tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36962593277784884022023-11-16T07:38:40.305-08:00Winslow's WorldUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger66125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3696259327778488402.post-77187679870041723012017-12-14T07:09:00.000-08:002017-12-14T07:09:47.050-08:00The "Talent"<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I wished I had washed my hair. And maybe shaved the hobbit toes peeking out from my thrift store sandals.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipn6BZ_VhY3Bra6PHCloicLPRmmzEfLq7FJeINzdunpufm2pL2ntIOXm0fuj56lHLCi7Mv5jObv4Pi6E5NJGIivuu8Zqvp88SWCDCCCC0NfIBm2PCfJHh4EgzOsK6e1JENVMi06XjoTxbF/s1600/IMG_4890.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipn6BZ_VhY3Bra6PHCloicLPRmmzEfLq7FJeINzdunpufm2pL2ntIOXm0fuj56lHLCi7Mv5jObv4Pi6E5NJGIivuu8Zqvp88SWCDCCCC0NfIBm2PCfJHh4EgzOsK6e1JENVMi06XjoTxbF/s320/IMG_4890.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Prepping on the Silicon Valley Capital Club balcony</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Such were my thoughts as we stepped out onto the 17th floor balcony of the Silicon Valley Capital Club, and I realized our party numbered six – not 60. The cameras might be a tad closer than anticipated.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Matt and I came to the shoot because our friend Sherif promised us free food and drinks. I imagined the experience would be similar to the time Guy Fieri filmed an episode of “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives” at the local Tex-Mex restaurant, and my sister and I gawked and gorged on free tortilla chips from a distant table. Or it might mirror my 30th birthday, when same sister drove me to the North Florida boonies to film an amateur rap music video in some redneck’s yard. (I was the oldest, saddest bikini babe alighting from the bed of that 4x4). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This particular project, we came to learn, would promote San Jose tourism via commercials aired on Facebook and YouTube. Sherif’s friend’s friend was part of the crew, and she had recruited other members of Silicon Valley’s Egyptian diaspora to play young tech professionals chatting it up as the sun set over San Jose’s skyline. Ultimately, this amounted to four ex-pats, Matt (who looks vaguely Middle Eastern) and me, the pasty white girl. We were “the talent,” a group in no way representative of any Silicon Valley demographic I’ve ever encountered (who forgot to invite the Asians?!). We clustered around an electric fire pit, watched the planes descend into Mineta San Jose International Airport and awaited direction as the crew, a decidedly more attractive group of hipster 20-somethings, fiddled with their impressive camera equipment. I noticed a drone – the first I’ve seen in person -- tucked behind one of the lounge chairs, and I hovered over it, marveling at the tiny but powerful propellers.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkMh93arX7tePvi76J64ESn66vlYrjYcmfSHYr5aMHr0ccVtezR5kUuj5ftxsa2pSp6jnQgw4Gef7mYVDU8qKkaVoo9YySjH-kCERA8nJtZKBwmgnYtGIo715cehNh72AqoghsX52N7jmM/s1600/IMG_4912.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkMh93arX7tePvi76J64ESn66vlYrjYcmfSHYr5aMHr0ccVtezR5kUuj5ftxsa2pSp6jnQgw4Gef7mYVDU8qKkaVoo9YySjH-kCERA8nJtZKBwmgnYtGIo715cehNh72AqoghsX52N7jmM/s320/IMG_4912.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Red" doles out the drinks.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“You guys want drinks?” asked a redhead in casually chic attire. She seemed to be second in command to a bearded fellow sporting a borrowed, stained dinner jacket over a graphic tee. (“Apparently, the Capital Club requires a collar,” he’d said, sheepishly.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Yes, that might help,” I said, nervously.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The drinks, when they arrived, were impressive: An electric-blue martini, a rum and cola, a champagne cocktail with raspberry garnish. Red positioned the glasses in our hands, reflected on the placement and then swapped a few between us. I was disappointed to lose the beautiful blue martini to Matt. Both of us were disappointed to learn none of the drinks contained a drop of alcohol. Mine, a martini with two perfect olives, consisted of mere water. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Sherif’s friend’s friend, a petite girl with tight, bouncy curls, ordered an assortment of entrees, and a waiter positioned them around the fire pit: a skillet of meatballs, a shepherd’s pie erupting from its ramekin, king prawns, cheese wedges, grapes and apricot compote. These, at least, were real, but we could only admire the spread until the shoot wrapped. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Once the sun descended enough to cast a golden glow, it was time to shoot. Red directed Matt and Sherif to adjacent chairs on one side of the fire pit and told the two other female “talents” to occupy the chairs on the other. I stood to the side, against the glass balustrade, and chatted with a short, moon-faced guy sporting a fierce chinstrap.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQgkze8xLBtEjHvnbo5Pr9clwchq-LcATFoS6GPQaiusfMZ_2dWv_L_PY8ml2ccHiVNFyY_kUaBZCod4n3VkIivc6ASjA-CBnYquxsWza08TPws3PnyPvarhJ8gRQwXCCV9dCL65pQAy77/s1600/IMG_4922.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQgkze8xLBtEjHvnbo5Pr9clwchq-LcATFoS6GPQaiusfMZ_2dWv_L_PY8ml2ccHiVNFyY_kUaBZCod4n3VkIivc6ASjA-CBnYquxsWza08TPws3PnyPvarhJ8gRQwXCCV9dCL65pQAy77/s320/IMG_4922.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sherif, left, and Matt</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Everybody should be laughing with their mouths open – not just talking – because otherwise, you look like ‘ugh,’” said the still photographer, contorting his face into a grimace.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We laughed for real and then, for the benefit of his camera, with our mouths wide open. Yep, I felt like an idiot.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Just talk amongst yourselves,” Red said. “There won’t be any sound, so you can talk about whatever you want.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">By now, the Bearded Fellow was filming with a digital SLR, the drone was buzzing overhead and the Photographer was punching his shutter.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“I-don’t-know-what-to-say – ha, ha,” I said, taking a dainty sip of olive-flavored water.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“I-don’t-either – hahahaha,” Sherif said.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw9zDRY-TVU2QMp_4Jgk-33bCsXIWSd4O3qxfY55ifAEWJaLcljoMKh3ERFlWRATikt7qQvaWpXVT9szQJC8WXif2BBhZbtDq6qFRVbQao2Pi3e9RxWriwh9hxBnyM2L9wT1qmmEwS687C/s1600/IMG_4941.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw9zDRY-TVU2QMp_4Jgk-33bCsXIWSd4O3qxfY55ifAEWJaLcljoMKh3ERFlWRATikt7qQvaWpXVT9szQJC8WXif2BBhZbtDq6qFRVbQao2Pi3e9RxWriwh9hxBnyM2L9wT1qmmEwS687C/s320/IMG_4941.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The "Talent"</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Matt happened to be the only guy in a blazer, and the Bearded Fellow asked him and the attractive brunette with the short-cropped jacket to replace the moon-faced guy and I at the balustrade. They launched into a fake-laugh flirtation, and I vacillated between casting the stink eye at this coupling and staring longingly at the steaming shepherd’s pie before me. I decided it would be the first dish I tucked into once the crew let us eat the props.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It would be eight months before Matt and I viewed the final video product; Sherif sent Matt the Facebook link Tuesday. There are hundreds of people featured in the video’s dozen or so vignettes, so I was surprised to see our shoot providing the anchor shots that close out the whole thing. There we are sharing pretend laughter and clinking pretend drinks. Impressively, Matt and his blazer make an appearance in five clips. I think that’s my blurry forehead in the foreground encroaching on one of them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“My amigos Matt and Megan are so fancy they are literally poster people for the Valley,” our friend Kelsey wrote in a Facebook post.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But Matt took it a step farther.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“I’m the King of San Jose!” he gushed to me via text.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I guess that makes me the queen.</span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com150 W San Fernando St, San Jose, CA 95113, USA37.3338893 -121.8892174999999711.811854800000003 -163.19781149999997 62.8559238 -80.580623499999973tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3696259327778488402.post-20986414434692201592017-06-24T13:51:00.000-07:002017-06-24T13:51:13.749-07:00Born again<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was born again yesterday -- by accident: I shimmied into a 19th century irrigation tower and discovered some strategically placed “artwork” within.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEJ7dbiZQ4RTBu7Dqc2Yx_4QRExnjRRphY-36Kn_zXk7uhZPtYKXVyr8MTmIZqDN3rjFcuDj8JpVxDUI1Mk5zU_zk0AmDXswgYPopyTHalC3mS-bbLEFzciCrGS2soedmy_niuVttH0ju2/s1600/Tower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEJ7dbiZQ4RTBu7Dqc2Yx_4QRExnjRRphY-36Kn_zXk7uhZPtYKXVyr8MTmIZqDN3rjFcuDj8JpVxDUI1Mk5zU_zk0AmDXswgYPopyTHalC3mS-bbLEFzciCrGS2soedmy_niuVttH0ju2/s640/Tower.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I photographed Frenchman’s Tower on Friday for a <a href="http://www.latc.com/" target="_blank">Town Crier</a> article about an effort to update an outdated list of historic Los Altos Hills sites. The list, for example, lays claim to this stately tower, but it’s actually located in Palo Alto along Old Page Mill Road.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Circa 1875, a French refugee named Peter Coutts constructed his two-story brick tower to serve as water storage for cattle. There’s no door, and the gothic windows have long been bricked over, presumably to keep vandals out. The only way inside is by squirming through a tiny hole a particularly obstinate vandal busted into the backside, and doing so requires first lowering onto one’s hands and knees and then “diving in” head first or blindly backing in legs first. I chose the latter.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAu2aEwwmpZxW-42IIvpKFW2HIECRMdIeRAHXWSCvrUyJSvPyMU10Az_C-muj8-7bb0eQEWOd2yoB6pnj-XL6z1l07H5QvfGw8c6hqQFi0Gor5iOiZQMGSgAPxu0QAzO0aTwF4pqNHae0P/s1600/IMG_7630.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAu2aEwwmpZxW-42IIvpKFW2HIECRMdIeRAHXWSCvrUyJSvPyMU10Az_C-muj8-7bb0eQEWOd2yoB6pnj-XL6z1l07H5QvfGw8c6hqQFi0Gor5iOiZQMGSgAPxu0QAzO0aTwF4pqNHae0P/s320/IMG_7630.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Looking up inside the tower</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The tower’s roof, if there had ever been one, is missing and only rafters remained, so the inside is surprisingly light and airy. While visitors have scratched their initials and names into every brick within reach on the outside, those that ventured inside proved even bolder when obscured from view, and they have graced the interior bricks with spray-painted scrawls of names (“Peasey?”), dates, and yes, depictions of the miracle of life. Broken glass and trash litter the floor. Something unseen smells suspiciously like excrement.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ve always been attracted to romantic hideaways. As a kid, I accosted many an unfamiliar wardrobe in the hopes of discovering a portal into a fantasy world of fauns and talking beavers. And 12-year-old me once prided herself on transforming a neighbor’s firewood lean-to into a royal court for King Henry, Queen Jessie, Princess Violet and Prince Benny, titles and names my sister and our friends christened ourselves with. So it was with some satisfaction that I surveyed the interior of Frenchman’s Tower, my personal fortress for the 20 minutes it took me to photograph the sad, spray-painted bricks and stark shadows cast from the sun-lit rafters. Finally, I surrendered my imaginary crown and crawled back out (or in?) to await the bicyclist or casual hiker who would lend some element of action to my exterior shots.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Within 10 minutes, a minivan pulled up and parked beside the tower. A father-like figure and two teen girls alighted. I squeezed my shutter as they rounded my fortress and disappeared from sight, presumably to be born again too.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Additional Reading:</b></span><br />
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<ul>
<li><a href="https://news.google.com/newspapers?id=-YdkAAAAIBAJ&sjid=in8NAAAAIBAJ&pg=7144,1473047&dq=frenchman%27s-tower&hl=en" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;" target="_blank">"The legend of Frenchman's Tower," Union-Democrat newspaper, Sept. 13, 1951</a></li>
<li><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frenchman%27s_Tower#cite_note-Cady-6" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;" target="_blank">Frenchman's Tower Wikipedia page</a></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.losaltoshills.ca.gov/documentcenter/view/152" target="_blank">Los Altos Hills General Plan, Appendix A: Inventory of Historic Sites and Structures</a></span></li>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Old Page Mill Rd, Palo Alto, CA 94304, USA37.3981365 -122.1612354000000137.385522 -122.1814054 37.410751 -122.14106540000002tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3696259327778488402.post-50154542921497468122017-06-18T20:25:00.000-07:002017-06-20T07:10:02.461-07:00"American Beauty," revisited<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’d like to issue a journalistic retraction 17 years after the offending publication: No, “<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0169547/?ref_=nv_sr_1" target="_blank">American Beauty</a>” is </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">not</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “garbage-worthy,” as 16-year-old Me so boldly proclaimed in the Feb. 11, 2000, edition of “The Sting.” </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMo3p7PBccDmNutqxvp633xWWjFlU4OHf6uwhvZkvL90z3SMuOpgvS5w_wFAbBZZED8au209PhO5hAxg_AGUSL5CoMB_SjsjCuPjojwfI9Rj2JjwcvU5y13oMhuxFlXHVkaayHL47t8PVz/s1600/American_Beauty_poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="326" data-original-width="220" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMo3p7PBccDmNutqxvp633xWWjFlU4OHf6uwhvZkvL90z3SMuOpgvS5w_wFAbBZZED8au209PhO5hAxg_AGUSL5CoMB_SjsjCuPjojwfI9Rj2JjwcvU5y13oMhuxFlXHVkaayHL47t8PVz/s320/American_Beauty_poster.jpg" width="215" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Adult Me re-watched 2000’s Best Picture winner Friday night, the first time since viewing it in the theater. And I laughed. I marveled at the performances, particularly those of Kevin Spacey and Annette Bening as they each inched hilariously closer to insanity. Yep, 34-year-old Sam Mendes deserved that Best Director Oscar, and his film earned its Best Picture award. But I don’t need to remind you how good this movie is. I think the rest of the world knows.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Through the space-time continuum vortex, however, my 16-year-old self read my new assessment with gritted teeth. She, apparently, was not a fan of the film and wrote a scathing review entitled “American Beauty exposes the ‘ugly American'” for <a href="http://school.fultonschools.org/hs/roswell/Pages/default.aspx" target="_blank">Roswell High School</a>’s newspaper (Note: this was the same edition of “The Sting” that praised Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman for their “strong, loving relationship” and suggested teen singles spend Valentine’s Day belting out “I Will Survive” at karaoke bars.). </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Trash. That’s a good word to describe it,” 16-year-old Me wrote in the review. (I imagine myself spitting as I read this). “What a shame that you can have a great cast in a movie, add a little pornography, some profanity, leave out the morality, and be left with a two-hour film that you wasted $7.50 of your own good money on.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ha! Just $7.50 for a movie ticket? Can you believe it? What’s even more amusing is that chump change wasn’t even my own “good money” because my dad took me to see the film.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And there, perhaps, is the root of my myopic disdain: Can you imagine being a teenage girl watching a father do all the things Lester Burnham does and fantasizes about while sitting beside your own father? It was uncomfortable.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“If you decide to go anyway, remember to leave your dad at home,” went my smart-ass punchline. “I should know.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t remember what my dad said about the film at the time, but I have a feeling he appreciated the story but wished he had read the synopsis before selecting his movie date.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Curious, I texted him today to find out.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Do you remember taking me to the theater to see ‘American Beauty’ when I was 16?” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yes with the rose petals mom would have hated that movie,” he replied.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Do you remember if you liked it?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I liked it because it was something we did together but no it was very creepy.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He couldn’t hear me but I was laughing from 3,000 miles away.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You should rewatch it -- with mom. I think you might enjoy it this time. I rewatched it on Friday, and I think I appreciate it now.” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Adult Me rewatched "American Beauty" on Amazon Prime with Matt, who has been a fan since the film’s release.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“That’s probably one of the worst judgments I’ve ever made about a movie -- especially one that won best picture,” I confessed afterward.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Wait,” Matt said. “What about ‘<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0138097/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1" target="_blank">Shakespeare in Love</a>?’” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I guess this means he’s still angry about that little gem winning Best Picture over “<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0120815/?ref_=nv_sr_1" target="_blank">Saving Private Ryan</a>.” He watched the former with his dad, in the theater, when it first premiered in 1998. Is it on Prime? Perhaps he should revisit it. </span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Roswell, GA, USA34.0232431 -84.36155550000000933.8127306 -84.684279 34.2337556 -84.038832000000014tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3696259327778488402.post-11815400714484435242017-06-01T07:34:00.000-07:002017-06-01T11:50:59.886-07:00My shot -- at 'Hamilton'<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">An audience member sobbed during my viewing of “Hamilton.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Although these were sobs spent during a death scene, they cut through the otherwise silent theater with an absurdity that made the rest of us laugh. What a wacko. Get a grip, lady.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I realize now the woman was likely lamenting the price of her ticket; I’ve seen “Hamilton” orchestra seats commanding four figures on resale websites. I’ve noted price gauging amongst neighbors on Nextdoor.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I said as much to my husband while we were stuck in traffic en route to the San Francisco show last week.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“We could have sold them and had dinner at the French Laundry!” Matt said.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Brag backfired.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I’m proud to say I spent just $100 each for our two balcony seats, but it took some maneuvering and goodwill from a kind co-worker. Months before the online box office opened, three of us in the office agreed to stage a concerted assault on the website the second tickets became available; whoever made it into the website’s inner sanctum would purchase six tickets – the limit – and resell them at face value to the other two. I was No. 77,654 in line, but Traci made good on her word. When Eliza managed to secure her own set of six, Traci sold a second pair at cost to my friend, someone she didn’t even know.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I can’t say if “Hamilton” at San Francisco’s <a href="https://www.shnsf.com/Online/default.asp?BOparam::WScontent::loadArticle::permalink=orpheumtheatre&BOparam::WScontent::loadArticle::context_id=" target="_blank">Orpheum Theatre</a> is worth four-figures, but a balcony view of Lin-Manuel Miranda's cultural phenomenon is certainly worth $100. Even Matt was singing “You’ll Be Back” for days afterward; we both agreed Rory O’Malley’s King George commanded the most (and well-deserved) laughs, followed by Jordan Donica’s head-jiggling Thomas Jefferson.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If you go, be prepared for snappy choreography, thought-provoking casting (Those slave-owning Founding Fathers! They’re portrayed by black men! Those breakdancing soldiers! They’re female!) and thunderous applause punctuating the conclusion of each scene. There’s sure to be subtle illusions to America’s current political climate (the line, “Immigrants, we get the job done!” garnered perhaps the loudest applause of the night) and you’ll marvel at the strength of Emmy Raver-Lampman’s Angelica Schuyler and hairdo. Undoubtedly, most of your fellow audience members will sing along with the cast, including middle-aged mothers serenading teenage sons during intermission. I confess to assaulting Matt with a few enthusiastic whispered lines from <a href="https://youtu.be/VK4Wk_8PbcI?list=PL8KQXy_mAmdfKIuWqiFHe-kFo_OKlNaaB" target="_blank">“My Shot” </a>(“I’m not throwing away my shot!”) during that early scene.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“All these theater nerds, they’ve been listening to the soundtrack on repeat for months,” I sniped during intermission.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Well, you obviously were too.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Guilty.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com01192 Market St, San Francisco, CA 94102, USA37.7793926 -122.4147012999999912.257358100000001 -163.7232953 63.3014271 -81.106107299999991tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3696259327778488402.post-668292915566958182017-05-19T19:20:00.002-07:002017-05-20T07:02:28.786-07:00Where the seats have no name<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was in preschool when U2 released the Joshua Tree, so I don’t remember all the accolades and awards that followed in its wake. I do, however, remember “borrowing” the CD from my parents’ collection and listening to it on repeat as a teenager. The moody intro and anguished vocals of “With or Without You” earned the track top airplay on my boom box, while my sister and I developed a ritual of cranking up the volume to howl along with Bono whenever the song aired on the radio.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">During "With or Without You"</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But I was always puzzled by the indecisive musings of the protagonist. How could he be so crazy about someone who obviously made him crazy, relinquishing him to a bed of nails no less?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“I think I understand now that I’m married,” I told my husband Wednesday en route to Levi’s Stadium in Santa Clara for the </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.u2.com/tour/index/tour/id/79/" target="_blank">Joshua Tree Tour 2017</a>, commemorating the album's 30th anniversary</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">. Matt was busy battling Lawrence Expressway traffic to merge onto Tasman Drive, but I think he caught the teasing glint in my eyes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Among Wednesday’s 22-song set, U2’s “With or Without You” performance, however, left the audience waiting and wanting a little more; the intro started and ended, but Bono didn’t begin singing until after an awkward delay caused by a technical or mental lapse indiscernible from our nosebleed-inducing seats.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There were a few additional missteps, including delaying the start of the show until 9 p.m., a full hour after opening act Mumford and Sons vacated the stage, but Bono, The Edge, Adam Clayton and Larry Mullen Jr. have earned a few allowances in a career spanning four decades. They still know how to rock, and they still have something to say.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">During "Where the Streets Have No Name"</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The band sandwiched the entire Joshua Tree (<a href="https://www.grammy.com/grammys/news/grammy-rewind-30th-annual-grammy-awards" target="_blank">Grammy Album of the Year, 1988</a>), between tracks from earlier albums War and The Unforgettable Fire and a six-song encore with later material from Achtung Baby and All That You Can’t Leave Behind. “Sunday Bloody Sunday” opened the set. The song, about the 1972 deadly shooting of protestors by the British Army in Northern Ireland, led off two hours of hits interlaced with celebrations of Americana (whispered strains of Simon and Garfunkel’s “America,” black and white footage of sweeping American West landscapes and the native people who inhabit them) and politics (blatant digs at President Trump and references to the Syrian refugee crisis, including the drowning of 3-year-old Alan Kurdi). During “Miss Sarajevo,” lower deck audience members passed a sheet-like square large enough to cover entire seating section around the stadium. It featured the passport photo of a 15-year-old Syrian girl featured in an interview broadcast on an LED screen behind the band during the song. The girl, living in a dismal Jordanian refugee camp, said she dreams of immigrating to the United States one day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“We will find higher ground when we find common ground,” Bono said during “Pride,” as words like “dream” and “truth” broke away from the text of Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech and floated across the video screen.</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6xgEbkfFI_2rUydo7AWgJVHMk-i5zn0OsjewddyqENmr2RGt690Nc1RIOc9u65IT6H_EXm7hbOkvz3K52jq5FLDSPPWhs7qiN7A16Bn2JqItzirQZOuZlhyphenhyphenZqp7ktCDqqboBcQS71DnXU/s1600/IMG_5846.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6xgEbkfFI_2rUydo7AWgJVHMk-i5zn0OsjewddyqENmr2RGt690Nc1RIOc9u65IT6H_EXm7hbOkvz3K52jq5FLDSPPWhs7qiN7A16Bn2JqItzirQZOuZlhyphenhyphenZqp7ktCDqqboBcQS71DnXU/s320/IMG_5846.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That screen</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Ah, that screen. Until it lit up with film footage of an endless desert highway during “Where the Streets Have No Name,” the unfortunate brown-colored panels and Joshua tree awkwardly emerging from it resembled a drive-in movie screen fashioned from cardboard. The album’s first track also marked the beginning of the live video feed broadcast. Up until that point, the band’s performance at the end of a tree-shaped catwalk resembled ants gyrating on a head of cauliflower – at least to us “cheap seat” occupants.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Bono dedicated “Ultra Violet” to the women in the band members’ lives and to women who “insisted and persisted” throughout history – or “Herstory.” The faces of these “Little Miss Icons” –from abolitionist Sojourner Truth and anarchist activist Emma Goldman to German Chancellor Angela Merkel, comedian Ellen Degeneres and Nobel Laureate Malala Yousafzai – cycled across the screen.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The band closed with “The Little Things That Give You Away,” a new song scheduled for official release later this year as part of “Songs of Experience,” a follow-up album to the band’s 2014 “Songs of Innocence.” The band revealed a square-shaped black and white image of a barefoot man and woman holding hands, presumably the album cover shot, during the performance. The woman appeared to wear an army helmet and the man resembled a teenage Bono, but it was difficult to identify him from a distance.</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc3SEauEqb4bEwo8UDl9vuQknYdIOK-a_2rWp7y8_SAFNx4Vcdcczs6caw8PvhAQ0NAjgCLXYXMvqNTdHPIgtciK9qPHLxSc9m_rQp79ewQEEo3vkLby5EgX1gLY6PNADDYQtP8xdSAzqe/s1600/AlbumCOver_5896.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc3SEauEqb4bEwo8UDl9vuQknYdIOK-a_2rWp7y8_SAFNx4Vcdcczs6caw8PvhAQ0NAjgCLXYXMvqNTdHPIgtciK9qPHLxSc9m_rQp79ewQEEo3vkLby5EgX1gLY6PNADDYQtP8xdSAzqe/s320/AlbumCOver_5896.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Bono, is that you?</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“We have a new album,” Bono said. “This is a song on it. And we’re just warming up.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">High in the stands, where temperatures dipped into the high 40s and the wind whipped about, Matt and I were shivering, and I twisted my shoulder into his side for warmth. By then I wore the commemorative concert T-shirt I had bought him over my own clothes for added warmth. But he didn’t seem to mind.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Set list:</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-Sunday Bloody Sunday (War, 1983)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-New Year’s Day (War, 1983)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-A Sort of Homecoming (The Unforgettable Fire, 1984)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-Bad (The Unforgettable Fire, 1984)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-Pride (In the Name of Love) (The Unforgettable Fire, 1984)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-Where the Streets Have No Name (The Joshua Tree, 1987)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For (The Joshua Tree, 1987)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-With or Without You (The Joshua Tree, 1987)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-Bullet the Blue Sky (The Joshua Tree, 1987)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-Running to Stand Still (The Joshua Tree, 1987)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-Red Hill Mining Town (The Joshua Tree, 1987)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-In God’s Country (The Joshua Tree, 1987)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-Trip Through Your Wires (The Joshua Tree, 1987)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-One Tree Hill (The Joshua Tree, 1987)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-Exit (The Joshua Tree, 1987)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-Mothers of the Disappeared (The Joshua Tree, 1987)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Encore:</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-Beautiful Day (All That You Can’t Leave Behind, 2000)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-Elevation (All That You Can’t Leave Behind, 2000)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-Ultra Violet (Light My Way) (Achtung Baby, 1991)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-One (Achtung Baby, 1991)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-Miss Sarajevo (Original Soundtracks 1, 1995)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-The Little Things That Give You Away (Songs of Experience, 2017)</span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com04900 Marie P DeBartolo Way, Santa Clara, CA 95054, USA37.402317 -121.9689953999999811.880282499999996 -163.27758939999998 62.9243515 -80.660401399999984tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3696259327778488402.post-23537734867435085912017-01-27T14:57:00.000-08:002017-01-27T14:59:08.583-08:00Adventures in butt dialing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4fEQi0D4W9pyHk60Lrpl0nr5GDfDIxgz9VzoZ5VSxaN9umhxB2hwkgwzz4OtU43bHohgygXVQIZA75LFdO0j1yu8GIOWvmB0MdZyGEUZ91wnrdnaKsqJUPJmdF6_dOGxZwNr6aX6KjTsW/s1600/IMG_2154.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4fEQi0D4W9pyHk60Lrpl0nr5GDfDIxgz9VzoZ5VSxaN9umhxB2hwkgwzz4OtU43bHohgygXVQIZA75LFdO0j1yu8GIOWvmB0MdZyGEUZ91wnrdnaKsqJUPJmdF6_dOGxZwNr6aX6KjTsW/s640/IMG_2154.PNG" width="360" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">[Insert photo of maternal grandfather channeling Tarzan]</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Crickets.</span></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3696259327778488402.post-45312740141550902622017-01-12T04:00:00.000-08:002017-01-12T07:56:10.797-08:00Naked and afraid (Part III)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5_7897pY_-jJZrmB_v5sDEYatYD19iCu0kAFPmC2BHY8N2Gc2ilZV5BMiCTLYLhtvUTpztGGTw1eNZofDLQGR62PinC79wdLVzs1h5Xjpz2eaZ4nifNehznvBblDxjFquHUMweJGVS-YN/s1600/IMG_1504.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5_7897pY_-jJZrmB_v5sDEYatYD19iCu0kAFPmC2BHY8N2Gc2ilZV5BMiCTLYLhtvUTpztGGTw1eNZofDLQGR62PinC79wdLVzs1h5Xjpz2eaZ4nifNehznvBblDxjFquHUMweJGVS-YN/s200/IMG_1504.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
My time was up: A tiny Korean woman was calling my locker number. Her costume, disheveled hair, navel-high black underwear briefs, black sports bra and multi-colored striped socks peeking from plastic shower shoes, lent her a Hausfrau-meets-Dominatrix-meets-Rainbow Brite sort of persona.<br />
<br />
“Good luck,” Cat purred from the Jacuzzi.<br />
<br />
Oh boy.<br />
<br />
I secured my towel and followed my host into an adjacent hallway To the left and right were semi-partitioned treatment stations, each featuring a knee-high massage table encased in the kind of thick, durable plastic my friend’s grandparents use to protect their couch from radioactive meltdowns. Hoses snaked from the tiled walls into overflowing industrial-sized garbage cans positioned halfway between every two stations. Shallow buckets floated on top.<br />
<br />
“Here,” the woman said, indicating the first table on the right.<br />
<br />
“Do I take my towel off?” I asked. But I already knew the answer. Droplets of water, I noticed, beaded on the table; this was going to be a fairly wet experience.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpmvLw127NqVssPP4TaK_CT8nwO-7k1CG8FOYN_6QOBb0_c5P3ROaMRi55Sg1XVx0DTDUIZqhlczBcTZX312BaqZXeklu6zLPgktleHNidlRjXacjCDuEG9-qqRa7VRfjOye0khj8BfG_I/s1600/IMG_1510.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpmvLw127NqVssPP4TaK_CT8nwO-7k1CG8FOYN_6QOBb0_c5P3ROaMRi55Sg1XVx0DTDUIZqhlczBcTZX312BaqZXeklu6zLPgktleHNidlRjXacjCDuEG9-qqRa7VRfjOye0khj8BfG_I/s200/IMG_1510.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
I surrendered my towel to a peg and settled down on the table much in the way you’d expect a self-conscious, naked Nearly Never Nude to settle down upon wet plastic.<br />
<br />
“First time,” I said, craning my neck to track the therapist’s movements at the foot of the table. She laughed – and then flung a bucket of warm water over me that traveled like a wave from my toes to shoulders. My butt cheeks clenched. If someone lodged a pencil between them, I reckoned I now possessed enough grip to write with it.<br />
<br />
My “Pure Bliss” treatment involved multiple bucket dousings before the therapist donned a Brillo pad disguised as an exfoliating mitt. She grabbed my right leg. She grabbed my left leg. She slid my quivering limbs apart across the wet plastic. More butt clenching. And then she descended.<br />
<br />
Aside from the too-close attention paid to my inner thighs and the entire passage of time I spent face-up on that table, the overall experience wasn’t unpleasant; after scrubbing me raw, the therapist progressed to the Full Body Moisturizing Massage component. Then the High Quality Lavender/Mint Aroma Oil. I pondered the color of the Refreshing Vitamin C Face Masque (I guessed pea green). I confess to relishing the Scalp Massage.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQpaGZYBRe75SJ0qH29tIPBACCn4icGvi0bNwWMy_Lo2sW4iXw5eVaSVgyaFuntlYduPDqQdR8pXPLSFc2oKbSeREcZUhA9dhESU5vYOqfoDyFaziCdfoIZo1vtABieWImKQiNvz9AVHAN/s1600/IMG_1508.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQpaGZYBRe75SJ0qH29tIPBACCn4icGvi0bNwWMy_Lo2sW4iXw5eVaSVgyaFuntlYduPDqQdR8pXPLSFc2oKbSeREcZUhA9dhESU5vYOqfoDyFaziCdfoIZo1vtABieWImKQiNvz9AVHAN/s200/IMG_1508.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
Once Cat settled onto her own Slip and Slide three stations down, the partitions separating us concealed all but her disembodied head. I attempted to catch her eye, to flash her a smile that said, “I’m OK. This isn’t half bad,” but her eyes were closed as she succumbed to the scrubbing phase of “Pure Bliss.” I watched her head bob up and down with each thrust of the Brillo pad.<br />
<br />
The 90-minute treatment concluded with the therapist tying my hair in a knot, a hand towel burritoed around my ponytail and twisted into submission. Kelsey and Cat sported similar styles when they emerged from their treatments. Jackie’s headgear resembled an Indian rumal, and she seemed slightly envious of our knots.<br />
<br />
My girlfriends and I re-congregated within the Himalayan Salt Room to share our experiences. Snuggled between two patrons mounting each other’s backs to administer post-massage massages and the uptight, twiggy patron whose swaddled lower half, visible ribs and outstretched hands bore an uncanny likeness to a certain religious figure, we giggled and laughed. We slipped back into our clothes and resumed regarding one another beyond locked eyes. Jackie French braided our hair. We carpooled to downtown Palo Alto and dined ravenously on Indian food – followed by gelato.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Zt8YBABJdyBWoMns07C_K8K6nL7Mea9BrAMrqnmCRTwU3UurYNdWI62B-qYJ0Mo-LFKsy_azGxw2v8puzsY2kTuoh0BNlPrh1tHQcII1ehnV-Z6G6eX1XrpAvI8agQPW4JvEp6YtSw4A/s1600/IMG_1514.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Zt8YBABJdyBWoMns07C_K8K6nL7Mea9BrAMrqnmCRTwU3UurYNdWI62B-qYJ0Mo-LFKsy_azGxw2v8puzsY2kTuoh0BNlPrh1tHQcII1ehnV-Z6G6eX1XrpAvI8agQPW4JvEp6YtSw4A/s200/IMG_1514.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
So this is the end of this bloviated account, a tale one of my five readers aptly described as “a tease.” At this point, I’m expected to sum up the Korean Spa Episode by attesting to the joys of parading naked in front of one’s friends and undergoing butt-clenching scrub downs administered by strangers in rainbow socks. I’m now liberated and more comfortable in my own skin and considering a side career as a pole dancer and---. False. The truth is, my back has since developed a rash, and I’m still frightened by my pale, knobby, flat-chested body. Lest my girlfriends think me an ungrateful bitch, however, I will quickly add that I am thankful for the adventure and the opportunity to bond with them. I might even do it all again – but not alone.<br />
<br />
So, in summary, I’d like to embrace Cat, Jackie and Kelsey and thank them for putting up with all my bellyaching. I just need to throw on some clothes first before I do so.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Palo Alto, CA, USA37.4418834 -122.1430194999999837.2400059 -122.46574299999997 37.643760900000004 -121.82029599999998tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3696259327778488402.post-81907033224429027432017-01-10T07:50:00.001-08:002017-01-10T17:38:50.629-08:00Naked and afraid (Part II)<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Jackie was already wrapped in a shorty robe by the time Cat,
Kelsey and I arrived at the Naked Spa. She sat upon a sofa in an alcove just
beyond the reception desk. She seemed serene. I, apparently, did not.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Are you OK?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Sure.” I wondered what level of heightened anxiety my face betrayed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“We don’t allow shoes inside and bathing suits or underwear
in the spa,” said the attendant. “For the Jacuzzi and cold pool you need to be
nude.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Shit.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOte44rRzqObSCfo1Mxfc3Cpm5YtJ4lw8JW7hQWyHL54yjlA2QfllVqZ2gCvdOU96J-hMvtoueZ7i7cE8xbPjafGvtNCuRrDXDFPEs84e4kVXjXXgep7siBKRH8_dm04mZnQ82ZKkpw1h-/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-01-10+at+11.22.51+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOte44rRzqObSCfo1Mxfc3Cpm5YtJ4lw8JW7hQWyHL54yjlA2QfllVqZ2gCvdOU96J-hMvtoueZ7i7cE8xbPjafGvtNCuRrDXDFPEs84e4kVXjXXgep7siBKRH8_dm04mZnQ82ZKkpw1h-/s320/Screen+Shot+2017-01-10+at+11.22.51+AM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Himalayan Salt Room</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Perhaps I should put my bag in the car,” I said, backing
toward the door. The sizeable duffel slung over my shoulder contained <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all </i>those verboten items – plus two
oversized beach towels, a change of clothes, a bathing cap and a pair of
goggles. Combined, I had thought, perhaps they’d sufficiently conceal my
translucent complexion and bony chest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“No, it should fit within your locker,” the attendant said.
“And you can leave your shoes here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I surrendered my sneakers and placed them upon the
designated bookshelf beside Jackie’s Uggs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This is how we all develop
foot fungus</i>, I thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Barefoot, we padded after our guide and into the inner
sanctum of the women’s locker room. Boob. Belly. Butt. Blobs of bare flesh
hovered in my periphery. I crossed my eyes until the figures around us morphed
into a beige blur.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Are you OK?” Jackie asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Yes!” I hissed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The attendant rattled off the 12-step program leading up to
the afternoon’s main event, an extremely wet and vigorous 90-minute ordeal –
er, “treatment” -- dubbed “Pure Bliss.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“You’ll need to shower before your treatment,” she said.
“There’s a sauna room and a spa room I recommend you soak in the Jacuzzi for at
least 15 minutes prior to the treatment Then maybe the cold pool They’ll call
you by the number printed on your locker key One of you has a 2:15 p.m.
appointment You’ll need to take a shower right away to allow time for soaking
Do not re-enter the pools after your treatment.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My brain seemed to have suffered a major malfunction.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> I</i> was first, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> was the 2:15 p.m. appointment, (What time was it?!) and everything
was happening so fast. <i>Who</i> would call me? Where was the shower? Jacuzzi before
cold pool or cold pool before Jacuzzi? Where was Jackie? Suddenly Cat was naked
and Kelsey was naked, and I was struggling to balance on one foot while
wriggling out of my underwear under cover of a washcloth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I followed my friends into the dual shower/Jacuzzi room. Though
insubstantial, the Plexiglas partitions separating the shower stalls would have
provided some modicum of privacy had not the shaving mirrors above the fixture reflected
and magnified all the flesh in the room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hey, </i>I thought. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maybe I </i>don’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have the flattest chest in Silicon Valley. And that woman’s butt
resembles cottage cheese too!<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But a flabby fanny was the least of my worries. I had to
prioritize for a mad dash toward the 6-person Jacuzzi across the room: left arm
across the top and right hand shielding the nether regions. I spied sanctuary
in the form of bubbles already affording Jackie censorship. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This isn’t so bad, </i>I
thought, sinking down until the water reached my eyelids. I settled butt cheeks
atop a protective cradle of open palms. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Kelsey and Cat soon joined us, the former repeating my
awkward shuffle across the room, the latter exhibiting an admirably confident
swagger. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We chatted and laughed, and, remarkably, after awhile, I
started to relax. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ha!</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Being naked is a cinch when no one can see
your bits and pieces!</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And then the Jacuzzi motor stopped purring, the magic
bubbles disappeared, and the once-turbulent water around me stilled. I imagined
my expression mirrored Kelsey’s: wide eyes, raised eyebrows, mouth slightly
agape.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Bubbles!” I said, drawing my knees into my chest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“I got it,” Jackie said. We watched our savior slink toward
the magic button that would summon back those blessed bubbles. “I’m going to
check out the salt room anyway.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Kelsey trotted after her, leaving Cat and I to puzzle over
the curious stools lining the room. Each squat plastic chair sat before its own
shower handset and shampoo dispenser. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Would
we be expected to plant our bare booties there? And how often did they
disinfect those things anyway?</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“I think the reason all the nudity doesn’t bother me is that
I was on the swim team growing up, and we had to shower in front of each other
all the time,” Cat said. “Didn’t you play sports?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“I did,” I said. “I was on the swim team too, but it was a
club team, and I was young. I don’t remember having to get naked in front of
each other.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If I had had to strip down, perhaps I managed to block it
from my mind. What I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do</i> recall is the
Blue Wave Swim Team teammate who tortured me with taunts of “Hairy Scary”
because I didn’t shave the blonde fuzz on my 8-year-old legs. In addition to
bullies, locker rooms meant gnarly foot fungus, impressive feats of toilet bowl
levitation provoked by threats of deadly disease and shielding my gangly limbs
behind locked bathroom stalls for P.E. uniform changes (Yes, I know I’m
disturbed). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Cat continued by relating her D.C. Korean spa experience: Asian
ladies in lingerie administered the massages, and all-day, marathon nakedness
was encouraged via features like an in-spa restaurant and a communal co-ed room
where patrons napped in the middle of the floor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Naked</i> naps?” I
asked, eyebrows raised.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“No, they wear robes,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">With about 10 minutes remaining until my treatment, I
decided to seek out Jackie, Kelsey and the Himalayan Salt Room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There’s a scene from Season 3, Episode 3, of “Sex and the
City” in which Charlotte, the shows designated prude, becomes uneasy as her
friends drop their towels and expose some boob in a spa steam room. That’s the kind
of awkward I expected within this salt room: handsome teak benches occupied by
terry cloth-swathed butts. Perhaps a stray nipple or two. But the door handle
was hot and the stone floor was heated, and I yelped into the darkness that had
swallowed by girlfriends. Both lay face-up and spread-eagled on the floor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Are you OK?” Jackie asked from her state of repose atop a
towel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“I think I’m just going to sit on my towel and cower in the
corner,” I said. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>To be continued...</i></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Palo Alto, CA, USA37.4418834 -122.1430194999999837.2400059 -122.46574299999997 37.643760900000004 -121.82029599999998tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3696259327778488402.post-62073956615620862062017-01-08T21:57:00.000-08:002017-01-08T22:21:53.879-08:00Naked and afraid (Part I)<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I’ve never gone commando. I layer shorts over yoga pants to
hide my underwear lines. And before today, only four people had ever seen my
birthday suit: my parents, my sister and my husband. But I just spent three whole
hours in the very naked company of three girlfriends -- and a whole bunch of
strangers -- and survived.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfXCbs94Vqbp_Az2Ia_aRWijZliq1EavmNOB1tGnYPlHtvVvM-VX1JYTVE3_XnjQn8RTXnY_MmkQGD2bAEYRAb_ljkHE-q6ThwverJFZv0eo4lplLrvq9NPJsipJ_rGNN6iriDA7KWcqkq/s1600/nakedbaby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfXCbs94Vqbp_Az2Ia_aRWijZliq1EavmNOB1tGnYPlHtvVvM-VX1JYTVE3_XnjQn8RTXnY_MmkQGD2bAEYRAb_ljkHE-q6ThwverJFZv0eo4lplLrvq9NPJsipJ_rGNN6iriDA7KWcqkq/s320/nakedbaby.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><b>The last time anyone saw this Nearly Never Nude naked</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It was Jackie who suggested we spend Sunday afternoon at the
Korean Spa.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“BTW Kelsey – everyone will be naked!!!!!” she wrote in the
email invite Monday. “AAAAAHHHHHHHH.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Somehow Jackie overlooked <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> prudish tendencies, honed from half a lifetime of
anxiety-inducing spa and massage experiences. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In West Palm Beach, there’d been the $20-an-hour student
massage studio that required customers to bring their own sheets. The treatment
room was one long, co-ed rectangle with 10 or so tables separated by flimsy
hospital curtains that failed to dampen any of the moaning and groaning on
either side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For my 24<sup>th</sup> birthday, Matt treated me to a
mid-winter weekend getaway at Missouri’s equivalent to the “Shining” hotel. My
spa treatment – in a dark and remarkably bare basement -- consisted of lying
prostrate on a de facto embalming table while warm water drummed down on me
from holes in the ceiling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And, still vivid in my mind, was the overpriced, pre-Christmas holiday
massage I received from “Santa Claus,” an unkept, white-bearded gentleman whose
belly rested ever so gently on my back as he slid a greasy, hairy forearm up
and down my spine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">(“Did he ask you if you’ve been naughty or nice?” Kelsey
asked when I related the experience.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This particular spa experience, I judged, might warrant a
pre-treatment parking lot cocktail: We would shower in a communal shower naked,
soak in a communal hot tub naked, lounge in a sauna naked and, for an added
cost, lie face-up while tiny, lingerie-clad Asian women drenched our nakedness
in oil and milk. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Bathing suits and underwear are strictly forbidden, the
spa’s website warned. For the Nearly Never Nude, the prospect was frightening.
I would pack a bikini just in case.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I spent all week concocting excuses for cancelling my
appointment. Chatting with a co-worker didn’t ease the anticipation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Ooooh, I love Korean Spas,” Eliza said, hovering over our
shared cubicle wall. “But they do require a lot of pre-grooming.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Duly noted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Kelsey’s comments en route to the Palo Alto facility today
were equally discomforting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“I heard those Korean women really beat you up,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“What, like a Thai massage?” I asked. I had been brutalized
by Thai women before. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“No, they scrub your skin until it falls off and you’re all
red.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why</i> are we
paying for this?!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The conversation grew progressively more terrifying once we
picked up Cat in Mountain View.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Do you think they massage your b-hole?” Kelsey asked. “They
call that a 'margarita' because of the salt on the rim.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Anyone who calls it a ‘b-hole’ has never had it massaged
before,” Cat said, matter-of-factly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And, later: “Don’t be surprised if you cry during the
massage part,” Cat said. “That happens sometimes because of all the tension it
releases.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“If I cry during this experience, it’s not going to be from
the massage,” I replied.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">To be continued....</span><o:p></o:p></i></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Palo Alto, CA, USA37.4418834 -122.1430194999999837.2400059 -122.46574299999997 37.643760900000004 -121.82029599999998tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3696259327778488402.post-3534178701827174542016-11-15T04:00:00.000-08:002016-11-15T20:13:39.496-08:00Out on the tiles<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I call my mom almost every weekday morning, but we generally take weekends off because we’re both very busy, important people. So her call, on Sunday, came as a surprise.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I have something very important to tell you,” she said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My stomach flipped. I immediately thought of my sister, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/hailey.winslow.52" target="_blank">filming a Steve Irwin-type adventure show in Australia</a>, the deadliest continent on the planet.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>This is it</i>, I thought. <i>Hailey’s been eaten by a crocodile. I knew this day would come.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Matt, who had watched me halt mid-stride and heard the quaver in my voice, looked up from his laptop, his eyebrows a full inch higher than usual.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnXQmuflwCEeXxxN7a-LIy2kw7D2XnFQep74nPyhhyphenhyphengM1VtX4E82cH25hPoYbSuD-fSzb9hWa5ZX-BqvCj64ssGueN28WZA6Ex_UHcQ3uoZD799PZ4sPx4x9hzxhlLSQzM1hu7tNTZxJHz/s1600/14716101_1424745657552874_7823715081381679012_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnXQmuflwCEeXxxN7a-LIy2kw7D2XnFQep74nPyhhyphenhyphengM1VtX4E82cH25hPoYbSuD-fSzb9hWa5ZX-BqvCj64ssGueN28WZA6Ex_UHcQ3uoZD799PZ4sPx4x9hzxhlLSQzM1hu7tNTZxJHz/s320/14716101_1424745657552874_7823715081381679012_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Those lovable nutjobs</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Did you know that when your father goes to the bathroom, he counts the tiles on the walls and floors? He can tell you exactly how many tiles there are in the bathrooms of every home we’ve ever owned.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>“What?!”</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I let out a long breath of air. For Matt’s benefit, I shook my head and rolled my eyes ceiling-ward. He resumed typing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I pictured my parents sitting side-by-side at a honky-tonk Austin bar, an icy pitcher of Miller Light between them. I wondered how much of that sweet nectar remained.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I just thought you should know since we’re related to him,” Mom continued, laughing. “Wait –<i> you’re</i> related to him. I’m not. So <i>you</i> should know.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I repeated this news to Matt. After all, our offspring would feature genes from both nutjobs on the other end of the call.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“But does he count them all or count across and down and then multiply?” Matt asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I repeated the question for Mom.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I don’t know,” she said. “Here, you ask him.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Your mother thinks I’m Rainman,” Dad said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You count tiles in the bathroom?” I asked. “Do you count them all or count across and down and then multiply?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Both,” he said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Both?! And it never occurred to you to mention any of this when I was getting tested for O.C.D. as a child?!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He didn’t seem to hear this last question.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You know those holes in shower drains?” Dad asked. “I count those too.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He returned Mom’s cellphone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“How on earth did this topic of conversation come up?” I asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You know that Kendle you got me?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mom never can remember the name of Amazon’s eReader.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“<i>Kindle</i>,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Yes, Kindle,” she said. “Well, you put a book on it about a guy--”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/1618.The_Curious_Incident_of_the_Dog_in_the_Night_Time" target="_blank">'The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime,'</a>” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Yes! And we were talking about it with the bartender and Dad said, ‘Well, you know, I count tiles in the bathroom,’” she said. “And I always thought Sheldon Cooper from ‘The Big Bang Theory’ was a little strange, but he’s not strange; his brain is messed up --like your father’s. He’s not normal. And all this time you had O.C.D.C. and <i>Dad</i> was the source.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I detected a hint of triumph in her voice.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“So go write a blog about it,” she said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I did.</span><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Travis County, TX, USA30.267153 -97.74306079999996729.828484 -98.388507799999971 30.705822 -97.097613799999962tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3696259327778488402.post-19176560063079657572016-11-07T19:33:00.000-08:002016-11-07T19:33:32.932-08:00Just listed<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I’m a wannabe first-time homeowner shelling out a ridiculous amount in monthly rent to live within a commutable distance of my husband’s Cupertino job. This means reviewing Silicon Valley real estate listings makes me sad. And that’s why I want to extend a hearty shout-out to Russell Ciotta of “Classic Properties” for making me laugh out loud; <a href="https://www.coldwellbankerhomes.com/ca/cupertino/6625-clifford-dr/pid_15086312/" target="_blank">his listing</a> for 6625 Clifford Drive made last night’s perusal of “The Ugly Yet Unattainable” unexpectedly enjoyable.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib62BiJFOFXmlp0hfcHz3UmmqSw5bAYblIRD0SzBVl4iHY1NQWS1AaX9uxmvx9LZOw5pn0FJ9pADiwtLPJ_A7wxUfdrPOWLKqTl3GVpY_x1yKg9NDRBh7X6rPyS6EhUscWjozyxc9-1qLR/s1600/Screen+Shot+2016-11-07+at+7.06.54+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib62BiJFOFXmlp0hfcHz3UmmqSw5bAYblIRD0SzBVl4iHY1NQWS1AaX9uxmvx9LZOw5pn0FJ9pADiwtLPJ_A7wxUfdrPOWLKqTl3GVpY_x1yKg9NDRBh7X6rPyS6EhUscWjozyxc9-1qLR/s640/Screen+Shot+2016-11-07+at+7.06.54+PM.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Ciotta knows he has nothing to lose; clinching several hundred thousand over his $1.3 million asking price is a given in this wacko market. So he lays out all his cards on the table: cracked façade, mold, mildew and moss, rust stains, unsecured crawl space rat portals. The online photo gallery doesn’t contain a single flattering image of Ciotta’s teardown special. </span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Accessories include a broken squatty chair, a Christmas tree stand and a pool ladder -- but no pool. The primary image shows the front door ajar, and if you squint through the shadows, you can just make out ceiling-high towers of newspaper and the silhouettes of a dozen or so cats.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">I can’t decide if this listing is a joke, a social experiment or over-the-top honest advertising. Perhaps Ciotta simply decided to phone this one in. In any event, he deserves some props. Bravo, Mr. Ciotta. Bravo.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com16625 Clifford Dr, Cupertino, CA 95014, USA37.314291 -122.0195320000000311.792256499999997 -163.32812600000003 62.8363255 -80.710938000000027tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3696259327778488402.post-67673803013050723632016-11-03T18:33:00.000-07:002016-11-03T18:33:31.918-07:00Resurrecting Bianca<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><b>Warning</b>: This blog post contains spoilers about "Be Right Back," Season 2, Episode 1 of "Black Mirror," the British anthology television series that explores the dark side of technology. If you haven't seen this 2013 episode yet, well, what the heck are you waiting for?!</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If bloody curtains and a skeletal clown don’t say, “Come hither, children; we have candy,” I certainly don’t know what does.</span><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyvdm9GYFNcmAeF49PEmbDdrPjGLLvVMpCZotB-YH5iyq-kiIlpRaBCNB1-ycy-RRtRS-SJXXz-VC7uFAi4Q7IEX3EIq3vbh9q2PaSDebx5Bwq0TTLLX5RLeDEuWE2recgeJLUbyjqpYUM/s1600/IMG_9386.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="mannequin" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyvdm9GYFNcmAeF49PEmbDdrPjGLLvVMpCZotB-YH5iyq-kiIlpRaBCNB1-ycy-RRtRS-SJXXz-VC7uFAi4Q7IEX3EIq3vbh9q2PaSDebx5Bwq0TTLLX5RLeDEuWE2recgeJLUbyjqpYUM/s320/IMG_9386.JPG" title="" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bianca in costume</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Within minutes of arriving home Monday, I hung my handmade curtains in the living room windows and clothed the mannequin in a mask and clown costume. I lined the front walkway with tiki torches borrowed from the backyard. I dumped a bag of mixed chocolate bars in a bowl and stirred in plastic cockroaches and Ping-Pong balls painted like eyeballs. I draped the front door with crime scene tape, the red-colored kind that sternly warns, “Danger.” I launched iTunes and cued up “Thriller.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have never lived on a street conducive to soliciting or distributing Halloween candy. Throughout my childhood, my parents drove my sister and I to trick-or-treat in neighborhoods with sidewalks and cul-de-sacs. And thus far, the addresses of my adult years can be characterized in one of two ways: sleepy retirement community or two-lane thoroughfare to more inviting, tranquil pockets of suburbia.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This year, I told Matt, would be different; on this, our first Cupertino Halloween, we resided a mere block from an elementary school, and a steady stream of young families passed by our front door en route to class or work or home each day. I would become the Cool Lady on the block who answered the door in costume and dished out king-sized Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. I’d compliment the creative kids on their homemade costumes and cast a reproachful eye at the pillowcase-toting teenagers too lazy to dress up at all. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My first visitor of the evening arrived as I maneuvered the clown-attired <a href="http://meganwinslow.blogspot.com/2016/04/april-fool-part-i.html" target="_blank">Bianca</a> through the front door and onto the stoop. Bianca, like many third-hand mannequins, tends to shed her appendages at the most inopportune times. And this proved one such time, as she dropped her left hand for the benefit of a middle-aged woman passing by.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Nice mannequin,” the woman said. “Are you registered to vote?” She thrust a flyer into my hand. The ensuing conversation set me back 10 minutes of decorating.</span><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2mRpQtcAmgAauHdcJ5-Dsxgn2NxAaBLPEfe7V34Zowg7XOyCliYohYaIwhhi07LDyV56H5-ZXmHa0UcpXOAL95G09dDLwM_eSLLaL-ITrRCOm0cAErNlhauo1oCK-tBhNVT_yCRDq4k-N/s1600/IMG_9459.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Halloween decor" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2mRpQtcAmgAauHdcJ5-Dsxgn2NxAaBLPEfe7V34Zowg7XOyCliYohYaIwhhi07LDyV56H5-ZXmHa0UcpXOAL95G09dDLwM_eSLLaL-ITrRCOm0cAErNlhauo1oCK-tBhNVT_yCRDq4k-N/s320/IMG_9459.JPG" title="" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Follow the torches, children.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I retreated to the safety of the couch, where I could maintain a clear line of sight of the front walkway. I peered through the red paint-splattered polyester curtains and waited. And waited.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Eventually, Matt fired up an episode of “Black Mirror” – the one with the rehydrated dead boyfriend – and my attention drifted from the street to the T.V. Right about the point where Martha begins to suspect Ash has been gone far too long, Wolfie uttered a low growl.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Trick-or-treaters!” I said, leaping from the couch. Matt paused the television as I ran to the door. I would surprise the little goblins by yanking it open before they had a chance to knock. My excitement became so great that when I finally did throw open the door, the action seemed to lack an “A-ha!” exclamation.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The stoop was empty. Across the street, however, five silhouettes crowned by multi-colored glow sticks approached the darkest, most un-deserving house on the block. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Black Mirror” resumed, and Martha struck up an online romance with a computer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I ventured out onto the sidewalk the second time Wolfie sounded a false alarm. No pedestrians in sight. I resisted the urge to yank a tiki torch from the ground and wave it in the air, a candy beacon in the night.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Back inside, Martha was adding electrolytes to a bathtub of Ash. By the time she began bedding her Frankenstein, I had abandoned my post to shower and change into pajamas. But I kept my bra on – just in case.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Did anyone come?” I asked Matt, rejoining him on the couch. Part of me wanted assurance I hadn’t missed anything, but the other part desired affirmation someone – anyone – had seen my ridiculous decorations.</span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5EhgKhB5bhyF-LJ7Wt01ejGngU2zhoNrDTIT2Z_0-jEyYRm-f1D_MalThJgzHMe70UnrR2st1tqeGmH2jtUtzSLzpsUhUxUUzx110N0Q6phOHGEftat3A4SPeQN-z1JFMdCj3B8zSv8g6/s1600/IMG_9460.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="creepy clown" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5EhgKhB5bhyF-LJ7Wt01ejGngU2zhoNrDTIT2Z_0-jEyYRm-f1D_MalThJgzHMe70UnrR2st1tqeGmH2jtUtzSLzpsUhUxUUzx110N0Q6phOHGEftat3A4SPeQN-z1JFMdCj3B8zSv8g6/s320/IMG_9460.JPG" title="" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bianca waits</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No, no one had come, but Martha’s Frankenstein was becoming a bore. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The doorbell, when it finally sounded, was jarring. I sprinted to the door.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Trick or treat!” said the 12-year-old on the stoop. She wore her hair in pigtails – a homage to some character I couldn’t place. I offered her my decoy treat bowl, the one with the Styrofoam skull in it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Oops! Wrong bowl!” I laughed at my joke. Pigtails did too, albeit nervously.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She selected a Twix bar from the second bowl I presented. Behind her, beyond the flaming tiki torches, I heard chatter emanating from the driveway.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Do your friends want any candy?” I asked, hopeful.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Um, they’re afraid of the clown,” Pigtails said.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We laughed. Carrying the bowl, I followed Pigtails past Bianca, past the plastic severed arm and past the steely-eyed plastic rat to deliver my treats. </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Cupertino, CA, USA37.3229978 -122.0321822999999937.2219618 -122.19354379999999 37.424033800000004 -121.87082079999999tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3696259327778488402.post-3190940576819796802016-08-14T14:51:00.002-07:002016-08-14T14:51:56.139-07:00DNA results are in...<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">... and the most important thing you need to
know is this: <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Matt is more Neanderthal
than me.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My DNA contains 246 Neanderthal variants, more than 15
percent of <a href="https://www.23andme.com/" target="_blank">23andMe</a>’s 1 million-plus customers, and my husband’s contains 259,
more than 25 percent of customers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“You are <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">less
Neanderthal</b> than Matthew,” my online report states, bolding, this time, not
mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I printed this part of the report
and plan to frame it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB5m2y4bYg_tvl3iup6suUbqVCg2qArA7N2yYYCo9EhuDrlOG8akBrOUTiNDxWciLyAI_ktex_dZz1nFot5w7KA2LNdusJeGNinBjDgMUc_QOGJBDpbxUwJGRNXvjUdikhMIoQ7aO5d82b/s1600/Screen+Shot+2016-08-13+at+11.36.35+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB5m2y4bYg_tvl3iup6suUbqVCg2qArA7N2yYYCo9EhuDrlOG8akBrOUTiNDxWciLyAI_ktex_dZz1nFot5w7KA2LNdusJeGNinBjDgMUc_QOGJBDpbxUwJGRNXvjUdikhMIoQ7aO5d82b/s320/Screen+Shot+2016-08-13+at+11.36.35+AM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Sixty-thousand years ago, interbreeding between modern
humans and knuckle draggers like Matt’s ancestors led to 4 percent Neanderthal
DNA existing in certain populations today, according to 23andMe.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Everyone living outside of Africa today has a small amount
of Neanderthal in them, carried as a living relic of these ancient encounters,”
according to <a href="https://genographic.nationalgeographic.com/neanderthal/" target="_blank">National Geographic</a>. “A team of scientists comparing the full
genomes of the two species concluded that most Europeans and Asians have
between 1 to 4 percent Neanderthal DNA.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Bragging rights aside, the confirmed superiority of my
bloodline is important thanks to Matt himself, who set himself up for deep
disappointment and shame after we shared a recent dinner out with Kelsey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This was post-purchasing the 23andMe kits but pre-spitting,
and Kelsey proved almost as giddy about the prospects as Matt and I were.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“We’ll have an ethnicity reveal party like people have
gender reveal parties,” she said as we strolled back to her house. “You give me
the test results, and I’ll go buy little flags.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And then Matt turned to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“You’re going to break their system,” he said. “They’re
going to be, like, ‘This is the most Neanderthal person we’ve ever seen.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Later, on the ride home: “Oh, you better hope you’re not
more Neanderthal than me.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">(I know these quotes to be accurate because I make mental
and written notes of many of the stupid stuff my family members say. As a journalist,
it’s essentially, like, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my job </i>to do
so. Plus, I read them back to Matt, and he said, “I said that? That’s funny!”
And laughed.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The morning of July 28, I received an email announcing my
DNA results were viewable via my online account. Matt had already left for work,
but I compared my results with his, revealed the night before. I snapped a
photo of the most important bit, and promptly dispatched a text to the gang.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Matt responded first.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Matt: “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Jackie: “Very cool! Any surprises in the results?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Matt: “Only that I’m somehow, in ways unimaginable by me,
more caveman than Megan.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">I guess, if you think about it, another mildly important
component of the reports and their comparison is the fact that I’m not my
husband’s long-lost cousin – or sister (We don’t share any identical DNA
segments). So that’s good news too.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3696259327778488402.post-72199100402633624972016-08-08T17:07:00.002-07:002016-08-08T17:26:04.633-07:00Christmas -- 365 days a year<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I noticed the lights within the first few weeks of moving to Cupertino. Then a gradual realization affirmed itself each time I walked my dog: Every fifth house in our new neighborhood featured a single strand of holiday lights dangling above the ubiquitous two-car garage door. And all the bulbs on all the icicles remained unlit whether I walked Wolfie during the day or well after dark. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHNev9qaKlOHDc7MIS7uBv4ycT_ic9CDYBH-fvgxhBhtGV_eF-7JCn8kyUMC29Hbjtz2FunbB5oQPDaYFswaJmJ14gwzohuxSa1e7u8S14khtv0EjsTmo0Tztkxk4Spr3bIAwNMgnVYQZZ/s1600/Houses-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHNev9qaKlOHDc7MIS7uBv4ycT_ic9CDYBH-fvgxhBhtGV_eF-7JCn8kyUMC29Hbjtz2FunbB5oQPDaYFswaJmJ14gwzohuxSa1e7u8S14khtv0EjsTmo0Tztkxk4Spr3bIAwNMgnVYQZZ/s640/Houses-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That first observation took place in early January. Yes, the winter holiday season had come and gone, but the festive spirit lingered, I surmised.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">By February, our potty walk route had expanded, and we now passed a two-story split level showcasing a holiday wreath affixed to a gable.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Just a bunch of lazy folks who can’t be bothered to pack it all away, I thought. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In March, I noted a 6-foot plastic pine prominently displayed in the bay window of a gray neo-eclectic.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yikes, I thought. Someone ought to buy these folks a calendar. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And then April. May, June. The lights and holiday decorations remained in place. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Who <i>are</i> these people? I needed to know. Did the lights and décor signify Christmas or New Year’s or Kwanzaa or the Chinese New Year, or were my neighbors celebrating some kind of year-round holiday I knew nothing about? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In July, the 1,800-square-foot midcentury across the street sold for $1.8 million. Did the sale price include the 2-foot plastic candy canes in the front yard? I wondered.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I broached the subject when conversation lulled at the neighborhood National Night Out potluck.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm4EXlihEi0-jRlKs6EWztslJOcSR6KOvYxuv8Hx6TwOELjytD_jaVHODKHZATHatT7XXYssf_PrntWb7mxYlVlR1Su07KoXwQsAAcf6nAT4GYGElofyycdratVLrjKPdm_cxwleE1Knzd/s1600/Houses-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm4EXlihEi0-jRlKs6EWztslJOcSR6KOvYxuv8Hx6TwOELjytD_jaVHODKHZATHatT7XXYssf_PrntWb7mxYlVlR1Su07KoXwQsAAcf6nAT4GYGElofyycdratVLrjKPdm_cxwleE1Knzd/s640/Houses-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“I noticed every fifth house in this neighborhood has Christmas lights hanging above the garage,” I said. “Is that a ‘<i>thing</i>?’” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“No, that’s not a ‘<i>thing</i>,’” said Mary Anne, the cardiac nurse. Her house, I knew, was strand-less, but her quick dismissal had me puzzled: What was she hiding?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I pointed out the offenders to Matt as we walked Wolfie together, to Kelsey as we rollerbladed and to my mom as we strolled to a nearby restaurant. They smiled politely, but seemed thankful when I stopped counting aloud. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What Mom and Matt knew (and Kelsey would surely surmise) is I’m a Scrooge-ist when it comes to Christmas, the holiday most commonly associated with light strands. I resent the pressure, the hurry-up-and-purchase-expensive-junk-nobody-in-my-family-actually-needs mentality. I promptly vacate any shop that pipes Christmas tunes over the P.A. system. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Buy! Buy! Buy!” Mariah and Elvis and Ol’ Blue Eyes seem to chant. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The slightest ding of a silver bell or mere coupling of red and green on any day of the year other than December 25 instantly splits the shirt on my back and turns my skin a shade of split pea soup. I like my seasons segregated -- so I can fully enjoy each one separately – and I don’t appreciate Christmas’ encroaching on my fall – or my summer. No occasion is special if it’s celebrated 365 days a year.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2rGH2wa3hWnYK3edUn3nMnN-Q4bUNqwPzPS97KK541xsxF7D8r41VETNm0JnGFlwbnr70FG7f2qTAcggQOOrZ-xTsefCCEKxe_mU2peLa7Jbn2AAWksY7Ir11OiLj-Vf8-PCqI98cemQp/s1600/Houses-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2rGH2wa3hWnYK3edUn3nMnN-Q4bUNqwPzPS97KK541xsxF7D8r41VETNm0JnGFlwbnr70FG7f2qTAcggQOOrZ-xTsefCCEKxe_mU2peLa7Jbn2AAWksY7Ir11OiLj-Vf8-PCqI98cemQp/s640/Houses-3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So yes, this blatant disregard for poor August vexes me to no end, and I will do my utmost to bring this disturbing trend to light (Ha, pun!) and save still-strandless neighborhoods like yours. Starting with this blog post.</span><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Cupertino, CA, USA37.3229978 -122.0321822999999937.2219618 -122.19354379999999 37.424033800000004 -121.87082079999999tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3696259327778488402.post-54402463564623205202016-07-19T22:17:00.000-07:002016-07-19T22:23:17.609-07:00To each her own<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I recently reunited a friend
with Justin Timberlake – or at least Justin Timberlake’s visage painted on a
wine glass. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A friend of the friend had
purchased matching Justin wine glasses on <a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/252715480/justin-timberlake-wine-glass-celebrity" target="_blank">Etsy</a> for the girls who attended her
bachelorette party, and my friend left her own souvenir behind at my house,
likely so as to torture me with Justin's intensely creepy stare. I returned it to her at a BBQ.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEise2IoeDBn5QEr6eZthP5zItyJTiQaPVfNAcq_f3FCQjYm08c3yr3sGjiwFN_lso6eDb-cbXZh6goisA6uTVTGRHMH0jAkvcgs38RgovIMZZTJTCJH-tDn7-TWIgg1IDYUxgDIRoeAotOD/s1600/IMG_4698.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEise2IoeDBn5QEr6eZthP5zItyJTiQaPVfNAcq_f3FCQjYm08c3yr3sGjiwFN_lso6eDb-cbXZh6goisA6uTVTGRHMH0jAkvcgs38RgovIMZZTJTCJH-tDn7-TWIgg1IDYUxgDIRoeAotOD/s320/IMG_4698.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Justin's seen better days</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Why Justin Timberlake?” I
asked. “I would have bought glasses with each person’s favorite celebrity crush.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That got the table talking.
My friend selected Michael B. Jordan from the film, “Creed.” Later, after she
had time to think about it, she switched to Tina Fey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“I think she’d inspire me in
drunken moments,” she explained. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Another girl picked Beyoncé
(BTW, did you know spellcheck will flag Beyoncé’s name when it’s missing the
accent mark over the second “e?” Now <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that’s</i>
celebrity). These selections confused me because I thought we were supposed to
pick hot dudes. Even more confusing was the fact my mind kept returning to Cary
Grant. But I didn’t announce that. Instead, I silently brooded on selecting a
more age-appropriate (not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">deceased</i>,
at least), alternative choice I could share aloud.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Clarity arrived via a
co-worker’s text today:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Celeb sighting at Pompeii,”
she texted. “This guy from ‘Mindy Project’ who I happen to think is
super-cute.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She attached a photo of
actor Chris Messina in his role as Dr. Danny Castellano. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“No way,” I replied. “Are
you kidding me? When?! I love him!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So Pete and I set out to verify
and celebrity stalk. As nonchalantly as possible, I attempted to improve my
mid-afternoon, half-asleep appearance, fluffing my frizzy hair and removing my
frumpy sweater. And yes, as reported, Messina was standing outside the Italian
restaurant. And he was just as dreamy-looking in person as he is on T.V. In
fact, he looked like he had just stepped <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">out
</i>of a television and onto our ever-so pedestrian sidewalk. He radiated from
the background as if embossed. What ever was Dr. Danny doing in sleepy Los
Altos?!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnANIhNMA1F5ynIkhOGfZmrtmSXtRIlMRO6VCrfHaZndB42pfibOcOP6uoTSES2_IR_J-qCgtg0olXLgg1FYSAkz6JFDBHyVdyr4XgB0RsCsbpnqqUqsuszaJqc6yq1GHVlWi0-RTS88fT/s1600/ChrisMessina.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnANIhNMA1F5ynIkhOGfZmrtmSXtRIlMRO6VCrfHaZndB42pfibOcOP6uoTSES2_IR_J-qCgtg0olXLgg1FYSAkz6JFDBHyVdyr4XgB0RsCsbpnqqUqsuszaJqc6yq1GHVlWi0-RTS88fT/s320/ChrisMessina.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Chris Messina</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As Pete and I continued our
stroll toward Messina, I mentally rehearsed how I would request a group photo,
a new Facebook profile image all my female friends would envy! Oh, glorious
day! Should I address him as “Mr. Messina?” Or begin with a cliché, “I’m a big
fan of your work?” But Messina was on the phone. I settled for locking eyes
with him, smiling shyly and reddening all over. I think he may have smiled
back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I didn’t say anything until
Pete and I entered the parking lot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“So, was I taller than him?”
I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Pete confirmed I was. At
least that was something.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Anyway, the point of this
ridiculously sad celebrity-sighting story is to finally report back about my
wine glass selection: Girls, I’ll take Chris Messina. Or Cary Grant.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Los Altos, CA, USA37.3852183 -122.114129837.2842613 -122.2754913 37.4861753 -121.9527683tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3696259327778488402.post-34213906263445601352016-07-12T21:33:00.001-07:002016-07-12T21:33:53.668-07:00The Amazon Prime Day deals I missed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I first learned about Amazon.com's "Prime Day" about a week ago. Curious to understand what all the fuss is about, I visited the website three hours before the promotion ended. Here's a sampling of the deals I missed:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqw-HqwWVpl4V9EJHOxb4VPl9qbZZIsbvbxAhYxDsHZKtUHHx8JOfhN8zOWRQQsjMzoBFRlNyJFRxgdO0OUA2bIMSZ2yxcNvmqXGWx4Ecdj-v9fzZWvgnbgMMSfBJ_CRqzVsWxhfhfJ7ig/s1600/Screen+Shot+2016-07-12+at+9.16.25+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqw-HqwWVpl4V9EJHOxb4VPl9qbZZIsbvbxAhYxDsHZKtUHHx8JOfhN8zOWRQQsjMzoBFRlNyJFRxgdO0OUA2bIMSZ2yxcNvmqXGWx4Ecdj-v9fzZWvgnbgMMSfBJ_CRqzVsWxhfhfJ7ig/s320/Screen+Shot+2016-07-12+at+9.16.25+PM.png" width="163" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1yXHM1WNFmWACUx-kjqeNas6Q3WBBFI2brgxUo6pahpbixwEu6U_JXyk28Q7AnvwaP7ZKwwzBUG1d_Yk4Gw-dkriGtbXJgPyWEM1iNUFBUCC_Ne-Fy_OP_xvB5LjnROOuBLVi7lgXV7-A/s1600/Screen+Shot+2016-07-12+at+9.11.06+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1yXHM1WNFmWACUx-kjqeNas6Q3WBBFI2brgxUo6pahpbixwEu6U_JXyk28Q7AnvwaP7ZKwwzBUG1d_Yk4Gw-dkriGtbXJgPyWEM1iNUFBUCC_Ne-Fy_OP_xvB5LjnROOuBLVi7lgXV7-A/s320/Screen+Shot+2016-07-12+at+9.11.06+PM.png" width="164" /></a></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3696259327778488402.post-47121366213499397592016-05-18T07:41:00.002-07:002016-05-18T07:41:34.558-07:00Megan Winslow, Hair Stylist<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I haven’t had the best luck with Bay Area hair stylists. My
first, a Belmont-based girl with Rihanna-red hair, “concealed” my gray streak
with a platinum blond, skunk-like stripe. I didn’t speak the same language as
the Palo Alto stylist and thus communicated via hand signals and horrified
facial expressions. The Campbell hairdresser cut an excellent bob, but she retired
soon after our appointment to enter the lucrative wedding updo racket. And so,
upon relocating to Cupertino, I decided to select my new stylist based on the
most stringent criterion: her name.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m aware of self-described “woman of all trades” Realtor “Megan
Winslow” who resides in Massachusetts and a Roald Dahl Fangirl “Megan Winslow”
with the Pinterest boards of a wannabe foodie. A Piano Teacher “Mrs. Megan
Winslow” lives in Oklahoma and a blue-eyed, overly pursed-lipped brunette
masquerades as “Megan Winslow” on Twitter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But I first learned of Hair Stylist “Megan Winslow” a few months ago
when Googling <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my </i>name for an article
written by Journalist “Megan Winslow.” Turns out, my “Anti-Fart Juice” opus is
outranked by the listing for a salon owner based in Cupertino. And she works
less than a mile from my house. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For
better or worse, I would trust her with my tresses.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH-cuHI_zdUQ3qg_rXSM8jeveWu6TYgHFVxhMJR6gBz0RmzZgRjIWLVdNS5UCQMMyEb_i95Z3wU8_0kOcwJdh2kvS_OuvL5c556-LE7Y_95blCG-6BHpuIUAbj_41Mwc7rWvmXHdssG1Ka/s1600/Screen+Shot+2016-05-18+at+7.38.18+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH-cuHI_zdUQ3qg_rXSM8jeveWu6TYgHFVxhMJR6gBz0RmzZgRjIWLVdNS5UCQMMyEb_i95Z3wU8_0kOcwJdh2kvS_OuvL5c556-LE7Y_95blCG-6BHpuIUAbj_41Mwc7rWvmXHdssG1Ka/s640/Screen+Shot+2016-05-18+at+7.38.18+AM.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My paramount concern was determining how to reveal myself to
this woman, a stranger in all but name. If I booked my appointment by telephone,
she might think me a prankster. If I scheduled through her online booking
system, she’d think I was a confused dumbass. Ultimately, I decided to
introduce myself in person. I would keep my driver’s license handy and flash it
like a hall pass should she question my membership within the exclusive “Megan
Winslow” club.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But Hair Stylist Megan Winslow operates her salon through
one of those multi-business shopping center spaces and occupies her booth for
scheduled appointments only. Twice I wandered into the building and scoped out
her portion of the rental, but the lights were off and the door locked. I settled
for pocketing one of her business cards. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Weeks went by. I kept Hair Stylist Megan Winslow’s business
card in my wallet and amused myself by flashing it at confused friends and
co-workers whenever conversation lagged. My hair grew scraggly, the gray streak
even grayer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Desperation set in, and I finally reconsidered the online
scheduling route.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My appointment took place on a Saturday morning, and the building
entrance was locked when I arrived, so I keyed Hair Stylist Megan Winslow’s
booth number into the keypad. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then
she was there, blond and pretty. She was, I noted, several years younger than
me – a slight irritant, but one that solidified my superior claim to the name.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Hi,” I said. “I’m Megan Winslow.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She smiled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Oh good. I thought someone was confused about the
scheduling system and mistakenly entered my name as the client.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You mean, </i>my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">name, </i>I thought. But I shook her hand anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hair Stylist Megan Winslow and I spent my hour-long
appointment comparing lives. She’s from Tracy and has a younger sister too –
not, disappointingly, named Hailey. I told her about my childhood in Florida
and confessed to yanking out the gray hairs assaulting my side part. Like any
good hair stylist, she gently scolded me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hair Stylist Megan Winslow is getting married this month and
plans to adopt her husband’s last name afterward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“It will be weird,” she said. “I’ve <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">always</i> been Megan Winslow. I don’t know what it will feel like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> being Megan Winslow.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Traitor</i>, thought
part of me. The other part, the psycho, possessive bit, felt relief; Silicon
Valley couldn’t possibly accommodate <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">two</i>
Megan Winslows.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1Cupertino, CA, USA37.3229978 -122.0321822999999937.2219618 -122.19354379999999 37.424033800000004 -121.87082079999999tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3696259327778488402.post-69709719103695575192016-04-13T21:54:00.000-07:002016-04-13T21:54:01.105-07:00Anti-fart Juice<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ygpoW45OMaK-CaX4w3x11NCqghKQxlz6eH3n1qpUCAanqidQL1oOy-zFHYSJo-cKSZg4ZW_zdXcIjgrYzyFG_8pylWezMUk7riXTMRy48d6zLee6AWiPvRPPqMZ0GIz-YGNptrY5cWwG/s1600/IMG_9147.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ygpoW45OMaK-CaX4w3x11NCqghKQxlz6eH3n1qpUCAanqidQL1oOy-zFHYSJo-cKSZg4ZW_zdXcIjgrYzyFG_8pylWezMUk7riXTMRy48d6zLee6AWiPvRPPqMZ0GIz-YGNptrY5cWwG/s320/IMG_9147.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I snacked on some weeks-old watermelon today. I should have known
better; the once-crisp chunks had started to collapse inward like melting pink
icebergs, and the pale seeds wept from fleshy sockets. My stomach felt hard and
distended within 10 minutes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Naturally, the only remedy for my
affliction was sipping Anti-Fart Juice from a horizontal position whilst
moaning. I explained this to my roommate, Alicia, and once she stopped
laughing, she asked about the contents of my mug. It is on her behalf that I
now reveal my magic potion’s super-secret recipe:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>ANTI-FART JUICE</b></span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ingredients:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">-1 tablespoon of chopped ginger (fresh is preferable to the
graying, bought-this-for-stir-fry-weeks-ago-and-completely-forgot-about-it
variety)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">-1 squirt of lemon juice <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">-1 squeeze of honey<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">-Hot water<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Instructions:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">-Heat some water. Pour it into a mug<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">-Dump the lemon juice and honey into the mug<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">-Stir<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">-Place the ginger inside one of those metal, medieval torture
device-looking tea ball thingies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">-Drop the teal ball thingy in the hot water. Seep</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">-Sip whilst horizontal and moaning</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3696259327778488402.post-41825240286852349762016-04-07T22:02:00.003-07:002016-04-08T07:18:10.540-07:00April Fool (Part III)<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I rarely entertain visitors at work, but when I do, they tend to inquire about the row of empty toilet paper rolls affixed to the top of my cubicle. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“That’s the Wall of Shame,” I’ll say. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The follow-up explanation makes perfect sense: One of my female co-workers neglects (dare I say, “refuses?”) to toss and replace empty toilet paper rolls. And although I have my suspicions, I have yet to identify the perpetrator of this most egregious affront to human decency (I mean, within the realm of restroom-related calamities, is there anything worse than finding oneself stranded on a communal toilet bowl? The answer to that question, I can personally attest, is a resounding “no.”). So I erected the Wall of Shame to, well, shame the perp. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I fully expected Human Resources (AKA, the publisher’s wife) would eventually notice my gauche social experiment and politely ask me to knock it off – quite literally -- but Liz has become my most dedicated roll collector. Over the course of approximately six months, she and other participating stall sleuths have collected 20 rolls. There’s a process: we scribble the date and time of the offense on the cardboard and then use Scotch tape to attach the roll to my cubicle.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My point in divulging this passive-aggressive pastime is to provide context for my decision to position Bianca on one of the two ladies’ restroom toilet seats with a sign reading, “I SAW YOU. You didn’t toss that empty toilet paper roll. Shame.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Bianca and I arrived at the office at 8 a.m. on Friday, April 1, before all but <a href="http://meganwinslow.blogspot.com/2016/04/april-fool-part-i.html" target="_blank">Victim No. 2</a>, who was finishing up some work. I had figured a naked Bianca might be a tad too risqué for a newspaper setting – even on Casual Friday -- so the female form I smuggled into the building arrived fully clothed in jeans and a blouse, my hand-me-downs. She was in position on the first stall toilet seat by 8:25 a.m.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Victim No. 2 did not fully condone my plan. She helped me collect Bianca’s bits when both arms dislocated and clattered to the ground, but I could tell she was nervous about my prank upsetting Liz or, much worse, causing one of the more senior employees to drop dead of a heart attack. I appreciated that; my cubicle offered a clear line of sight to the restroom doors, and I assured Victim No. 2 of my ability to wrestle any old lady to the ground should she attempt to enter.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">By 9 a.m., all employees had arrived. I went about my work but always with one eye on the restroom door and the videocamera within easy reach on my desk. Each time someone drew near that door, I activated the camera and bobbed up and down and up and down to peer over the Wall of Shame. But no one entered. No one within the sea of estrogen that is that office had to pee! No one, that is, except me, and I wasn’t about to abandon my sentry and miss recording the first victim’s reaction as she emerged, horror-stricken, from the restroom. By 9:30 a.m., I was crossing and uncrossing my legs and jiggling the alternating suspended foot. Pete was now in on the joke, and he and Victim No. 2 were thoroughly amused by my jack-in-the-box bouncing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“This is killing me!” I texted them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“We must have a lot of big bladders in this office,” Pete texted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Seriously,” texted Victim No. 2. “Just wait until the coffee kicks in…”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And then J.T. entered the restroom. I activated the camera and sprang from my seat. I took up position between Chris and Mary’s desks and trained the lens on the door. And waited for the scream. And waited. And waited.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Finally, J.T. emerged. She looked at me and looked at the camera, but she didn’t say a word. Her face, in fact, was blank, void of surprise or suspicion or annoyance. She returned to her desk. I returned to mine and exchanged looks of confusion with Pete and Victim No. 2.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Was it possible J.T. hadn’t seen Bianca? I found this unlikely because I had left Bianca’s stall door ajar and the vanity mirror reflected her perpetually serene visage throughout the small room. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I investigated. Yes, stall still open. Yes, creepy face still reflected in the mirror. Huh. Pete suggested I attach an “Out of Order” sign to the remaining stall door, thus forcing victims to confront the interloper. So I did. And we waited. And waited. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“We need one of those nature sound machines that plays the sound of a running stream,” Pete texted. “Hope no one gives Bianca a swirlie!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Man, I have <a href="http://meganwinslow.blogspot.com/2016/04/april-fool-part-ii.html" target="_blank">heartburn again</a> from all this anticipation,” I responded.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">At one point, an elderly employee did venture close enough to the restroom door for me to seriously consider tackling her – or at least cutting her off at the pass – but she returned from her trip to the copy machine unscathed. And then Leverne stepped inside the restroom. She emerged 10 seconds later.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“MEGAN!” she shouted. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It would take another bathroom visit from J.T. – and her resounding scream – before the entire office became aware of our visitor. And then both men and women clustered and crammed into the ladies’ restroom to behold Bianca and snap her picture. The onlookers included the newspaper's editor-in-chief, the associate publisher and Liz. The publisher, Paul, entered holding his nose.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">J.T., it turns out, had not seen Bianca on her first bathroom break, and the fact that my recording her exit confused but didn’t phase her should provide some indication of the degree of weird my co-workers associate with me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Liz approached my desk once the excitement died down.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Can you come with me?” she said, putting an arm around my shoulders.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Uh-oh. I glanced at Victim No. 2. Now I too was genuinely nervous. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I allowed Human Resources to escort me past the reception area and halfway down the office stairs. Then she paused and turned me around. We ascended the stairs.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Hello,” said a voice from behind the receptionist’s desk. “How can I help you?”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Bianca was seated in the receptionist’s chair and Dawn, in the cubicle behind the receptionist’s station, was using the phone intercom to provide her with a voice. I laughed and watched, dumbfounded, as Liz snapped a photo of Bianca. Despite the heartburn, anxiety and near bladder rupture suffered by poor Victim No. 5 (me) -- that unexpected appreciation for silly made this year’s shenanigans all worthwhile. </span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3696259327778488402.post-40830925917816716942016-04-04T22:54:00.001-07:002016-04-04T23:01:44.540-07:00April Fool (Part II)<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It was <a href="http://meganwinslow.blogspot.com/2016/02/a-turquoise-blobs-delusions-of-grandeur.html" target="_blank">Jackie</a> who suggested I videotape the victims’ reactions. (This was after her "Ur sick" text but before the one in which she questioned <a href="http://meganwinslow.blogspot.com/2016/04/april-fool-part-i.html" target="_blank">how I acquired Bianca</a> in the first place.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“We are witnessing Megan’s usual Saturday,” she replied to a texted selfie I sent she and Kelsey.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Yep. I am so happy right now,” I told my friends. Visions of viral YouTube fame-dom danced in my head.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“U gotta put it in the bed and record matts reaction when he thinks it’s you,” Jackie added.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But while Bianca’s permanently seated position proved quite suitable to the car, it did not lend itself to the horizontal. So I did not attempt slipping her between the sheets of my marital bed. Instead, I targeted the downstairs half-bath, the one that features both a toilet for human-sized behinds and a litter box for feline-sized ones. Getting the videocameras inside proved easy. Smuggling in a laundry basket full of fiberglass body parts was not because Matt (Victim No. 1) happened to be cooking dinner directly across from the bathroom. An impromptu phone call from his brother proved advantageously distracting, but the position of the steaming pasta pot he so diligently monitored would prove a challenge. Luckily, Victim No. 1 began pacing. Into the living room.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I tossed a towel over Bianca’s bits, seized the basket and prepared to waltz from the garage to the laundry room to the bathroom, a distance of about 15 feet. But then Victim No. 1’s once-muffled voice grew louder. I hastened back into the shadowy alcove beside the dryer. Pasta noodles stirred. The voice fell faint once more. I tiptoed into the rumpus room – no! Victim No. 1 returned! Damn those noodles! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Like the ocean tide, my basket and I receded and returned. Receded and returned. Receded and – then, a break! We rounded the corner and slipped into the bathroom. I closed the door, turned the lock and commenced assembling my woman.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I set Bianca – still in the buff – on the toilet seat and positioned the videocameras to best capture each victims’ stunned visage as they entered the tiny room. The plan, now fully formed, was to terrify Victim No. 1 and then recruit him to terrify Alicia (Victim No. 2) when she returned from the gym. I mashed the record buttons and strolled into the kitchen.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“One of the cats’ dropped a real bomb in there,” I said. “It’s absolutely awful.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Victim No. 1 ate the bait.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“OK,” he groaned. “I’ll clean it up after dinner.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And so we sat down to eat. Noodles slurped, salad speared. But then – calamity! – Victim No. 2 arrived home earlier than expected. We invited her to dine, and I did my best to concentrate on the spaghetti before me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Um, excuse me,” I said, halfway through the meal. Although Victim No. 1 and I generally consumed meals without much fanfare, adding bubbly Victim No. 2 to the mix would surely prolong the chitchat – and drain my camera batteries. I stepped into the bathroom, ran the water and flushed the toilet to mask the telltale beep as I switched both recorders into the “off” position.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I rejoined the dinner table. Victim No. 1 and Victim No. 2 were trading favorite movie selections. Although I had prompted the conversation, I could not fully follow what either of my companions said. Fiery indigestion danced in my chest. Should I restart the cameras or wait? How long should I wait? When would this meal end?!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Excuse me,” I said, ducking into the bathroom to activate the cameras once more. Victim No. 2 had consumed her last noodle and Victim No. 1 was lingering in the rumpus room, dangerously close to Bianca. Luckily, Wolfie saved the day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Don’t let him go in there,” I told Victim No. 1 as the dog trotted toward his anticipated second dinner.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“I’ll go clean it now,” Victim No. 1 said, sighing. He neared the bathroom. I bit my lip. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Watch this,” I told Victim No. 2, pulling out my iPhone, a third videocamera offering yet another angle for my future YouTube masterpiece.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Huh?”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The moment, when it finally came, was supremely unsatisfying.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“What-the-crap-is-that?” Victim No. 1 said, raising his arms in disbelief. No scream. No screech. No shout. Just a bemused smile. And an about-face.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Huh?” Victim No. 2 said again. "What did you do?"</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">l-r: Victim No. 2, Victim No. 1 and one confused dog</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Go in there,” I said.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Even though Victim No. 2 entered the bathroom fully expecting something amiss, her reaction was candid; she expected – at worst -- a giant smelly cat turd and instead feasted her eyes upon a remarkably naked stranger presumably going about her business.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Whhhhhhhooooooa!” Victim No. 2 sang, clutching herself. “She’s scary!”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Jackpot. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Tomorrow, I’m taking her to work,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>To be continued...</i></span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Cupertino, CA, USA37.3229978 -122.0321822999999937.2219618 -122.19354379999999 37.424033800000004 -121.87082079999999tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3696259327778488402.post-32897111009335728052016-04-02T18:49:00.000-07:002016-04-02T18:50:18.303-07:00April Fool (Part I)<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It could be said orchestrating an April Fool’s prank is more stressful than being the victim of one. Consider, for starters, the time devoted to brainstorming and to set-up and, if you’re exceptionally ambitious, to cleanup. But the worst, by far, is the time spent mired in anxious anticipation.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This year, I managed to play both the roles of victim and victimizer, and it’s the latter that caused me heartburn and nearly made me wet my pants.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I began crafting my own prank last Saturday, the very day I met Bianca. She was seated on a chair beside shelves of discarded cookery, regretted QVC purchases and framed prints even Motel 6 might scorn. She wore her sandy blonde hair short and feathered in a fashion not unlike pop star Justin Bieber. She was completely nude, but I didn’t care. I had to have her. I hoisted Bianca at the waist and folded her neatly over my shoulder, like a caveman preparing to transport his cavewoman.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ1OfgyooNV3zbZXTOf-slcG-2N4Q0gmuWRxNO9pG8hdlFGHIAzkT4aKAqp_02tcdrdhMwlnkfepT_uwZSUakmoMQpDik_oUPYYB1XHzrKZMHbGSjXckDFfHdWuYGm6nh7Km98vd-gaKmo/s1600/IMG_8689.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ1OfgyooNV3zbZXTOf-slcG-2N4Q0gmuWRxNO9pG8hdlFGHIAzkT4aKAqp_02tcdrdhMwlnkfepT_uwZSUakmoMQpDik_oUPYYB1XHzrKZMHbGSjXckDFfHdWuYGm6nh7Km98vd-gaKmo/s320/IMG_8689.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">#BFFs</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“We’re eloping,” I told the first GoodWill shopper who noticed my cargo. I had reached the dishware department, and Bianca’s permanently pointed right foot swung dangerously close to the stemware. He smiled.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Now I can ride in the HOV lane,” I quipped to a woman in the shoe aisle. She laughed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I settled Bianca’s bare behind on the checkout counter. My mouth was fixed in an ear-to-ear smile, but the cashier’s eyes refused to return it. He registered my $25.99 purchase, swiped my credit card and accepted my signature. The receipt, I noticed with some disappointment, was not itemized. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Back at the car, I settled Bianca into the passenger’s seat and adjusted her arms to accommodate the seatbelt strap across her chest. I slipped sunglasses over her blank blue eyes and protected her modesty with my jacket. I snapped selfies and sent them to my parents, sister and friends. And then I started the car and we completed my remaining errands together, pausing for occasional frivolity along the way. On Highway 101, I detached Bianca’s right hand and used it to wave to day workers crammed into the cab of a landscaping truck. They laughed. I selected the most conspicuous spots in parking lots and fantasized about the double takes my patient passenger earned as I shopped. And, as promised, I ventured into the HOV lane (technically, it was a Saturday, but imagine the thrill!). Yes, I was deliriously pleased with myself. In a decade of thrift shopping, this had to be my finest purchase. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My husband, Matt (you may refer to him as “Victim No. 1”), was fully immersed in the new HBO show “Vinyl” when I returned home, and so I had little trouble smuggling my prize into the garage. First, I unscrewed Bianca’s torso. Then her legs, one pointed, one bent, popped off. Finally, I detached her arms and dislodged each delicate fiberglass hand. I piled the parts behind the compost bin, entered the house and greeted Matt and then unlocked the garage side door.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For nearly a week, Bianca’s bits remained stacked haphazardly within the garage water heater closet. I briefly considered the horrified screeches their discovery might elicit should Victim No. 1 or Alicia, our new roommate (henceforth referred to as “Victim No. 2”), suddenly experience an urge to open said closet, but reasoned that scenario would likely best even my intended plans.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>To be continued...</i></span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1San Mateo, CA, USA37.5629917 -122.325525437.4622822 -122.4868869 37.6637012 -122.1641639tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3696259327778488402.post-6758296538008319542016-02-14T09:27:00.000-08:002016-02-15T08:22:45.055-08:00Confessions of a teenage romantic (a horror story): Part III<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As a high school senior, I resolved to give older, more
mature, men another try. And so I fixated on Sam Bauman, an assistant coach at my school. Sam wrote soulful poetry, painted in watercolors
and had been blessed with an afro of tight blond curls my grandmother affectionately called “Iggy doll hair” in
reference to the bug-eyed troll figurines popular in the 1960s. And, unlike my
male peers, he could grow a beard. At 25, he was only seven years my senior, I
assured Jennifer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">By the time prom rolled around again, neither Jennifer nor I
had managed to secure a date. So we went together. There’s a snapshot of the
two of us standing outside her father’s house. In the picture, she’s wearing a
shiny black gown with a choker necklace, and I’m in the sparkly red Jennifer
McClintock gown I would eventually wear, seven years later, as a reporter
covering Donald Trump’s Red Cross Ball (yes, I'm name-dropping the wacko Republican presidential front runner to prove how cool I am <i>now</i>). Both Jenn and I had clearly fallen
victim to an overzealous hairdresser wielding a curling iron and a gallon-sized
spray bottle of Aqua Net; Ringlets of hair sprang, snake-like, from the tops of
our heads. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I don’t remember where Jennifer and I ate dinner, but I do
recall insisting we stop by Sam’s house en route to the Gainesville Country
Club so I could dazzle him with my grown-up finery. To emphasize my air of
sophistication, I made sure to fold down the top of my Mazda Miata as we arrived
at and departed from his house. The visit lasted all of five minutes, and,
alas, did not conclude with Sam brushing off his tux and insisting on joining
us. By the time Jennifer and I pulled into the country club, the snakes
squirming from our heads were frizzed and contorted into knots. We mussed them
as best we could and then promptly hit the dessert bar and then the dance
floor, electing to hop up and down while the couples around us grinded on each
other. That was my last high school dance. It was also, thankfully, the last
time I would adopt the moony glazed eyes of a forgotten wallflower.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5karJfQeHPUP0umKBzznIn2e8tdbEL0nl1JSkHlixXAolsWNZCSOFi0ZmyJlO0k54P3-QCIJPM4p3OjKtFVwiNnUEoEf1BeqpUVuEAzCbI4GsjLgJQnWJyTW2ZVJRxuWFMEIz4g1lK2iY/s1600/14665429276_e8c5bc7bbc_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5karJfQeHPUP0umKBzznIn2e8tdbEL0nl1JSkHlixXAolsWNZCSOFi0ZmyJlO0k54P3-QCIJPM4p3OjKtFVwiNnUEoEf1BeqpUVuEAzCbI4GsjLgJQnWJyTW2ZVJRxuWFMEIz4g1lK2iY/s320/14665429276_e8c5bc7bbc_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The author, right, and her sister, Hailey</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">More than 12 years have passed since I graduated from high
school and finally put adolescent crushes and school dances behind me. I
haven’t seen Travis, Chaz or Alex since our graduation. Ashley Thompson, that
gorgeous girl, attended Princeton on a soccer scholarship and married a ridiculously
tall New York Yankees pitcher. I’m not Facebook friends with Richard Schneider,
but a quick glance at his profile picture reveals he’s very much still a
Buccaneers fan. I maintained a friendship with Sam through college, but he’s
since dissipated into an acquaintance whose Facebook posts occasionally appear
in my newsfeed. And, as it turns out, Mark, like John, is and always has been
gay. He too is in a long-term relationship with another man. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">During college, Jennifer and I completed an epic, six-week
journey through Europe. We now live in separate states and in separate time
zones, but we see each other occasionally – the last time was at my wedding to
my college sweetheart and number-one dance partner, Matt, a truly wonderful,
strong man who had no problem whisking me over the threshold of our house.
Mentioning him now, almost as a footnote, seems wrong because he is the biggest
and best part of my life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Jennifer and I often communicate by text and today, while
writing this essay, I consulted her over iMessage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Do you remember senior prom? Did we eat dinner at your
dad’s house or go out?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Vaguely,” she responded. “We went out. And then you went
out with Alex after prom to play basketball.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Really?! So I abandoned you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“I went home,” she wrote. “Well, he was your date lol.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She forgot we both went stag senior year, but the part about
me playing basketball after the dance is likely true. Leaving my best friend to
frolic with the color blind, French Canadian who refused to dance with me the
previous year sounds about right. That particular memory remains vague, but I
do clearly recall a young girl’s obsessive desire to be desired and accepted by
a boy. If only she had redirected all that pent-up, hormone-fueled energy toward
a loyal friend who would long outlast homecomings, proms, and all the drama of
high school -- maybe even all those angst-ridden diary pages whose penciled
words will surely, mercifully, fade. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Happy Valentine's Day, "Jennifer."</span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>The End. </i></span></o:p></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Gainesville, FL, USA29.6516344 -82.32482619999996129.4309209 -82.647549699999956 29.872347899999998 -82.002102699999966tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3696259327778488402.post-75355138606498231272016-02-13T15:50:00.000-08:002016-02-15T08:22:22.561-08:00Confessions of a teenage romantic (a horror story): Part II<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When I was 16, my parents decided (most likely over a round
of beer at the local pub) to remedy my lack of a date to the high school
homecoming dance by asking a friend’s 24-year-old co-worker to escort me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7juGpqzcq4n2eeB0msrik8N38c_BrHwYoJl1ecbk1KQ87pmXmZIme-0cujwsn_bwcVfOSPvrtfLCQlmMJVFR5ioKK2uXkL6UlVIIzy9qebwFGjlLRS19fjN9ns54b9nrMKmKtlFO1yv72/s1600/14589578301_5a481d0686_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7juGpqzcq4n2eeB0msrik8N38c_BrHwYoJl1ecbk1KQ87pmXmZIme-0cujwsn_bwcVfOSPvrtfLCQlmMJVFR5ioKK2uXkL6UlVIIzy9qebwFGjlLRS19fjN9ns54b9nrMKmKtlFO1yv72/s320/14589578301_5a481d0686_o.jpg" width="216" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Homecoming Queen? Ha!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Mark proved exceedingly gracious and accepted the proposal,
and once I mentally worked past the embarrassment of relying on my own parents
to pimp me out to a virtual stranger, I relished the idea of creating the
impression a mysterious, good-looking older man was interested in me. He
towered over the boys in my class, wore a professional, businessman’s suit and
his slight hint of a beer belly seemed to say, “That’s right, kiddos: I am old
enough to drink.” The official full-length portrait commemorating this
momentous evening shows Mark and I tilting our heads together and clasping
hands, my artificially crimson-coated lips spread wide in a proud grin. Yes
siree, things were looking up. Next stop: Homecoming Queen!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But 14 years of reflection have since taught me that our
hour-long date (Mark’s was a limited engagement) actually proved detrimental to
my advancement on the high school popularity ladder; My classmates undoubtedly
assumed my escort was a cousin who took pity on me. So it was for the best that
my family relocated the summer between my sophomore and junior years. In
Gainesville, Florida, I could claim a clean start as the awkward newbie at a
small, non-denominational private school, the lone student in a graduating
class of 55 who hadn’t shared the same lunch table since pre-school. Here was
my chance to reinvent myself as the exotic foreigner from Georgia!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But I had just one friend in high school, one friend who would
put up with my nonsense, and she was as ungainly and pimple-ridden as I was.
Jennifer and I were both obsessed with the short-lived TNT series,
“Witchblade,” were suckers for overindulging in ice cream and had, through
extreme patience and perseverance, managed to claim the coveted positions of
varsity women’s soccer team starting benchwarmers. We typically ate lunch
alone, concealed by the air conditioning unit behind Mr. Dawson’s biology lab,
and I wouldn’t be surprised if the 11th grade rumor mill had labeled us as
lesbian lovers. In reality, I was relying on the secrecy afforded by the
rumbling air conditioning unit to confide in Jennifer about my latest crush.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For a time, my romantic radar settled on Chaz Grant, who sat
in front of me in English class. He made excellent grades and his floppy, sandy
hair gathered into a perfect point at the nape of his neck. Together, we would
produce brilliant, beautiful babies. But Chaz excelled at baseball, the most
tedious of high school sports, and, more importantly, he was gravitationally
challenged, rising only to my shoulder. By careful calculations I conducted as
Mr. Gregson recited the endless depths of sexual symbolism presented by Herman
Melville’s “Moby Dick,” I realized I likely weighed more than Chaz did. This
would present a problem on our wedding day, when he carried me across the
threshold of our marital home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Alexander Leblanc, however, played goalie for the varsity
soccer team, and we would be about the same height as long as I didn’t wear
heels during our first dance as a married couple. As an added bonus, Alex was
color blind (fascinating!), wore fake plastic lenses when portraying his
alter-ego and walked with a mysterious limp (an old soccer injury?) Plus, he
really did hail from an exotic, foreign land: Canada! I was enthralled. We were
in the same physics class, and I always arranged to arrive at Mr. Lewis’
classroom before Alex lurched in so I could brush and perfectly arrange my
long, mousey brown hair. By placing my chin thoughtfully into the cup of my
hand and then tilting my head as if I were intently examining the angular
momentum formulas scrawled across the dry erase board, I created a shimmering
curtain of hair that would surely bewitch Alex and gently nudge him toward
inviting me to prom. You can imagine my surprise, then, when this carefully
executed plan failed to yield an invitation – or even an acknowledgement of my
existence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The author, right, and her dad</span></td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">No matter! I had screened enough John Hughes romantic
comedies to know “Mrs. Alexander Leblanc” was my destiny. As a yearbook staff
member, I selflessly volunteered myself as designer for the senior class ad his
mother purchased and spent the entire meeting with the poor woman talking
myself up. Surprisingly, that ploy didn’t seem to work either. Mrs. Leblanc the
Elder (as she would be known once Alex and I were married), must have neglected
to tell her son what a sweet girl I was because he never called – not even when
I forced Hailey to accompany me to a festival in his neighborhood on the
off-chance he might attend. (He did not). Time was running out! I would have to
grab destiny by the horns. So, one day after the dismissal bell sounded, I
cornered Alex in the parking lot and invited him to prom. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“If you don’t mind – um – I mean, if you’re not busy then –
um – would you go to prom? With me?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Perhaps I caught Alex off guard because he actually accepted
my invitation. I was ecstatic. So was my mother, come the Big Day, when she
could photograph the two of us from every angle, Alex grimacing in a crisp
black suit and me grinning ear-to-ear in the kind of frilly white tulle
nightmare a Disney princess might wear to her wedding. Imagine my excitement
when it came time for me to pin Alex’s boutonniere to his chest! Imagine my
disappointment when I fumbled with the safety pin, almost stabbing him, and a
family friend gathered for the gawk-fest had to take over.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Although I don’t remember Alex opening the passenger door of
his Plymouth Voyager for me, I do recall my rapturous gratitude when he
rearranged a bag of soccer balls at my feet so my voluminous dress could fit
within the vehicle. Sweaty palms buried in my skirt, I attempted small talk but
grew distracted when I learned we were en route to pick up Richard Schneider,
the kid who wore an oversized Tampa Bay Buccaneers jersey to school every day,
and his date, a girl who attended another school. From Richard’s house, the
four of us rode in Alex’s dented, hand-me-down minivan to Steak and Ale, and
not even the fancy, half-timbered façade of the restaurant could impress a
17-year-old lovesick girl desperate for a romantic dinner; all the other
patrons were dressed in T-shirts and flip flops. Our party squished together in
a vinyl-covered booth. Alex and Richard yapped away while Richard’s date and I
mostly stared at each other and silently counted the rhinestones on each
other’s bodices. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But this was still technically a date – despite the two
interlopers, I told myself -- so I ordered a steak, medium-rare, because that’s
how grown-ups like my parents ordered their meat while out on dates.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The drive from Steak and Ale to the party at the Sweetwater
Branch Inn was uneventful. And aside from the heart-shaped marbles I pocketed
from the votive candle arrangements on the tables, the evening proved
unproductive. No matter how often I tapped my foot and fidgeted in my chair,
Alex did not ask me to dance. And no matter how much I leaned toward him over
the passenger armrest on the drive home, he did not try to kiss me – not even
when we ditched the rest of our carpool. It was only later that I learned Alex
had the hots for Ashley Thompson, star of the girl’s varsity soccer team.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>To be continued...</i></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Roswell, GA, USA34.0232431 -84.36155550000000933.8127306 -84.684279 34.2337556 -84.038832000000014tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3696259327778488402.post-91370056079224739432016-02-12T20:57:00.000-08:002016-02-12T20:57:05.949-08:00Confessions of a teenage romantic (a horror story): Part I<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My early notions of love were shaped by sappy young adult
fiction, romantic comedies starring Meg Ryan and Hallmark greeting cards. As
far as adolescent girls go, I don’t think my source material -- or the goofy
notions it inspired – was unusual. Every female that age knows sighing
laboriously and draping one’s head on a boy’s shoulder means, “Kiss me.”
Melancholy glances translate to, “Comfort me, please!” What made me different,
perhaps, is the amount of time and effort I allocated to these misdirected
attempts at romance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj6H-jS5s3s78PRZSDIWVuX_pg1sDVgz4N08DLIK5SjIBfe9pIvS_QfR4rXCtQxg6U3UhucpUP_gfHWJ_EgEEtqaWgsV2oDmmnSzwZG3DKBiMzBUyQ6Aj-w2yY9NUnJ74wE8p5na11xbxh/s1600/14995743915_386b092592_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj6H-jS5s3s78PRZSDIWVuX_pg1sDVgz4N08DLIK5SjIBfe9pIvS_QfR4rXCtQxg6U3UhucpUP_gfHWJ_EgEEtqaWgsV2oDmmnSzwZG3DKBiMzBUyQ6Aj-w2yY9NUnJ74wE8p5na11xbxh/s320/14995743915_386b092592_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The author and her confidant sister, Hailey</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">From unraveling, spiral-bound notebooks to a Black
Beauty-themed journal, my childhood diaries achingly chronicle my romantic
ineptitude. The handwriting evolves from blocky pencil to neat cursive pen as
the books span from fourth grade all the way through the college years, but the
theme remains the same: hormone-infused infatuation with whichever boy happened
to catch my eye that particular school year.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here, for example, is one of the earliest entries, from Jan.
4, 1994: </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>“Dear Diary, I have a secret crush on two boys. I’m only going to
speak about one today. His name is John. He has blonde hair and blue eyes. My
best friends and sister are the only ones who know. I think he has a crush on
me.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Wrong</i>. Tubby John Spencer did <i>not</i>, in fact, possess any
inkling of interest in me. I suspect so because I eventually summoned the
courage to attempt a kiss on the playground, and he did not reciprocate, opting
instead to run away. I do not remember who the second boy was (and 10-year-old
me never mentions him again in the diary), but in hindsight, I probably should
have directed my attentions toward him; As far as prepubescent Lotharios go,
John had a weak chin. And as for my so-called “best friends,” I didn’t have any
because I was too busy chasing boys with weak chins.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMjckx3spG_Rg6LEGLWPsJEbRh5bHFpFswoxqKh9IWdpfQ7J3f1wuozCtE135dqrGxOxH8cEVlr-TfrVk_JHxIIFzJMWLXcq1bm3IqRwMDq-scIXd8isQLSNfcpSN9mfNhSfMT-58b9KFT/s1600/IMG_7549.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMjckx3spG_Rg6LEGLWPsJEbRh5bHFpFswoxqKh9IWdpfQ7J3f1wuozCtE135dqrGxOxH8cEVlr-TfrVk_JHxIIFzJMWLXcq1bm3IqRwMDq-scIXd8isQLSNfcpSN9mfNhSfMT-58b9KFT/s320/IMG_7549.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I now <i>know</i> John did not possess an inkling of interest in
me. Rereading my bubblegum pink, palm-sized diary, I began to wonder what
became of him. So I Googled his name. Just now. It was the second search result
that immediately caught my eye: “Matthew and John’s Wedding Website.” Yep,
that’s him all right. Announcing the details for his upcoming wedding – to a
man. I would recognize that <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">chin anywhere.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Oh-my-God!” I said aloud. I simply had to call and share
the news with my sister, my original confidant in all things mushy. I needed to
jog her memory, but she eventually recalled the object of my fourth grade
affection.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What a goofball,” Hailey said. “I’m so glad you didn’t
marry him.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Um, that would have been impossible,” I reminded her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Oh! Right.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhreJN7Vno1Tuayd9wP11vkTli7L7n9rgkJVgX1Zi0DFFHWKblbV0GcX0gKoMrykXrekiE5VlkbPNJ8bdRGaJw70aSZ7TS7MH0RV_xiSL0y3cmanDcfnLneJPAPPm3FF_NsKDkFur6205VP/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhreJN7Vno1Tuayd9wP11vkTli7L7n9rgkJVgX1Zi0DFFHWKblbV0GcX0gKoMrykXrekiE5VlkbPNJ8bdRGaJw70aSZ7TS7MH0RV_xiSL0y3cmanDcfnLneJPAPPm3FF_NsKDkFur6205VP/s320/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">John was just the first in a long line of victims falling
prey to my misdirected ardor. From sixth grade to tenth, I fantasied about
Travis Watkins because he earned good grades, flashed goofy grins and happened
to be taller than me. I also appreciated that his last name began with a “W”
because that meant I wouldn’t have to change my initials once we were married. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Somehow, my entire family seemed to know about Travis; When,
at age 14, I sculpted the head of a (purely anonymous) man during pottery
class, my parents promptly dubbed him “Travis” and, much to my horror, referred
to him as such whenever company inquired about the lumpy hunk of clay adorning
our fireplace mantel. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Oh, that’s just Travis, Megan’s boyfriend,” they would say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But Travis Watkins was never my boyfriend, despite how much
I wanted him to be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There’s a cringe-worthy diary entry dated June 5, 1998, the
day of my eighth grade “prom.” I may have gone stag, but Travis boogied with
Rachel Saunders, “a total sleaze-ball,” according to 14-year-old me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpCUTtQK54FWRlEoqhIv0U-vfxS4AZcKIyVTLkbHwbqKUFEODsQ8MfXxe8fYXDNUhkFgn0vrvayHF5g_Pwv1-rcMyCnFzMr8cIlS0DjDIv9nlqIj5_oB9odQoGNX2m-IuTaJcK3DODc7In/s1600/DiaryEntry1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpCUTtQK54FWRlEoqhIv0U-vfxS4AZcKIyVTLkbHwbqKUFEODsQ8MfXxe8fYXDNUhkFgn0vrvayHF5g_Pwv1-rcMyCnFzMr8cIlS0DjDIv9nlqIj5_oB9odQoGNX2m-IuTaJcK3DODc7In/s320/DiaryEntry1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>“It’s strange. I can’t truly admit to anyone that I still
like Travis Watkins, but I know deep down inside a little flame is still
burning, and a wicked little thing called jealousy is gripping at me heart,” I
gushed. “Maybe one day I will be able to feed the embers of the fire and be
true to myself and my feelings. Until then, the flame shall flicker only
slightly and the light will not shine through the grate.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Whoa.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>To be continued...</i></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3696259327778488402.post-25235622784721758182016-02-10T22:18:00.000-08:002016-02-10T22:20:42.288-08:00A turquoise blob's delusions of grandeur<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was halfway down World Cup, the last ski run of the day, when I noticed the crumpled heap of white among the icy white of the snow. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Jackie, are you OK?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My friend was fine, but she had fallen and re-tweaked a shoulder injury, her skis popping off in the process. Her husband, Derek, hovered over her.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Can you take her skis to that flat area—“</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There may have been more to Derek’s question, but I didn’t wait to hear it: My friend was in distress, and I was going to save the day! I tucked Jackie’s skis under my right armpit and set off down the slope.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGyUKS3uRWO1ta_sId2S5qN8MpNmZvai2m4BdLBqyW7-XWVNFl9ofNY7O04YTURD1h7bma-Zy_ATb5AHJDhiY9LGSufFVsCcwCbW37wNos0zBDqAZtmdQ1GLp71fG3qrG_FJVK4drhCv53/s1600/IMG_7292.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGyUKS3uRWO1ta_sId2S5qN8MpNmZvai2m4BdLBqyW7-XWVNFl9ofNY7O04YTURD1h7bma-Zy_ATb5AHJDhiY9LGSufFVsCcwCbW37wNos0zBDqAZtmdQ1GLp71fG3qrG_FJVK4drhCv53/s320/IMG_7292.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Jackie and the author -- before "The Incident"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I’m not a great skier, but I am a fairly aggressive one. And as this was my inaugural ski weekend with Jackie and Derek, I was, perhaps, a tad susceptible to showing off; earlier in the day, I blazed past each member of our four-person party as they navigated the Ridge Run, and in doing so, completely missed the turn-off to our meeting spot. Jackie, Derek and Matt, my husband, watched, amused, as I struggled to traverse an uphill slope and regain their company: two arms waving two aluminum poles and two legs strapped to two 156 mm sticks flailed wildly from my bulky ski costume as I jumped and thumped at the fresh powder in a bid to gain the necessary momentum. From their vantage point, I likely resembled an enraged turquoise blob.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So here was my chance to save face and truly impress my friends! I had been in Jackie’s position before, knocked off my skis and unwilling to navigate the remainder of the slope on anything but my keister. I would lighten her load by transporting her gear and placing it at the foot of the slope so she could slide down at her own pace. Had such a daring endeavor ever been undertaken? I think not.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Swish. Swish. Swish. I imagined Derek and Jackie marveling at my puffy but somehow still svelte form as I zigzagged down the mountain. I was an Olympic alpine ski racer. I was the head of the ski patrol. I was a Heavenly employee in one of those ubiquitous Helly Hansen ski jackets. (Damn, those jackets are sleek.) </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Upon arriving at the base of the slope, I settled onto a set of bleachers and placed Jackie’s skis neatly in front me to await her arrival. A young kid, presumably awaiting a parent, sat a row behind me. I wanted to inquire if he had observed my heroic descent, my selfless sacrifice to save Jackie, but he was playing a game on a smartphone. Anyway, where <i>was</i> Jackie? I gazed up the slope. Jackie hadn’t moved. Why hadn’t she moved?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I watched the distant white blob that represented Jackie not move for a few minutes and then I watched the blue blob with the cherry red helmet that represented my husband approach and appear to converse with her. Derek, a black blob, had since moved up the slope. What was going on? I didn’t find out until the blue blob navigated the moguls and joined me on the bleachers.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Are you ok?” Matt asked Jackie. “What’s going on?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“I fell, but I’m OK.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Where are your skis?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Megan took them.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Why?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“I don’t know,” Jackie said. “And Derek’s videotaping the whole thing.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So apparently the end of Derek’s sentence, the one he finished uttering as I flew down the slope, was, “—right there.” As in approximately five feet away from his wife.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The video Derek posted to our shared photo stream, the one Jackie captioned “Damn you Megan,” shows Jackie scooting downhill as she propels herself forward with her two ski poles, the only equipment left at her disposal.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“This is Jackie sliding down on her butt down the entire mountain right here, down the entire trail. You can see the little trail right there. See it?” Derek narrates, using his index finger to trace his wife’s butt scoot and then adding a thumb to lovingly pinch the white blob into oblivion. </span><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0El Dorado County, CA, USA38.903565015810713 -120.0059613140624638.706305515810712 -120.32868481406246 39.100824515810714 -119.68323781406247