I am a confirmed note-on-hand writer. Despite all parental warnings about ink bleeding into my skin and killing me or something equally awful, I can’t stop this. I scribble cryptic messages onto the back of my left hand at least every few days. I haven’t yet found the pen of perfection for this. Those 10 cent Bic options are a bit of a struggle because you have to write hard and that hurts a little. And then the Pilot Pens, although allowing for easy writing, do bleed into all the little cracks in your skin that you never knew you had. And you find yourself staring down at the back of your hand in fascination at their jagged blue patterns.
Lately though I’ve been getting a little concerned. I’m not concerned about the utter un-aesthetic appeal of writing on my hand. It’s not pretty. It’s not professional. But in my defense, I do try to reserve this for things that I can’t seem to remember otherwise. A bit of a last resort.
What concerns me is that half the time now, I don’t understand what I’ve written. I think I’ve inherited my memory confusion from my Granny who ever since I can remember referred to me by every other cousin’s name before she could finally land on mine. I thought this trait might hopefully start developing for me later in life, but I’m not so sure. Just the other day I stared down at my hand reading, “E.M.” and kept thinking, “What does this mean? What am I trying to tell myself.” For the life of me I couldn’t remember. Until much later, trip to the supermarket already accomplished when it dawned on me, “Evaporated Milk!” Sometimes I’ve thought it would be really informative to meet myself at age 10 or age 15. Now, I think it might be more useful to meet myself 3 hours ago to clarify these cryptic messages on my hand.
I’m fresh out of the shower, not fully dressed. My damp hair is brushed back into a prudish pony-tail. I still feel the warm sun from today on my skin. Earlier we walked down the street, looking at menus on restaurants, little pebbles embedding in my thin flip-flops. The sun not so bright that you had to squint. A general aura of pleasantness invading the afternoon.
First an “Almond Shakti” smoothie, then a lemon square, then a Cafe Au Lait. Brushing my fingers through herbs and smelling the scent of rosemary and peppermint. Thinking about taking out my camera for a photograph, but generally not able to do even that.
And now I’ve sunk into the couch and I don’t want to move.
“Did you make any tea?”
“Do you want tea?”
“If you’re going to make it then yes.”
“I just made myself one cup of tea.”
“Oh.”
“Do you want tea?”
“Yes, if you make it, please.”
“Earl Gray or PJ Tips?”
And here I sit, legs crossed, bare feet. My tea is brewing for me in the kitchen, with a saucer on top to keep in the heat. Soon, I’ll have to get up. If I want that tea. But not quite yet.
Filed under: Voting
I stood in a booth at the courthouse, looking over my list of suggested people and I quickly checked off candidates and moved on through the list. I clicked the Enter button and saw the American flag confirming that my vote had joined everyone else’s. Breezing out of the building, I waved cheerily to the guards as I passed the metal detectors. My little patriotic, “I Voted” sticker caused conversations on street corners and in elevators.
And I felt good until later in my car, when they were playing the debate on the radio. I listened to their voices, to the feeling in their voices, the words coming out of their mouths. Then I started to wonder whether I’d made the right choice. Here I was in Texas, where it actually mattered and I was getting buyer’s remorse. I see people around me getting excited about the candidates. They’re worked up and passionate. A friend calls me from Massachusetts to ask what direction Austin folks are leaning towards.
After work I said to my boyfriend, “This is democracy in action, but somehow I feel deflated and disappointed. And I wonder why I’m not feeling what everyone else seems to feel.” Possessing only a green card, he risks deportation if he even accidentally registers to vote. I think he’s watching this from a vantage point even more objective than mine. I just can’t find much solace. I’m proud to vote, but…but there’s something missing for me.
Today I left work early so I could get out of downtown before Obama’s rally started. Instead I made muffins at my boyfriend’s house. And later, friends came. Some us spoke of trying to go to the rally, but in the end everyone stayed gathered around the table, drinking, eating, sharing stories and laughing uproariously.
Tonight the moon fulfills all moon cliches. I couldn’t stop watching it as I drove my Little Sister* home. She was fumbling with her CDs, trying to find one that wasn’t too scratched for my CD player to play.
“Look! Look at that moon!” I exclaimed.
“What? Where?” she said.
“Above the buildings.”
She turned her head to follow my finger and ejected a nonplussed “Oh.”
She kept trying to play, “Low, Low, Low.” My poor car CD player from 1997 kept having trouble understanding burned CDs and kept flipping past the song.
The highway was full of red and white lights from cars, but the traffic wasn’t heavy. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the sky.
“It’s just so beautiful!”
“Yeh.”
“I know you think I’m crazy. You’re like ‘whatever’ aren’t you?”
“Yup.”
And so it continued, me staring adoringly at the moon, her ready to punch my CD player because it wouldn’t play what she wanted to hear.
* Little Sister as in Big Brothers Big Sisters
I fell asleep last night on a plane and was dreaming of sleeping. Back home my plants are re-emerging after winter. Little green buds on climbing vines that once looked dead and on the stalks of the hydrangea. My hands are starting to crave digging in the dirt again. It felt like Monday today and when I remembered to look out the window the sun had set. I wonder what tomorrow will feel like.
The Ft. Lauderdale Hollywood Airport has an ugly carpet. And my terminal, appears to have one Hudson News for each of its seven gates. I keep walking past each one, hoping that I will blink and it will mysteriously turn into something else.
But alas, no. All there is to learn is that Brittney no longer wants her children, Christina does and Angelina is apparently a bad mother because she went to Iraq while pregnant…”and all for publicity!” I guess it’s nice of them to put her on the cover then, since that’s all she’s supposed to have wanted.
So, luckily I have this sunburn to remind me that yesterday I was at a white-sand beach, reading and jumping in the water, and beachcombing with my grandmother, looking for the curly shells that my grandpa used to like so much. “This is good for the soul,” my granny said, “The air, the sun, the beach….ooooh look at this shell!” She scooped it up and put it in her ziplock bag and we continued walking.
Walking through a Publix, in a pink dress and heels, I’m navigating the spices & baking aisle looking for tumeric and cumin. A green shopping basket in my hand with mushrooms, an eggplant, an onion and goat cheese. My granny just a few feet behind me.
Several boys come walking in the opposite direction. The lead boy – a little stocky, a little pudgy, a little like he might still be in high school – looks straight at me, opens his arms like Pavarotti, and starts singing the opening lines to some R&B tune. I start laughing. It’s hard to blush when your face is already pink from the sun.
My granny meanwhile turns around and follows these boys. “I’m her grandmother, you know,” I hear her saying, “Walking right behind her!” She joins me again and says, “Does this happen to you often?” I giggle, “I think this may be the first time that a boy has broken into song in front of me in a supermarket. I think it’s just when you’re around.”
Today I flew to Florida and then drove to the other side of the state to see my granny. I shared the plane ride with two blokes Diego & and Ocho who began downing Jack & Cokes at 9 AM and were amused by most things I said. And interrupted me whenever I attempted to read The Economist. But they were nice enough and though I don’t like in-flight chatting, I relaxed for their sake and discussed catholicism, vegetarianism and whether alligator tails taste like chicken. I don’t think the flight crew knew what to do with them. They were just a little too loud, just a little too happy for the normal airplane crowd. And so I was proud to be their plane buddies, but not quite bewitched enough to let them know my cell phone number, when they asked.
We waved goodbye at the baggage claim. As I was doing this, I backed into a lady, knocking over her suitcase and handbag. “I’m so sorry!” I exclaimed, wondering what my 2 new friends across the way were thinking of my performance, “I totally didn’t mean to do that.” I paused and then added, “I mean that would be kind of odd if I actually did mean to do that.” She laughed hesitantly, “Yeah, that’s the kind of thing I hope you would admit.” I laughed back, “Ha ha” and then nearly ran into someone else.
The drive to my granny was a straight road with no exits, with vibrant greenery, blue sky and clouds and drivers who think it’s normal to go 85 mph when the speed limit’s posted at 55. My granny and I bought me a red shirt with white polka dots, made garbanzo-avocado tacos and shared a bottle of Pinot Grigio (“I’m going to tell everyone that my granny got me drunk,” I threatened). I introduced her to Flight of the Conchords on YouTube; I am heartened by the fact that in this retirement community, someone is using wireless that I can borrow. And that tomorrow, after crepes with strawberries, we’ll go looking for shells on the seashore.
The lab technician came into the room with a tray of vials. She was short, petite and spoke with a strong accent: “Have you been fasting?”
“No,” I said, “I only had a yogurt for breakfast, but I’m not fasting.”
“Yogurt!” she responded, “I like yogurt! What kinds of yogurt do you like?”
I felt temporarily confused by her enthusiasm and thought, “Well, why not wax eloquent about yogurt?” I said, “They buy us yogurt at work, so generally I can only choose between strawberry or blueberry. They’re both fine, but not my favorite.”
“French vanilla for me! I like that.”
“Mmm, yes that’s pretty good.”
“Or yogurt with granola. I like that. Or yogurt with chopped up bananas. There’s just something about that. The combination. It really gets to me.”
I open my mouth to respond, but she says first, “Oh look at me, chattering away at you, when we’re really here for other things. Okay, show me the arm you want me to use.”
And then she brought out the needle.
Squished shadows. Windy wind. A very full stomach caused by the pretense of studying while eating. Instead it was conversation while eating and a ravenous hunger brought on by a jog, past women in sweatsuits with dogs on leashes.
I just stood on a chair to change a lightbulb. And I didn’t fall over. And the unscrewed lamp cover didn’t fall on my head. Which of course is a bit of a blessing in and of itself.
Cammomile tea waiting for me on the stove. Not that I need it.
And I think that’s it for me tonight. Perhaps a little reading and falling asleep wrapped up in peach colored sheets, and a lot of hoping I don’t dream again (like last night) of being trapped with my mother in a loony evangelical church on the dusty side of a cliff.
