It's not a big secret that I am prone to depression and that I have had a couple of spectacularly bad, life-threatening spells. Since the last one, in November, 2012, I've done really well working with my psychiatrist.
One of our strategies has been for me to avoid stressful situations. This sounds so bland, like a nothing piece of advice, but the reality has been some rather ruthless pruning. Last night I skipped a meeting of my book club because the last time I went, I had a bad time. I'm not going to quit the book club just yet, but it felt safer to spend the evening curled up with my coned, post-operative cat, with Lola across the room with our foster kitten.
This stress-avoiding social pruning has been very good for me, and it feels empowering to cut some things out of my life. But on the other hand, in the interests of health, I've contracted my life right down to the bare minimum. At some point I'm going to have to expand it again.
Friday, October 25, 2013
Thursday, October 24, 2013
not the MUNI
Today I took a friend who is temporarily on disability out for lunch. She's been staying with another friend, and I invited him to come along. He was planning to take mass transit from San Francisco to Watsonville, and I suggested he come for Mexican food first.
The disabled friend suggested, as a lure, that we could drop him off at BART after lunch, his plan being to travel to BART, take BART to Caltrain, and then take a bus for the last hour of his trip. "BART is in the wrong direction from where we'll be going," I said, mindful of needing to pick up Lola after lunch. "But we'll be right at MUNI. You can take MUNI."
My friend recoiled and looked at me as if I were suggesting he eat larvae or crawl through the bowels of hell. "MUNI!"
I explained how MUNI runs right to Caltrain, much like BART. "You want me to go to Fourth and King?" he said, again regarding me as though I were suggesting he lick the floor of a gas station restroom.
"If you need to take BART, you could just take MUNI down to Civic Center and transfer to BART." This drew another long, incredulous stare. Soon my temporarily-disabled friend and I set out for lunch, without our MUNI-hating pal.
After lunch a MUNI train passed by us. "I see what you meant; it's right here," she said.
I drew her attention to how trains were coming from two different directions to merge at the relatively palatial West Portal station. "See, it would have only taken him four minutes." We pondered his resistance to MUNI, given that BART itself resembles the waiting rooms at the cutrate HMO I used to belong to, with truly horrifying stains on the upholstery (who puts cloth upholstery on mass transit trains??? Who??)
Later as I drove her home, we were in traffic behind a MUNI bus with a big cheerful poster with a "Take MUNI!" headline. "You should steal that, give it to F.," my friend said. "Take MUNI!"
The disabled friend suggested, as a lure, that we could drop him off at BART after lunch, his plan being to travel to BART, take BART to Caltrain, and then take a bus for the last hour of his trip. "BART is in the wrong direction from where we'll be going," I said, mindful of needing to pick up Lola after lunch. "But we'll be right at MUNI. You can take MUNI."
My friend recoiled and looked at me as if I were suggesting he eat larvae or crawl through the bowels of hell. "MUNI!"
I explained how MUNI runs right to Caltrain, much like BART. "You want me to go to Fourth and King?" he said, again regarding me as though I were suggesting he lick the floor of a gas station restroom.
"If you need to take BART, you could just take MUNI down to Civic Center and transfer to BART." This drew another long, incredulous stare. Soon my temporarily-disabled friend and I set out for lunch, without our MUNI-hating pal.
After lunch a MUNI train passed by us. "I see what you meant; it's right here," she said.
I drew her attention to how trains were coming from two different directions to merge at the relatively palatial West Portal station. "See, it would have only taken him four minutes." We pondered his resistance to MUNI, given that BART itself resembles the waiting rooms at the cutrate HMO I used to belong to, with truly horrifying stains on the upholstery (who puts cloth upholstery on mass transit trains??? Who??)
Later as I drove her home, we were in traffic behind a MUNI bus with a big cheerful poster with a "Take MUNI!" headline. "You should steal that, give it to F.," my friend said. "Take MUNI!"
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
not enough shame
Our post-operative cat is sporting a Cone of Shame, to prevent him from gnawing on his Fentanyl patch. My children adore a friend's cat who often is put into a Cone of Shame due to a persistent skin condition which the cat grooms to a state of bleeding. They were so taken by that cone that they dubbed the cat "Coney" and our friend's other cat "Notconey" and, when the cone is off, call Coney "Coney-Now-Unconed." I thought they'd be excited to have their very own Coney. "My little Coney, friendship is magic," crooned Iris as she carried our own cone-owning cat's carrier.
Inside the house the cat, who had been silent and motionless since we acquired him at the vet, began thrashing violently to the point where it was difficult to hold the carrier. We had planned to sequester the convalescent in the master bedroom, with his own private litter box and food and catbed, and the box jittered and crashed about as Iris carried it upstairs. The entire box was shaking and at risk of falling of the bed, while we were trying to figure out how to adjust the cone to put it on him. "We'd better let him out," I said. "We'll keep an eye on him while we figure out the cone." I opened the carrier, and the thrashing animal slid out... upside down. Clearly he'd lost track of which side was up in his struggles. His eyes were hugely dilated, and the only thing on his mind was escaping from the bedroom. But neither Iris nor I could figure out how to adjust the cone (not as easy a cone to attach to a cat's head as Coney's, which we had put on our friend's cat before). We called to the Sober Husband, our resident mechanical genius. "Come quickly!" shouted Iris.
I held the violent convalescent with difficulty while the Sober Husband attached the cone. The cat was off, weaving around. "We may as well let him out of the room," I said, bowing to reality. He made his uneven way downstairs and immediately gorged on dry food, although we had been instructed to feed him only canned food. Iris opened cans and showed him the canned food, but he kept gnawing at the dried. We put away the dried food and left him with canned food, which he smeared his cone in and then abandoned.
His next order of business was to piss on our shoes in the hallway. The operation he'd endured had come about as a result of his peeing on the shoes: I wanted to see if there was an underlying physical cause for this annoying change of behavior. We'd just paid over two thousand dollars in hopes of getting the cat to a point where he wouldn't pee on the shoes. I cleaned up the piss and the shoes, and we removed all shoes from the scene. Later the cat pissed where the shoes had been (only a short distance from a lovely, clean litterbox).
The cat has been trying to get out of the house, howling, peeing on the shoes and floor, knocking things over, and generally acting the fool. I would like to appropriate his Fentanyl patch, thinking that I myself would wear it with more dignity.
Inside the house the cat, who had been silent and motionless since we acquired him at the vet, began thrashing violently to the point where it was difficult to hold the carrier. We had planned to sequester the convalescent in the master bedroom, with his own private litter box and food and catbed, and the box jittered and crashed about as Iris carried it upstairs. The entire box was shaking and at risk of falling of the bed, while we were trying to figure out how to adjust the cone to put it on him. "We'd better let him out," I said. "We'll keep an eye on him while we figure out the cone." I opened the carrier, and the thrashing animal slid out... upside down. Clearly he'd lost track of which side was up in his struggles. His eyes were hugely dilated, and the only thing on his mind was escaping from the bedroom. But neither Iris nor I could figure out how to adjust the cone (not as easy a cone to attach to a cat's head as Coney's, which we had put on our friend's cat before). We called to the Sober Husband, our resident mechanical genius. "Come quickly!" shouted Iris.
I held the violent convalescent with difficulty while the Sober Husband attached the cone. The cat was off, weaving around. "We may as well let him out of the room," I said, bowing to reality. He made his uneven way downstairs and immediately gorged on dry food, although we had been instructed to feed him only canned food. Iris opened cans and showed him the canned food, but he kept gnawing at the dried. We put away the dried food and left him with canned food, which he smeared his cone in and then abandoned.
His next order of business was to piss on our shoes in the hallway. The operation he'd endured had come about as a result of his peeing on the shoes: I wanted to see if there was an underlying physical cause for this annoying change of behavior. We'd just paid over two thousand dollars in hopes of getting the cat to a point where he wouldn't pee on the shoes. I cleaned up the piss and the shoes, and we removed all shoes from the scene. Later the cat pissed where the shoes had been (only a short distance from a lovely, clean litterbox).
The cat has been trying to get out of the house, howling, peeing on the shoes and floor, knocking things over, and generally acting the fool. I would like to appropriate his Fentanyl patch, thinking that I myself would wear it with more dignity.
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
history repeats itself
Years ago my poor little cat Al, who was allergic to plaque, needed to have his teeth pulled, an expensive operation requiring anesthesia and a day-long hospitalization. Endless squabbling over the cost of pulling Al's teeth ensued, and I even took some odd jobs and sold some belongings to raise the necessaries.
Now this year our most glamorous cat, Frowst, needed several teeth pulled. He's had some behavioral changes (and none of them for the better -- he's taken to peeing on our shoes and is now referred to as "the Mad Pee-er, he has been bothering the next-door neighbor), and I took him to the vet to see if there were underlying physical issues. Right off the bat the vet found a mouth of decaying teeth, at least one with an abscess. Guilt overwhelmed me.
We have an image in our minds of crazy cat ladies as being poor and living in shabby apartments. Is it because they spend all their money on oral surgeries for their cats? Thank God the Sober Husband took a new job and is receiving a timely signing bonus.
Now this year our most glamorous cat, Frowst, needed several teeth pulled. He's had some behavioral changes (and none of them for the better -- he's taken to peeing on our shoes and is now referred to as "the Mad Pee-er, he has been bothering the next-door neighbor), and I took him to the vet to see if there were underlying physical issues. Right off the bat the vet found a mouth of decaying teeth, at least one with an abscess. Guilt overwhelmed me.
We have an image in our minds of crazy cat ladies as being poor and living in shabby apartments. Is it because they spend all their money on oral surgeries for their cats? Thank God the Sober Husband took a new job and is receiving a timely signing bonus.
Friday, October 18, 2013
the street of suffering
This morning I called (handsfree, of course) the Sober Husband as I drove home from driving the children to school, and I completely lost my train of thought as I passed the most eye-riveting wreck. A mid-sized sedan had somehow become one with a large garbage truck, and it was mesmerizing. I wished aloud that I could have had a red light so I could have gotten a better look at this really breathtaking wreck. The Sober Husband, speaking from afar, was not able to appreciate the strange beauty of this, probably thinking his cold-blooded wife was ignoring the human cost, but I reassured him that the body of the car, where any people had been, was unscathed. The car itself was clearly never going to be driven again, but whoever drove it would live to ride again (although probably never to see a Recology truck without shuddering).
In the afternoon Lola and I were talking as we walked to the car after school, and I distracted her. She turned her head to speak to me and hit her temple hard on a large metal box projecting from a pole exactly at the level of her head. I could hear the audible thwack of her skull hitting the box. Lola was speechless with pain, and I felt sure I was to blame for this by not seeing the box and warning her in time. The pain was horrific, and it was such a random accident. We have parked in that same spot and walked past that pole innumerable times over the last five years.
As Lola uncomplainingly cried from the pain in the backseat, I started the car and turned the corner, trying to console her. Around that corner, on the same block where Lola had hurt her head, a police car was double parked with its lights flashing. I slowed way down, and in a flash I saw what the police car was protecting: a coroner's van, and then a body -- an actual corpse, covered with a white sheet but unmistakable -- being loaded into that van, and I heard the horrible sound of someone crying in true hysteria, screaming and crying. Lola and I were both shocked into silence.
This set of three random awful things all happened on the same city block during one particular day. I could find the car accident fascinating in the absence of anyone being hurt, but the horror of the body and the awful crying had no beauty. It felt like it could have been our tragedy, but it wasn't. We were only passing through.
In the afternoon Lola and I were talking as we walked to the car after school, and I distracted her. She turned her head to speak to me and hit her temple hard on a large metal box projecting from a pole exactly at the level of her head. I could hear the audible thwack of her skull hitting the box. Lola was speechless with pain, and I felt sure I was to blame for this by not seeing the box and warning her in time. The pain was horrific, and it was such a random accident. We have parked in that same spot and walked past that pole innumerable times over the last five years.
As Lola uncomplainingly cried from the pain in the backseat, I started the car and turned the corner, trying to console her. Around that corner, on the same block where Lola had hurt her head, a police car was double parked with its lights flashing. I slowed way down, and in a flash I saw what the police car was protecting: a coroner's van, and then a body -- an actual corpse, covered with a white sheet but unmistakable -- being loaded into that van, and I heard the horrible sound of someone crying in true hysteria, screaming and crying. Lola and I were both shocked into silence.
This set of three random awful things all happened on the same city block during one particular day. I could find the car accident fascinating in the absence of anyone being hurt, but the horror of the body and the awful crying had no beauty. It felt like it could have been our tragedy, but it wasn't. We were only passing through.
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
suddenly
The children refuse to accept that our cats' given genders. "All cats are gender-ambiguous," opined one. They always disagree with me about what gender any given cat is.
We were discussing this and squabbling over what gender our little cat Zorro is when Lola expounded upon her perceptions of our big cat, Coconut. "I always thought he was a girl and then one day I looked, and suddenly he was a boy!"
Iris and I found this amusing to no end. We spent the following couple of hours "suddenly" looking at things. "Suddenly I looked, and you were children," I said. "Suddenly you looked, and your mother was middle-aged."
We were discussing this and squabbling over what gender our little cat Zorro is when Lola expounded upon her perceptions of our big cat, Coconut. "I always thought he was a girl and then one day I looked, and suddenly he was a boy!"
Iris and I found this amusing to no end. We spent the following couple of hours "suddenly" looking at things. "Suddenly I looked, and you were children," I said. "Suddenly you looked, and your mother was middle-aged."
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
what we have learned
Recently I asked the children what they had learned from me. They drew a complete blank for some time. Then Iris had an inspiration. "The difference between champagne and sparkling wine! Champagne is from Champagne, and everything else is sparkling wine."
I felt a bit taken aback. Surely I had given them so much more. Even if we were to limit ourselves to this bit of knowledge, where were cava and prosecco? I decided to make the best of it and asked cautiously, "And how do you tell how good it is?"
"By the size of the bubbles," answered my non-drinking minor child triumphantly. At least I have imparted something useful, I consoled myself. They won't be drinking André on my watch, I thought.
I felt a bit taken aback. Surely I had given them so much more. Even if we were to limit ourselves to this bit of knowledge, where were cava and prosecco? I decided to make the best of it and asked cautiously, "And how do you tell how good it is?"
"By the size of the bubbles," answered my non-drinking minor child triumphantly. At least I have imparted something useful, I consoled myself. They won't be drinking André on my watch, I thought.
Thursday, October 03, 2013
the stereotypes are so wrong
In our culture, the crazy cat lady is viewed as living frugally. She and her many cats live off a shared diet of cat food in a small apartment quite cozily (but undoubtedly with the heat on a low setting).
It's all wrong. Today I took our most majestic animal, Frowst, to a vet, where I paid $666 (not kidding) and took home an estimate for an additional fee of $1,800. Being a crazy cat lady is a luxury lifestyle.
It's all wrong. Today I took our most majestic animal, Frowst, to a vet, where I paid $666 (not kidding) and took home an estimate for an additional fee of $1,800. Being a crazy cat lady is a luxury lifestyle.
Wednesday, October 02, 2013
the queen of TMI on Facebook
At Burning Man this year I fell into conversation with a stranger as we had morning cocktails in the deep desert, where you can ride your bike far out to see some large installations. The conversation somehow drifted to the point where I confided, "I'm the queen of TMI on Facebook."
My new acquaintance did a double take and said, "You're the Drunken Housewife!"
I was so surprised by this that it was a wonder I didn't spill my drink.
My new acquaintance did a double take and said, "You're the Drunken Housewife!"
I was so surprised by this that it was a wonder I didn't spill my drink.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
therapy moments
I'm not proud of some of my parenting. I can be lazy; I'm not a tiger mother who pushes the children to excel (Iris would have a lot more awards and honors to put on her high school applications if I'd tiger mothered her. "I am my own tiger mother," she remarked primly last year). The worst part of being my child is that I struggle with depression, and I know there is a toll this takes on Iris and Lolz. There's also the embarrassment (poor Lolz had to cringe when I picked her up at school this month sporting crazy-beautiful green and blue extensions and braids I'd acquired for Burning Man).
The Sober Husband and I often remark upon things which happen in our home which could make good discussion topics for future therapy. But while I am far from perfect and am creating plenty of Therapy Topics, I am also amaze me no end, given my new insights as a parent myself, at how so many of my own Therapy Topics come from my parents attacking me for things a normal parent would have been proud of:
Having a gym membership and working out: my parents thought that was the stupidest idea possible and harangued me endlessly about it. Evidently I should have just found chores to do around the house for exercise; anything else was immoral. My sister kept saying that she and my mother knew the only reason I did it was to try to pick up guys. Even though I said, "If that was the case, I'd have quit a long time ago. I haven't had a single date from it", I had to keep hearing that.
Having a reasonable number of sequential relationships in college: my parents were high school sweethearts and married young. Evidently doing anything else means you're a damned skank. "You're like a butterfly! You need to stop it. You're going to get AIDS."
Being proud of having won a National Merit Scholarship: my father said, "You think you're so special. Well, there's someone like this in every town. You'll find out when you go to college that you are just ordinary."
Settling down with a special boyfriend (my first husband): my father told me, "He's too tall." (He was 6'4"). My father told my ex, "You know, you can do better than her."
Going to a movie with a friend: "You left your sister at home all alone! You should be ashamed! Your poor sister!" My sister was older than me, a 20 year-old college student.
My sister got into a traffic accident: "It was all your fault. I hope you learned that the passenger has a responsibility to the driver." This is worse because I'd gotten out of the hospital the day before with meningitis, was still in a lot of pain and on heavy narcotics. That leads nicely to ...
being so sick with meningitis that I needed to go to a hospital. "Obviously you have no faith, or you'd be healed by now."
My mother had a weird way of running me down to other people and being proud of it. I worked at a jewelry store as a teen, and she ostentatiously thanked my boss in front of me for helping me pick up accessories to wear to my graduation from high school: "Thanks for finding her what to get. You know she would have gotten something awful on her own (theatrical shudder). You know her taste."
My first fiance told me once he said to her, "Wow, she made me the most amazing lasagna last night," and he was freaked out when she laughed mockingly and said, "You're going to get sick of that. It's the only thing she knows how to cook."
As a parent myself, I can't understand this at all. Most parents like it if their child excels at something and want their child to be fabulous. Mine seemed hell-bent on proving that I was inferior and squashing whatever confidence I'd managed to cobble together. Is it a wonder as an adult I finally limped into therapy?
The Sober Husband and I often remark upon things which happen in our home which could make good discussion topics for future therapy. But while I am far from perfect and am creating plenty of Therapy Topics, I am also amaze me no end, given my new insights as a parent myself, at how so many of my own Therapy Topics come from my parents attacking me for things a normal parent would have been proud of:
Having a gym membership and working out: my parents thought that was the stupidest idea possible and harangued me endlessly about it. Evidently I should have just found chores to do around the house for exercise; anything else was immoral. My sister kept saying that she and my mother knew the only reason I did it was to try to pick up guys. Even though I said, "If that was the case, I'd have quit a long time ago. I haven't had a single date from it", I had to keep hearing that.
Having a reasonable number of sequential relationships in college: my parents were high school sweethearts and married young. Evidently doing anything else means you're a damned skank. "You're like a butterfly! You need to stop it. You're going to get AIDS."
Being proud of having won a National Merit Scholarship: my father said, "You think you're so special. Well, there's someone like this in every town. You'll find out when you go to college that you are just ordinary."
Settling down with a special boyfriend (my first husband): my father told me, "He's too tall." (He was 6'4"). My father told my ex, "You know, you can do better than her."
Going to a movie with a friend: "You left your sister at home all alone! You should be ashamed! Your poor sister!" My sister was older than me, a 20 year-old college student.
My sister got into a traffic accident: "It was all your fault. I hope you learned that the passenger has a responsibility to the driver." This is worse because I'd gotten out of the hospital the day before with meningitis, was still in a lot of pain and on heavy narcotics. That leads nicely to ...
being so sick with meningitis that I needed to go to a hospital. "Obviously you have no faith, or you'd be healed by now."
My mother had a weird way of running me down to other people and being proud of it. I worked at a jewelry store as a teen, and she ostentatiously thanked my boss in front of me for helping me pick up accessories to wear to my graduation from high school: "Thanks for finding her what to get. You know she would have gotten something awful on her own (theatrical shudder). You know her taste."
My first fiance told me once he said to her, "Wow, she made me the most amazing lasagna last night," and he was freaked out when she laughed mockingly and said, "You're going to get sick of that. It's the only thing she knows how to cook."
As a parent myself, I can't understand this at all. Most parents like it if their child excels at something and want their child to be fabulous. Mine seemed hell-bent on proving that I was inferior and squashing whatever confidence I'd managed to cobble together. Is it a wonder as an adult I finally limped into therapy?
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Halloween!
It's almost October, which means we're almost into Halloween season. I love Halloween dearly. It's a big holiday in San Francisco, and my love for it seems almost tame here, compared to the people who go over the top creating haunted houses, laser cut jack-o'lanterns, and so on.
But my enthusiasm doesn't get a big enough buy in. Today Lola and I were seduced by the upscale Halloween decorations at our neighborhood Pottery Barn. Lola loved the "antique mercury pumpkin objects" but overall was a bit of a damper on her mother's enthusiasms. "I think we only need one of those claw hands," she said as I gathered up two metal skeleton arms.
"Arms come in pairs, Lola!"
She said the same about the metal lanterns with cunning vampire bats worked into the front. "I think just one."
Up at the cash register Lola looked disapprovingly at our spoils (aside from the "antique mercury pumpkin object" she'd chosen, which she caressed protectively). 
"Lolz, Halloween comes every year, so you can reuse the things for it and get more every year. And just think! By the time I die, you'll inherit such a collection of Halloween décor!"
The gay man waiting next to us for more martini glasses to be brought to him broke out in a snorting laugh, which he then quelled as he gazed, embarrassed to be caught eavesdropping, into the middle distance.
"Lolz, Halloween comes every year, so you can reuse the things for it and get more every year. And just think! By the time I die, you'll inherit such a collection of Halloween décor!"
The gay man waiting next to us for more martini glasses to be brought to him broke out in a snorting laugh, which he then quelled as he gazed, embarrassed to be caught eavesdropping, into the middle distance.
Friday, September 20, 2013
what it was like to work with me at Burning Man
I made a homemade card for my friend J. who was severely injured in a fire only two weeks after getting married in a cathedral he built himself at Burning Man. It depicts the morning when poor J. was faced with a crew consisting only of your humble narrator and the Louise to her Thelma, the long-suffering N. Enjoy!.JPG)
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Thursday, September 19, 2013
the cathedral
This is the cathedral I went out early to help build this year at Burning Man, with J., our slaving and slavedriving foreman (now recuperating in a burns unit from an unrelated accident), silhouetted by the sunset in the doorway on a scissor lift. The photo was taken by a member of the Lost Penguin camp.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
appreciating the banal in life
This week I woke up one morning and, as is my wont, checked my email and Facebook before getting ready to drive the children to school. I learned that in the middle of the night my friends' warehouse had burned down. They had jumped out of a second floor to safety, throwing their two dogs down (tragically their other two dogs were not reachable and died in the fire). Both my friends were in the hospital.
These are friends who are in the peak of life, just married a couple of weeks ago at Burning Man (it is the groom who built the cathedral, with the paltry assistance my friend N. and I could offer). Now one is facing a couple of months in a burn unit, having already had two surgeries and with the prospect of many more. The other one has just been released but is in a wheelchair. They are homeless and have lost most of their possessions.
The Sober Husband and I resolved to check our smoke detector's batteries. We have only the one working, upstairs. We renewed our perennial squabble over having one on the ground floor. I offered to try one out in the living room. Long ago I took the controversial move of disabling the one near our kitchen, as it went off every single time I cooked, mistaking steam for smoke. I don't even burn things, but that damn smoke detector was convinced I was a menace, and I couldn't have it screaming at me when I was trying to make dinner. The dented ceiling still bears witness to the days when I'd jab up at the fire detector with a broom, angrily trying to silence that damn thing. The smoke detector in the bedroom I have nothing but fond feelings for, however, and I'd be willing to try forming a relationship with another well-behaved, better-positioned one.
This week has been a dull one for me. Lola spent a day home ill from school. I've had a couple of unpleasant social encounters lately that have left me holing up at home, associating only with the children most days. But rather than feel disgruntled, I'm happy to have the luxury to be in my home with my pets and children. I'm not in a burn ward facing rounds of skin grafts. I'm not having to replace all my things. I'm lucky.
I went to a bookstore and bought a replacement copy of the book my friend was reading when her home was burnt down and added it to a bag of yuppie food treats to give her a break from the hospital fare, and I dropped it off for her at SF General without seeing her (she was tired, and I didn't want to bother her with having to make conversation). If my house ever burns down, that's what I'd want done for me personally: bring me whatever book I was in the middle of and some decent food. The surviving dogs have already been taken in by other friends.
"What are you going to do for J.?" asked Iris. Unfortunately I can't send food to my other friend, as the burn ward has very strict rules allowing only cards to be sent to patients (burn victims are at great risk of infection, and who knows what germs could be lurking in a bag of upscale food). "I'm going to draw him a homemade card," I said, "with him thinking, 'I need some real #(&@ carpenters' while N. and I are trying to build the cathedral."
Check your smoke detectors' batteries, everyone.
These are friends who are in the peak of life, just married a couple of weeks ago at Burning Man (it is the groom who built the cathedral, with the paltry assistance my friend N. and I could offer). Now one is facing a couple of months in a burn unit, having already had two surgeries and with the prospect of many more. The other one has just been released but is in a wheelchair. They are homeless and have lost most of their possessions.
The Sober Husband and I resolved to check our smoke detector's batteries. We have only the one working, upstairs. We renewed our perennial squabble over having one on the ground floor. I offered to try one out in the living room. Long ago I took the controversial move of disabling the one near our kitchen, as it went off every single time I cooked, mistaking steam for smoke. I don't even burn things, but that damn smoke detector was convinced I was a menace, and I couldn't have it screaming at me when I was trying to make dinner. The dented ceiling still bears witness to the days when I'd jab up at the fire detector with a broom, angrily trying to silence that damn thing. The smoke detector in the bedroom I have nothing but fond feelings for, however, and I'd be willing to try forming a relationship with another well-behaved, better-positioned one.
This week has been a dull one for me. Lola spent a day home ill from school. I've had a couple of unpleasant social encounters lately that have left me holing up at home, associating only with the children most days. But rather than feel disgruntled, I'm happy to have the luxury to be in my home with my pets and children. I'm not in a burn ward facing rounds of skin grafts. I'm not having to replace all my things. I'm lucky.
I went to a bookstore and bought a replacement copy of the book my friend was reading when her home was burnt down and added it to a bag of yuppie food treats to give her a break from the hospital fare, and I dropped it off for her at SF General without seeing her (she was tired, and I didn't want to bother her with having to make conversation). If my house ever burns down, that's what I'd want done for me personally: bring me whatever book I was in the middle of and some decent food. The surviving dogs have already been taken in by other friends.
"What are you going to do for J.?" asked Iris. Unfortunately I can't send food to my other friend, as the burn ward has very strict rules allowing only cards to be sent to patients (burn victims are at great risk of infection, and who knows what germs could be lurking in a bag of upscale food). "I'm going to draw him a homemade card," I said, "with him thinking, 'I need some real #(&@ carpenters' while N. and I are trying to build the cathedral."
Check your smoke detectors' batteries, everyone.
Thursday, September 12, 2013
bruised but unbowed
I ran off to Burning Man this year and came limping home a few days earlier than planned to recover in the bosom of my loving family. My psychiatrist was taken aback from this. "Usually you don't want to come back from Burning Man, and you gain energy from it," he mused.
I nodded. "Not this year."
So what happened? First I went early in order to work on my theme camp's highly ambitious building, the Jerk Church Cathedral. Skilled members of the camp had drawn up plans for a three story Gothic building; we had done the fundraising; the pieces had been cut and painted in the Bay Area already. I was excited about this, thinking that it would be a lot of fun being with the artists and workers creating the event, learning valuable carpentry skills while watching the city arise around us and undoubtedly celebrating every night, long before the regular attendees arrived. I negotiated a deal with the shrewd Iris where I was allowed to leave town before her birthday, eager to head out to the dust.
The reality was that when my friend N. and I arrived at night, earlier rains had caused the organizers to shut down the gates. We spent over three hours sitting in our cars, and we had to sneakily pee by the side of the parked traffic (luckily not getting a stiff fee for it, as this year the BLM ticketed several Burning Man workers for peeing in the wild). We pulled in after midnight and threw up our tents and crawled into them.
In the morning we put up our shade shelter and unpacked a bit, setting up what was supposed to be our home for the next ten days. We were nowhere near done when we were informed that we were already late for our work shift. J., the lead carpenter, was fuming. No one had shown up to work. No one. N. and I were the sole crew, and we were, to put it mildly, "underskilled." The sun blazed down, and we worked under the directions of an increasingly tightly wound foreman. By the time we went to bed, we were exhausted. "J, you're running a fat camp," said N. the next day.
Virtually everyone failed to show up for their volunteer shifts. N. and I worked every day and every night. Some more skilled people did come by. One extremely talented carpenter got fired from his paid position building the Burning Man base and spent the morning working with us, as well as drinking my beer and telling N. and me his problems, but sadly for us he was rehired by Burning Man at lunchtime.
By the weekend more skilled people had arrived, so N. and I were demoted from the slightly more interesting tasks we'd been doing (we'd learned to wield an impact driver and to assemble the support structures, but we were back to carrying things, holding things, picking up things, fetching ice for J.'s cooler, and so on). The sun still blazed down. We were steadily acquiring a variety of small injuries: blisters, a burn on my thumb shaped just like a wishbone, bruises. The worst little injury occurred when we finally felt we could take a break from construction to finish setting up our own camp, and a fiberglass pole shattered in my thumb, leaving long, painful shards blocking the joint. A friend volunteered to excavate this and cut most of it out with an very much not sterile knife. I exhibited the gory shards to everyone, who were all suitably disgusted and impressed (I still have fiberglass shards visible in that thumb today). A rash on the tops of my legs began to intensify and became scary. I had several atrial fibrillation attacks. My body was clearly unhappy.
On Sunday night the gates opened for regular attendees. Exhausted by a day of construction under the hot sun, we Jerks were sleeping when we were awakened around three a.m. by a man shouting over an amplified sound system. "IT'S MY FIRST TIME DJ'ING AT BURNING MAN!" Hours of terrible, distorted dubstep ensued. Everyone looked homicidal the next morning as we went back to building.
Monday the deadline pressure was high: we needed to finish the cathedral for a wedding the next day. A bored girl said loudly to her friend as she passed, "They are always working on that thing!" in a Valley girl accent, and we took to repeating that to each other. "Oh my God, they are always working on that thing!" Lots of people were on hand, and we finally finished up in the middle of the night.
The cathedral was stunning when it was done. The wedding was moving and delightful, two well-suited people getting married in a beautiful church one of them had built for the occasion. Then the congratulatory drinking began, and the groom told me that he and one of his attendees were going to fight over at the infamous Thunderdome. "I want to fight at Thunderdome," I said artlessly, and he cut me off, sneering. "You couldn't handle it. One blow to the head, and you'd be out. Concussion!"
"I have a big head," I said challengingly. I hate being told that there is something I can't do, and a six foot-tall lesbian who works a blue collar job jumped on the chance. "I'll fight you," she said. I agreed to this in the heat of the moment, and we all hopped on an art car which had been arranged to carry the wedding party over to the Thunderdome festively.
While we watched the groom and his attendant fight, the groom still in his wedding suit, I had second thoughts. "This skirt is really expensive," I said. "I should come back another day, when I'm dressed for it." "Just lose the skirt," said my insistent campmate.
"I should have some kind of handicap," I said, looking at my larger, stronger companion. "Let's just agree not to hit each other in the face. That's our moneymaker: the face." She agreed.
The groom's fight was short and weak. Soon we were being hustled in and strapped in. At Thunderdome, the two fighters are armed with pugil sticks (bats with a protective padding around one end) and launched at each other by bungee cords. I normally do not like losing control over where my body is, but the adrenaline and endorphins took over. They launched us at each other, and we came out fighting viciously, me in my underpants, crashing together and injuring all of our four collective knees. They pulled us apart from each other, with us struggling to get more blows in, and then relaunched us at each other again, and we hit and hit at each other. Finally they pulled us apart again, with us once more struggling to get more blows in. "Relax, you won," the people on my side said as they disconnected me. I gave a victory strut and flashed the crowd, and the very professional Thunderdome people pulled me off to the side. "You're bleeding, you should see the medic," one said. I hadn't noticed that I had a nosebleed. "Give me your beer," I demanded to someone, and I rinsed the blood off my face with beer. "No medic," I said posturingly.
"That was great," said one of my campmates wonderingly. "I would pay to see that kind of thing."
My opponent refused to accept that I had won. To this day she is posting on Facebook arguing that she was unfairly "trumped by tits," refusing to take the point that I didn't flash anyone until AFTER my victory had been declared. This is clearly seen on the video which my intrepid friend N. took, trampling many strangers to get a good angle, but still, my opponent won't admit that she lost. The next morning she went to the medical tent to get a wrist brace and her knees bandaged, and I gave her some ibuprofen.
As for me, my left knee is still a bit wonky, and I still have some bruises from the many I sustained. over my thighs, shoulder and back. For over a week after the fight, both of my knees were in constant agony. It was horrendous trying to change position in bed, let alone ride a bike and run around Burning Man.
The final straw came when a rather innocuous mole-sort of growth on my neck, which I'd had for over a decade, began to bleed uncontrollably. "You're bleeding," everyone who saw me informed me. "I know," I said crossly. It's too dry and hot at Burning Man for a bandaid to adhere (indeed I was having trouble with the multiple blisters on my feet, putting moleskin on several times a day over a base layer of stinging liquid bandaid).
"I can't take it," I said to N. "Everyone's telling me I'm bleeding. I gotta go home." My knees, my bruises, my mangled hands, my atrial fibrillations, my rash, and this annoying blood dripping down my throat: it was just all too much. "I think I am getting too old for this."
The easy-going N. agreed, and on the spur of the moment we threw all of our dusty belongings into our cars and drove away. The children and husband were thrilled to see me four days ahead of plan. Carrying some of my luggage into the house, a bag swung and struck me on the left knee, drawing blood, and I let out a howl. I showed them my knees. "You should have seen the other person," I said. If you're going to come crawling home a physical wreck, at least you should be able to brag of a mighty victory won in your underpants over a larger, stronger opponent.
I nodded. "Not this year."
So what happened? First I went early in order to work on my theme camp's highly ambitious building, the Jerk Church Cathedral. Skilled members of the camp had drawn up plans for a three story Gothic building; we had done the fundraising; the pieces had been cut and painted in the Bay Area already. I was excited about this, thinking that it would be a lot of fun being with the artists and workers creating the event, learning valuable carpentry skills while watching the city arise around us and undoubtedly celebrating every night, long before the regular attendees arrived. I negotiated a deal with the shrewd Iris where I was allowed to leave town before her birthday, eager to head out to the dust.
The reality was that when my friend N. and I arrived at night, earlier rains had caused the organizers to shut down the gates. We spent over three hours sitting in our cars, and we had to sneakily pee by the side of the parked traffic (luckily not getting a stiff fee for it, as this year the BLM ticketed several Burning Man workers for peeing in the wild). We pulled in after midnight and threw up our tents and crawled into them.
In the morning we put up our shade shelter and unpacked a bit, setting up what was supposed to be our home for the next ten days. We were nowhere near done when we were informed that we were already late for our work shift. J., the lead carpenter, was fuming. No one had shown up to work. No one. N. and I were the sole crew, and we were, to put it mildly, "underskilled." The sun blazed down, and we worked under the directions of an increasingly tightly wound foreman. By the time we went to bed, we were exhausted. "J, you're running a fat camp," said N. the next day.
Virtually everyone failed to show up for their volunteer shifts. N. and I worked every day and every night. Some more skilled people did come by. One extremely talented carpenter got fired from his paid position building the Burning Man base and spent the morning working with us, as well as drinking my beer and telling N. and me his problems, but sadly for us he was rehired by Burning Man at lunchtime.
By the weekend more skilled people had arrived, so N. and I were demoted from the slightly more interesting tasks we'd been doing (we'd learned to wield an impact driver and to assemble the support structures, but we were back to carrying things, holding things, picking up things, fetching ice for J.'s cooler, and so on). The sun still blazed down. We were steadily acquiring a variety of small injuries: blisters, a burn on my thumb shaped just like a wishbone, bruises. The worst little injury occurred when we finally felt we could take a break from construction to finish setting up our own camp, and a fiberglass pole shattered in my thumb, leaving long, painful shards blocking the joint. A friend volunteered to excavate this and cut most of it out with an very much not sterile knife. I exhibited the gory shards to everyone, who were all suitably disgusted and impressed (I still have fiberglass shards visible in that thumb today). A rash on the tops of my legs began to intensify and became scary. I had several atrial fibrillation attacks. My body was clearly unhappy.
On Sunday night the gates opened for regular attendees. Exhausted by a day of construction under the hot sun, we Jerks were sleeping when we were awakened around three a.m. by a man shouting over an amplified sound system. "IT'S MY FIRST TIME DJ'ING AT BURNING MAN!" Hours of terrible, distorted dubstep ensued. Everyone looked homicidal the next morning as we went back to building.
Monday the deadline pressure was high: we needed to finish the cathedral for a wedding the next day. A bored girl said loudly to her friend as she passed, "They are always working on that thing!" in a Valley girl accent, and we took to repeating that to each other. "Oh my God, they are always working on that thing!" Lots of people were on hand, and we finally finished up in the middle of the night.
The cathedral was stunning when it was done. The wedding was moving and delightful, two well-suited people getting married in a beautiful church one of them had built for the occasion. Then the congratulatory drinking began, and the groom told me that he and one of his attendees were going to fight over at the infamous Thunderdome. "I want to fight at Thunderdome," I said artlessly, and he cut me off, sneering. "You couldn't handle it. One blow to the head, and you'd be out. Concussion!"
"I have a big head," I said challengingly. I hate being told that there is something I can't do, and a six foot-tall lesbian who works a blue collar job jumped on the chance. "I'll fight you," she said. I agreed to this in the heat of the moment, and we all hopped on an art car which had been arranged to carry the wedding party over to the Thunderdome festively.
While we watched the groom and his attendant fight, the groom still in his wedding suit, I had second thoughts. "This skirt is really expensive," I said. "I should come back another day, when I'm dressed for it." "Just lose the skirt," said my insistent campmate.
"I should have some kind of handicap," I said, looking at my larger, stronger companion. "Let's just agree not to hit each other in the face. That's our moneymaker: the face." She agreed.
The groom's fight was short and weak. Soon we were being hustled in and strapped in. At Thunderdome, the two fighters are armed with pugil sticks (bats with a protective padding around one end) and launched at each other by bungee cords. I normally do not like losing control over where my body is, but the adrenaline and endorphins took over. They launched us at each other, and we came out fighting viciously, me in my underpants, crashing together and injuring all of our four collective knees. They pulled us apart from each other, with us struggling to get more blows in, and then relaunched us at each other again, and we hit and hit at each other. Finally they pulled us apart again, with us once more struggling to get more blows in. "Relax, you won," the people on my side said as they disconnected me. I gave a victory strut and flashed the crowd, and the very professional Thunderdome people pulled me off to the side. "You're bleeding, you should see the medic," one said. I hadn't noticed that I had a nosebleed. "Give me your beer," I demanded to someone, and I rinsed the blood off my face with beer. "No medic," I said posturingly.
"That was great," said one of my campmates wonderingly. "I would pay to see that kind of thing."
My opponent refused to accept that I had won. To this day she is posting on Facebook arguing that she was unfairly "trumped by tits," refusing to take the point that I didn't flash anyone until AFTER my victory had been declared. This is clearly seen on the video which my intrepid friend N. took, trampling many strangers to get a good angle, but still, my opponent won't admit that she lost. The next morning she went to the medical tent to get a wrist brace and her knees bandaged, and I gave her some ibuprofen.
As for me, my left knee is still a bit wonky, and I still have some bruises from the many I sustained. over my thighs, shoulder and back. For over a week after the fight, both of my knees were in constant agony. It was horrendous trying to change position in bed, let alone ride a bike and run around Burning Man.
The final straw came when a rather innocuous mole-sort of growth on my neck, which I'd had for over a decade, began to bleed uncontrollably. "You're bleeding," everyone who saw me informed me. "I know," I said crossly. It's too dry and hot at Burning Man for a bandaid to adhere (indeed I was having trouble with the multiple blisters on my feet, putting moleskin on several times a day over a base layer of stinging liquid bandaid).
"I can't take it," I said to N. "Everyone's telling me I'm bleeding. I gotta go home." My knees, my bruises, my mangled hands, my atrial fibrillations, my rash, and this annoying blood dripping down my throat: it was just all too much. "I think I am getting too old for this."
The easy-going N. agreed, and on the spur of the moment we threw all of our dusty belongings into our cars and drove away. The children and husband were thrilled to see me four days ahead of plan. Carrying some of my luggage into the house, a bag swung and struck me on the left knee, drawing blood, and I let out a howl. I showed them my knees. "You should have seen the other person," I said. If you're going to come crawling home a physical wreck, at least you should be able to brag of a mighty victory won in your underpants over a larger, stronger opponent.
Friday, August 09, 2013
working, working, working out of a funk
The month of July was a very hard month for me. It felt like I fell into a funk out of the blue, but talking things over with my psychiatrist, I was able to identify a number of uncontrollable stresses which had all struck at the same time. My funk wasn't the random act of craziness it might have appeared to be, say, to a sane bystanding husband.
It is pathetic to be a middle-aged person who lives in a nice house in a beautiful city with a husband, cats, parrots, and vivacious children who is depressed. Very, very pathetic. I have been working to pull myself out of that funk, with extreme exercise when I am healthy (I seem to pick up viruses like clockwork), antidepressants, and avoiding stressful situations when I can.
During the worst of the funk, while I was trying to keep myself out of the darker abysses, I saw one of those extra annoying posts on Facebook. A friend wrote about an amazing vacation day filled with adventures, love, and decadent desserts, capping it up with, "I love my life!" At the time I was devoting myself to keeping my head out of the oven, metaphorically speaking (my beloved Aga is a lifegiver, not a machine of death). Usually I'm not prey to the Facebook my-life-sucks-compared-to-yours demon, but it hit me that day, and it hit hard. I fretted about how I don't go on vacations, I don't travel, I deny myself fattening foods, I budget, I have no life comparatively. Not wanting to slide down into the abyss, I gave myself a shake. I told myself that I needed to stay off Facebook if I was going to let it upset me.
Over time I pulled myself out of the worst of that funk, and my psychiatrist congratulated me on my self care and improvement. Then I read another update from that same friend, sharing that the friend had been fired for seeking accommodation at work for severe depression .... before the "I love my life!" post. That person was vacationing and adventuring to fill up free time from having been fired. I was stunned. How ironic that this person's cheering-the-self-up to cope with depression had triggered and worsened my own. I wondered: do the depressed owe one another a duty not to post life-gloating updates? Or do I owe the world a duty not to post "I'm in a funk" updates, which I have been guilty of in dark moments? In any event, Facebook is not for the fragile.
It is pathetic to be a middle-aged person who lives in a nice house in a beautiful city with a husband, cats, parrots, and vivacious children who is depressed. Very, very pathetic. I have been working to pull myself out of that funk, with extreme exercise when I am healthy (I seem to pick up viruses like clockwork), antidepressants, and avoiding stressful situations when I can.
During the worst of the funk, while I was trying to keep myself out of the darker abysses, I saw one of those extra annoying posts on Facebook. A friend wrote about an amazing vacation day filled with adventures, love, and decadent desserts, capping it up with, "I love my life!" At the time I was devoting myself to keeping my head out of the oven, metaphorically speaking (my beloved Aga is a lifegiver, not a machine of death). Usually I'm not prey to the Facebook my-life-sucks-compared-to-yours demon, but it hit me that day, and it hit hard. I fretted about how I don't go on vacations, I don't travel, I deny myself fattening foods, I budget, I have no life comparatively. Not wanting to slide down into the abyss, I gave myself a shake. I told myself that I needed to stay off Facebook if I was going to let it upset me.
Over time I pulled myself out of the worst of that funk, and my psychiatrist congratulated me on my self care and improvement. Then I read another update from that same friend, sharing that the friend had been fired for seeking accommodation at work for severe depression .... before the "I love my life!" post. That person was vacationing and adventuring to fill up free time from having been fired. I was stunned. How ironic that this person's cheering-the-self-up to cope with depression had triggered and worsened my own. I wondered: do the depressed owe one another a duty not to post life-gloating updates? Or do I owe the world a duty not to post "I'm in a funk" updates, which I have been guilty of in dark moments? In any event, Facebook is not for the fragile.
Thursday, August 08, 2013
scholasticism meets "King of the Hill"
The children and I were unwinding one late evening, watching a couple of "King of the Hill" episodes. I was exhausted from a grueling workout earlier in the day; the children were tired as well.
Their father entered the room, ignoring our enrapt viewing, and asked Iris some questions about a potential new humanities teacher for her school whom she had met. His voice booming, he asked, "Does anyone know what 'humanities' is?" A couple of us, trying to quiet him down, offered definitions, but he would not be bought off. His voice ever louder, he proclaimed, "Humanities is a rejection of scholasticism!" He laughed at his own wit. Everyone else gazed raptly at the cartoon Texans, intensely beaming out "be quiet and leave us with our lowbrow entertainment" thought rays.
Their father entered the room, ignoring our enrapt viewing, and asked Iris some questions about a potential new humanities teacher for her school whom she had met. His voice booming, he asked, "Does anyone know what 'humanities' is?" A couple of us, trying to quiet him down, offered definitions, but he would not be bought off. His voice ever louder, he proclaimed, "Humanities is a rejection of scholasticism!" He laughed at his own wit. Everyone else gazed raptly at the cartoon Texans, intensely beaming out "be quiet and leave us with our lowbrow entertainment" thought rays.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
the joys of being thinner
Recently the Sober Husband gave me an impromptu piggyback ride. I haven't had a piggyback ride from anyone since I was in college, and it was charming, despite the intended squashing of my joy from a certain child, who said, "Did you just squeal? Seriously?" to me. Certainly this would never have happened when I was significantly larger, and it was delightful.
Clothes shopping has also been much more delightful. I tried on a corset dress at a funky boutique on Haight Street, just pulled off the rack at a store which doesn't carry particularly large sizes, and heard those most delicious of words from the salesman: "You could go down a size, if you want."
Shoes are also more fun. I've taken to wearing stilettos whenever there is the slightest excuse. I previously was under the impression that the reason I couldn't bear to wear insanely high heels was due to my advancing age, but it turned out that once I dropped some weight, my aging feet were game, just like in my twenties.
As well as judging the squealing, the children are not so enthused about their mother nimbly darting about in corset dresses and stiletto shoes. Clearly it is not age appropriate. "Since I'm not employed, I could dress like that every day," I confided to one, who cast me a side eye and sighed heavily.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
we will stay until the end
Recently I heard about an experimental theatre performance taking place on the beach. A number of plays will be staged in one evening, with the participants meeting outdoors and being led around to the plays. The performers are from New York, flying out for this event, and I'm not sure if they realize how chilly it is going to be at night on a beach in San Francisco during our "summer." I signed us up to attend, though, as we all love the theatre. Bonus: Iris can get extra credit at her school for attending plays over the summer.
Reminding the Sober Husband about this outing, I said, "Of course, we can leave early if it sucks." But! Lola has never forgotten the one blissful evening she saw an experimental theatre troupe and did not like this crazy talk of slipping out. "We are staying until the end. Even if it is terrible. We will stay until everything is done. We will see everything there is to see. Even if it is terrible," decreed the little theatre devotee. She went on in this rather repetitive vein for some time, with relish. "If someone has a heart attack, too bad; we stay!" I began to wonder if she hoped this performance would tank.
Reminding the Sober Husband about this outing, I said, "Of course, we can leave early if it sucks." But! Lola has never forgotten the one blissful evening she saw an experimental theatre troupe and did not like this crazy talk of slipping out. "We are staying until the end. Even if it is terrible. We will stay until everything is done. We will see everything there is to see. Even if it is terrible," decreed the little theatre devotee. She went on in this rather repetitive vein for some time, with relish. "If someone has a heart attack, too bad; we stay!" I began to wonder if she hoped this performance would tank.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
playing ping pong with Iris and Lola
We spent last week on our annual trip to Camp Mather, the rustic cabins in the Sierras owned by SF Rec and Parks. No internet access, no cellphone coverage, no televisions, no cats -- just hours and hours of fresh air and sunlight with the family.
At one point the Sober Husband agreed to indulge me in a game of badminton, and the badminton-loathing children decided to play ping pong instead. There are several ping pong tables, scattered throughout the trees near the mess hall, out of sight from the badminton court, which is in a sort of valley behind the general store. We played badminton for a long time, getting a good workout, eventually joined by our offspring, who said nothing about their ping pong match.
The next day Lola reported to me what happened. "So we were playing ping pong, and I got tired of picking up the balls. So the next time one went out, I didn't pick it up. And Iris said, 'Lucy, get the ball,' and I said I was tired of it. So she looked at me like this [commanding gaze], and I looked at her like this [one eyebrow lifted]. And we waited. Then Iris had to go to the bathroom, and she said she expected when she returned to see the ping pong ball had been picked up, and I looked around and found another one. So when she got back, she said, 'I see you picked up the ball', and I showed her that ball was still on the ground. Then we played until that ball went on the ground, and then neither of us would pick it up. So we were staring at each other. Then Phil (a family friend) walked by, and he gave us a ball. So we played until THAT ball went on the ground. And then we decided to go watch you play badminton."
We saw Phil and his family later, and I told Lola to tell the full story to them. Afterward, Phil said reflectively, "In my version of that, I was much more active. I was like a hero."
"Instead, you were a pawn in the Iris-Lola conflict," I said.
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