Yesterday I was in Metropolitan Market, a Whole Foods-like grocery store. You know the type of place- $18 a pound chicken salad, dairy-free cheese, varities of exotic produce you won't admit to being afraid of but secretly are.
As one does, I greeted the person behind the register with something to the effect of "How're you doing?" The cashier looked to be in her early 30s. She paused for a moment, then shrugged. "Eh" she said. "I'm here." She wasn't surly or rude. Just forthright.
I told her I loved her honesty. We commiserated that there are days one simply gets through. I told her about the aggressive Whoo! culture in er, some companies. "I'd die" she said simply.
Yeah.
Having a fellow genuine person in her midst seemed to perk her up. We talked about the value of expressing enthusiasm sincerely. Of being polite and doing one's job well, but not being phony. Mark Twain beamed at us from the heavens. Diogenes danced with joy.
As she keyed in the code for my cilatro, I asked where she'd like to be right now. She said she'd been working too hard, and would like to just be at home, watching TV. I shared my fantasy of consuming a six-serving box of smoked gruyere macaroni and cheese while watching Fresh Prince of Bel Air reruns. Her version was a giant Wolfgang Puck pizza and Titanic.
As I was leaving I did not tell her to have a nice day. Nor did she say it to me. Is it ironic that both of our days were now just a little bit nicer? I don't think so.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Yarn
I couldn't bring myself to use 'Hooked' as the title of a post about crocheting. Too corny. Even for me.
The last time I'd crocheted was at a Girl Scout weekend campout in 5th grade.
This time around I started off practicing slip knots and chain stiches. Then I found the repetitive motion of the basic chain stitch to be very relaxing. So now there's this demented picture of me in the Guiness Book of World Records, next to the crochet chain I made that stretches from Seattle to Redding, California.
No, not really.
In other hobby news, I joined a writers group a few weeks ago. The meeting started with prompts: Pieces of paper with random words. Popsicle-stick thingies with faded lime green lettering I couldn't read. Color sheets, such as one would find in a Benjamin Moore paint store. We were given half an hour, 45 minutes, something like that to write. I wrote. I knew I wouldn't share anything the first meeting, and who am I to let myself down? I also knew I wouldn't write anything good. Again, I did not disappoint.
Here are some things I found interesting: The deep, tortured, arty stuff people shared was responded to with murmurs of "Mmm, nice..." It was like the writer had served each person a whole trout. Good quality fish in some cases, but too much work to pick through all the bones.
You know what type of writing is always appreciated? The literary equivalent of potato chips. One woman shared a poem about the things she did in college to avoid studying for her statistics exam. She referenced specific dialogue from the Cosby Show episode she watched when she should have been studying. It was light and cute, and most of the people in the room could relate to it. Everyone crunched along happily and rewarded her with sincere burps of laughter.
In all fairness, not all the 'heavy' writing was trout-like. The organizer of the group shared a poem about divorce that had that "Damn!..." final line slam dunk that only the most talented writers can produce.
A lanky, laid-back looking guy in his 20s introduced himself to the group and said he was willing to share what he'd written. He came in late so he’d only written one word:
"Simone"
Well, wasn’t that minimalist but mighty? Seriously.
The group meets again tomorrow night. This time we are to show up with a finished piece. I think mine is good, and I plan to share it. I don't care if I'm told it's terrible. I don't care if people slump over in their seats, loudly snoring midway through my reading. If someone wants to extract a small, pearl-handled pistol from their purse and shoot me in the head, that's fine. I just want to start putting my writing out there.
I'm pretty sure I won't get shot. I probably won't even be harshly criticized. There may not even be time for me to read my damn story. But I finished it, and I'm willing to share it (Not with you. Let's not get carried away) and I feel good about that.
The last time I'd crocheted was at a Girl Scout weekend campout in 5th grade.
This time around I started off practicing slip knots and chain stiches. Then I found the repetitive motion of the basic chain stitch to be very relaxing. So now there's this demented picture of me in the Guiness Book of World Records, next to the crochet chain I made that stretches from Seattle to Redding, California.
No, not really.
In other hobby news, I joined a writers group a few weeks ago. The meeting started with prompts: Pieces of paper with random words. Popsicle-stick thingies with faded lime green lettering I couldn't read. Color sheets, such as one would find in a Benjamin Moore paint store. We were given half an hour, 45 minutes, something like that to write. I wrote. I knew I wouldn't share anything the first meeting, and who am I to let myself down? I also knew I wouldn't write anything good. Again, I did not disappoint.
Here are some things I found interesting: The deep, tortured, arty stuff people shared was responded to with murmurs of "Mmm, nice..." It was like the writer had served each person a whole trout. Good quality fish in some cases, but too much work to pick through all the bones.
You know what type of writing is always appreciated? The literary equivalent of potato chips. One woman shared a poem about the things she did in college to avoid studying for her statistics exam. She referenced specific dialogue from the Cosby Show episode she watched when she should have been studying. It was light and cute, and most of the people in the room could relate to it. Everyone crunched along happily and rewarded her with sincere burps of laughter.
In all fairness, not all the 'heavy' writing was trout-like. The organizer of the group shared a poem about divorce that had that "Damn!..." final line slam dunk that only the most talented writers can produce.
A lanky, laid-back looking guy in his 20s introduced himself to the group and said he was willing to share what he'd written. He came in late so he’d only written one word:
"Simone"
Well, wasn’t that minimalist but mighty? Seriously.
The group meets again tomorrow night. This time we are to show up with a finished piece. I think mine is good, and I plan to share it. I don't care if I'm told it's terrible. I don't care if people slump over in their seats, loudly snoring midway through my reading. If someone wants to extract a small, pearl-handled pistol from their purse and shoot me in the head, that's fine. I just want to start putting my writing out there.
I'm pretty sure I won't get shot. I probably won't even be harshly criticized. There may not even be time for me to read my damn story. But I finished it, and I'm willing to share it (Not with you. Let's not get carried away) and I feel good about that.
Saturday, February 07, 2009
Oh
As mentioned, last Sunday my car had an apres Super Bowl meltdown. Today I called to have it towed in to be repaired. The driver looked at the floor of my car, picked up something that looked like a key chain, and asked if I knew what it was. He fit it into a space below the dashboard and, yep, vroom, that was it. Somehow the thingy that controls the car's entire system had fallen out. It's an anti-theft device, he explained. I can just take that part out and not have to worry about my car being stolen. Oh. Feeling very blonde, I thanked him profusely and was not on my way.
I was not on my way because last Sunday's tow truck driver had emergency braked my car in an over-zealous manner. I'll admit I'm a disgrace to modern women everywhere. I know nothing about cars. But I know that to release an emergency brake, you press in the spring-loaded button and start pushing the lever down. And if that doesn't work after three attempts and several curses, you get out, slam the door, and stomp down the street to the auto repair shop.
The owner of the shop told me to stop pushing down and to pull up- pull it tighter- and then it would release. Oh, ok. *snicker*
With promises to bring my car there for my next oil change -and I will, I'm nice that way- I walked back to my car and freed the brake.
Years ago I took an Aikido class. The instructor was a big guy, probably 6'3 and 250 pounds. He picked a tiny woman from the group- that's correct, not me- and showed how she could use his power for her own gain. In other words, instead of fighting her attacker, she could leverage his strength to push up against him and deftly slip away. His name was Terry Dobson. He'd written a book called Giving in to Get Your Way. The class and the book stayed with me. However, I too often forget to apply the core concept which pretty much is 'No, stupid, do the opposite.'
If pushing doesn't work, pull. If pulling doesn't work, push.
Excuse me, I'm off to apply this concept to my whole life.
I was not on my way because last Sunday's tow truck driver had emergency braked my car in an over-zealous manner. I'll admit I'm a disgrace to modern women everywhere. I know nothing about cars. But I know that to release an emergency brake, you press in the spring-loaded button and start pushing the lever down. And if that doesn't work after three attempts and several curses, you get out, slam the door, and stomp down the street to the auto repair shop.
The owner of the shop told me to stop pushing down and to pull up- pull it tighter- and then it would release. Oh, ok. *snicker*
With promises to bring my car there for my next oil change -and I will, I'm nice that way- I walked back to my car and freed the brake.
Years ago I took an Aikido class. The instructor was a big guy, probably 6'3 and 250 pounds. He picked a tiny woman from the group- that's correct, not me- and showed how she could use his power for her own gain. In other words, instead of fighting her attacker, she could leverage his strength to push up against him and deftly slip away. His name was Terry Dobson. He'd written a book called Giving in to Get Your Way. The class and the book stayed with me. However, I too often forget to apply the core concept which pretty much is 'No, stupid, do the opposite.'
If pushing doesn't work, pull. If pulling doesn't work, push.
Excuse me, I'm off to apply this concept to my whole life.
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