Day #10: Bubble Wrap

Today's topic:  "Bubble wrap:  do you love to pop it or not?"

Ah, finally a subject on which I consider myself informed.  I LERVE bubble wrap.  Well, popping it, anyway.  I've never had much use for it otherwise.  Sure, sure, I know you're supposed to pack stuff in it, but I tend to squirrel it away in closets and then I forget I have it and end up using newspaper, so it doesn't fulfill its intended function.

But the popping part is awesome.  I especially like those marshmallow-sized cells where the sensation of pressing your thumb against it is like puncturing a water bed; it's so swollen, it's ridiculous. 

When I lived alone, I happily popped with impunity, often while multi-tasking during an activity like watching TV or writing something for school.  Living with David and Jarrah has changed all that, sadly.  She will come caroming around the corner at first pop, wanting her own piece of the action, and David will permit only about five pops before he yells for us to stop it.  Which is kind of weird, now that I think about, because he is generally tolerant of all other things that would annoy the hell out of me. 

I can respect his position, but it's still sad.  Sometimes popping a full sheet of bubbles does give one the sensation of having achieved something, or at least completed it satisfactorily, and there's not much I can say that about.  So it feels good.

What didn't feel good was the past six hours, when I wandered and sweated up and down Mission Gorge while my car was at Midas.  They were able to determine pretty quickly that the R2D2 noise was "a blown diode on my alternator."  I put that in quotes because I'm proud of myself for remembering it.  They said there was no telling when the other diodes would blow, and I didn't like the sound of that.  It took exactly the two hours to fix they said it would, during which time I drank a lot of coffee at Coco's, texted and contemplated glitter nail polish at the CVS.  I picked up the car and started for home, looking forward to a shower. 

Then I noticed that the A/C, which I had just turned down from the wind tunnel setting someone had left it on during the test drive, was no longer conditioning in any perceptible way.  In fact--I noted now that I'd driven about three blocks--no air of any kind, conditioned or otherwise, was emerging from my vents.  I made some phone calls, all involving long periods of holding and a lot of repetition, only to be told by someone that the alternator and whatever this was seemed unrelated.

Well, I have to admit, I can't argue with that.  If you'd told me that the engine and gasoline seemed unrelated, I couldn't argue with that, either.  Not my area.  Know what my area is, though?  Analytical thinking.  And that was telling me that if my air conditioner was working when I arrived at Midas, but wasn't working at all when I left, Midas was in some fashion responsible. 

I was more than a little worried I would cry when I told them this.  For one thing, I often cry in these situations, which is sometimes helpful, sometimes not.  For another, I was feeling hot, tired, frustrated and out of control, and those things (if you add hunger you have a sure thing) often lead to crying.  Amazingly, I did not cry, nor did I yell.  I explained that I'm a good customer, and not just of oil changes.  Then I explained my theory about this particular coincidence.

I'd like to say that I convinced them, or that they had to admit I was right.  Nope.  In fact, they were still swearing it was a coincidence when I picked up the car another two hours later.  But they did decide to comp me for the part and labor, which perhaps testifies more to the skill of my argument than anyone agreeing with me might have.  At any rate, I was happy to agree about the coincidence if it meant I didn't have to pay any more money to be fanned with cool air as I drive around in July. 

Day #9: Opinionated

Eek!  I'm a hot mess.  It's almost 11:00, just got home from rehearsal, not exaggerating about the "hot mess" part because I'm sweaty and disheveled from two hours of dancing.  Tonight's routine is called "Aggressive Ladies."  I wonder why I got cast in that one.  Hmmm.  Someone trying to tell me something?

Also I can't find my NaBloPoMo topics.  You're like, what?  Isn't it on your computer somewhere?  Or on their website?  Well, sure, and probably.  Can't find it anyway.

And my car sounds like R2D2.  That's what Liz said when I was leaving.  I just had it serviced but it's making this sighing squeal when I accelerate.  Back to the fix-it shop in the morning.  Great.

So, guess what?  I was wrong about the Pirates.  They did not sweep San Diego.  Far from it.  In fact, it seemed like some sort of conspiracy, they won so little.  They were surprised.  The audience was surprised.  Even the people who won were surprised.  It's the first year that I remember so much behind-the-scenes scandale with the 48.  David and I had a fun night at the Best Of anyway, because we had VIP reserved seats, and because it was like the Oscars, with nominees and the Voice of Disneyland announcing them.  Pretty awesome.

David wants me to tell you a funny Jarrah story from yesterday.  When I lived in University Heights, we frequented a tiny hole-in-the-wall place called El Zarape for the most amazing potato burritos.  Now they've expanded into a swanky location with table service and tequila.  We had seen it driving by and decided to give it a shot.  We walked in and I was taking in the bright tile and cheery decor but I guess something else caught Jarrah's eye before we were even seated:  the wall of Virgin Mary statuettes and crucifixes.  The waitress was seating us when Jarrah announced in a very loud, slightly officious voice:

"This place isn't very Jewish."

David and I snorted back our laughter as the waitress smiled in a sort of unspecific way and offered us menus without comment.  I felt like we should say something, but I wasn't sure what.

I guess she kinda said it all.  I mean, it wasn't like she was wrong.

Day #8: Cafe Culture

Jarrah has enjoyed playing "waitress" as long as I can remember.  This blog contains several posts about her early forays into the food industry, when she used to widen her eyes at "customers" and shout  "PIZZA?  OK!" before sprinting into the "kitchen" to retrieve this universal order.

She still loves playing waitress, but she's gotten ever more sophisticated with age.  Sometimes, I come around the corner to discover a table has been moved to become a "hostess stand" where she can ask about our reservation.  Now that she can write, she presents us with a detailed menu (the sides are always "with a side of anything you like") and--alas--a detailed bill, and these places aren't cheap.  She also takes our order on a little pad, and wears an apron she received at a kids cooking event.

I like to engage her in the same kind of chit-chat I would with an actual waitress just to see how she handles it, and the results are always priceless.  She tends to get really fixated on whatever I bring up.  Witness this morning:

J:  Hello!  Have a seat!  Do you like this lovely set-up?  (The couch features a dog bed with a plastic salt and pepper shaker and a ketchup container niftily supporting a stand-up menu)

S:  I do!  Thank you!  You have quite the extensive menu here.  How long you been open?

J:  A while now.

S:  Great!  I'll take a coffee and the chocolate-chip pancakes.

J:  Coming right up!

She returns with a tray containing a coffee cup, a pitcher of coffee, a smaller pitcher of creamer, and a spoon.  Nice, I think.  Attention to detail.  Someone goes to a LOT of restaurants.

S:  This is delicious coffee!  Tastes like Kona?  Did you have it shipped in from Hawaii?

J:  Oh yes!  The owner had to wait for the ship to arrive so it took a long time for us to open.
She puts down a plate with two plastic hamburger buns.  Can you just pretend these are pancakes?  Thanks.  


S:  Great service here!  

J:  Thanks!  It's just me today.  Normally, the owner helps me out, but he's off getting more Kona.

S:  Oh wow, so you're cooking and serving?  That's a lot.

J:  Yeah.  Also the owner sometimes spends all our money on Kona, so then I have to work harder to get us some money.

S:  Sounds like the owner has a little bit of a Kona problem.

J:  Yeah.  You should come back tomorrow.  We're having Couples Days.  You can come with your kids, your friends, even your husband.  Even teenagers think we're great for the romance.

S:  I might just do that.

J:  I also have a competition where I decide who's best for the romance.

S:  Awesome.

Occasionally, I'm not in the mood to drop everything and go to the restaurant where plastic food and imaginary Kona is served.  But I usually remind myself that this run has already been extended several times and probably must close soon.  The Broadway of pretend waitress will inevitably go dark.  And that will be a sad day.

Day #7: Under the Wire

Oops!  Just got home and realized I only have a few minutes to keep up with my July goal.  It's fitting that I should be doing NaBloPoMo this month since in July 2011 I managed to post nearly every day while on our amazing trip to Australia.  Can't believe it's already been a year.  We're talking about making it a biannual trip, though, so hopefully I'll be back soon.

Because it's a weekend, I have no assigned topic, so I'll keep this short.  Just returned from a lovely night out with some Birdie peeps to see Rent at the Birch Theater in North Park.  This was remarkable for a few reasons.  First, I've never seen Rent, except the movie, which I hated.  I have to admit that it's one of those shows (like A Chorus Line, my fave) that just doesn't work on screen.  It's got to have that visceral, chunky live quality or it seems self-indulgent and tedious.  This I enjoyed.

I did have a bit of a fright, though, when my friend John (who knows him from the same place) pointed out my old nemesis Charles from a certain despotically-ruled jazz revue in which we appeared two years ago.  He was the stage manager who taunted and yelled at me, well, everyone, really, but John wasn't bothered by it.  He's not bothered by anything.  Luckily, he didn't have a big enough part to throw me off my game, but it was still disconcerting.  His voice is nice, but I wouldn't offer testimonial to the rest. 

It was also my first time back in the Birch since being on the other side with The Vagina Monologues.  It felt odd to sit in one of the velvet chairs and face the stage rather than be on stage (or in the wings) facing out.  But I got over it quickly--the theater is a gorgeous piece of art deco history and the acoustics are incredible.  I totally teared up during "Seasons of Love," as I knew I would.  At intermission, I sprinted out to the bathrooms so I wouldn't have to wait in line and once I'd locked the door realized I was in the same stall where I'd changed into my costume last year.  What a different time that was!

Along with Birdie peeps Ryan, Candace and John, also got to see Ben--he was our editor for 48 Hours this year.  I told him it was refreshing to have a conversation when we'd both slept the night the before.  I also got to thank him in a coherent way for how great he was to work with, and how talented. 

Oh, and I've decided to go to the Best of San Diego with David tomorrow night.  I really am curious to see the other films and decided I just need to get over myself.  I figure if I get into any awkward situations, I can use my acting skills to get out gracefully.  Yeah, because that always works for me.

Day #6: Messin' Around

Today's prompt is "Do you come right out and tell people when you're joking around, or do you leave them guessing?"

Well, Readers, this is actually a dilemma I face often.  I have a bit of a deadpan, sarcastic style, and since I flatter myself that I'm also rather creative, I sometimes (who am I kidding?  almost DAILY) make a comment that has a person I don't know well saying in a high, flutey voice "REALLY?  Wow, uh, um, really?"

And then I have a choice.  If they seem genuinely at sea, I tend to take pity and throw them a lifejacket, in the form of a big, reassuring smile and a "No, not really."  But if they seem like they're just having a momentary lapse but are mostly down for this duel, I go even more deadpan and say "Of course." and then I add something even more unsavory and odd to follow up.  And that can go on for a while.

Now, if the person is really, really good, time goes by, and we keep this ball in the air, and eventually I no longer know if THEY'RE kidding and I start to panic and flail and my snorkel fills with water and I have to come up spluttering, crying uncle.  That's a moment that's both exciting and frustrating, because  it's fun but it means I lose.

Speaking of losing (prepare yourself for a big segue here) I am feeling so, so bitter about how the 48 Hour Film Project turned out this year.  Because, honestly, I get why the audience wouldn't choose us first (especially with those ahoy-matey Pirates in the mix) because the subject matter is a little self-consciously clever and the dialogue is complicated, getting funnier with multiple viewings, which that audience doesn't get.

But the judges?  Aren't they supposed to be filmmakers?  Which means they love self-consciously clever?  I mean, the one they're loving all over quotes Butler and Kristeva, for Pete's sake.  And you can't fault our mise-en-scene, which looks beautiful, or our acting, which is the strongest ever.  Plus, it's funny.  I mean, the audience laughed a LOT.  So what the @#$%&*?  It's even harder this year because instead of just finding out if you get an award at the Best Of, there are nominations for things.  And we didn't even get nominated!  Nor did we get chosen for the Best Of, for the first time in, like, five years.  Oh, it stings heartily, it does.

David still plans to attend the Best Of, because he's giving a Go-Pro award (though between you and me I think he would go anyway because he's a better sport than I am) but I am loathe to put on heels and a fake smile for an occasion where I am a has-been.  To fly so high last year!  And to melt our waxen wings and plummet back to earth!  It really hurts.

Day #5: Premature Ignition

Today's prompt is "What prank do you wish you had the guts or expertise to pull off?"

Seriously, people?  With the pranks again?  I must say it scares me a bit to think of people needing "expertise" for pranks.  Shudder.  What a weird world.  What if we used our guts and expertise to find ways to be nice to each other?  Which actually reminds me of when I was a surly middle-schooler lurking at the Clinique counter, no doubt applying lipstick over and over again, and idly watching a handsome man quizzing the Clinique girl about all her favorite products, which he planned to purchase for "someone special."  She seemed giddy with delight, no doubt anticipating a big commission or something, picking out lipstick after lotion after shadow and watching them all stack up on the counter between them.  He paid, asked her to box up the whole lot, then gently pushed it toward her with his business card on top.  "Enjoy.  Have a nice day.  Call me?"  And then he strode away without a backward glance.  She was so gobsmacked she whirled around and gripped my shoulders with her shiny red talons, squealing "OMG!  OMG!  Did you see that?"  I nearly drew a line of Luscious Lilac across my cheek.  I assured her I had indeed seen it, and suggested she call him, since he was a stone cold fox.  I wonder what ever happened there.

Last night we had a new fireworks experience--on the beach at La Jolla Shores.  We were able to do this because of the generosity of Joy's grandparents, who had us over for a BBQ before the show.  That meant we had a parking space, and then we could just walk.  Jarrah and Joy were thrilled to be at the beach at night, and due to the unseasonably chilly night, it wasn't even very crowded.  We curled up in our blankies and admired first the La Jolla Country Club display and then the show across the cove.  The only hitch was that Jarrah and Joy got into a spat because Joy wanted to curl up with her mum and watch the fireworks and Jarrah didn't see any reason to interrupt her industrious tunneling to the center of the earth.  The sky was literally exploding all around her shadowy little figure, and she remained hunched, head down, digging.  Later, she sulked and cried a little, because "I don't understand the point of fireworks!" Which is kind of odd but also funny.  And I admire that she has a mind of her own and doesn't just succumb to that mindless crowd mentality that it's supposed to be, like, impressive or beautiful or something (whatever) when the sky is crackling with sparkly, colorful designs.

It's a funny thing, because if we hadn't gone to La Jolla, we were thinking about springing for a harbor cruise where we could watch the downtown fireworks from the water.  And--I know this sounds like a joke--the big scandale is that the "Big Bay Boom" (snicker) suffered from "premature ignition" last night and the whole shebang went up in one hot mess ball in 10 seconds, five minutes before the thing was even supposed to start.  In the videos that are everywhere today, you can hear the patient masses (who are not in Jarrah's camp) going "WHOOOOO!" for that 10 seconds, and then...all was silence.  OOPS!  Some heads are gonna roll over that one.

We even figured out a secret way to drive home without any traffic, so that was awesome, too.  A very nice 4th indeed.  How was yours?

Day #4: Happy 4th!

Today's prompt is "Describe what the 4th of July was like for you as a child."  Hmmm.  Why don't I remember that?  I guess we weren't big celebrators of holidays.  I remember fireworks, and I remember ocean, so my guess is we went somewhere to watch the fireworks over the ocean.  I do have the sense that fireworks lasted for several hours when I was a child, which means that 15 minutes starts to seem a lot different the older you get.

One thing I have been thinking about is how many "family parties" or gatherings we went to where I brought a book and kept my head in it the whole time.  Lately Jarrah has been bringing a book--usually one of her graphic novels--when we go someplace she might be bored, and it really warms my heart to see this.  Yesterday, I had a theater meeting in OB and she read Diary of a Wimpy Kid the whole time, nearly an hour.  Love that!

I guess I was older (I hope I was) but I remember lots of parties where I was far too engrossed in a big, thick paperback from the Flowers in the Attic series (man, those make the Twilight books look like The Very Hungry Caterpillar) to interact with (sniff) PEOPLE.  There was this one family my parents liked to spend holidays with, and they had a big, sprawling house with a pool and a games room but they had two sons and I certainly wasn't going to talk to BOYS.  People would approach me timidly to say there was a game going on somewhere and I'd glare and say "I'M READING."  That would be it for the night, usually.  At some point, I'd eat a slightly weird-tasting hamburger and maybe some ice cream and then I was right back to the book, until someone would mercifully say it was time to go, many hours later.

My strongest memory of this family, though, comes from a time we hadn't seen them in a couple years and now I was in high school.  We went back for one of those house parties but this time it was all different.  Turned out the oldest son and I were the same age and liked the same music (probably something really edgy like Foreigner) and we went to his room to play records and gossip about school.  I don't remember there being anything romantic afoot, more that we were finally on the same page and had lots to say, but I think his dad threw open the door we'd closed for privacy and saw us lounging on his bed and freaked out, saying the door had to stay open and why couldn't we turn off that infernal racket and come join the party.  We were both a little puzzled, realizing we'd been told to interact for years but now that we were, it was suspicious.  And I think we laughed about this a bit.

I don't remember seeing them after that, but I bet I'm wrong.  But, of course, once all the kids were older, we weren't as likely to be all together at these parties.

Day #3: Meditative Fruit

Today's official topic is "Write about the best prank you ever pulled."  Well, right there, I'm out.  I can't think of any pranks I've pulled because quite frankly, the idea horrifies me.  I'm so gullible myself that I buy into practical jokes with a pathetic earnestness and then stand there, betrayed, fighting back tears.  But more about my childhood later.  What I learned from it, in short, is that tricking people doesn't seem all that funny.  Moving on!

Instead I'll talk about an experience I had with my child yesterday that previously we hadn't shared, even though at one time it was very important to me.  That sounds all very portentous but I'm referring to "paint your own ceramics."

Oh, she's done it before.  Many times.  Lots of birthday parties where they're allowed to choose a puppy or a panda and she heedlessly sploshed a lot of dissonant colors over the thing and moved on to the cupcakes.  But we'd never gone together, and hence, she'd never experienced the the event that is Mommy with a Mug and a Paintbrush--A Still Life.  Very still, because I can do it for like eight hours.  And have.  Back in the pre-child days, when David often worked until 11:00, I frequented a wonderful place in Del Mar with my friend, Sara, who has since moved away.  Run by two older women, it was huge, bathed in light, filled with music and didn't charge by the hour.  They also encouraged us to bring in coffee and pie from the cafe next door.  Why would I ever leave?

Jarrah takes an expedient approach to art.  It's not that she doesn't like to create.  No, she can spend an entire restaurant meal coloring in the menu, and our home "decor" attests to her daring feats with the kiddie scissors.  It's more that she's not a lingerer.  I actually have laboratory evidence for this hypothesis based on the year I spent "teaching" art in her classroom.  She was pretty much in the top three finishers on every project.  Rather than seeing it as impatience, I prefer to see it as conviction.  She has no angst about her choices.  She plunges ahead, consequences be damned.  She knows when the stakes are low--something that I've never figured out.

But this time, I wanted to introduce her to MY way.  I laboriously explained the need for multiple coats (you don't want patchiness!), checking your colors with the finished swatches, choosing sponges, Q-tips, toothpicks, etc. for "effects," and the importance of sketching in pencil first (it burns off!)  She looked skeptical through all of this, but was polite.  She had chosen a turtle; I, a mug.  To humor me as much as anything, she took the pencil and drew on eyes, a mouth, and some shell art.  I set to work researching "fruit images" on my phone.

"You're texting NOW?" she asked incredulously.  No, more that I've realized the never-ending usefulness of my iPhone, which enables me to view not only images of fruit, but how to draw them.  "How did you learn to draw like that?" she wondered.  I'm really not very good.  But fruit is my obsession, and I do my best.  This time, I was expanding into citrus--a lemon and orange slice.  Whoa, kind of crazy, I know.  But I gotta branch out from pears, grapes and cherries in order to stay fresh.

So what it amounts to is, I was still drawing when she was done.  Which I knew would happen.  That's where the iPhone comes in again, to provide entertainment while I lost myself in filling in those impossibly tiny citrus cells, breathing into it, feeling like it's one of the few places where I'm not on the verge of a panic attack.  I really need to do it every week--it's cheaper than therapy and, unlike drugs, the only side effect is a house full of fruit-covered plates and bowls.  And there are worse things I could do.

As for Jarrah, I think she'd be willing to paint ceramics with me again.  But only if I get her a second animal, or put more games on my phone.

Day #2: Favorite Jokes

I think the prompt list I found was written by a British person, because the actual prompt is "Tell us your favourite joke."  Here's the thing:  I'd be horrible at that "desert island" game because I can't ever choose just one.  It's a pathological condition that I need a lot of variety.  There are two jokes that pop up when I hear this, though.

A duck walks into a bar.  He says to the bartender.  "Got any bread?"
The bartender says "No."
The duck says "Got any bread?"
The bartender says "I told you, NO."
The duck says "Got any bread?"
The bartender says "What is your problem, mate?  WE DON'T HAVE BREAD.
The duck says "Got any bread?"
The bartender says "FOR THE LAST TIME:  NO!!!!  AND IF YOU ASK ME AGAIN, I'M GOING TO NAIL YOUR BEAK TO THIS BAR!"
The duck says "Got any nails?"
The bartender says "NOOOOOOO!  WE DON'T HAVE ANYTHING!  STOP ASKING ME!"
The ducks says "Got any bread?"

The first time I heard this, David was forwarding it over email from someone he worked with, more than 10 years ago.  For some reason, it made me laugh a lot.  I think situations where one person is apoplectic while another can't be ruffled is inherently funny.  Also, I have to admit that I had no idea where it was going when we got to the nails part.

But the real reason this joke is significant is we've been teaching it to Jarrah since she was like two years old, and by now she can recite it almost perfectly, with all the correct emphases, but she will still say quite frankly, "Some day I hope to understand why this is funny."  She's very much a literalist when it comes to humor.  I mean, she can reassure her friends, when they ask me, "Will we be getting candy at the movies?" and I respond "I brought some carrots and radishes for you to gnaw on instead" that "My mommy is joking.  She makes jokes like that" but she doesn't understand the nuances of jokes unless they are very short.  Her teacher actually spoke to me about this at her fall conference this year, though what I'm supposed to do about it, I can't imagine.

The other joke that springs to mind is the one that actually functions as half the title of my dissertation, which when I'm feeling concise, I describe as being "about Jewish humor."  The title is "Don't Mind Me; I'll Just Sit Here in the Dark:"  Illuminating the Role of Women in Catskills Performative Culture and the part before the colon is the punchline of the classic "How many Jewish mothers does it take to screw in a lightbulb?"  This is a good joke, and always gets a laugh if people haven't heard it before, but of course it has long ceased to be a joke to me and become more of a social construct that I then needed 300 pages to explain.

I've been trying to figure out why the theme is "KIDS but a lot of the prompts this week are about jokes.  I mean, if the theme was "KID," maybe.

Day #1: And We're Off

So, it's been a long time since I've gone to such lengths...but I haven't been keeping up with this blog so I need a small kick in the arse.

I'm going for it--doing NaBloPoMo for July.  The theme is "KIDS."

I have a bit of a head start because I found a whole list of prompt questions, one for every single weekday of the the quest.  Some of them don't make much sense to me, but I can always improvise on those days.

Since today is a weekend, I'm on my own.  I just spent the afternoon with a kid, though--my friend Julianna, age 13.  I think I got a skewed view of budding teenager-ness because the best part of the day for her was when I took her to Warwick's, an independent bookshop in La Jolla, and she could curl up on the floor with a stack of hardcovers from her various series.  AND she ordered the mini instead of the full-size cupcake.  Say what???

My own kid is having a playdate with her friend, Hope, no doubt involving swimming and the zombie apocalypse.  She just finished two weeks of camp, the first in Mountaineering at the Solid Rock Gym, and the second at Ultrazone, a laser tag facility.  When she asked to sign up for laser tag camp, I said "Sure!  In the interest of full disclosure, you will probably be the only girl.  You okay with that?" and she was like "Why is that relevant?"  Which is how you know she's just cooler than I ever was.

Summer has begun with the usual long to-do list that has been thrust under the rug all year:  replaced my cracked radiator, filled my (three) cracked teeth, felt like I was cracked in the head after sifting through the vast piles of trash in Jarrah's room to create something that looks like order in there.  Ah, summer, how sweet the jasmine blowin' in my mind.

I am also deep into my Pippin rehearsals, having a blast, and hoping not to be fired for violently body-checking all nearby dancers because I am the slowest person in the world to pick up choreography.  As if four-part harmony wasn't hard enough, now I'm having to fan kick myself to a half-split from a fully prone position and that's just in the first song.  Hopefully, I won't disgrace anyone.  Just got my first-ever pair of jazz shoes and they're freakishly comfortable.  When I put them on, I said "I could have danced all night, and still have begged for more!"  Yep, THAT comfortable.

Alright, let's do this thing.  Tune in tomorrow when I begin to answer some pressing bloggy questions that you've always wondered about.  Truly.