Human Kindness is Not Dead

Last night was horrible, with a dash of some kindness, but ended on a nicely bizarre note that reinforced my general understanding that not all people are evil. Some of the kindnesses I throw out into the universe (letting the guy with one gallon of milk cut in line at Ralph's, waving the other car to "go ahead" at a four-way stop, etc.) grew together into a huge clump of good karma and hit me straight on. And so the story goes...

I've been feeling icky the last few days--most likely the return of my sinus infection from January. The couch has been supporting me horizontally for over 48 hours and the floor is littered with snot rags. Not a good sight. I could hardly stand myself any more and at about six, I decided to walk to the video place to grab a flick. I knew sleeping would be scarce that night, as I had been snoozing on and off all day. I fought the head rush as I stood up, took the three block walk at a leisurely pace and decided on season one (disc two) of Grey's Anatomy. A quick flash of the ID, three bucks and I was on my way. I headed to the grocery store across the street for some juice and bananas and realized, mid-checkout, that my wallet was gone. Oh shit. Actually, fuck is more like it. I retraced my steps--each isle of the store, under each car parked between the video and grocery store, the entire video store and back THREE TIMES. I left my phone number with anyone who would take it. I was freaking out. Eventually, I gave up and walked home with my video, feeling sullen, stupid and even more sickly. Once home, the calling of banks and credit card companies ensued. Everything was cancelled and reopened, shifted and confirmed, verified and restablished. I then made a list of all the shitty ass things I would have to do come Monday to get my life back in order, including going to the DMV for a new liscense. Ugh! By nine, I decided "it is what it is" and started watching the DVD. That was the horrible part.

Around ten, a knock came at the door. Believe it friends! A nice older man stood there with a smile and my wallet. Before you go parental on me and list all of the crazies who could have been at my door or the dooms-day scenarios that could have played out, I had Fang on my side and he could have attacked if the situation presented itself. Plus I have this romantic idea that I could fight, scream, tear and kick my way out of an assult. Statistically speaking, I'm taller and heavier than the average American male anyway. For once, the numbers work for me. Back to the old man--he explained that his son had found my wallet in one of the grocery store isles, and, when he opened it, he noticed my address and saw that I lived a block from his dad. He took it to daddy-dearest, who then walked it over to my place. Everything was there, from the cash, to my library card. I about shat myself with glee. I stammered for words of thanks and the nice man explained that he, too, had lost his wallet in the past and knew how I was feeling. But some nice stranger had saved the day, as this man did for me, and delivered his wallet in one piece. That was the kindness part.

As if all this activity wasn't enough, the nice man said, "I have something for you," and pulled a book from behind his back. "Read the front," he said. The first page was dedicated to me, with something like, Dear Sarah, what an odd way to meet, if I were only a few years younger, la, la, blah. This guy brings me my wallet AND a copy of his latest book! That was the nicely bizarre part.




















This morning, I wrote the nice man a thank you note and sent it off to the PO Box address listed on his website. Now, what he did is something I would do without a second thought. It's in my nature to do what is right (most of the time) and just try to make other peoples' lives better. And this man struck me to be the same. To know that there are others out there like me in that way, or to know that the idea of karma or "what goes around comes around" does exist, is a very nice way to pull someone out of a bout of sinusitis.

Fang!

He will always be Fang to me, but for the sake of his professional future, I could not, in good faith, allow Fang to be his official name. So my Fangly's id tag and vet records will read "Singha Dovetonsils." Thanks to all for the votes, emails and otherwise helpful communication. Please meet my new love...

Pound Purry Name: Please Vote

Monday afternoon I went to ASAP, the "we don't euthanize" cat camp in SB, and adopted a purry. He, or "it," is a six to seven year old flame-point Siamese. I'd guess he's about six pounds, buff in color with orange "tips" (nose, ears, tail). One ear is a bit goofy-looking and folded over, but it fits because he's an odd kitty. I'm sure you all want pictures, but he emerges from under my bed only a few times a day. Check out this site for a general idea of his likeness.

So the big question is what to name him. The pound had him labeled "Meow Ling," and his previous owner (who sent him back!!) called him "Skittles" or something equally lame. Right now he goes by "Fang," because of his unusually long canine teeth--so long they hang out of his mouth when it's closed. I asked my students for suggestions, along with my folks and GBP.

Here is what's on the table:

a) Simon (the Siamese)
b) Sid (Vicious--a waif rocker dude)
c) Red Adair (famous firefighter with Irish roots)
d) Percy Dovetonsils (fictional gay character from 50s TV)
e) Singha (the very delicious Thai beer)
f) Other: __?__ (perhaps a combo of the above??)

Please vote or Fang might stick, much to the chagrin of everyone I've consulted.

The Midnight Band and Special Guest...

Rejoice!! I left my apartment past nine pm on a weekend! Saturday night I went to see The Midnight Band, my favorite local group who does great R&B/Classic MoTown covers (signed, sealed, delivered--I'm yours...R-E-S-P-E-C-T...), at the you-cannot-get-in-unless-you-were-born-before-1960 nightclub SoHo. I convinced some friends to meet me there to dance our pants off and, pardon the pun, sweat to the oldies. (Ha!) I boogied with the best of 'em, right up by the stage and flirted with the 50-something black man who plays the harmonica like it's a woman and he's been without companionship for a while. And he sings like Ray. Do you follow me?

Anyway, I'm dancing, sweating, shouting, flirting and then a goofy looking white dude takes the stage and the crowd does bananas. Someone behind me shouts, "Kenny!! Woohoo!" So he starts singing along with the lead soul girls and people are fucking clawing over me to take my place by the stage. Turns out this "Kenny" man is the famous eighties movie soundtrack king and SB local, Kenny Loggins. So I figured, why not throw myself at him like the rest of the class-act honeys? Sure, I went along for the ride.

He was a bit strange, the kind of strange like his hearing is damn near lost so he has to put his index finger in one ear and squint his eyes and hunch over while singing to really "feel" the music. Well, there were only sixty people in the club and the music was plenty loud. Before I completely trash this man, I will admit that "Danny's Song" is probably in my top ten fav tunes of all time, so he's not THAT bad. I never did find out if he was there randomly or if it was a planned sighting. He was in jeans and a tshirt though, so it couldn't have been a career appearance. Either way, another boring night out in SB. ;) Dancing, famous people, and I was sober the entire time. Not too shabby.

A Chocolate Bell Flies in From Rome...

One of my favorite authors and NPR regular, David Sedaris, wrote a short story about language barriers and the miracle of Easter in his popular book, "Me Talk Pretty One Day." It is a timely story, as it is Holy Saturday, and many of us are frantically preparing hams or boiling eggs for decorating. Describing David's work would be an insult in itself, so I'm asking you to trust my humor judgment, find and download a file of him reading an excerpt from the story "Jesus Shaves."

I have spent the last half hour trying to figure out how to send you the mp3 I have, to no avail. Good luck. Anyway, enjoy the literary genius if you can and have a happy Easter.

Ed Note: I found the text online in full. Forgive my plagiarism, but it's too damned funny not to post.


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Jesus Shaves

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"And what does one do on the fourteenth of July? Does one celebrate Bastille Day?"

It was my second month of French class, and the teacher was leading us in an exercise designed to promote the use of one, our latest personal pronoun.

"Might one sing on Bastille Day?" she asked. "Might one dance in the streets? Somebody give me an answer."

Printed in our textbooks was a list of major holidays accompanied by a scattered arrangement of photographs depicting French people in the act of celebration. The object of the lesson was to match the holiday with the corresponding picture. It was simple enough but seemed an exercise better suited to the use of the pronoun they. I didn't know about the rest of the class but when Bastille Day eventually rolled around, I planned to stay home and clean my oven.

Normally, when working from the book, it was my habit to tune out my fellow students and scout ahead, concentrating on the question I'd calculated might fall to me, but this afternoon we were veering from the usual format. Questions were answered on a volunteer basis, and I was able to sit back and relax, confident that the same few students would do most of the talking. Today's discussion was dominated by an Italian nanny, two chatty Poles, and a pouty, plump Moroccan woman who had grown up speaking French and had enrolled in the class hoping to improve her spelling. She'd covered these lessons back in the third grade and took every opportunity to demonstrate her superiority. A question would be asked, and she'd race to give the answer, behaving as though this were a game show and, if quick enough, she might go home with a tropical vacation or a side-by-side refrigerator/freezer. A transfer student, by the end of the first day she'd raised her hand so many times that her shoulder had given out. Now she just leaned back and shouted out the answers, her bronzed arms folded across her chest like some great grammar genie.

We'd finished discussing Bastille Day, and the teacher had moved on to Easter, which was represented in our textbooks by a black-and-white photograph of a chocolate bell lying upon a bed of palm fronds.

"And what does one do on Easter? Would anyone like to tell us?"

It was, for me, another of those holidays I'd just as soon avoid. As a rule, my family had always ignored the Easter celebration by our non-Orthodox friends and neighbors. While the others feasted on their chocolate figurines, my brother, sisters, and I had endured epic fasts, folding our bony fingers in prayer and begging for an end to the monotony that was the Holy Trinity Church. As Greeks, we had our own Easter, which was usually observed anywhere from two to four weeks after what was known in our circle as "the American version." The reason has to do with the moon or the Orthodox calendar -- something mysterious like that -- though our mother always suspected it was scheduled at a later date so that the Greeks could buy their marshmallow chicks and plastic grass at drastically reduced sale prices. "The cheap sons of bitches," she'd say. "If they had their way, we'd be celebrating Christmas in the middle of goddamn February."

Because our mother was raised a Protestant, our Easters were a hybrid of the Greek and the American traditions. We received baskets of candy until we grew older and the Easter Bunny branched out. Those who smoked would awaken to find a carton of cigarettes and an assortment of disposable lighters, while the others would receive an equivalent, each according to his or her vice. In the evening we had the traditional Greek meal followed by a game in which we would toast one another with blood-colored eggs. The symbolism escapes me, but the holder of the table's one uncracked egg was supposedly rewarded with a year of good luck. I won only once. It was the year my mother died, my apartment got broken into, and I was taken to the emergency room suffering from what the attending physician diagnosed as "house-wife's knee."

The Italian nanny was attempting to answer the teacher's latest question when the Moroccan student interrupted, shouting, "Excuse me, but what's an Easter?"

It would seem that despite having grown up in a Muslim country, she would have heard it mentioned once or twice, but no. "I mean it," she said. "I have no idea what you people are talking about."

The teacher called on the rest of us to explain.

The Poles led the charge to the best of their ability. "It is," said one, "a party for the little boy of God who call his self Jesus...oh shit." She faltered and her fellow country-man came to her aid.

"He call his self Jesus and then he be die one day on two...morsels of...lumber."

The rest of the class jumped in, offering bits of information that would have given the pope an aneurysm.

"He die one day and then he go above of my head to live with your father."

"He weared of himself the long hair and after he die, the first day he come back here for to say hello to the peoples."

"He nice, the Jesus."

"He make the good things, and on the Easter we be sad because somebody makes him dead today."

Part of the problem had to do with vocabulary. Simple nouns such as cross and resurrection were beyond our grasp, let alone such a complicated reflexive phrases as "to give of yourself your only begotten son." Faced with the challenge of explaining the cornerstone of Christianity, we did what any self-respecting group of people might do. We talked about food instead.

"Easter is a party for to eat of the lamb," the Italian nanny explained. "One too may eat of the chocolate."

"And who brings the chocolate?" the teacher asked.

I knew the word, so I raised my hand, saying, "The rabbit of Easter. He bring of the chocolate."

"A rabbit?" The teacher, assuming I'd used the wrong word, positioned her index fingers on top of her head, wriggling them as though they were ears. "You mean one of these? A rabbit rabbit?"

"Well, sure," I said. "He come in the night when one sleep on bed. Which a hand he have a basket and foods."

The teacher sighed and shook her head. As far as she was concerned, I had just explained everything wrong with my country. "No, no," she said. "Here in France the chocolate is brought by a big bell that flies in from Rome."

I called for a time-out. "But how do the bell know where you live?"

"Well," she said, "how does a rabbit?"

It was a decent point, but at least a rabbit has eyes. That's a start. Rabbits move from place to place, while most bells can only go back and forth -- and they can't even do that on their own power. On top of that, the Easter Bunny has character. He's someone you'd like to meet and shake hands with. A bell has all the personality of a cast-iron skillet. It's like saying that come Christmas, a magic dustpan flies in from the North Pole, led by eight flying cinder blocks. Who wants to stay up all night so they can see a bell? And why fly one in from Rome when they've got more bells than they know what do to with here in Paris? That's the most implausible aspect of the whole story, as there's no way the bells of France would allow a foreign worker to fly in and take their jobs. That Roman bell would be lucky to get work cleaning up after a French bell's dog -- and even then he'd need papers. It just didn't add up.

Nothing we said was of any help to the Moroccan student. A dead man with long hair supposedly living with her father, a leg of lamb served with palm fronds and chocolate; equally confused and disgusted, she shrugged her massive shoulders and turned her attention to the comic book she kept hidden beneath her binder.

I wondered then if, without the language barrier, my classmates and I could have done a better job making sense of Christianity, an idea that sounds pretty far-fetched to begin with.

In communicating any religious belief, the operative word is faith, a concept illustrated by our very presence in that classroom. Why bother struggling with the grammar lessons of a six-year-old if each of us didn't believe that, against all reason, we might eventually improve? If I could hope to one day carry on a fluent conversation, it was a relatively short leap to believing that a rabbit might visit my home in the middle of the night, leaving behind a handful of chocolate kisses and a carton of menthol cigarettes. So why stop there? If I could believe in myself, why not give other improbabilties the benefit of the doubt? I told myself that despite her past behavior, my teacher was a kind and loving person who had only my best interests at heart. I accepted the idea that an omniscient God had cast me in his own image and that he watched over me and guided me from one place to the next. The Virgin Birth, the resurrection, and countless miracles -- my heart expanded to encompass all the wonders and possibilities of the universe.

A bell, though -- that's fucked up.

Having a Secret Crush is Not the Same as Stalking

I have a secret crush. When I say crush, I mean, there is a guy I see regularly who I think is cute. He doesn't know me from Eve, which makes it more fun. I find myself going out of my way to run into him. But this doesn't mean I'm a stalker. It means that my life is so damned uneventful, I find myself checking my mailbox (and I know quite well the mail isn't in) when he's puttering around in his storage unit so I can walk by and ignore him. It's all very passive aggressive and rooted in middle school mentality. But it brings a quick rush of excitement into my otherwise lame daily routine, so I've decided it's okay. I've learned his name, as it turns out we have mutual friends in the apartment complex. And I know what he does for a living because I see him at my "office," (the local coffee shop) and have observed his behavior. I promise this really isn't stalking. It's watching. With a twist. Anyway, I felt the need to prove that I do have fun things going on in my life after my last neurotic post. But instead I've probably confirmed my madness. Go figure.

Thoughts of a Genius

This is a post where I share my latest thoughts. They are out of context, unrelated, disjointed and somewhat dumb.

1) I thought about writing a fictional tale about family dynamics--specifically in-laws--using the following names, which I thought up while laying in bed last night: Mildred and Philip (the parents), Silvia (the daughter), Hugh (the brother/husband) and Dillon (the wife/daughter-in-law). Dillon is Gaelic for "faithful."

2) If I were a photographer, I would take pictures of the contents of random peoples' trunks. Then I would speculate about what the shit they drove around with meant. The photos and commentaries would be shown as a collection in a local gallery. It would have a witty title.

3) Sometimes I think I might have OCD. I watched a special about kids with it and how some have to touch things in a specific order (right arm of the chair, left arm, etc.). Then I think about how sometimes, when I'm driving, I like to keep track of light posts I pass or count the seconds between the grooves in the pavement, or...now you all think I'm nuts.

4) I've decided I don't like teaching the engineering students as much as the photogs because the engineers NEVER laugh at my bad jokes.

5) I am _absolutely_ sure that the right side of my body had a few cells' worth of a developmental head-start back in my fetal days. This is not to say that I am freakishly asymmetrical, but it would explain a lot.

End of thoughts.

Vibrating Skin and Salve-Filled Fissures

The medical spa has its website up and running. I have had many of the treatments listed under the "services" menu if anyone wants to talk shop. The latest gadget I'm trying out is the Clarisonic, which is like the sonicare toothbrush, but for your face. It has a brush that vibrates at a jillion somethings-a-second and, from my minimal understanding, it shakes the dead skin off to reveal a new, lighter, brighter, more youthful, blah-blah skin surface. Whatever. It's keeping my adult onset acne at bay. Which brings me to the question, what the hell is adult onset acne? When did my bad skin cross the threshold from "regular" hormonally-driven zits to "adult onset" acne? It's always been there, at least on either end of my many Accutane treatments. Oh, how I hated those. You should check out their site for all the side effects. And to think I did my treatment in the dead of a Michigan-style winter. I was a walking salve-filled fissure. Good God! Anyway, I'm off to shake my face skins. Nighty-night.

Under Cover Pussy

Soon to be released. From being under cover, that is. This is yet another story about my neighbors and their animals and my desire to have one too, which is ultimately trumped by my do-right moral fiber. A few months back, my pseudo-pet cat, Ichus--who was really owned by the couple next door--found her way to the great litter box in the sky. I feel that I am now ready to move forward and welcome a new pound purry into my life. However, there remains the "rule" in my apartment complex that one can not own, have, rent, borrow or even think of any of the above in reference to a pet. If you're caught with an animal that can't survive under water for more than fifteen minutes, you're given three days to remove said animal and pay a fine _or_ are simply evicted. However, there are *four* cats that I know of in the area who's owners remain happily housed and are under no threat of the boot. And here is why:

Cat 1: Belongs to the daughter of the complex's maintenance man--if you're "in" with the landlord, you are exempt from the pet rule...? Kitty greets me every morning by sending a silent "meow" through the window.
Cat 2: Belongs to the old lady who has lived here--with her cat--forever. This kitty has been grandfathered-in, so I hear.
Cat 3: Was the neighborhood stray, but was recently adopted by the old lady. Old lady now has two cats.
Cat 4: Owned by the tenant on the first floor who's blue bed sheet of a curtain does not stop the adorable Siamese from sitting on the inside ledge and people watching.

So the great debate among the immediate neighbor to my right, my friends and my family...should I risk it or not? The plot thickens, as I have already asked for permission to have a cat and was turned down. I've also developed a "trusted" relationship with the landlord and have parking privileges and a johnny-on-the-spot plumber (Cat #1's grand-dad) to prove it. Several stealth plans have been proposed, but I can't seem to decide what to do. I'm super jealous of the under cover pussy in each apartment and want them made public. But that's not nice. I wouldn't want to be tattled on if I did get a cat. If anyone has any ideas, I am open, as living alone is hard enough and talking to a cat would be easy to overlook, more so than my current self-talk.

Split Bottoms

Many moons ago, c. 1995, I owned a pair of Victoria's Secret cotton pajama bottoms. They were the standard, with a drawstring waist, super thin comfy material and a simple, flowered print. I loved these pants and I truly believed they loved me back. Then the crotch split. The seam, holding on for dear life each day, finally gave out under the pressure. I was devastated. I called my mother from college, "Mom, can you sew these back together??" MBH is a whiz at such tasks. Indeed, she mended the four corners of thin material that met between my legs. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, my favorite pj pants lived to see another day in the dorms.

But like all good things, even my mother's handiwork, had to come to an end. The bottom gave way after a deep squat to pick something up and the pants were finito! Sadly, I saved them, folded with love and tucked gently in the back of my dresser drawer. Months later, after deciding that I could not, in fact, make throw pillows out of the remaining fabric, the comfies found their way to the trash. *sniff, sniff*

The purpose for this story is that this morning, my current comfies met a similar fate, and the raw emotion of loss and grief surfaced yet again. My fav pj bottoms, also from VS, and a gift from my boyfriend on my twenty-first birthday, split up the ass less than an hour ago. I lowered myself onto the couch with my second mug of coffee and heard the terrible ripping of fabric so thin, it might as well have been made of tissue. (So really, the ripping was more of a muted tearing noise, like a wet paper towel.) Anyway, another pair of loved pj bottoms have met their match. I will not be shipping them home to Michigan for needlework. Instead, I will have a brief moment of silence to honor the many great times I had with my comfies, and let them go with dignity. And, for the amusement of my mother, I have included images of the shredded ass. Goodbye old friends. God speed.