What's Going On

So proud! So unclear!

I had a shining moment of geektitude on the weekend when I decided it it pointless to keep a shopping list on the white board on the fridge if I don't actually take it with me to the store. Not wanting to wander around with a small whiteboard tucked under my arm, never mind the fact that the ink would all smear off all over everything, I took a picture of it with my Treo. Then, once at the store, I was able to consult my list by viewing my photograph. It worked out perfectly and I was so proud of myself.

When I first got my Treo I actually attempted to make use of a shopping list application, but what a pain. So much easier to do the initial input using a human/reality based technology and then digitize it for ease of use.

Completely unrelated, I had more thoughts on the nature of conspicuous femininity. Which is that maybe many women who dress in a conspicuously traditional feminine style are doing so because they are following traditional convention. Which is that if you are a female you should look female. Different cultures have different interpretations of this. A fellow school parent is always demurely feminine, sweater sets, neat unobtrusive makeup, coiffed hair. She hangs with a group of similar women at our coffee shop. They are all happening women, make no mistake, but are maybe a little conservative in their outlook too. Conservatives like authority and tradition, so maybe that is why they follow the traditional female look for their set. Not that they want to project any kind of image; they just feel more comfortable in the uniform than out of it.

For other cultures, and what comes to mind for me is the perfectly brilliant yet slutty looking women on the Spanish language channels, there are different looks. Perhaps for their culture, gobs of makeup and revealing clothes is what feminine is all about. They have no intention of looking like street walkers; they're just wearing the uniform. Progressive, successful, all woman. This is what she looks like.

Or maybe it's just me; I'm stuck in some prolonged state of preadolescence where I want to stay hidden in ambiguity and visual androgyny. Why work to define new visions of the feminine when you can discretely opt out? You can glorify your femininity or you can just go dig in the garden.

Lack of oxygen

The rain finally stopped, you'll be happy to know, and the sun came out, and every pollen bearing form of plant life decided this was the moment to put it out there. So a pleasant trip to the park became a hellish journey into nasal torture and carbon dioxide build up in the blood stream from lack of the ability to exhaust the bad air and replace it with the good air.

Which may explain why earlier in the day I found myself feeling bitter, for no particular immediate reason, about the fascism of enforced happiness. All those occasions when you are compelled at the risk of mass scorning, even from your friends, to be happy and follow some preordained script: it will happen on this day at this time, and you will do this and that, and you will eat these exact same items, and engage in these rituals, the same as everybody else, with no deviation allowed. This seems to happen all the time in America. Every month there is some damned occasion or another when you are compelled to have fun and be happy and eat some dead animal or wear some stupid mandatory clothing or at the very least shop and express false sentiments.

Before all this came to mind, I was clumping through the Safeway parking lot and became aware of the fact that a man was very patiently waiting for me to move on by so he could pull into the parking space I was traversing. I wondered what would have happened if I had been wearing high heels and a tight skirt, was decorated with makeup and bedecked with a coif? Would I have run on tippy-toes to get out of the way, or just waved him on knowing how long it would take to make the trip. Would he have been just as nice to me or even nicer somehow? Do men appreciate the appearance of the woman who is overtly feminine for its own sake, or are they more responding to the fact that this woman wants to be overtly feminine? Like, she's my kind of woman because she has bouffant hair, or she's my kind of woman because she likes to have bouffant hair knowing that it makes her desirable to other people who like bouffant hair. And that said, is there more to being overtly feminine than wanting to give visual pleasure to men and the men-like?

And then I went on to have a bagel with cream cheese and tomato for lunch and forgot about all of it.

In the swim

Today I went swimming. I went swimming last week too. In the rain, which makes it even more virtuous. In Satan's pool, which is a slight problem. This is the local private pool owned by a large, jolly, Christian evangelical group. How could I swim there, after writing so rabidly about my enduring dislike of Christian evangelicals? Hmmmm. Because I am sacrificing all my principals on the altar of swimming outside. There is nothing like it. My son and I will spend our summer there among the Christians and the secret others, who I know are there, just like me, for the waters. I console myself with the memory of the car regularly parked all last summer in the coveted parking lot next to the door, boldly on display, tricked out with pro-choice, pro-Wicca, pro-what-have-you pro-gressive bumper stickers. I should get a bumper sticker for my car, "I am a pool slut," but it might be misinterpreted. Anyway, my son will learn to swim, will have a guaranteed social scene for the season, and I will become strong and sleek and buzz through the summer on an extended endorphin rush. I will renew my ACLU membership as penance.

I can't shut up

About the weather! Sorry about that.

Today is Easter and I know there were civic and private egg hunting parties planned all over the Peninsula, but how many people will want to drag their wee tots out into the monsoon rains? Looking out my window this morning watching it teem, I felt for a while like I was in a Somerset Maugham book. Surly, abusive plantation owner husband. Rain. Sullen oppressed natives. Rain. Lonely, going-crazy wife. Rain. Rubber trees. Rain. Craggy, sweaty man -- passing stranger? Foreman? Rain. A scene on the veranda. Anger, despair, rain. Did I see this movie? It looks so familiar in my mind's eye, all dark grays and misery. Put me off reading Maugham for the rest of my life.

Today is Easter and I can't help but think on my other favourite obsession: religious fundamentalists. Don't you think that if Jesus came, or came back, however you want to see it, that the first people putting up the high-tech crucifix would be Jerry Falwell, Pat Robertson, Tony Perkins or that utter asshole of the universe, James Dobson? Wealthy, hate-filled, punitive...drunk on power they distilled from the words of a person who allegedly said, "It is easier for a camel to go through a needle's eye than for a rich man to enter into the Kingdom of God." And: "He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her." And: "And when thou prayest, thou shalt not be as the hypocrites are: for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men."

For all these clowns bray about the literal truth of the Bible, they seem to have handily dispensed with the whole second half of the story -- the very half that is the words of the man/god they claim to worship so fervently. They are not really Christians at all, but some sort of warped, twisted non-Jews. They are radical Old Testament followers, without the millennia of thought and intelligence of Judaism, which of course also has its crazies, but overall seems to be less offensive than so-called Christian conservatism.

Anyway, for all those of you who are Chocolatists and venerate the Chocolate Holidays, enjoy your rabbit ears!

Nice Day, eh?

We Canadians spend a lot of time discussing the weather. It is a national past time to comment pointlessly on the weather today, yesterday, last year, what to expect 6 months from now, how cold it will get tonight, remember that May when it snowed? Usually in California, this is not such a big conversational item. In the winter, it's cool and rainy, in the summer, it's hot and dry.

But now we are into a weird wet weather pattern and it's on the table for discussion. Mudslides and floods make it into the news; citizens exclaim to each other over predictions that it will remain wet and rainy until the end of the month; we rejoice over the moments when the sun shines out; we are astonished when the next monsoon downpour hits us.

Yesterday, a rare nice day, reminded us of what the weather is supposed to be like right here, right now, which is a) sunny and b) warm. We should be swimming in outdoor pools, digging out the sunscreen, preparing for Easter Egg hunts in which all the chocolate eggs melt into mushy blobs before the kids can get at them. There was a giddy feeling in the air. You experience this a lot in Vancouver, when a rare bright day breaks through and the whole city shines in the rain-cleaned sea air and everyone is in a party mood. Strangers smile at each other on the streets, clerks in stores are friendly.

Today, we are back to cool and overcast. As I drive through town though I realize with wonder that nature is marching on, undeterred. The earth is tilting on its axis and the days are lengthening and leaves are coming out on trees whether you are ready for them or not. I have packets of seeds that I keep waiting to plant until it's Spring, but it's already almost the end of April. Luckily we have a long growing season; you can keep annuals going right up until Christmas, so maybe it's OK if I wait for the next sunny day to get them into the dirt.

People were kind to me

Sunday afternoon we buzzed up to the City for a little cultural enhancement. Friends of ours had given us tickets for a children's performance of the SF Symphony. Somewhat skeptical that my son could sit still for any of it, yet also somewhat hopeful that he might benefit from seeing an orchestra live, as he seems to like classical music, we made our way up the peninsula, into a parking spot, and into Davies Hall. Our tickets were for Tier 2, which we discovered after a time is about 30 stories high. Travelling, as I was, with the fit and the active, we took the stairs. I sneered momentarily at the people packed into the elevators, for two floors! Slackers.

Somewhere around the 23rd story, I started to flag. Have you ever been to Vancouver? And done the Grouse Grind? Well it was something like that, including the rush of mortification to the head as the younger and stronger run by you, you who are dragging your breathless self up, and up, and up while the blood flow to your legs shuts down. Finally I made it to the top with most of my dignity intact. We were now a little late and had to rush, but we got there. We were in section JJ, the furthest away from the top of the stairs. Of course!

In Davies Hall, the balcony seats are clustered into half clam shell pods, each with about 20 seats. The vertical rise inside each pod is about 89 degrees. Our seats were at the front of the pod, with a dainty wee railing to keep us pitching over the edge. Once we were seated, I began to admire the view. Why, the great thing about being up at cloud level is that you get such a wonderful view of the orchestra. And look! There are the other pods on the other side of the building, and oh my god we are just hanging off the walls! No visible means of support at all! And there we were, just a few days shy of the '06 Great Earthquake of San Francisco!

And then the altitude sickness set in. Just like that poor guy in Vertigo, I could see myself hanging from a bell tower, the world below spinning, spinning. After some time of being aware of my heart beat accelerating and feeling a fever coming on, I relocated a few seats back. Higher up, yes, but further away from the edge. Where I now had a great sight line on my son leaping up on the second to bounce a bit and peer over the railing. What if he fell? Could someone catch him? Would he land on someone's head and kill them? Soon he was up again and coming toward me. He was hungry! Oh Joy! We headed out toward the makeshift snackbar located near the stairs, the stairs that could lead me downward, down to the ground. I looked longingly at them as we rushed by. On the way I tried not to look out the windows, so many of them, so generously giving us a view of the Civic Center so far below. We had a cookie and water and then I told him, "I can't stay here. I feel terrible. I'm going to have to go." Back we went to tell my husband. I perched on the stairs of the pod while my son delivered the news.

Outside of the pod, we huddled trying to decide what to do next. Finally, an usher came by and asked me if there was a problem with our seats. "Well, I've got terrible vertigo," I told him, "So yes, there is something wrong the seats." I explained the free tickets, the not realizing how high they would be, the dizziness. He looked sympathetic and disappeared. Suddenly it was intermission and there were people everywhere. The usher came back and told me if I talked to Steve, the head usher, they could maybe, maybe arrange for new seats for us. We continued to huddle, my husband bemused, my son bouncing, me dizzy. I could see a different usher now talking to Steve and waving back in our direction. I was happy I was wearing electric pink and so helpfully visible. I wandered over to see what was what, avoiding again the windows, and it appeared things were in the works. While we waited, I told Steve my story. At first aloof, he then confessed that it was a steep drop and could be alarming. He suggested something on the ground might be better. "Yes, the ground," I agreed, "the ground would be good."

Things went on. We met with more ushers. I forced my husband, British, demure, horrified at being an inconvenience, to deal with them. They found us seats on the ground. In an empty box, which was a ground-level pod with four chairs. And our own coat hooks. Very chi-chi.

The music was odd and my husband was unimpressed. My son continued to bounce, but lasted until the end of the show. I was in heaven, safely seated on the solid safe earth. Play on! Afterward we went and explored the playground by the City Hall. I understood a Hispanic mother ordering a child to keep his sweater on, and was proud of my linguistic skills. I was euphoric that everyone had been so kind to us. No usher sneered. All ushers compassionately obliged us with new seats. How nice! And I was alive! Then we headed home to tea, somewhat enriched and a little wiser. Next time I'm checking the tickets first to see exactly where our seats are. Or at least I'm taking the elevator to get there.

Stay Just a Little Bit Longer

All over the land, liberals, those Americans who would be known as center-right moderates in every other western democracy, are gloating and gleefully rubbing their hands together at final fall of Tom DeLay. I keep thinking of what happened when Trent Lott left. Remember that? Gloating, gleeful rubbing, and then up steps Bill Frist. A doctor. He saved two men's lives, right there in Washington and even helped out Diane Feinstein during an asthma attack. A doctor, he must be educated, which has to make him...a moderate! So with the Trent Lott KKK boogie man gone, people forgot to be afraid of the GOPs and look what happened. Four more years of these idiots. Frist is now tracking right so hard and so fast, he's about to take over the title of American Taliban. DeLay's going is a huge blow to us on the left. We will no longer have him around to shake in people's faces and remind them why they should not vote for Republicans. Mean-spirited, corrupt, hypocritical, vindictive: the face of today's Republican party. How we will suffer without him.

What I've Learned this Spring Break

Children who are not playing Game Boy or watching TV do something called "Imaginative Play." This involves getting blue glitter glue on wood surfaces, grinding cheese crackers into fabrics, and flooding the bathroom.

Keeping the peace involves plying them with a regular flow of acceptable food to keep blood sugar levels even.

Left to my own devices, I end up at Smith Hawkins in Stanford Mall, fondling the teak and vibrating at some imperceptible frequency with the buzz of light waves pinging off copper into my head.

Staring at the Screen

So here I am staring at the screen, avoiding various electron-related tasks and pondering. All I can talk about these days is what has happened at my son's school (the short version: fascist fucks run amok) and the weather. It's been raining biblically now for over a month. And not just demure misty days with quaint and appealing sunshowers, decorated sweetly with rainbows, but pouring fucking drenching monsoon weather. Periodically we get strips of blue sky and a dash of sun on our faces to raise our hopes, falsely, and then the next band of clouds rolls in dripping with the Pacific Ocean and it's on again. The ground in Northern California where we live is solid adobe clay. You could build houses out of this stuff, and live quite nicely until it starts to rain and then doesn't stop. It quickly becomes saturated and then the water starts rolling out onto streets and over lawns. In hilly areas, it slides and takes out homes and roads. Weather refugees like myself are aghast and are seriously asking ourselves if it was really worth leaving everything and everyone for the sake of the sun when the sun is being obliterated relentlessly by grey, grey, grey cloud cover. Thankfully, the computers still work and the TVs and the Game Boys and thank you universe for the electron.