I realized three things today.
1) There are lots of different faces of Santa. Some are sweet and comforting and make you want to run out and buy some kid a new bike. Others are less jolly, more creepy stranger whose red novelty trousers may or may not be hiding a monitoring anklet. Growing up, we had a giant Santa head that resembled the latter version, and the thought of his leering eyes following me across the room still scares the shit out of me.
2) I have an intense compulsion to read notes left on parked cars. I never actually give in, because I'm fully aware that the message clearly wasn't meant for me. But I enjoy guessing what they might say based on the type of car, parking job, or other cues that might reveal the note's contents. Was it a missed connection? Random act of kindess? Invitation to a nearby event? The most common scenario I settle on is something like, "Nice parking job, asshole."
3) There is nothing my dog won't eat. As we waited to cross at a light, I turned my attention toward what appeared to be a toys for tots type meetup for Vespa riders. And when I looked back, Merlin was gnawing on a discarded pizza crust laying in the gutter next to an old, ratty sock. Farther down the road, he pee'd on his own feet. He's disgusting.
Oh, and Pat was sleeping in a different window this time. It was good to see her trying new things.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Smash from the past
Today I was so deeply contemplating my current state of affairs that I nearly walked right into the path of a car. This brush with a nasty glare and "what the F" gesture from a relieved yet angry driver took me back to a time when I didn't get off quite so easy.
The time to which I refer was a gorgeous Sunday afternoon several summers ago. I decided to bike over to a friend's house, an easy ride of about 6ish miles. I had never made this ride before, and after my friend verbally mapped my route for me, I asked her if it was safe. "Oh, yeah, definitely," she said.
So off I went, donning flip flops, Jackie O-sized sunglasses, and my favorite pair of jorts, my wire basket swaddling my stocked beach bag.
Everything was going swimmingly as I hit the midpoint of my ride, a sort of out-of-the way stretch that passed by a luxury hotel. I was pedalling at a comfortable pace as I approached the hotel's driveway, and I was perfectly comfortable as I indifferently noted a car approaching the standard-issue, entirely unobstructed stop sign that stands between the end of the hotel road and the one on which I was traveling.
Now, truth be told, for a split second I did casually ponder whether or not that car was planning on stopping at that sign. And yet, I pedalled on without slowing, well, because I was in clear view and there was a stop sign, afterall.
But as I rolled up onto the hood of that car and splattered to the ground on the other side, it occurred to me that engaging in a battle of principle with a moving vehicle probably is not wise, no matter who's right.
It took the driver and his horrified passenger, both seemingly in their early twenties, about 10 seconds to do anything at all. Perhaps they were contemplating screeching off, then realized that my mangled bike was tangled in the undercarriage of their car. Nonetheless, they finally got out to assess the carnage of their vehicular negligence.
Although they offered to take me to the hospital multiple times, I just wanted them to go away so I could get on with my day. The clearly terrified driver handed me a scrap of paper with his information -- which could have been his grocery list, for all I knew at the time -- retrieved my pavement-chewed sunglasses, and drove off.
Now alone, I started to assess the damage. With shaking hands, I lifted my shirt to find an already darkened bruise about the size of a grapefruit on my hip -- the place of impact. I was bleeding from both knees and elbows, and my right ankle was starting to swell. Still, if my front tire wouldn't have been folded like a taco, I would have finished that ride. Cuz that's just how I roll.
Accepting that I was going to have to get help from someone, I retrieved my phone from the grassy knoll and called my friend. Here's how that went:
Her: "Hey, where are you?"
Me: "Um, I have a problem."
Her: "What's up?"
Me: "I just got hit by a car."
Her: "Oh my god! Are you ok?"
Me: "Yeah, but now I'm gonna need a ride to your place because my tire is bent."
She still laughs at the casual nature of my delivery. Given my tone, my problem just as easily could have been that I wanted to pick up beer on the way but forgot my ID.
As I stood there next to my crumpled bike waiting for her to collect me, the adrenaline slowly subsided and the reality of what just went down started to set in. And I started to cry.
It wasn't that I was scared or in terrible pain. It was just a delayed reaction to a very startling event. Nonetheless, tears just kept streaming down my face from behind my glasses. I just couldn't stop them.
In my peripherial vision, I noticed a guy approaching me, and I was filled with dread. Although I appreciate the instinct of a stranger to see if someone who looked as pathetic as I did at that moment needed a hand, I just wanted to be left alone.
"Excuse me," he said. And I turned, prepared to thank him for his concern but assure him that I was fine.
"Do you know how to get to Mission Beach?"
Of all the many, many people who were out and about that afternoon, this guy saw me, crying and bleeding next to my broken bike, and thought, hey, I bet she knows where to go.
We shared a moment of silence as I stared at him, expressionless. Then I said, "Go back in the direction you came and turn right."
He thanked me and went on his way. And even though that guy may never know how big of a tool he was that day, and my friends will always laugh at how bizarre it was that I actually gave him directions, it did get me to stop crying. So for that, I'm thankful.
The time to which I refer was a gorgeous Sunday afternoon several summers ago. I decided to bike over to a friend's house, an easy ride of about 6ish miles. I had never made this ride before, and after my friend verbally mapped my route for me, I asked her if it was safe. "Oh, yeah, definitely," she said.
So off I went, donning flip flops, Jackie O-sized sunglasses, and my favorite pair of jorts, my wire basket swaddling my stocked beach bag.
Everything was going swimmingly as I hit the midpoint of my ride, a sort of out-of-the way stretch that passed by a luxury hotel. I was pedalling at a comfortable pace as I approached the hotel's driveway, and I was perfectly comfortable as I indifferently noted a car approaching the standard-issue, entirely unobstructed stop sign that stands between the end of the hotel road and the one on which I was traveling.
Now, truth be told, for a split second I did casually ponder whether or not that car was planning on stopping at that sign. And yet, I pedalled on without slowing, well, because I was in clear view and there was a stop sign, afterall.
But as I rolled up onto the hood of that car and splattered to the ground on the other side, it occurred to me that engaging in a battle of principle with a moving vehicle probably is not wise, no matter who's right.
It took the driver and his horrified passenger, both seemingly in their early twenties, about 10 seconds to do anything at all. Perhaps they were contemplating screeching off, then realized that my mangled bike was tangled in the undercarriage of their car. Nonetheless, they finally got out to assess the carnage of their vehicular negligence.
Although they offered to take me to the hospital multiple times, I just wanted them to go away so I could get on with my day. The clearly terrified driver handed me a scrap of paper with his information -- which could have been his grocery list, for all I knew at the time -- retrieved my pavement-chewed sunglasses, and drove off.
Now alone, I started to assess the damage. With shaking hands, I lifted my shirt to find an already darkened bruise about the size of a grapefruit on my hip -- the place of impact. I was bleeding from both knees and elbows, and my right ankle was starting to swell. Still, if my front tire wouldn't have been folded like a taco, I would have finished that ride. Cuz that's just how I roll.
Accepting that I was going to have to get help from someone, I retrieved my phone from the grassy knoll and called my friend. Here's how that went:
Her: "Hey, where are you?"
Me: "Um, I have a problem."
Her: "What's up?"
Me: "I just got hit by a car."
Her: "Oh my god! Are you ok?"
Me: "Yeah, but now I'm gonna need a ride to your place because my tire is bent."
She still laughs at the casual nature of my delivery. Given my tone, my problem just as easily could have been that I wanted to pick up beer on the way but forgot my ID.
As I stood there next to my crumpled bike waiting for her to collect me, the adrenaline slowly subsided and the reality of what just went down started to set in. And I started to cry.
It wasn't that I was scared or in terrible pain. It was just a delayed reaction to a very startling event. Nonetheless, tears just kept streaming down my face from behind my glasses. I just couldn't stop them.
In my peripherial vision, I noticed a guy approaching me, and I was filled with dread. Although I appreciate the instinct of a stranger to see if someone who looked as pathetic as I did at that moment needed a hand, I just wanted to be left alone.
"Excuse me," he said. And I turned, prepared to thank him for his concern but assure him that I was fine.
"Do you know how to get to Mission Beach?"
Of all the many, many people who were out and about that afternoon, this guy saw me, crying and bleeding next to my broken bike, and thought, hey, I bet she knows where to go.
We shared a moment of silence as I stared at him, expressionless. Then I said, "Go back in the direction you came and turn right."
He thanked me and went on his way. And even though that guy may never know how big of a tool he was that day, and my friends will always laugh at how bizarre it was that I actually gave him directions, it did get me to stop crying. So for that, I'm thankful.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Pat, revisited
We saw Pat through the store window again this morning, this time in her jammies but alert and taking in the bustle of the morning from the safety and stillness of her store. When I looked at her, she smiled back.
Now my previous Pat sighting doesn't seem quite as outrageous. That section of the store, I believe, is Pat's living room. So seeing Pat all sacked out on Thanksgiving morning isn't unlike randomly catching a glance through parted curtains of someone napping in their favorite recliner.
I must admit, if that store didn't have a visible exit, I might wonder if it was some sort of biodome experiment, or perhaps a wormhole to another time. But it's just a store. Pat's home. Where she's surrounded by things she loves. We should all be so lucky.
Next time I'll be sure to wave and mouth an exaggerated "good morning," like a good neighbor should.
Now my previous Pat sighting doesn't seem quite as outrageous. That section of the store, I believe, is Pat's living room. So seeing Pat all sacked out on Thanksgiving morning isn't unlike randomly catching a glance through parted curtains of someone napping in their favorite recliner.
I must admit, if that store didn't have a visible exit, I might wonder if it was some sort of biodome experiment, or perhaps a wormhole to another time. But it's just a store. Pat's home. Where she's surrounded by things she loves. We should all be so lucky.
Next time I'll be sure to wave and mouth an exaggerated "good morning," like a good neighbor should.
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