Ten

My sister invited me to do two things.

1. Visit a fabulous blog made entirely by entries that list ten things (ten things the author of the page has in her refrigerator, ten things she’d love to receive as gifts, etc.)

2. Make my own list of ten things.

If you know me at all, you know list making is a delicious, irresistible compulsion of mine, so I headily accept.

In turn, I invite you to make your own list of ten things. You can either do so in the comment section below, or in your own blog (and then send me the link.)

And now for the first of a total of three lists of ten things.


10 random things I remember from when I was very little

1. My red velvet dress

2. The risers of the stairs at the house in Las Flores, which were at eye level as I crawled up

3. Making bread with my mom, or squishing the flour between my fingers (and toes) while my mom made bread

4. The “I think mice are very nice” poem I learned in first grade

5. Seeing my father's house for the first time

6. Waiting for my mom's husband to come home (he always got me something enrapturing)

7. Beads, shiny things, and the smell of oil paint and thinner

8. Going to the toy store every Sunday to pick whatever I wanted (but only one thing)

9. Swimming in the Pacific Ocean in Puerto Vallarta, which forever hooked me on the Pacific Ocean

10. The Auch Arauch song (which involved walking barefoot in our pajamas over a cobblestone street)


Photo: Real Simple

Fight, flight, fright

This past Thursday, I had a flight from San Francisco to Los Angeles at 5:00 in the afternoon, scheduled for arrival at 6:00. Due to a cancellation and seven subsequent delays I didn't get to my hotel in the City of Angels until 1:30 a.m.

Little did I know that would be the easy leg of my brief journey to Southern California.

My trip back from Los Angeles to San Francisco early Saturday morning was delayed more than two hours. Once over San Francisco, the pilot tried for 45 minutes to land in what he called "severe turbulence." But turbulence is bumpy, jolty, jumpy. This was a skidding, sliding, whooshing, out of control sense that the plane was a matchbox in the hands of a storm, not a solid jet in the hands of a person.

During this time, people were screaming, crying, praying and throwing up. I was sitting in an aisle, and in the window seat was Alex, an 11-year-old boy traveling alone (with his family several rows behind.) The woman in the middle row was sobbing and vomiting, and I was giving her wet wipes and airsickness bags and asking Alex if his seat belt was on tight and if he was OK. I’m so grateful he was there. If I hadn’t been so intent on not scaring him, I would have been crying too. I thought I was going to die in the frigid, grey waters of the San Francisco Bay with Luca an ocean away; just a week short of visiting my family in Mexico.

After at least five landing attempts, and again a few feet above the runway, the pilot raised the plane again. He came over the loudspeaker. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed” he said, “we can’t land. We need to fly to Sacramento, await instructions, then fly to San Francisco in a few hours. I’m sure you all have many questions. We’ll get this all figured out from the ground”. Alex was way ahead of him. "I am not getting on another plane” he told me quickly. “My family and I are renting a car as soon as we land, and driving to San Francisco". I was impressed by his lucidity (either that, or his clairvoyance) and decided this was my kind of guy. "I'm coming with you" I said.

We landed in Sacramento, at which point I, a die-hard agnostic, turned to the heavens and said thank you five times. I got out of the plane to stretch my shaky legs, bought a banana and a bar of chocolate (how could I not think of food at a time like this?) and then set out to find Alex and his family. After brief introductions, we waited for their luggage, rented a car, and drove to the Bay Area in the rain (which made me feel grateful for my new friends again, and for the fact I didn't attempt the drive on my own, possibility I had briefly considered).

Michael, Won, Alex and Andrew dropped me off in Marin, where I caught a bus to the San Francisco airport (taxis would take longer, I was told.)

From the San Francisco airport I took a cab home.

I got home at 8:00 p.m.

The Great Wave
A Ukiyo-e print by Hokusai, Wikipedia

Sick of me

In case it escaped you, I haven’t really written a truly dedicated blog entry for a while. This is because I’ve been too busy complaining.

The last three weeks have been out of character for me. Generally speaking, it’s not in my nature to complain.

It began with the rain. Then, unexpected complications indirectly related to a home remodel; a series of irritating work related events and catching a bad cold. All this led to tentative, recreational complaining. Suddenly, there were more things to complain about. Which caused insomnia. Which resulted in me complaining about sleep deprivation.

It all peaked on February 14, when I realized late in the day that I had done nothing but complain from the second I got up until that evening. I got so sick of listening to myself I would have left me if I’d had the option.

So here is what I have discovered:

That complaining is obsessing about the negative, and that the more I focus on the negative the more negative I see. This habit grows deep roots fast.

That by putting into words (an insatiable, exhausting ocean of words) what I don’t want; I neglect to put into words what I do want.

Whenever Luca would say “Jeez, hon, really. Lighten up!” I’d respond “well, isn’t it healthier to vent than to keep it all in?”

Here is my reply to that: that I have wasted vast amounts of precious energy, because I let off just enough steam to release the power that propels me to do something about it. I’ve complained myself into paralysis.

So that’s it. I’ve had it. I’m in a complaint fast. And I’m going to start by not complaining about my complaining.

Photo: Real Simple Magazine

Switch

Through the years, Luca and I have unintentionally, organically split chores. Nine times out of ten he drives. Once I throw out junk, he sorts through our mail and makes sure the bills are paid on time. I usually cook, do laundry, make sure the fridge isn’t empty and manage anything to do with keeping the house organized. He takes out the garbage and changes the light bulbs. You get the picture.

From a purely logistical standpoint, it would be an effort for either one of us to operate without the other for a long period of time.

How healthy is it to divvy up responsibilities? Should we switch back and forth just for practice?

I laugh at the thought of him ironing his shirts. Maybe we should switch back and forth just for our mutual amusement.

(Photo: Amazon.com)

My vote tomorrow

Baring it all

In locker rooms of gyms nationwide, there is a strict, unyielding rule: do not look at other locker room dwellers when they are not wearing clothes.

I experience tremendous difficulty sticking to this rule.

I always steal glances from the corner of my eye.

First of all, I'm fascinated by how different women's bodies are. I know and you know we all have the same equipment, but really, variety is so vast. I can't believe we have such a narrow concept of beauty when most women look great in the buff.

I'm also quite intrigued by how different a woman looks when she walks out of the shower compared to when she's dressed and ready to walk out of the gym. It's a complete, magical transformation that goes way beyond her appearance. It gives me a disembodied sense of pride that the female species is so gifted at pulling together a look.

Finally, I'm completely shocked by how much longer it takes most women to get ready in comparison to how long it takes me to get ready. I've never had such a large number of subjects to compare myself to, and it's been quite a revelation.

I jump out of the shower, wrap a towel around my head and get dressed. I have short hair and it's curly so I let it be. And, I don't wear any makeup. So, while I'm thorough when I dry off, specially between my toes, and apply yummy smelling body cream, face cream and leave-in conditioner, I notice other women spend hours parting their hair and blow-drying sections of it with brushes of different shapes and sizes. And, they carry around huge bags filled with makeup, which they proceed to apply meticulously – and, to my deep admiration, quite expertly.

I take, on average, about half the time others do. And, I'd be much faster if I wasn't so busy noticing all of this in while pretending not to look.

I could go on with other things I've noticed about large numbers of naked people of my gender, but I think I've gone as far as I can without making anyone too terribly uncomfortable.

(Photo from Sephora.com)

Mystery, solved

A large volume of you, my thorough blog readers, have asked me why on Earth I was packing all my things and putting them in boxes.

O.K. Two of you have asked me why on Earth I was packing all my things and putting them in boxes. Was I moving, perhaps to London?

The truth is not all that exciting. (Well, not to you, anyway.)

I finally decided to make a seven-year-old dream of mine come true: to rip out the carpet in my house and replace it with hardwood floors.

I initially managed, with an artfully conniving blend of bald-faced lies and sprinkles of strategically timed denial, to delude myself into thinking it would be a piece of cake. And then I got hit with the very things people tell you are going to happen when you do any kind of remodel: complications.

The carpet could be ripped out, and wood put in, but I’d have to pack up the house. No, I wouldn’t be able to move things from one room into the other, but rather would have to remove them entirely. And, of course, I’d have to strip out the floorboards and replace them. I’d need a painter, obviously, to retouch them once that job was done. So, eureka, I’d freshen the paint in the whole house, while I was at it. And, once the aforementioned, undesired carpet was yanked out, it was revealed, in an alarming twist of fate, that the entrance to the house from the garage was concrete – not wood – and therefore I’d have to use tile, which I’d need to select, along with the right color of sanded grout.

So, initially I convincingly persuaded myself that the job would take about two weeks, three at the most, and instead our things have been in boxes for almost a month – and we have at least another few weeks to go, since the varnish on the floors has to dry, and the floors themselves have to rest, take naps, settle and go through a curing period before painters can traipse through with their drop cloths, blue tape and heavy boots.

So you’re wondering, am I at all repentant for embarking on a complicated venture of these proportions so soon into a New Year? Do I feel guilty for dragging my unsuspecting husband into this mess?

No. I feel ecstatic. The father and son team of contractors who are working on the floor is dreamy: punctual, respectful, courteous, talented and best of all, they argue with each other loudly and in Polish (while Luca and I liberally contribute with commentary in Italian). The place looks amazing in bamboo (Luca would not hear of anything that was not ecologically responsible, the scoundrel).

When I come home in the evening, I open the door and, despite the fact that everything is covered in the finest veil of dust and the project is not even finished, I feel as if the house were the architectural equivalent of a loving dog, luminous, welcoming and happy to see me. Which is, I’ve decided, the least you can expect from the place you live.

I was, in addition, very disciplined about what went into those boxes I packed, throwing out and giving away many things (despite protests of a certain someone who shall remain nameless but who lives with me), so I feel cleansed and purified after having concluded a pretty drastic re-haul. As an added bonus, our bed is currently in the kitchen, which gives new meaning to the words “breakfast in bed”.

So, is making the extra effort to be happy with your space worth it? Yes. Never underestimate the power of surrounding yourself with something beautiful.