¡Marianísima!

This weekend, in Santa Cruz, a guy on the street waved and said “hi.”  When I waved back and smiled, he said, “You have a very nice smile.”  I mumbled thanks, and kept walking.  Later I walked by again, and noticed he was panhandling with the line, “Got forty-thousand for yacht repairs?”  The next day, a different and much more distinctly homeless man smiled and winked at me.I kept walking.That’s what I always do, or try to do – keep walking.

I started thinking about all the times that my chaos-attraction has led random men to make unsolicited comments. Here are all that I can remember right now:

• “May I please kiss your feet?” He asked politely, so I politely declined and kept walking, that time to my final job interview.
• “Where have you been, and will you marry me?”  He was lying on the street.
• “Ay.Buenas tetas.”He was ancient, possibly walking with a cane.
• “I like my women like you…all big & healthy, mmmm….and all that backyard.”
• “Ooh, just look at that shake, that’s how I like it.”

But my favorite of all time was not leery or disgusting at all.The man wasn’t degrading me or trying to bolster himself.You know how there are people in your neighborhood who you recognize but don’t actually know?(Cue Mr. Rogers theme song.)There was a man like that when I lived in Madrid.He was on his way to work every day while I was on my way to school.He was at least twice my age, a businessman, a respectable señor.We probably nodded “Buenos días” to each other, but that was the extent of our acquaintance.Then one morning as I made my way to the Metro, he turned to me and said, “You look very nice today.”It was a simple compliment, for no reason.Still, to this day, some twenty years later, it makes me smile.That’s the power of a compliment.

My dear friend Tricia turned 40 on Tuesday.  At her surprise party, we were supposed to roast/toast her.  I wondered, “How do you narrow down to one anecdote when you’ve known someone so long?”  I decided you don’t.  After all, our friendship spans 19 years, 8 foreign countries, and 4 degrees.  That’s much more than a sound byte.

I always wanted to travel across the U.S., and write the modern-day version of Travels with Charley, except my title sidekick would be Tricia, instead of an oversized prize poodle.  That journey never happened, but many others have — probably enough to fill a book of my own.  So, with apologies to Steinbeck, here’s my roasty toast.  Lessons learned through Travels with Tricia (in chronological order):

1. Spain – it’s ok to pick up boys, but only if you find some for the other guapas.
2. Portugal – it’s ok to use the fish knife for your butter, as long as you do it with a smile, then can-can down the stairs of a palace with Maureen.
3. France – it’s ok to use your friend for personal gain, especially in the case of French pastries.
4. England – it’s ok to drive on the left side of the road. Just remember the golden rule of stick shift driving: The driver may sing but the driver may not dance!
5. Ireland – it’s ok to pick up hitchhikers, but only if they’re Irish octogenarians on their way home from paying off cattle debts. It is NEVER ok to pick up your Guinness from the bar before the bartender has finished the multi-step pouring process that is distinctly Guinness
6. Germany – it’s ok to yell at the train conductor, but only if you’re standing on train seats and pointing to your luggage.
7. Italy – It’s ok to ogle the Italians. Oh, wait, that was me. It’s ok to tell your friend, “I love traveling with you, but damn, Venice is so romantic, I wish I were with a boyfriend.”
8. Argentina – It’s ok to let your friend horn-in on your family vacation.

Here’s to many more years, lots more adventures, and NO more degrees.

The other morning, after a meeting with a great volunteer, I left all happy and content with the world and my lot in it.  As I went to put stuff into my messy car trunk, I noticed something was wrong.  It took me a second to realize someone had scraped off my registration sticker.  Grrr!  No longer loving humanity, I thought, “People suck!”  The worst part is there is NO way the person could have used the sticker.  It came off in chunks. Chunks!  I have since decided it was just some punkass.  That doesn’t change the situation, but I like screaming “Stupid punkasses suck” more than “People suck.” It’s much more specific.  I don’t want to disparage everyone, just the sucky ones.

And how much do I suck?  I have a picture of said destroyed registration sticker, but I cannot figure out how to get my ancient digital camera to communicate with my new laptop.  Stay tuned for that.

UPDATE:  I figured it out! Check out the damage.  Derek said I should have cropped myself out of the photo, but I think it’s a weird & fun little distorted self portrait.

Water polo is hard!  Really hard.  I’m sure this comes as no surprise to anyone.

What surprises me is my head has not exploded.  Learning water polo is hard enough.   I’m also trying to learn a new job and belly dancing, not to mention the names of all the people I’ve been meeting!

The good thing about water polo being so f**ng hard is there’s no WAY I can expect to be good at it.  I can’t worry about being a perfectionist while trying not to drown.  When I’m attempting to both tread water in a whole new way AND throw or catch a ball at the same time — believe me, I am only trying not to sink.  If I’m sprinting across the pool, I’m not worried about my imperfect stroke.  I’m happy if I get there with any air left in my lungs.

Some say it’s character-building to try completely new things. Others would say I am enough of a character already.  I say water polo is hard.  Really hard.  But it’s fun.

(Belly dancing is a story for another day.  No recitals any time soon, so don’t ask!)

This dude’s name is Meatball. He’s my first-born monster, and already I’ve given him away. What kind of monster-mother does that make me?

These monsters are fun to imagine, design and make (my coworker’s ahead of me on the monster creation). Craft Magazine — http://www.craftzine.com/ — says you’re supposed to name them and give them a back story. Meatball Monsteropholes likes cats, though he fears one day becoming a cat-snack to one of his two kitty-housemates. He’s decidedly nocturnal. He dislikes rutabagas but he saves the fury of his rancor for squirrels, decrying “They’re just rats with good PR!”

Other monsters aren’t so amusing to think about.We try to forget nightmares.And I’ve done that quite well; I can’t remember a single childhood monster nightmare. I must have had them, though, and need to remember to ask my folks next time I see them.

In daily life, I think we have a tendency to make monsters out of the people we fear or those we don’t like. That teacher or supervisor we hated? We totally distort their bad qualities until they’re monster-like.It’s easier to blame and dehumanize “enemies” that way. It’s much harder to admit, “I was a lazy student with a bad attitude. She was just a flawed human who dealt with the situation as best she could.”

We also monsterize our fears.Whether it be job-hunting, learning waterpolo, or whatever icky situation we face, we distort it. (Maybe I should stop saying “we,” and just say “I.”) I overblow things sometimes, worrying and making them much worse by avoiding them. Guess what? Job hunting sucks. But it’s not lurking under the bed, waiting to kill me. If I face the ogre often enough, eventually I will find a job. In fact, my new one starts next week!

Even the real monsters out there — the sociopaths and illnesses and whatnot that can harm us — they’re much better faced than avoided. I have friends who are facing cancers and other life-changing, if not life-threatening, diseases. Their real struggles put my worry-worsened everyday fears in check.

I’m going to keep making stuffed monsters to remind me that monsters are mostly our own creation. I’m taking requests: I’ve already got a dissertation monster and a job-hunting monster in the work for friends. Special precedence given to those who have really compelling reasons or already have a monsterlicious back story for me.

An old friend once called me a “chaos attractor,”which sticks years later because it is such an apt description.I can be in a crowd of people, and the wackadoo will come talk to me.Or on a BART train with plenty of seats and only a few people, the raving lunatic will come sit next to me and try to engage me in conversation.

Dad says that this is my aunt’s legacy, that in airports or anywhere, strangers would start talking to her and tell her their whole twisted life story.Yay, thanks.

As escape isn’t always possible (Transbay Tube, for instance), I’ve tried to come up with means for averting chaos.There’s the iPod, a book, avoidance of eye contact, feigning sleep.This weekend, on BART, the conductor came over the loudspeaker, “Bicycle riders are not allowed to have their bikes in the lead car.Please move your bicycle to any other car.”Suddenly, from somewhere behind me, a voice said, “That’s the way to tell them!”I giggled to myself, and kept on knitting.

Next thing I knew, Chaos disguised as a semi-homeless man was nearing my seat, and saying, “I think the conductor just needs to smoke some more marijuana.That would make her more amiable.Don’t you think that would make her more aim-ee-a-buhl, if she just smoked more marijuana?”The voice edged closer to me, and I could see Chaos moving into the seat directly in front of me.Argh!All I could think was, “Don’t look up.Keep knitting.”

My internal dialogue was something like this: “Purl four, knit eight, don’t look up.1-2-3-4, don’t look at crazy, he’s talking to the couple in front of him. 1-2-3-4.” I could see he was scruffy, could hear he was stoned (but, shockingly, more annoying than amiable), and could sense the discomfort of the poor couple he was talking to.He offered them pot and asked them how they become happy. When he said “I can tell you’re happy Irish people like myself,” my dialogue went from counting stitches to self-coaching, “Do not look up!If he sees your freckles and your Irish face, you’re doomed!Knit, dammit, just keep knitting.”I noticed he had a crusty homemade scarf on, and feared that he might see me knitting and engage me in the story of the scarf.

Instead, he started singing, “I’ve been riding down the road, trying to loosen my load…” and meandered off at the next stop.I held my breath through the “Doors are closing, please stand clear of the doors,” and joined in the collective sigh of relief as they closed behind him.

So, as I was channeling my grandma through my knitting, I managed for once to avoid her daughter’s knack for chaos-attraction!

When we got to the Embarcadero in the cold rain, late and without a camera, I declared last night’s Chinese New Year’s Treasure Hunt “better in theory.” But it was really fun.We started at Embarcadero, got our clue sheets and our map.The course boundaries were the financial district, NorthBeach, and Chinatown.It took the four of us (with two internet-connected cell phones) about an hour to decipher the clues and mark the points on the map…then the hunt really began.We weren’t really racing, but walked toward the first clues and generally found where we were going by following the hordes of other dorky people walking in the rain with Ziploc-covered maps and flashlights.Hey, at least we weren’t like the brain trust group in rat-decorated hazmat suits and k’nex headgear.

After finding the 10^th of 17 clues (a “bienvenidos” sign on a doorway in an alley in NorthBeach), we decided “That’s good enough.”Besides, we were in the culinary center of San Francisco, and hungry.We wandered around a bit, until seduced into the Trattoria Volare Caffe with free bruschetta and the promise of homemade pastas.Yummy.

Eventually, we declared our annual mission: We will play, we will get all the clues, we will enjoy the process (no running!), we won’t worry about turning in the results, and we will wind up eating dinner in North Beach.

So, it was better than expected.And next year it will be even better yet, since we are going to have the following: clear skies, warmer temperatures, a team name, and a digital camera.

A better blogger always has a camera.

Last month, the sun set on my 30s. But as it did, I was watching the sunset in Hawaii, with a delicious mai tai in my hand and a great guy at my side. It really doesn’t get better than that.

While in Hawaii, Derek & I hiked: to a beach, to the green sands of South Point (but we arrived in the dark, so who’s to say if the sand was really green?), into a lava tube, and onto the crater floor of Kilauea Iki. We snorkeled near the Captain Cook Monument in Kealakekua Bay, which was, as one of our fellow snorkelers decreed, “like swimming in an aquarium.”I felt like a little kid, and my mask kept leaking because I couldn’t stop smiling.I could hear all my friends back home calling me “Water Baby,” which just made me laugh to myself, and break the seal on the mask yet again.

If you get the chance, go to the BigIsland. It rocks!