Still Working on a Dream

I’ve heard at least a dozen times that smell is the sense most closely associated with memory, but it’s hard to imagine anything invoking memory more than music. As soon as I saw Bruce’s silhouette when he walked on the stage last night, I was back in Amy’s living room seeing the Born in the USA album cover for the very first time. And then I was driving home from my cruddy summer job with the windows rolled down, singing “Born to Run” as loud as my lungs could belt it. It’s been more years than I can count on my fingers since either one of those things happened, but my heart tells me it was yesterday. I’m pretty sure Bruce didn’t realize how many years had passed either, because I can’t imagine anyone who’s only months shy of 60 working the stage for three hours the way he did.

If someone asked me who my favorite musician was, I’m not sure Springsteen would come to mind. But every note and word last night brought me back to places and times that I never want to forget. If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that anyone who signs up to move every six months is decidedly Born to Run.

Turning the Tables

I often write about the less-than-brilliant moments of my own life, and certainly have enough of those to keep this blog going for years to come. But, in the spirit of equal airtime, I’d like to share a couple moments that caught my attention recently.

Last Week
As I was doing my weekly grocery shopping last Saturday, I overheard the following exchange.

Child, holding up package of whole-grain crackers: “Mom, can I get
these?”
Mother: “No. They don’t have any flavor; you won’t like
them.”

And with that, she put two packages of pizza-flavored crackers in her cart. Now, to give her the benefit of the doubt, perhaps she’d been down this road before, and had wasted countless packages of things that caught her child’s eye in the store. I’m going to go out on a limb here, and suggest that if a child is requesting something that is even marginally healthier than average, it might be a good idea to indulge it. But what do I know?

Today
I was only half paying attention to the chit chat in the carpool this morning. Then, about halfway home the woman sitting next to me began talking about a small town in Idaho. To make sure we knew just how small it was, she emphasized that this town is, “Three blocks squared by three blocks squared.” And that was when I had to activate my snicker monitor. Because now I’m dying to know exactly how this town is laid out. Is the whole town two stories tall, or does it extend into a fourth dimension? And I have a feeling that I’ll never know.

Oh, the Guilt

The reason I resisted starting a blog for as long as I did was the inevitable guilt. See, I knew there would come a point when I stopped making updates and I would start feeling bad. That point came sometime in the last two months.

Despite having more than enough to share—finding out that I’d be staying in San Jose for another six months, a lovely trip to Maine, singing Christmas carols with Tom Brady, two weeks in the Czech Republic—I just haven’t gotten around to posting an update. And now there are simply too many things to catch up on, so I’m throwing my hands up in the air and leaving both of my faithful readers with pictures of Prague.

Enjoy.

A Bad Influence?

As much as I appreciate cute purses, I don’t always like to use them. Such was the case this last weekend when I went to Utah to eat turkey and be thankful. Since I was forgoing a purse, each time I went out somewhere, I’d grab a credit card, my driver’s license, a $20 bill, and my cell phone. With both hands and shoulders free from encumbrance, I was free to roam about.

It’s become a bit of a tradition for my niece and I to go to Gardner Village the day after Thanksgiving. While the crazies are fighting over $12 plasma televisions, it’s lovely to stroll around the little shops and admire the Christmas decorations. And, at some point each year, we stop at the bakery—usually for lunch. But, since we’d gotten off to a rather late start with breakfast around noon, we opted out of lunch and decided on a quick snack before concluding our trip into quaintness. My whopping bill came to $2.64, so I decided to pay with cash. When I paid, the clerk handed me change from $10.

Me: “Umm, I gave you a twenty.”
Clerk: “I’m so sorry. That’s the second
time I’ve done that today.”
Me: “No problem.”

The clerk then handed me a $10 bill.

Later that evening, I was emptying my pockets and getting settled at my friend’s house, when I discovered I had too much cash. (Not a problem to which I am accustomed.) Ten dollars too much to be precise. It appears that in my excitement over snack time, I had completely forgotten that I had broken my $20 at breakfast that day, and had indeed paid for my snack with a $10 bill.

I always thought that when I turned to a life of crime, it would be big and splashy and earn me one of those two-hour specials on a primetime news magazine. If I’m going down, I may as well make it worth it. Turns out my scandalous nature looks a whole lot like senility and not so much like the work of a criminal mastermind.

That Would be "No"

To answer the questions that have been asked with increasing frequency lately:

1. No, I don’t know where I’ll be working in January.
2. Yes, this is kind of late not to know.
3. Yes, it is frustrating.
4. No, there’s nothing I can do about it.

Ggrrrrr.

The Circles Don’t Intersect

There’s been a nagging feeling at the back of my head for the last few weeks, exacerbated when I think about Christmas. I assume this is because I hadn’t started shopping or even planning, and, if last year is anything to go by, the next six weeks are going to be gone in the blink of an eye. So Saturday, after receiving a tip from a neighbor, I headed to the local outlet mall in hopes of jumpstarting the buying.

As I closed in on hour five of dodging free roaming strollers whilst scanning the racks for those perfect somethings, I found myself in line at the very last store. This happened to be one of those stores that uses poles and nylon ropes to create one mega-line that feeds into all the registers; thus negating my incessant need to determine if I chose the best line. After a few moments, I sensed that the person behind me was standing strangely close. So, as soon as the person in front of me advanced, I stepped forward. Again, the gentleman behind me moved ridiculously close to me. So close, that as I executed a half turn (the universal signal for “that’s annoying”), the jacket that was folded over his arm brushed up against me.

While the line was admittedly long, it was single-file and the space wasn’t crowded. But every time I moved forward, he insisted on getting as close to me as physically possible. The jacket bumped me four more times. I tried ever-so-hard not to overreact, but I was tired, it was raining, and I have personal space issues. It was almost my turn to proceed to a register, when I felt something pull my purse. This time he had stepped so close to me that he had managed to wrap the hanger from something he was buying around the shoulder strap of my bag. I half looked over my shoulder and heard him mutter, “Sorry.” I am not the kind of woman to confront a stranger, but I found myself telling him that he really didn’t need to stand so close to me. I was a little taken aback by my behavior. I understand that different cultures have different standards around these things. I’d like to think if I was travelling abroad, I would have been fine with it. Go with the flow. When in Rome, etc. But here, in the outlet malls that make this nation great, I expect folks to play by my rules. AKA . . . don’t touch me!

Who Knew it Was All Right Here?

After living in San Jose for more than three months, I finally took some time to explore the local attractions. (Thanks to Amanda for visiting; otherwise, who knows how long it would have been before I got around to that.)

Turns out I live in a pretty cool place. Muir Woods alone would qualify as one of the most perfect places I’ve ever been, but then you add Sausalito, the Golden Gate Bridge, Monterey, and Santa Cruz and you’re talking serious hip-ness.