Yesterday - Sunday - was one of those OK, that's why I live in a city days. Sunny, cool but not cold, a little breezy, Carnival sprawling all over the Mission and public tranportation. Friends came in from the East Bay, to convene at Yank Sing and gorge on dim sum. Heavenly little soup dumplings, pork and ginger filling, nibble gently from a spoon, topped with a sweet, spicy red sauce.
Yank Sing is in the old post office space at Rincon Annex. There is now a central atrium with a rainbath sort of fountain, fascinating to children, all told not to wade, not to stick their toes in. After the crafty manner of children, they simply wait to engage more fully with the water until the adults are busy with food or conversation. The sound of the water is as pleasant as the visual.
There are murals all around the front lobby of the building, painted by a Russian artist in the 1940's. They are bold and angular and somewhat maniacal: gold panning, beating of Chinese railroad slaves, vigilante justice. They seem weary and dust-covered and do not invite one to linger in the scenes depicted. One glass case contains items labeled "fragment of opium pipe" and "opium tin".
Next, we tromped a number of blocks to the inevitable multiplex, where Woody Allen's newest, Midnight in Paris, is playing. In the middle of a beautiful afternoon, the theatre is full, mainly of grey-headed people. Much French is being spoken in the groups waiting to enter.
And we are utterly beguiled. Paris struts her stuff in an arty, Impressionist sort of way, for the first five minutes or so. And then there's Owen Wilson, sounding like Woody Allen - initally comical and disconcerting, but we adjusted. The Man, who faithfully does not like Woody Allen and often remarks upon that fact, was chuckling after several lines.
So Owen time travels and meets everyone a romantic would have loved to drink a glass of wine with and falls in love with Picasso's latest mistress and a very good time is had by all. Adrien Brody has my vote for his wonderful portrayal of Dali.
Mostly wonderful is Paris: nightime, rain, bookstalls - it's all there. Our movie dates had meant to honeymoon in Paris after their relatively recent wedding, but one health crisis or another kept postponing it until they thought they would just give up the idea. Now, saturated with the relentless mystique, they will definitely go and sit on a bench in the Tuileries and watch romance occur.
We then went to the Ferry Building, which is structurally reminiscent of the Gare d'Orsay, and perched on high stools to eat (eating again! How could we be hungry?) wonderful Brie and various sorts of salumi, with mango chutney and mustard, washed down with an Alsatian Riesling. And we congratulated ourselves on such a fine day and vowed to do it again without delay.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Saturday, May 28, 2011
And Then? And Then?
Yesterday, the Man and I traveled up to the northern counties to look at a piece of real estate I found on Craig's list. Our realtor friend had alerted us to the pest report ($20,000 in dry rot, beetles and termites and that was only one of the several buildings) and it was raining in the morning, which makes California people drive like rank beginners, but off we went.
I actually loved the property. I loved the irregularly shaped swimming pool, the frigidly cold pool house with labyrinthine paths to the shower and toilet and roof beams to support a spired cathedral, the lipstick pink rhododendrons, growing high and profuse in front of the living room windows, the flourishing blackberries, the creek we crossed to get on to the property, the needlepoint pictures framed on the walls...
Probably the most amazing aspects are those that will disappear with the current owner, who has lived there, child and woman, for 56 years. In a separate structure, listing a little, settling as rotting wood will, in the back portion, the owner has her cottage industry: dollhouses and dollhouse miniatures. Furnished rooms, full of doll antiques: rockers, corner cupboards, deal tables, gate leg tables, dining room tables with additional leaves, armchairs, settees, canopy beds. And all the accessories for every room, including carpets and tiny cushions. Dustless and gleaming in their glass cased displays. She does 9 fairs each year, so she is intimately familiar with what it takes to pack and transfer these tiny items to another locale.
In the 3 car garage, built by her now deceased husband, is a train world. Not the small trains - O gauge? - the bigger variety, ready to send into their travel patterns, through tunnels, up, around and under hills, bridges, and through incredible landscapes, including one where a gagged woman is tied to the tracks. This display has never yet been packed and moved. Will she be taking it along?
She says she has just decided she needs a change of scene. I think she's been shoved into that position by her children, who think it's too much house and grounds for her to keep tending. Her own feelings are clearly mixed, since her whole life has been lived in that area. Will decorating a new place in a new town give her joy? Will - or would - it me?
I actually loved the property. I loved the irregularly shaped swimming pool, the frigidly cold pool house with labyrinthine paths to the shower and toilet and roof beams to support a spired cathedral, the lipstick pink rhododendrons, growing high and profuse in front of the living room windows, the flourishing blackberries, the creek we crossed to get on to the property, the needlepoint pictures framed on the walls...
Probably the most amazing aspects are those that will disappear with the current owner, who has lived there, child and woman, for 56 years. In a separate structure, listing a little, settling as rotting wood will, in the back portion, the owner has her cottage industry: dollhouses and dollhouse miniatures. Furnished rooms, full of doll antiques: rockers, corner cupboards, deal tables, gate leg tables, dining room tables with additional leaves, armchairs, settees, canopy beds. And all the accessories for every room, including carpets and tiny cushions. Dustless and gleaming in their glass cased displays. She does 9 fairs each year, so she is intimately familiar with what it takes to pack and transfer these tiny items to another locale.
In the 3 car garage, built by her now deceased husband, is a train world. Not the small trains - O gauge? - the bigger variety, ready to send into their travel patterns, through tunnels, up, around and under hills, bridges, and through incredible landscapes, including one where a gagged woman is tied to the tracks. This display has never yet been packed and moved. Will she be taking it along?
She says she has just decided she needs a change of scene. I think she's been shoved into that position by her children, who think it's too much house and grounds for her to keep tending. Her own feelings are clearly mixed, since her whole life has been lived in that area. Will decorating a new place in a new town give her joy? Will - or would - it me?
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Petty Pace
Life, creeping on, so they say, from day to day. Sometimes it feels like trying to ride a plow horse. Sometimes it feels like floating down the river on a blow-up raft, sun shining, tiny fishlings nipping at your trailing toes. Sometimes it's like those dreams that wake you up, scared and trying to scream, only you can't seem to make any noise.
Son and Son's lovely wife have jetted off to New Orleans, to eat a little meat and a lot of rice and beans. Ever since they became instant parents of teenagers, a month ago, they haven't been cooking meat at home because the boys have been raised to think extraordinarily irrational things about people who eat meat. The devil's spawn would be the least of it. My ex-DIL never saw the point of live and let live. I think they invented the Rapture for people like her but she's not Christian. Not yet, anyway. The imminence of Rapture 2 may change her belief system. Getting to hang out with all that righteousness, uh huh!
Perhaps you are wondering, if you've been following this saga, whether she's in rehab yet. Best guess? No would be the one right answer. Her life is so complicated - apparently - that she can't even schedule a supervised visit and refrain from rescheduling several times. And then, when the visit finally occurs, she doesn't have much tolerance for it and ends it an hour early.
I guess she'll self-destruct but it sure is hard to watch her continue to sabotage the kids.
Son and Son's lovely wife have jetted off to New Orleans, to eat a little meat and a lot of rice and beans. Ever since they became instant parents of teenagers, a month ago, they haven't been cooking meat at home because the boys have been raised to think extraordinarily irrational things about people who eat meat. The devil's spawn would be the least of it. My ex-DIL never saw the point of live and let live. I think they invented the Rapture for people like her but she's not Christian. Not yet, anyway. The imminence of Rapture 2 may change her belief system. Getting to hang out with all that righteousness, uh huh!
Perhaps you are wondering, if you've been following this saga, whether she's in rehab yet. Best guess? No would be the one right answer. Her life is so complicated - apparently - that she can't even schedule a supervised visit and refrain from rescheduling several times. And then, when the visit finally occurs, she doesn't have much tolerance for it and ends it an hour early.
I guess she'll self-destruct but it sure is hard to watch her continue to sabotage the kids.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Raising a Kid
My sister and I were brought up to leave home. It wasn't systematic: my mother didn't have a master plan about how this would evolve, such as:
Age 6: Set table with folded napkins
Age 7: Separate dark and light laundry items
Age 8: Feed pets
Age 9: Iron shirts for ten cents each
Age 10: Bake cookies. Make scrambled eggs.
Nope, it wasn't organized. Any more than the rest of my life has been. A few systems built into the home environment would have been useful, says 20/20 hindsight.
Instead, we got being late for school because Dad had to shave just right and pat on the aftershave before he could drive us there. We got Mom in her panty girdle, sorting through stockings to find one with no visible snags. We got hanging out at the beauty parlor, inhaling perm solution and nail polish remover. We got hanging out at the college theatre, climbing to the catwalk, playing in the prop and costume rooms, flirting with the college boys. We got frozen peas. We got the best pork roast known to human kind, which neither one of us has ever been able to duplicate.
Were we raised right?
Was anyone?
All they could do was the best they knew. Dad gave us flamboyance and chutzpah and curiosity about our fellow creatures. Mom gave us books and poetry and her unshakeable belief that everything we did was a small miracle. And, working side by side if not together, they gave us the world to wade out into and see what we could accomplish. It hasn't been a cakewalk but we're both still curious.
Age 6: Set table with folded napkins
Age 7: Separate dark and light laundry items
Age 8: Feed pets
Age 9: Iron shirts for ten cents each
Age 10: Bake cookies. Make scrambled eggs.
Nope, it wasn't organized. Any more than the rest of my life has been. A few systems built into the home environment would have been useful, says 20/20 hindsight.
Instead, we got being late for school because Dad had to shave just right and pat on the aftershave before he could drive us there. We got Mom in her panty girdle, sorting through stockings to find one with no visible snags. We got hanging out at the beauty parlor, inhaling perm solution and nail polish remover. We got hanging out at the college theatre, climbing to the catwalk, playing in the prop and costume rooms, flirting with the college boys. We got frozen peas. We got the best pork roast known to human kind, which neither one of us has ever been able to duplicate.
Were we raised right?
Was anyone?
All they could do was the best they knew. Dad gave us flamboyance and chutzpah and curiosity about our fellow creatures. Mom gave us books and poetry and her unshakeable belief that everything we did was a small miracle. And, working side by side if not together, they gave us the world to wade out into and see what we could accomplish. It hasn't been a cakewalk but we're both still curious.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Oh Blah Dee
And anyone as old as me knows the next two lines. By Golly, it's true. Life does go on. And on and on and on. Whether we want it to or not.
Yesterday, I was describing to a therapist that feeling of who cares anyway. And I knew she knew what I was talking about, even though she has a sweet life with a loving partner and dogs, that she KNEW what it meant to lie in bed and lack motivation to even roll a leg over the edge and point it toward the floor. To sit in a chair and stare at nothing as the light changes from morning to afternoon to evening. To wear the same clothes, day after day instead of making the effort of choosing something to wear.
I was especially pathetic in that regard on the day, a week ago, of my friend's memorial gathering. I needed to leave my house, looking at least half-way nice and pulled together, to shake people's hands and listen to whatever they had to say about my poor, dead friend. So I did. It took at least four changes of clothes before I got it to the point that I could edge past that last mirror and open the front door, get in the car. . . It's done.
And really, disorganized and silly and chaotic as it was (scheduled for 3 p.m., son and wife with photos and food didn't show up until 3:30, son so unready to let go he went to park the car he had just unloaded and didn't return for half an hour, but then spoke very movingly about his mother's bravery and commitment to social justice) it helped. Now I can have her near every day without all the weight of her sojurn, unresolved. We did her honor in a way that mirrored her life. The best thing was her bright-eyed grandchild and the Sancerre brought by her last, truest boyfriend. From her effects, I have kept a pair of Fatima's hand earrings. They are in a tiny bowl on my dresser, beaming protection. Maybe someday they will help me be stalwart.
Yesterday, I was describing to a therapist that feeling of who cares anyway. And I knew she knew what I was talking about, even though she has a sweet life with a loving partner and dogs, that she KNEW what it meant to lie in bed and lack motivation to even roll a leg over the edge and point it toward the floor. To sit in a chair and stare at nothing as the light changes from morning to afternoon to evening. To wear the same clothes, day after day instead of making the effort of choosing something to wear.
I was especially pathetic in that regard on the day, a week ago, of my friend's memorial gathering. I needed to leave my house, looking at least half-way nice and pulled together, to shake people's hands and listen to whatever they had to say about my poor, dead friend. So I did. It took at least four changes of clothes before I got it to the point that I could edge past that last mirror and open the front door, get in the car. . . It's done.
And really, disorganized and silly and chaotic as it was (scheduled for 3 p.m., son and wife with photos and food didn't show up until 3:30, son so unready to let go he went to park the car he had just unloaded and didn't return for half an hour, but then spoke very movingly about his mother's bravery and commitment to social justice) it helped. Now I can have her near every day without all the weight of her sojurn, unresolved. We did her honor in a way that mirrored her life. The best thing was her bright-eyed grandchild and the Sancerre brought by her last, truest boyfriend. From her effects, I have kept a pair of Fatima's hand earrings. They are in a tiny bowl on my dresser, beaming protection. Maybe someday they will help me be stalwart.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Next Chapter
Begins now the rest of Grandboy the Second's Life. Now he is a man, according to the tradition that deems 13 year old boys fit to wear yamulkes and be counted in a minyan. My cherubic, chipmunk-cheeked grandbaby is about five feet tall, built like a fireplug, goofy and sarcastic and by no means an adult yet. Lucky him.
I'm told he did a class job at his Bar Mitzvah: remembering all he had to, speaking from his heart about what meaning he was drawing from the event and the presence of family. My son says lots of people showed up at the evening party but very few for the service. Nobody wants to get too close to the molten flow from the IS's meltdown. Which continues.
She now can see the boys only under paid, professional supervision, to be arranged and paid for by herself. No more coercion of reluctant parents and sister into the thankless role of supervisors. She must get herself into rehab. All this is in the court order, as agreed to by the parties a week ago. Agreed to, and you know why? Because she is still getting an astronomical amount of my son's income as support. His lawyer couldn't quite manage to get a support modification result in front of the judge in time for the last court appearance. So she's got lots of money, no responsibilities and whoopee! What'll happen next?
Nope, I didn't attend the festivities this weekend. I don't think I know how to be a grandmother, having only had one for the first three years of my life. My mother was clueless about the phenomenon, too. She was still working full time when my kids were born. By the time she had time to share with my kids, they were busy in their own lives: glad to see her every year or so but she wasn't a part of their world. As I am not a part of my grandsons' world. What's bred in the bone, I guess. Who seem to be good at this grandparent stuff is my ex-husband and his wife. They show up and are entirely appropriate. I teeter on the edge of mayhem. Really. Bad Gramma!
I'm told he did a class job at his Bar Mitzvah: remembering all he had to, speaking from his heart about what meaning he was drawing from the event and the presence of family. My son says lots of people showed up at the evening party but very few for the service. Nobody wants to get too close to the molten flow from the IS's meltdown. Which continues.
She now can see the boys only under paid, professional supervision, to be arranged and paid for by herself. No more coercion of reluctant parents and sister into the thankless role of supervisors. She must get herself into rehab. All this is in the court order, as agreed to by the parties a week ago. Agreed to, and you know why? Because she is still getting an astronomical amount of my son's income as support. His lawyer couldn't quite manage to get a support modification result in front of the judge in time for the last court appearance. So she's got lots of money, no responsibilities and whoopee! What'll happen next?
Nope, I didn't attend the festivities this weekend. I don't think I know how to be a grandmother, having only had one for the first three years of my life. My mother was clueless about the phenomenon, too. She was still working full time when my kids were born. By the time she had time to share with my kids, they were busy in their own lives: glad to see her every year or so but she wasn't a part of their world. As I am not a part of my grandsons' world. What's bred in the bone, I guess. Who seem to be good at this grandparent stuff is my ex-husband and his wife. They show up and are entirely appropriate. I teeter on the edge of mayhem. Really. Bad Gramma!
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