A turquoise blob's delusions of grandeur

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. 

“Jackie, are you OK?”

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.

“Can you take her skis to that flat area—“

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.

Jackie and the author -- before "The Incident"

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.

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.

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.) 

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 was Jackie? I gazed up the slope. Jackie hadn’t moved. Why hadn’t she moved?

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.

“Are you ok?” Matt asked Jackie. “What’s going on?”

“I fell, but I’m OK.”

“Where are your skis?”

“Megan took them.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” Jackie said. “And Derek’s videotaping the whole thing.”

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.

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.

“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. 

Here's to you, ants

I’d like to thank the ants residing in my home. Really, here’s to you, you little beady-eyed bastards. Your yearly pilgrimage from the hill behind the kitchen into the kitchen has certainly kept Matt and I on our toes these past two years. This current rainy season has proved especially entertaining as we struggle to guess where you might turn up next: The sink? The toilet seat? Even, yes -- my pants! Ha! That was a fun, unexpected treat! I think we can all agree, however, that invading the dishwasher proved a tactical error on your part. Touché!

Ants, we know you’re not the kind of houseguests who expect pampering, and so Matt and I keep the food in the fridge and stored away. The house is cleaned daily, so we know you don’t visit us for the killer crumb cuisine. Perhaps you seek the past proprietor, our landlord. He’s much more welcoming than us and doesn’t believe in insecticide or ant traps. He swears you are best corralled by baby powder and has encouraged Matt and I to welcome you with lines of white tucked against each wall and sprinkled across each doorway. How amusing it is to see the adorable white footprints our cats leave throughout the house!

Above all, you and your million-odd siblings have helped me realize No. 864 – despite its cottage charm and incredible San Francisco Bay views -- is not perfect. So you’ve made me feel a little less sad about the big move tomorrow and the impending sale to strangers who will surely fail to appreciate this home as I have. Thank you for that. If I too possessed six appendages, I’d employ each one to simultaneously salute you. 

WORST. HOSTESS. EVER.

I greeted New Year’s Day 2016 with regret and a hangover, the product of too much pinot and the realization that the moments-long rest I had snuck into the last of my ever-frequenting trips to the restroom had transported me four hours into the future to 3 a.m.; my husband was climbing into bed, the kitchen had been cleared and our party guests were gone. WORST. HOSTESS. EVER.

I traded my jeans and sweater for pajamas and stumbled into the bathroom. I gobbled two Tylenol and, swallowing, studied my reflection in the mirror. God, I look old. How did we get to 2016? How is that even a real year?

I joined Matt under the covers and engaged in my typical post-drinking ritual: analyzing and reanalyzing every stupid thing Alcohol made me say and do the night before. Last night’s list included: pre-screening a friend’s friend as potential dating material for my single sister, Hailey; drunkenly humming “Imagine” and becoming irate with Brice, my annoyingly young Cranium teammate, for failing to correctly identify the “Humdinger;” eating that second bowl of chili. And I had so many questions, all of which would remain unanswered until I could quiz Matt in the morning (not the insanely early “morning” of the present but the acceptable, reasonable “morning” of hangovers – 10 or 11 a.m.) Left to captain the ship alone, did he remember to tune in to the Times Square ball drop ABC infuriatingly tape delays three hours for west coast viewers? Did our six guests drink any of the six varieties of sparkling wine I binge bought at Safeway? Did Kelsey follow-through with her vow to smooch Bonnie, our rotund feline, at midnight? 

I can now sympathize with my mother; As far as I know, Mom has failed to consciously greet any New Year’s Day of the past three decades. She’s not one for champagne toasts or fireworks. On every New Year’s Eve I can recall, she’s mysteriously disappeared from the festivities by 9 p.m. By 10 p.m., we generally find her facedown in bed.

On New Year’s Eve 1999, my family, my mom’s sister’s family and my grandmother sought refuge from Y2K on a houseboat anchored in the middle of a north Georgia lake. Convinced the power grid would fail and planes would plunge from the sky, Hailey insisted our parents stockpile the boat with bottled water and toilet paper. The world could end but we’d be well-hydrated and sporting clean hinies. 

That New Year’s Eve celebration occurred well before I reached the drinking age and at least a decade before I advanced to the “sleeping age” – that profoundly disappointing stage in life when too much red wine and the lure of a soft pillow can temporarily prove stronger than the party underway in the next room –- but other than the world not ending, I don’t recall all the details.

So in between chili-flavored burps and my mental recital of transgressions, I texted Mom and Hailey this morning:

Me: “What do you remember about Y2K?”

Mom: “That I went to sleep early.”

Hailey: “I remember making mom and dad stock up on gallons of water and food for the houseboat and then anchoring off on that island on the houseboat with the Storeys and watching the fireworks and me trying everything to wake Mom up but she wasn't phased. I remember talking about the Watergate scandal (random). And I remember us watching Australia to see if it was going to blow up when it hit the new year first.”

Ironically, Hailey spent this New Year’s Eve in Australia, where she’s temporarily living. And as far as I know, that country didn’t blow up. But I’ll have to check the delayed taped telecast to make sure.

Selfish Sharing

I sense my co-workers consider me generous for sharing my food. If they do, they are mistaken about my motives; I share for purely selfish reasons.

I’m a fairly healthy eater, and I consume a lot of produce. When at work, I typically eat an apple or a pear every afternoon and, typically, I dissect the fruit into bite-sized chunks. Upon arranging the chunks on a plate, I stroll from cubicle to cubicle, tempting my co-workers like Snow White’s witch. Sometimes I even encourage Alicia to snag seconds. Usually she does. My co-workers thank me as I make my rounds. I feel good about myself.

But what Alicia, Pete, Traci and Eliza don’t realize about my handouts is this: They are simply a means of mitigating my own future discomfort. Because as much as I love produce, produce does not reciprocate. Instead, produce ties my intestines into tight coils that build and bulge and bide their time until they can unfurl at only the most inappropriate times – namely, during group exercise classes. All that jumping and bouncing and bending is quite dangerous post-pear, and I’ve learned to limit my produce intake on downward dogging days so as to avoid any unnecessary clenching of buttocks.

The sweaty shirtless guy in last night’s Vinyasa Yoga class must keep all his pear chunks to himself. During my favorite pose, Shavasana, or “Corpse Pose,” he released a mighty wind, a thunderclap loud enough to rouse the dead. He certainly roused me from my meditations, deep ruminating thoughts on subjects such as whether my yoga pants make my butt look big and whether there was enough leftover spaghetti for dinner. My eyelids snapped open. I waited for the ensuing laughter, but nobody – not even the 6-year-old yoga prodigy accompanying her mother – snickered. The room remained silent, an unnatural silence suddenly devoid of the twiggy gray-haired lady’s throaty breathing and the neon tights girl’s coughing. Oh, mortification, Sweaty Shirtless Guy! Staring at the ceiling, I thanked the heavens my own musical fruit remained unplayed.  

I don’t want to be that guy.     

So, I ask you, Alicia: What’ll it be tomorrow? Bosc or Bartlett? Fuji or Gala? You pick. I’ll serve.

Polishing a turd: 1317 Sunnyslope Avenue, Belmont

There’s a brand new home in my neighborhood: bright blue paint, cheery yellow front door, generous picture window for gazing from the well-appointed living room to a tree-lined street. With four bedrooms spread across 1,910 square feet, No. 1317 Sunnyslope Avenue in Belmont seems the perfect starter home for a young family – a young family able to foot the $1.4 million price tag.

One month ago, No. 1317 appeared condemned. I know because I toured the property when it was listed for $795,000: The moldy wood floors sagged. The warped window sashes failed to meet the sills. The ramshackle addition towering over the main structure threatened to crumble. When the house was constructed back in 1938, the property likely included land now occupied by newer, neighboring houses. Present day, the home is stuffed onto a tiny, 4,410 square foot lot, the only “backyard” a buckled concrete driveway.

I carried the home’s real estate flyer to my home and work and showed it to my disbelieving husband and coworkers. I texted a picture to a friend in Denver and posted the image on Facebook.

The flyer’s text read like a warning:

“Prospective buyers are advised to check with the City of Belmont regarding any plans to remodel or redevelop the property, and satisfy themselves as to the property’s condition and future potential for remodel or redevelopment.”

In the two years I’ve lived in Silicon Valley, I’ve come to appreciate its realtors as a particularly delusional lot. They pepper their property publications with flowery descriptions, selecting adjectives like “beautiful” and “charming” willy-nilly to characterize 600-square-foot shacks abutting Caltrain railroad crossings. But Anthony Christen of Coldwell Banker, so cock-sure of a sale in this mania of a real estate market, simply told it like it was: “this large home has been vacant off and on for the past 2 to 4 years.” BEWARE.

I took to referring to No. 1317 as “the toxic waste dump house,” a building in such disarray and with so many red flag disclosures that it had to be harboring oil tank contamination – or at least a few decomposing bodies under the fetid floorboards. When it sold for $1,065,500 -- $270,500 over asking price – after just eight days on the market, I just laughed.

I was curious how the property might look once the house had been bulldozed, so I drove by No. 1317 a few days after it sold.  To my surprise, the structure still stood, and the exterior had been painted a bright blue. Workers buzzed inside and outside the home. A massive dumpster, as long as the house was wide and brimming with construction waste, sat near the sidewalk. Could that receptacle possibly be large enough to fit the entire house inside? Again, I laughed.

Yesterday, I received an email alert notifying me of a new Belmont home for sale: No. 1317 Sunnyslope Avenue, priced at $1.4 million. Could it possibly be the same home? Within the image gallery, a near-macro close-up of the address over the front door seemed to serve as verification: Yes! It is the same home! The remainder of the gallery revealed a stunning transformation: A decorator had hung curtains, graced the fireplace with a funky starburst mirror and invitingly draped a frilly blanket over the slipcover sofa’s armrest. The kitchen featured a brand-new refrigerator, Restoration Hardware-esque swivel stools and a potted orchid plant. The bedrooms were streamlined and clean and, well, inviting. The basement, once home to my imaginary decomposing bodies, now contained a Ping-Pong table. And someone had the good sense to splurge on a rattan lounge set to spruce up the driveway/backyard.

Here’s the new property description, courtesy of Keller Williams’ Marylene Notarianni (Warning: frivolous capitalization and exclamation points to follow):

“BEST LOCATION IN BELMONT! With highly accredited Belmont Schools, and everything you need within 4 blocks! Walk to Caltrain, restaurants, shops, and Twin Pines Park. Completely remodeled with stylish features, designer colors and gorgeously redone original hardwood floors.”

But you don’t need to take Marylene’s word for it. There’s an open house at 12 p.m. Sunday (Nov. 15) and likely a bidding war on Monday. 

I wish the new owners the very best of luck.

World's saddest "literary" claim to fame

My biggest dream is to walk into a bookstore and see my novel, with my name (pretentious middle initial and all) printed across the spine, nestled snugly between other hardbacks on a shelf. I’m not greedy; I don’t require one of those cardboard stands displaying dozens of copies of my bestseller or even placement upon that prominent “featured” shelf at the end of a bookcase; a single copy of my masterpiece within a non-“adult” bookstore will suffice. I’ll even autograph it – for free.

Becoming a published novelist, however, requires something I don’t have: a published novel. Heck, I don’t even have an unpublished novel. I do, however, have an incredibly goofy photograph of myself tunneling through a blue whale’s heart, and it is with this image that I can finally claim a microscopic segment of bookstore real estate.

Let me explain: My husband, Matt, took the photograph in early 2013 during our visit to Te Papa, New Zealand’s national museum and art gallery. The children’s wing contains a fiberglass model of a blue whale’s heart. Designed to scale, the model is roughly the size of a Volkswagen Beetle -- the vintage kind with the trunk in the front. Visitors are allowed – nay, encouraged – to climb inside the slippery aorta, and so I did – and demanded Matt take a photograph. The photo made its way onto our travel blog, earned semi-viral status for all the wrong reasons (click on the "Oh god I can't unsee it" link) eventually caught the attention of the Guinness Book of World Records.

 Months went by. I forgot about the whole affair – until this past Sunday. On Monday, I drove to Barnes and Noble.

“Can you tell me where you keep the Guinness Book of World Records?” I asked a 20-something female clerk.

The clerk escorted me from one end of the store to the other, a stroll just long enough to generate a pregnant pause I felt compelled to fill.

“I want to see it because I think I might be in it,” I gushed. I suddenly realized this statement implied I had earned a spot in the book by vanquishing some record, i.e., performing the most number of chin-ups from the “human flag” position or crafting the globe’s largest toast mosaic (actual Guinness-recognized honors). So I added a clarification:

“Um, my husband took a picture of me climbing through a whale’s heart, and the photo editor said she might use it.”

“Oh really?”

And then, the moment of truth: We stood in awed silence before the glorious tome, a garish chartreuse-colored hardback gracing the top shelf of the “Trivia” bookcase. I lunged for the book and began flipping through the pages. The clerk, perhaps reasoning that we’d already come so far together, remained at my elbow and watched. But after a polite handful of seconds went by and I failed to locate the image, she retreated toward the information desk.

“I am in it!” I exclaimed, holding up the book to display page 30 and the baby fist-sized image of me and the plastic heart tucked near the book’s gutter (publishing lingo for “the ditch in the middle of the book”). There was my wristwatch and the white, long-sleeved shirt I wore and washed and wore and washed throughout that 6-month trip. And there was my silly expression, a look of sheer wonderment.

“Oh,” the clerk said. “Wow.” She was undoubtedly impressed. And then gone.

I pulled out my iPhone and snapped a photo of the photo and a photo of Matt’s photo credit. Then I gently placed the book back on the shelf. It was a start.

The 2015 SF Pride Parade: Equality without Exception

I knew I wanted to attend the San Francisco Pride Parade the moment I watched the human rainbow strut cross my television screen. Six men and women stood arm in arm, an explosion of pencil balloons radiating from their backs like porcupine quills. Each human porcupine had been assigned one of the six colors of the LGBT flag and was dressed, head-to-toe, in that color. The crowd was smiling. The human porcupines were smiling. The combined effect was mesmerizing. 

I turned to Matt as soon as the news report ended.

Parade reveler

“We have to go next year!” I told him.

What I didn’t know at the time is Apple, Matt’s employer, participates in the parade each year. He signed us up in May. On Friday, just two days before the parade, the U.S. Supreme Court issued its landmark ruling on marriage equality. I'm relatively new to the San Francisco Bay Area, but from what I gather, Pride Weekend is always a big deal here. News of that 5-4 vote simply magnified the celebration and hugged the Bay in rainbows, moonbeams and starbursts. Everyone was gay or knew somebody who was gay or knew somebody who knew somebody who was gay. We wanted to paint the sky with ROYGBI (I’ve come to learn there are six colors – not seven -- in the LGBT flag) -- or at least show solidarity through application of that ubiquitous Facebook rainbow filter.

Yes, as participants in the 2015 parade, Matt and I would surely witness history. To mark the occasion, I began scouting Amazon.com for rainbow socks and punk rocker wigs.

“Isn’t the whole point of this to be yourself – not to dress crazy?” Matt asked.

My husband officially swore off cross-dressing in 2005, the year of the Great Guavaween Get-up: neon green wig, stuffed Hooters shirt, Victoria Secret Angel wings. We’ve been married long enough for me to know he can’t be cajoled into costumes but for him to worry I may still try. Undoubtedly, he was concerned any non-traditional clothing choice I made would ensnare him as well. But under the circumstances, Matt’s “be yourself” advice seemed appropriate. So on the day of the parade, I dressed in jeans and the official Apple Pride T-shirt provided. I satiated my inner "crazy" by accessorizing with a multicolored bead bracelet from the thrift store and a pair of neon orange Asics athletic shoes. 

The Apple contingent

In 2014, an estimated 12,000 Apple employees and family members completed the 12-block march down Market Street. This year, the parade organizers capped it at 8,000.

“They didn’t want this to become the ‘Apple Parade,’” a volunteer told us. Like Matt and I, this guy wore a white T-shirt featuring the Apple logo outlined in rainbow colors. But he also had a black Apple hat and one of those curly-cue earpieces typically reserved for members of the Secret Service and burly nightclub bouncers. His function: ensure overzealous Apple marchers at the staging area didn’t tumble off the sidewalk and into the stream of Dykes on Bikes.

After the motorcycles set off, the Apple crowd cheered the Scooter Queers and the San Francisco Bicycle Coalition. My favorite “float” belonged to AirBNB. The online accommodation network had arranged a flatbed to resemble a flat, and “lodgers” were dancing in the living room and pole dancing in the shower.

Apple came 13th in the line-up, and we waited on the sidewalk outside the One Market building for about an hour (I later learned our friends, marching with Coursera near the end of the parade, had to wait five hours to begin!). Eventually, however, the Black Hat Brigade permitted us to step off the sidewalk, and the Apple contingent poured into the street, rainbow flags waving.

I’ve photographed a few parades, but I don’t recall ever participating in one. I certainly don’t remember a more joyous group celebration. Everyone was hugging and dancing and holding hands. For much of the route, Matt and I walked alongside a golf cart-like vehicle tricked out to transport a 6-foot-tall speaker blasting pop music. We grooved to “Uptown Funk” and alternately waved our hands and flags. I photographed the Apple employees and revelers stacked 10 bodies deep against the barricades. 

When we reached the end of the route, Matt and I doubled back to watch the rest of the parade. I spotted Jim Obergefell just before we peeled off to locate lunch. The lead plaintiff in the marriage equality Supreme Court case smiled and waved from his perch on the trunk of a convertible. 

Jim Obergefell

“Thank you!” members of the crowd shouted at Obergefell.

“You’re welcome!” Obergefell shouted back to each one.

In light of the Supreme Court ruling’s magnitude, this seemed like a comically simplified exchange to me. But perhaps everything had been said that needed to be said; there wasn’t much more to share beyond simple gratitude.