“If I generally avoid real-life annoying people, why would I want to watch make-believe annoying people on tv?”
As I approached the corner of Van Ness and McCallister this evening I saw a man standing stoically at the corner and another wildy waving his hands in the air. The latter was clearly directing his efforts at the former.
I thought, “Wow, he is clearly putting a hex on that guy.”
I’m not sure why I thought he was cursing the guy, maybe it was too much Three Stooges watching as a kid, or a lingering belief in the power of transmitted energies, but that’s what I saw.
Never mind that the young mother at the bus stop covered her baby’s ears, or that the 20-something man in the suit decided to take the next bus as the verbal altercation came his way, or that I wanted to cross the street away from this scene.
This wasn’t an old-fashioned beat down in progress, it was a cursing.
Only then was it a less sad story about urban life.
For the past few years I’ve been on a mission to lose weight. I’ve shed and kept off 35 pounds.
The pursuit of this goal has required some serious changes. Some of these changes I once would have called crazy. Daily 5 a.m. workouts? Squats? Swimming? Fewer desserts? Healthy snacking? Lunacy, sheer lunacy.
But I did them and I saw results, so I kept at it.
Which is why I can’t judge the craziness around me at the gym too harshly.
I mean, I don’t know anything about why the lady on the elliptical comes in, spreads her four-month old on a blanket next to the machines and works out for an hour.
She’s keeping at it though, a day after the baby on the floor incident, she strapped him to her chest and got on the treadmill.
I hope she gets to her goal . . . whatever it is.
And, if she keeps it up, I’m pretty sure that baby is becoming a trainer.
My mother and I have never read a book together. She doesn’t really like reading and my literary tastes have never really aligned with hers.
I thought maybe Sonia Sotomayor’s book would give us some common ground, so I started it in English and bought it for her in Spanish.
I think she’s enjoying it so far, and I think she’ll really enjoy the part when Sotomayor starts to talk about her own mother’s history of arrival in the U.S.
The most interesting part of our attempt at a tiny mother-daughter book group–before she even started the book, she handed it to me and asked me to dedicate it to her.
I think she knows we’ll have some more of our own stories to reveal before we get to the end of “Mi Mundo Adorado.”
“Don’t think I don’t know you’re only calling to make sure I’m alive.”
–My mother when she’s mad at me for not calling more
My mother is not a pack rat. She doesn’t generally hold on to things. This means that there are very few paintings done by me as a kindergartener or essays from my high school years.
Her lack of hoarder tendencies, however, make me question why there are certain things she just refuses to throw out.
Used light bulbs, depleted batteries, and ballpoint pens which have run dry.
Just today, I went to put new batteries in a scale and saw that the “fresh” batteries were dead. “How can they be dead,” I pondered, “I just pulled them out of the box.”
Of course, like all mysteries of the universe, with a little probing, I found that my mom thought the best place for old batteries was with the new ones.
“Really mom, why would you put them in the box with new things, it’s not like we put the cracked eggs back with the good eggs inside the carton,” I reasoned.
All I got was a smirk, and then she slinked away with a pencil holder full of pens, to figure out which ones actually still worked.