, there was Julia. Julia just turned 104. She was hispanic and I believe did not speak a word of english, but it seems like everybody got by ok. she was little and then big around the middle and then little again. She drooped in her chair and had to be strapped in. She was like a little Hershey's kiss. She seemed happy and her nails looked great.

The last 30 minutes of my day were spent putting lotion on the hands of mostly catatonic patients. I spoke to them and hoped that they could hear me. It was weird, but oh well. I don't know quite how I feel. I am happy that I got to help. I have a feeling that i will become the regular manicure giver. They do it every Wed at 1:30.

This Courtship is Now in Session...

2005-03-30T09:30:00.000-08:00

OR IS IT? Nowadays it seems that courtship is all about ROI. In the days of sappy love songs it used to be that those that were smitten sat by the lake pulling petals off of flowers while gazing dizzily at heart shaped clouds. They brought flowers to the door and wrote poems and perfume scented love notes... SCREACH! What the hell happened? There is no more intoxication by love..

I believe in a perpetual courtship.. one where you are so inspired by someone that you never want to stop making them smile and surprising them. I don't know if money ruins people or if women ruined men, but now it seems that a courtship is a game to see who can get more by putting in less. I lose.

to be continued...

COLD CLIMATE = SMARTER PEOPLE

2005-03-28T15:04:00.000-08:00

So what is it about the Pacific Northwest that nurtures art, intellectual growth, environmental awareness and good food more than it's southern counterpart? I'm not saying that there is no art in southern Cali, but it just isn't a part of daily life like it is in Seattle or San Francisco.

Here in So Cal.. We have surfing and fitness and sun worshipping and strip mall and that is about it. Ok, I exaggerate. There is art in LA. There are restaurants in LA, but there are also THE PEOPLE. The ones with the cell phones that just look fabulous all the time. The ones who "wear" art openings as accessories to their Manolo's. It's not about the art nor the food.. it's about them.

Does there exist a place that is warm in temperature and culturally fertile?

I'm not saying that warm climates don't offer opportunites for growth. They are everywhere for anyone who knows how to see. It just seems like knowledge seekers like to live up north for the most part.

It shouldn't be about where you live, but I , for one, have been in an intellectual coma for a little while now and it took 3 days in Seattle to wake me up. Let's see how long it lasts.

Embracing change...

2005-03-24T08:28:00.000-08:00

I love to blog. Right?