Guest Room

Here are some shots of our current guest room occupants, Scott and Hilary. They are family who are also friends.

More Shanghai scenes.

HOLY COW
street scene from India

"There's nothing clever about dying young."


I don't know who said that, but it is certainly true. It is fresh on my mind because a week and a half ago a friend of mine took her own life at 30-something. Some think it was accidental, but either way, she swallowed some stuff and never woke up. No note. Very un-clever. Devastating. Incomprehensible. I want to believe it was accidental. That would be much easier on everyone, especially her parents. Your child taking their own life must be the worst thing ever. Ever. EVER.

So today was the viewing. I went, partly in order to believe she's actually gone. Almost immediatley upon entering the funeral home, tears sprang up, taking me by surprize in their early arrival and abundance. It's not like we were best friends; we had only known one another for a year or so...we bonded over shared battles with depression. I guess I cry easy, especially around something so frickin' SAD. She tried so hard.

One of her sweet aunties was there, greeted me almost as soon as I entered, and was so kind. She took my arm and steered me to the Dad, who gave me a big bear hug though we'd never met, then auntie said "Amy's back here" and led me down the hall to the chapel room where she lay. There she was, looking like herself. Except she wasn't there. I kept expecting to see her move her hand, or see her chest rise and fall with breath. But the breath is all gone. We don't notice the movement of life until it isn't there. She was still. Completely still. There, but gone.

Look closely in the mirror of this auto-rickshaw we hired in India.

Another scene in India.

More images from Bangalore, India.

The Great Wall of China, Badaling section.

Houhai lake in Beijing

Our guide Jackie said this is a "typical" home for Beijing.

The rules of this bar are clearly posted outside...and it was full of westerners.

America exports only the best to Beijing.

It seemed to always be this crowded in Shanghai. Perhaps it is because there are 17 million people who live there?...and then people like us who are visiting. Yikes.

Knock offs in Shanghai are not limited to watches and purses. Craig thinks "The Colonel" looks like The Chairman (Mao).

Culture Shock
...and yet, after the initial "discomfort" it actually isn't so bad...it eliminates that desire for seat covers anyway.

Oops, double posted the same photo...here's one you haven't seen yet (hopefully). Night shots of Shanghai from our hotel window.

Craig and me sweating in Shanghai

HOME AT LAST

Yesterday morning (local time) we arrived safely back at SFO. Oh, home sweet home. I have only so much travel equity in me, and mine was spent, and then some. On our bodies, it was the wee hours, so I climbed in my bed at 11:00 am, and mostly stayed there, save a few wanderings out for peanut butter on bread, until 8am this morning--Saturday.

I wanted to post much more frequently during the trip, but in India and China I was not allowed much access to blogspot...oh well. I'll be posting more in the next days, showing pix from our adventures. Thankful to have gone, thankful to be home safe.

True street art.

Partial view from our hotel room.

He granted permission...for a small donation.

Sweet comfort in a green tea frapaccino.

The ladies gave permission for this photo, then surely made fun of me for wanting to take it!

Pins at a small shop.

Craig and me in Shanghai

SHANGHAI

Think Manhattan times a thousand with heat like Singapore. It is incomprehensible, really. Skyscrapers further than the eye can see in every direction. Yesterday Craig and I did some of the typical tourist things---saw the cool double-sphere tower, went to the largest mall in Shanghai (by accident, we were just looking for a place to get lunch with air con), and went to Shanghai Old Street. At one point I caught myself thinking "we must be in Chinatown" then realized it's all chinatown...duh.

In the tourist areas we were constantly being approached with greetings such as "Hello, watch, purse, Louis Vittion, Prada, many, right here" while being shown laminated flyers picturing various purses and watches. So far I've resisted the street solicitation, but when they say "Coach" I begin to drool. I'm at war with myself, because I don't believe in knockoffs, but, much like some women are seduced by shoes or the perfect boot (my shout out to Hilary), and men by a beautiful woman, fabulous bags can make me weak in the knees and willing to abandon (almost) all principle.

After the tourist destinations, we wandered around and quickly found ourselves in the other Shanghai. Places screaming to be photographed, but requiring much restraint as Craig also described on his blog. No one wants to be treated like they are in a "zoo." We tried to be respectful, and asked permission to photograph when appropriate. I was refused only once, by an elderly woman. The mops at the front of her home were beautiful in their way, but she shook her head.

I will try and post some photos, but have had some difficulty, so we'll see if it works.

India

Well, where to begin? Immediately after getting off the airplane it was obvious we were not in Singapore. So I'll start by saying the Singapore airport is the nicest I've ever seen. It has much to offer including kiosks with free internet access, napping areas, free foot-massasge machines, live orchids and other tropical plants and flowers everywhere, spa like shops where you can get foot or back massages, retail stores such as Burberry, Salvatore Ferragamo, and Coach.

Now we enter Bangalore International airport. Dirty linoleum, haphazard paint jobs, missing ceiling tiles, piles of construction (destruction?) rubble, two (that i noticed) plate glass windows broken with huge shards in place and nothing to prevent someone from entering there. In one area of baggage claim I counted 7 ceiling fans, 2 of which were operating, and one tiny shop selling candy bars and chips.

Then we walk outside and the real adventure begins! There is no order to the parking. Or the driving. A car was waiting for us courtesy of the hotel, so we didn't have to endure the gauntlet of drivers wanting to take us. As we entered the haphazard crush of vehicles exiting we first experienced the Indian form of lane demarcation: go wherever you will fit (one half inch clearance is plenty) and announce yourself all the while with your horn.

We arrive at our hotel, both of us a bit shaken by the reality of Bangalore. The hotel is lovely, and we settle in for the night. Next day we ask the concierge for advice, and he suggests we hire a taxi to take us to various sights around town. This sounds fine, so off we go. The traffic and driving habits are astounding. It seems a requirement to use the horn in direct proportion to how much the gas pedal is used. OK, but are a lot of people staring in the windows at us? Why is that young girlchild doing gymnastic tricks on the corner and then tapping on our window? Doing tricks for money? Oh.

Our driver takes us to the Bull Temple, fine, interesting, a big bull carved from one stone, why not pray to a rock? Next he pulls into a driveway, stops and we are ushered into an apparent rug showroom complete with highly detailed demonstration, high pressure, lengthy, tea-is-served sales presentation. Right, well we're not really in the market for a several hundred dollar silk or wool rug. No, not the carved stone elephants or the semi-precious jewellery (that's how it is spelled here) or the pashminas, or even the lovely hand painted paintings. No. Really. We're leaving..."Kumar! we're ready!!"

So we get in the car, gently tell Kumar (not making it up) that was a bit too high presssure for us, please don't take us to any more places like it. So we drive past the library, through a park, stop at a large government building, all the while being stared at in and out of the car. Then we are delivered to another shop! The kind where the lights weren't on until you arrived, and now everyone is scurrying around, turning on lights, manning their stations. Please, sit down, allow me to show you the turquoise...the one I like is $600 dollars american? Ya, not so much...just a bit out of my souvenir budget. So I try and gracefully look at the scarves and ties. But the ONE that Craig likes is dusty, soiled. "This one is a bit dirty...do you have another? "Madam, I assure you all of these are new. It is against the policy of our shop {implied: and i am HEARTILY offended that you would suggest such a thing] to sell anything which has been worn." Silly me. But it is dirty. KUMAR!

Next we are dropped on a narrow, busy, crowded retail street. Shops full of dusty stuff we don't want. And we are beginning to recognize the Indian style of customer service: stalk the customer. They just come and stand right by you, and stay close wherever you go. I was this close to taking out some restraining orders! And the crowds and the garbage and the honking and the crumbling buildings---which we still can not tell if they are being built or being torn down. If they are being built, start praying to the bull right now that there is never an earthquake...or a loud clap of thunder.

By this time we were shell-shocked, and asked Kumar to honk our way back to the hotel. Wow. Ok, so fast forward to the next day: Craig had work meetings all day, and I literally did not leave the hotel room until he returned at dinner time. I just didn't have it in me to venture out into that wild world.

But today, off we went, Craig and I. This time on foot---no more high pressure sales destinations for us! But we did experience more of the customer-stalker mentality, and boy do i hate it. Get the f**k away from me. In one shop it seemed there were literally 12 stalkers for every customer. Two young men practically came to fisticuffs trying to convince me the handbag they had shown me was the better one for me. Aaaaaaaack.

From that western-ish shopping area, we set off walking some more, and ended up having the best time we'd had yet...wandering the streets, taking photos. We were so off the tourist track, if there even is one, little children in front of their homes were calling to their siblings inside to come out and see the white people! I can't swear that is what they were saying, but they saw us, called inside the house, and more faces peeked out at us. We waved and smiled. Not all the grownups were so happy to see us, however. Or maybe smiling at strangers isn't culturally acceptable, except for children. After getting ourselves thoroughly lost, and finding our city map incomplete, we did our most adventurous thing and hired one of the 3 wheel, 2 stroke engine vehicles to taxi us back to the hotel. OMG, imagine Space Mountain or the Raiders of the Lost Ark ride at Disneyland, without any of the safety precautions! Wild, fast, hair raising, white knuckle adventure! And just as we were delivered to our hotel, a monsoon rainstorm let loose. Such fun.

After today, I think I actually prefer India, stalkers and all, to Singapore. At least it feels real here, and not so freakishly hot. Even with men peeing indiscriminately at the side of the road, and moms taking their toddlers down the block to poo on the sidewalk not quite right in front of their own home (a park shared with cows and at least one goat). Watch where you walk. And smile at the children.

Another cool tile from the Melbourne plaza.

This photo is of a tile in a plaza in Melbourne. Mostly nonsensical, yet containing a sentiment most of us carry somewhere inside. I found it sweet, and the placement interesting: on the ground.

My favorite sign from the trip so far. It was in Melbourne, Australia.

SINGAPORE

August in New York City. Now add a thousand degrees, ten trillion people, a minimum of two shopping centers per block and you've imagined Singapore. Do I sound a tad cranky? I'm sorry to be so, and yet have trouble being cheery when every pore of my body is like a faucet left on. I haven't been this miserable from weather-related causes since, let's see...oh ya, that 2 weeks in August of 2002 that we spent in Manhattan.

Day before yesterday we went to a local indoor market in the section known as "Little India." It was like four floors (thankfully air conditioned) of knock-offs and glorified dollar store merchandise. It provided my biggest incident of culture shock: the restrooms had no TP (or towels) but rather a handy hose in each stall. Yes, a HOSE. So you get to clean off your wet parts with water...don't even THINK about going number two.

The heat has not prevented us from venturing out, but it has limited our wanderings. We frequently duck into an air conditioned space for respite, and that's where those ubiquitious shopping centers come in handy. We suspect this is how many Singaporeans spend their time---wandering the malls. Guess it's just another thing they have in common with the US.

LOVE, SYDNEY


A mere 17+ hours on a plane ("Holy butt cramp, Batman!"), and voila, here we are in another hemisphere, a different continent, the middle of winter. Same language though, so that's brilliant. Craig is off to lunch and a meeting today, and I might shower and go exploring some more on foot. We did a fair amount of that yesterday in order to make ourselves stay up until at least 7p.

"Our Father Which Art...."

Lately I feel like I don't know how to pray. What could i possibly have to say? Please do this? Please do that? Protect him? Heal her? I no longer know how God works. I don't think I ever did know, but I sure thought I knew more than now. Dobson and MacArthur and Ezzo said what was what, and I believed it. Now I feel as if I'm trying to cough up that hook, line and sinker I swallowed, without also coughing up my lungs.

All I can muster these days is prayers along the lines of Anne Lamott:
"helphelphelp" and "thank you thank you thank you"

or Madelaine L'Engle:
"Dear God,
I hate you.
love, me"


God help me...
...and bless you.

Class of 2006

Tonight (or at least this weekend) is graduation for many in the various classes of 2006. I wrote a little poem in their honor:



Get a Job

no more classes, no more books
now I just get my parents
dirty looks

Color Gone Wrong
Horribly Horribly Wrong

Anyone who knows me well or who has ever been in my home knows that I am not afraid of color. Quite the contrary. For years my motto has been "life is too short to have all white walls" and I have been unafraid to live out that motto. HOWEVER, this is a bit much, and a prime example of when a strict homeowners association would have been a good thing!

It is a well-kept house, and a professionally applied paint job, but WHAT WERE THEY THINKING??? There are five distinct colors partyin' on this house: orange, lime, purple(imitation stone is bad enough, but painting it PURPLE?), teal, and dark orange(the front door).

I'm thinking of developing a tv show called "What Not to Wear if You Are a House" and this will be the pilot episode. A candidate for episode two is right down my street. Unfortunately(?) I do not have a photo to share, but you can't miss it when you pass by because the color is so loud you can hear it screaming YELLOW YELLOW YELLOW YELLOW DAMNIT YELLOW.

Mirrors in Hell

It’s a silly little digit printed on a tag, or woven into a label, yet it holds enormous power over millions of women. It is arbitrary, and varies widely. Most of us find our range of capturable digits, and are content, or resigned, to adopt them as our own, when—HALLELUJAH--out of nowhere when we weren’t even trying and certainly didn’t deserve to fit in one, we stumble upon an item with a SMALLER NUMBER! We look at it skeptically, assess the width in relation to our own, begin to put it back knowing we have never ever been that size, prepare to chastise ourself for being so foolish as to think we might be now especially in light of what we ate last night, check the tag again, glance furtively around to see if we are being punk’d…….?

Heart going pitter-pat, we sandwich the garment (usually found in the form of jeans) between other pairs bearing our usual number, not wanting anyone to see the size in our sweaty little hands and think “right, lady, you’re going to squeeze your big ole behind into those?” Our voice cracks with excitement, fear, anticipation, dread when we ask “May I try these on?”

The treasured moment is here. One leg, then the next, and—YES!—the zipper closes and I CAN STILL BREATHE. I can even sit down. We almost don’t have to actually like the garment (almost)—the fact that it fits and officially has that “smaller number” is so close to enough—thankfully I do like them. Today I am certain God loves me.

Powerless am I to NOT purchase these jeans. In this moment I am a flaming born-again Calvinist, KNOWING these jeans, with their itsy-bitsy (in relation to my usual digits) “number” were predestined before the creation of the Wal-Mart Empire to fit me, go home with me, be my new best friend.

One eensy-weensy compromise of my principles later (admit it girls, you would have done the same!...wouldn’t you?), plus the 45 minutes it takes to get through the line at Wal-Mart, and I am the elated owner of size such-and-so Levi’s. And all it cost was my soul.

So I’m wearin’ the jeans, I’m likin’ the jeans, I know what the tag says, I like what the tag says. But the fact is, my butt is the exact same size it was before the appearance of the magic jeans. How can I be so easily duped?—all the while knowing (kinda) I’m being duped, but loving every minute of it??? And who are the geniuses who figured out if they just mess with the numbers they can get me and millions like me to buy whatever they want? Did they intern at Enron? Are they Satan? And what does that make me—soul-less slave of the empire?

Are there mirrors in hell? Yah, I think so too. At least my butt looks good in these size ___ jeans.

I Hate That I Love It

I also don’t like confessing it. But my significant other keeps reminding us of the need for transparency, so I suppose I should open the blinds: I love TV.
I do.
I know I’m not supposed to.
I know that all the cool people hate it, or at least are indifferent.
I know it’s mind-numbing and mostly dumb…yet that seems to be exactly why I indulge.
It relaxes me.

Don’t get me wrong…I don’t love all of it! You won’t catch me watching the Hallmark channel, humor-less sit coms, or those silly soaps. Nope, I’m all about reality, like Court TV, Larry King, The Daily Show, Judge Judy---now there’s some quality programming! Nothing like a good lawsuit between a woman and her son’s baby’s mama over return of bail money to help one wind down after a hectic day.

Who needs soap operas?—or wine? Give me a half hour dose of white trash wranglin’ over fifty bucks and I’m good to go.

I Hate Good-Byes


My 80-something-nearly-90-year-old Grandma Joyce is, in the words of one of her sons, “slipping away.” This is immensely sad. No one is actually surprized when someone who is nearly 90 dies, but the loss still hits you in the chest like a rock…or a truck. Partly it is the indignity of the process (her process). Loss upon loss: the physical shrunkenness, the lack of memory, the failing control of bodily functions. The intermittant realization that one is losing one’s mind must be the ultimate humiliation---or at least feel like it, no matter how loved ones try and ease the passage.

I am deeply sad that this is what it has come to---saying good-bye to my Grandma Joyce, whose house seemed like a wonderland to the child me. When we came to visit the grown-ups talked and laughed and smoked and watched TV and forgot about us kids in a good way so we stayed up late and pretended we were invisible under the bed so we could watch the Friday Night Movie, too.

Grandma Joyce’s was a good place to go, with the long driveway and the trampoline and the canyon to explore. Mom seemed happy there, and it wasn’t until later, as a young adult, that I began to learn Grandma may have been easier to have as a grandma than as a mom. As with many families the picture fills out as you get older. My memories of Grandma Joyce are all fondness, but I grew to understand why my Mom’s are much more mixed. The more I’ve learned and understood, the more I’ve been able to appreciate how my own mom (and dad) did the best they could in the moments they had, with what they’d been given. And really, that’s all any of us can do.

I’ll try and be ready to say good-bye Grandma. No, I won’t be ready, but it’s not up to me. Thanks for being good to me when I was little. I’ll never forget it. I love you Grandma Joyce.

balloon

that one’s mylar
a heart in the sky
mine is muscle and blood
and tender parts and
hurts
too much pain
lately

who let go
to let it twist up
free and away
or lost
discarded
forgotten

my tears fall like
rain
in june
unwelcome not
unexpected
the mylar heart passes
through the
rain
it’s ribbon tail dances
too high to
reach

if my heart
had
a ribbon tail it would
say
hold tight don’t
lose me or
let go
i can’t dance
alone

Ciao, Baby

Leaving in an hour and a half or so to take my baby girl to the airport for 10 weeks in Europe. All by her lonesome she travels. I know---think I know---it will be a great experience for her. But I so desperately need her to come home alive.

Cash is King

we just returned from seeing "walk the line"
omg, it's my new favorite movie
i'm high on love,
all about johnny and june,
and i need
the soundtrack.
i loved it
cried a bit
wanted to cry more...
sob even.

i expected it to be good but
it was way better than i even
anticipated.
what energy there must be
when two people who are driven by
music
are able to perform together and
love each other well.

how amazing is it that those two
actors
sang it themselves???
i hope he wins the oscar
and her too if she is nominated, which
of course she
should be.

wow.

Amazing Weight Loss Plan


It's the new year and many are looking for that quick guaranteed method for dropping a few pounds. Well, I discovered it. Not only is it quick---3 days---it is almost sure to bring results**.
**for those over 40 results may be measured in ounces not pounds.

First, do not, repeat DO NOT get a flu shot. Doing so will greatly reduce the effectiveness of implementing this weight loss strategy.

Next, hang around anyone you know who has the flu, has just recovered from the flu, or has a family member with the flu. Attempt close bodily contact with them, preferably on the mouth or nose, and do not wash your hands afterwards.

When symptoms first appear ("my tummy doesn't feel so good...maybe cherry pie for dinner wasn't such a good idea....") you will have a solid 30 minutes before they take full effect. If you are not already at home or close to a private bathroom, make your way there immediately. Oh, and this will be the last solid entity you will experience in any 30 minute period for the following 72 hours.

At the end of 3 days (give or take 10 days depending on the virulence of your WeightLossVirus) feel free to ease back into a food regimen, but avoid rich, heavy fare as your recently inside-out gastro intestinal tract may still be sensitive (I especially do not recommend buttered popcorn).

As mentioned previously, actual results may vary. Particularly for those over 40, who could gain weight as the body will register the food passing through the mouth twice (going down and up) and count the calories accordingly. For the rest of you, enjoy those newly-looser jeans, and not to worry, the dizziness and lack of stamina should subside in a week or two.

Serial Killer Sympathy

It was a very PMS Christmas. No one was dismembered or visibly maimed, and at least half of you know what a miraculous feat that is, having yourselves survived PMS each and every month. Combine Christmas week with PMS week, and DANG! I should be getting more attention for exhibiting such restraint. Forget the crying Mary statues, and Velveeta Mary sandwiches, and the Mary-appeared-in-the-bird-dung-on-my-windshield pilgrimages, those hordes of faithful Catholics should be lining up outside my door waiting to glimpse the miracle I am for not having killed anyone...again.Some of you have no idea what it is like to live through PMS. And no, living BESIDE someone who has it doesn't count. Sorry fella. But until you have experienced the alien who takes over your body, puffs it up, demands candy and french fries on a moments notice, ignites a bonfire of rage in your chest because some inconsiderate slime had the audacity to TURN THE RADIO ON (or INHALE, or BLINK, or SIT IN THE WRONG CHAIR), plants light-activated atomic missiles in your pupils, and replaces your tongue with a carbon steel razor, do not tell us you have "lived with" PMS. Oh no.When you have repeatedly, month after month after month after year, resisted the urge, demand, imperative need to annihilate all those who may breathe in your presence, and not only resisted but were actually able to retain a semblance of normalcy, all the while swallowing the blood caused by the razor sharp tongue being held in your mouth, and tamping down, with perhaps minor (minor= no one died) escapeages of the roiling molten anger and need for revenge on the world, then and only then will you understand.And that's why I have serial killer sympathy. Every month I come THIS CLOSE to being one of them.

Resolute


Ahh, a new year. And I already know what my first resolution for 2006 will be: skip the New Year’s Eve parties. I need to embrace the fact that I am not a loud rockin’ party gal. I think it’s my desire to actually hear what the person next to me is saying, instead of just smiling, nodding, and trying to time my laughter to the right moment when the person 8 inches from me, but whom I can not hear, has made an amusing remark. This aversion to loud mobs of people I do not know, and will not be able to get to know since I can’t hear a thing they say, could be blamed on middle age, except that I have never liked such environments, even when I was “supposed” to as a teenager. No wonder I smoked so much pot back then.

Speaking of smoking, last night I tried to smoke a cigar…listened to the instructions from a cigar-lover: draw it in toward the back of your throat, “taste” the complexities, do not inhale---but alas, the pleasure escaped me. Was I not doing it right? Or do I simply not appreciate the taste of fine Caribbean tobacco? My cigar expert tried to compare enjoying a fine cigar to appreciating the complexities of fine wine, but the complexity of a wine was never what I appreciated about it---the alcohol was, and if it was sweet, even better. Cigar mouth, which I later experienced, is not something I wish to repeat. Which translates into resolution number two: do not take up cigar smoking. This will likely please both my dentist and my husband.

Should I disobey myself and go to another hip New Year’s Eve party, my third resolution will kick in: do not spend X* (*a ridiculous number) amount of time obsessing over an outfit and getting ready. 97% of the people there will have thrown on a pair of jeans and T-shirt, and you will then look even more like their mother than you already do. Not that I’d rather be in the party set that wears elastic-waist pants, themed sweaters, or matching nascar jackets, so please keep those rockin’ invites coming!! Cuz even though I may not show up, I sure love being included.

And a fourth resolution…or is it just re-upping a prior resolution? I’ve been mind-altering-substance free for a while now, and think 2006 is a good year to remain so. It’s working for me, even though as an introvert it makes rockin’ dance parties a bit of a challenge—none of that loosening that comes with getting liquored up. So though I may not be the wild and fun one at the party, I can safely drive home (need a ride?). And I’d love to catch up and actually hear what’s going on with you, so let’s go for a cappucino in a nice quiet café, shall we?