A Moment in Time

When I was in first grade, our teacher had us make jewelry boxes for our mothers as a class project. We used the following materials to fashion these earnest, Rococo-esque works of art: Cigar boxes, gold spray paint, dried macaroni, and glue. At our desks we glued the macaroni to the top of the cigar box. Then we headed outdoors for the spray painting- you know, gang sign grafitti all over public property.

Ok, so much for that attempt at humor.

I went to Bayshore Academy that year, and if I remember right the school was indeed on the shore of Biscayne Bay. It was a nice Miami spring day, not obnoxiously hot, and it felt good to be outside. One at a time a child would hold out his or her box and Mrs...Mrs.... I remember all my other teacher's names...something like Mrs. Goyette (ok, let's go with that) spray-painted the entire creation in gold. Lovely.

I was one of the last kids she got to, so my mind wandered. I made the decision that I would film everything going on around me, in my mind, like a movie. These were the exact words I said to myself: "I am going to choose to remember this the rest of my life." So far so good.

The photo below is one of the first times I decided to use a camera for that same reason: simply to freeze a random moment in time. I knew then that years later it would contain all kind of information. And it does- I recall the tiniest of details about 7th grade at Gulliver Academy from this one photo. In the foreground is Alma Lurz, who was my math teacher. She was a soft-spoken former nun (wait...former nun? Did she kick the habit? Wha ha) who had a musty, powdery smell. I'm smelling it right now. I've never known anyone else with that scent. She had infinite patience and once offered to buy my friend Laurie and me ice cream when we ran into her at the mall. Further back in the image is a raspy-voiced teacher named Mr. Brown. I was never in one of his classes, but my sister was. I remember she went to his funeral several years later. Also in the background is Lori Ryder who was a somewhat renowed competitive swimmer. I remember she got cool Peter Max glasses in 8th grade. She and I got together twice outside of school: One time we went bowling, another time she came over to my house and we went swimming. No, she did not compete against me. She was very easy going actually; nice girl. Now i'm remembering other things about her, and that's what I mean- photos open files we thought were closed.

Photos like this also offer evidence of the surreal: Kids really did dress like the Brady Bunch. We wore uniforms at Gulliver, so this photo is not the best evidence of that. But if you look really carefully, you'll see knee socks...

Not Sure About the Second Part

"Man is the only animal that blushes - or needs to." Mark Twain

My name is Wendy and I'm a blusher. Hi Wendy, welcome! Why thank you.

I'm so lucky my blushing is but a gentle flush, the sweet palest pink of a delicate tea rose. I'm even luckier that I blush only under extreme circumstances. You know, like when I laugh. Or talk.

I think I sometimes make it entire days- maybe even weeks- ok, days, without my face going from 0 to burgundy within 5 seconds. How fortunate I am that when my visage assumes its Lapplander-in-the-noonday-equatorial-sun hue, I always have someone kind enough to loudly point it out to me. Because, you know, the fact that I feel like it's 300 degrees in the room isn't enough. And for those keeping score at home, this has happened to me all my life. It isn't a *hushed whisper* perimenopause thing
.

When workers are locked up in tight confines for long hours (such as today's 12 hour funapalooza), they are going to get a bit silly at times. Especially if I'm around. Although I'm pride myself on my ability to generate sophisticated witticisms at lightning-fast speed, sometimes that's just too much work. At such times, it feels great- like staggering to the refrigerator for first swig of cold diet coke in the morning great- to lapse into abject stupidity.

Cutting to chase: During break in 2 1/2 hour meeting, two coworkers and I somehow end up engaging in puns. Food puns. Pizza more specifically. "Do you dough any more?" Tee hee. "We're being so cheesy" Bwa ha! And then this (in best mafia don accent) "You wanna pizza me?"

Even though I was the one who said it, I'm still entitled to laugh as hard as the others, which is to say much harder than should have been laughed at all because, as you are judgementally thinking (fy), it's not that funny. Except it was.

And yes my face turned the color of pepperoni (what lovely imagery). And yes, this was loudly pointed out to me from across the room, or across the state line, or whatever, because- if you haven't gotten the point by now- when I blush I radiate in a thermonuclear manner, possibly one day necessitating the hiring of a Hazmat crew to restore a room to safety after I leave.

What am I supposed to say to someone when they are rude enough to brazenly gape at the freak of nature that is me? Today I contemplated quietly and sadly whispering that my face gets red when my heart condition (no, I don't have one) is acting up. It would be great fun to watch the pointee try to backpeddle their way out of that one.

When I was in training for my current position, the trainer handed out copies that she admitted were of poor quality. I squinted at mine and informed her I couldn't read it. With an exasperated sigh she ripped it out of my hands, 'Blah blah blahed' her way through the first few sentences and announced that SHE could read it. I looked up at her forlornly: "Yes, but you're not blind in your left eye." She didn't turn merlot like me, but she stammered and blushed and was very, very nice to me after that.

My vision in my left eye is 20/40, but, whatever. It was an effective comeback.

I'm honestly not that motivated to think of a zinger-like retort to the next person who points out my blushing. Really.

Maybe I have no shame. Or less than I used to.

How fabulous is that?

Happy New Year!

I wonder if there is someone out there, a corporate middle manager type perhaps, who greets people in the morning with "Happy New Day!"

It can't be denied that this is possible.

It's both a terrifying thought and a not-bad-now-that-I-think-of-it idea. Terrifying if one were assaulted with it a 8 am each weekday. Not a bad idea, however, to greet each day with the hope and conviction one feels at the start of a new year.

No I'm not in a hangover induced stupor.

Last night worked out fine. At the last minute I answered a Craigslist post from someone wanting company for First Night. The post was simple and non desperate. He asked for music preferences, not photos. After a brief phone conversation in which I deemed him articulate and polite, I decided to meet him downtown. What could be safer than meeting someone in a crowded public place? And no, that's not ironic foreshadowing for a closing of "I'm glad I escaped with my life..."

It was a pleasant evening. Tacoma's First Night was exactly what the doctor ordered: a festive, all ages crowd, music and dance performances in all the cool old theaters, very few drunk people (I don't like being around falling down drunk people. The last time I was drunk was at a Beat Farmers concert when I was 30), and a sense of supporting and being supported by my community.

The guy (Tom) and I got along fine. No fireworks between us, but that was not the intention of the evening. He was very knowledgeable about music and was, as I'd sensed from the phone call, articulate, intelligent and polite. How refreshing.

My mood was all over the map, partially due to what I've been through with men (yep, not just one) in recent weeks. I think I was a decent companion for the evening, but I was not at my best.

The best part of the evening was getting a badly-needed performing arts fix. We started the evening with strawberry margaritas at El Toro, and then wandered into a couple of the theaters: Pantages, Rialto and Pythian Temple. My favorite of the evening was a Tahitian dance / storytelling performance "And Hila drank of the fruit. And then the giant eel god..."

In the category of, er, interesting was a hurdy gurdy performance at the Pythian Temple. A bunch of rather dowdy musicians (hurdy gurdyists?) sat in a semi circle on the stage. From a distance it looked like each was just cranking the handle on a box, producing a droning 'reee reee reeee' sound kind of like a bagpipe. They just sat there and cranked their butts off. 1st song: 'Ree reeee reee' 2nd song: Reeee ree ree' 3rd song: 'Reeee-reeee reeee-reeeee'. At the end of the 4th song I turned to Tom and said "Um, I think I get the idea." and we left. As we were leaving Tom explained to me that a hurdy gurdy is sometimes referred to as a wheel fiddle and that the player uses his or her non-cranking hand to press keys to produce different pitches. His explaination was sufficiently interesting to inspire me to Google more info when I got home. But no, I'm not going to actively seek out upcoming hurdy gurdy performances.

Somewhere between 11 and 11:30 Tom mentioned that barring anything I still really wanted to do, he'd like to leave before midnight to beat the traffic. I had just starting thinking that I wanted to be on my couch at midnight, watching the Space Needle fireworks on TV, so it worked out perfectly. He gave me a ride home, we wished each other a Happy New Year and agreed to get together for a movie or concert sometime. A few minutes later I was happily on my couch watching the fireworks on TV as well as firework displays visible from my living room window. Around 12:30 I got into bed with a book: Home Front by Patti Davis, an autobiography very thinly veiled as fiction (and a good, indulgent read) and that was it.

I'm happy and excited about the new year.

I wish everyone a wonderful 2009.