Nine years ago this week, I met an Asian in Birkenstocks at RA Training. One of our first conversations took place in the hallway outside of my favorite dorm room:
He: “I like your cool polyester clothes!” (Gestures thumbs up)
Me: “Uhh, why were you guys looking through my closet?”
Immortal words, huh?
***
The next year at RA training, he took my hand in his as we walked toward the mess hall along Lake Erie.
I love the feeling of someone holding my hand, particularly when someone grasps it, taking charge of the situation.
I have a weakness for strong men’s hands. I once had to stop sitting next to a professor who had nice strong hands. I would completely miss the discussion.
We haven’t held hands in recent weeks. It’s hard to do, at least one of four hands pushing a stroller, or half of our hands grasping a warm bundle of adorable.
***
My eyes fill with tears while driving. I think of this past week, the unwelcome song of the pager, the violence on our street, the ache to hold one another close, Jars of Clay sings
I’m coming home
I’m waking you up
In the middle of the night
I will not give it up
I’m gonna stay
’til we make it work
We’re not going down
Even if it gets worse
We’ll work it out….
I need your light….
I know that the DNC came and all the while you’ve all been waiting for Kendra to give you permission to practice popping out those chads AM I RIGHT OR AM I RIGHT??? In all seriousness, I have felt a little bit sheepish about posting about Election ’08 because I’m more of a local political scenester, and even here in my little hot pocket of civic engagement, it’s easy to get jaded.
But I suppose I’m on the Obama bus. We listened to the Audacity of Hope a couple of months ago. Even though it’s 95% stumping, you really can’t beat that gravelly voice, so enthusiastic is Barack about the foundations of this republic. However, the whole time we listened, we were wondering when he was going to talk about hope, and the audacity thereof. But we never got to it. Maybe our literal HOPES were too high, or maybe it was just the abridged version cutting out the meaty stuff?
I liked Michelle, aka Mamabama’s speech. Did not love it, thought she was a little robotic in the delivery, but I’m a tough critic of speeches. First of all, my father is a brilliant orator, just someone I admire immensely for his theatrics and slinging images like paint on a canvas. Secondly, I don’t really admire politicians for their oratory. I really think public service should be more deeds not words, but of course this would contradict my opinion of Dubya, which is to say that he often reminds me of the kid in 1st grade who would eat a lot of Elmer’s glue from off his hand. Perhaps that explains why he would sometimes copy my handwriting papers, such that the teacher knew immediately whereby he had achieved such polished results. He always copied down my name.
***
Did I ever tell you about the time I met Helen Thomas? I was 20. She said George W. Bush made Dan Quayle look like a Rhodes Scholar. What a corker she was.
Do you see the strange hefty frisbee-like object in the corner, there on the floor in the first picture below? It is a cleaning device. Some call it the Roomba. Daddy and I call it Alphonso. We are fond of Alphonso, though you demonstrated to us this week that you are not so fond of Alphonso. You stared at it with curiosity as it roved along, orbiting while it cleaned. When I placed you on the floor so that you could get a closer look, your arms flapped rapidly and you let out a shriek I had never heard you utter.
You were terrified.
Imagine my own terror, though, in realizing that this would be one of the very few times when I could swiftly rescue you from one of the many things in this life that suck.
The other day I passed a book shop with big posters in its windows. Each poster had a big word on it advertising what I presume was sold within the book shop. The posters read, “PAPERBACKS.” “SCONES.” “MAGAZINES.” “VIETNAMESE.” I wondered what kind of shelving units they had, and how they were organized such that the Vietnamese section was just as prominent as the Paperbacks section. Was the Vietnamese rack right next to the Magazine rack? Upon closer inspection, the sign read “VIETNAMESE Spring Rolls.”
***
Every night that Lovey Loverpants and I are in bed reading before lights out, the age-old struggle ensues. Who will leave the warm cookie dough comfort of the bed to make the epic trek of three steps across the wooden floor to turn off the light? Lovey always makes the same clapping motion in the direction of the light. As a nod to the ’80s stocking stuffer adverts for The Clapper. But we don’t have The Clapper. But he claps as though we do.
It
Gets
Funnier
Every
Time.
***
Baby Girl is big into exercising the bounds of her voice, as I’ve mentioned. Her favorite vocal exercise is to shout MAMAMAMAMAM, and since it’s sort of my name and since she does it on repeat while looking right at my face without really wanting me to respond, it sort of becomes one of those Chris Farley routines where he keeps asking Paul McCartney, “Remember when you were in The Beatles?!”
