Life is like a box of chocolates...

Well, the kids have started school, which of course means I have tons of free time during the day. Time to explore the city, time to catch up with myself, find cool little cafe's for writing or reading, lovely long walks, hanging out on the beach. Maybe you can tell that I've been looking forward to the time off. So why have I spent the first three days of the new school year indoors, with a migraine? The body wants, what the body wants. The summer's eleven hour days were a bit much. The grind definitely took it's toll on my body. Oh well, there is tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow... Life is like a box of chocolates...you never know what you're going to get. ---dB

Tags: forrest gump, nanny stories, life

The Roses of Victory. . .Or the Smell of De Feet?

My current situation has me thinking a lot about success and failure and fear; fear of success for which there is no roadmap; or failure that is public, humiliating and makes one look foolish for having tried at all. I'm alright by the way, safely ensconced with friends in beautiful Trinity County. Getting better, getting stronger and thinking about next steps.

I've always felt there was glory in Attempt. Something beautiful and even sacred in the process of inspiration and bringing an idea into reality. But I've always held my hand . . . attempted, but without really risking enough to either succeed or fail completely. So many dreams deferred, but none ridden into the dust of defeat or soaring on the wings of victory; but always that bizarre purgatory of . . . almost or . . . eventually.

Next steps, geographically at any rate will most probably see me in Holland before the year is out, either temporarily or permanently. What next for Maya/de Bergerac . . . the kid herself? Well, if you know your cinema history that last sentence was a bit of a hint. What should be my next goal?

The only thing I know for certain is that I'm tired of whiny whimper-y half-keistered failure. The ones that make it hard put for anyone to blame me for the situation, even if they can't fully comprehend the circumstances. I'm also sick of half-stepped victory, the ones where I execute a 'unique' idea 'wisely' (French, for a watering down brilliant inspiration) and get part of what I want, but not the whole enchilada. I still look like an 'eccentric' to my more straight-laced friends without having felt either the cleansing burn of an idea going up in flames or the vindication of victory.

So for my next number, I've decided on a new motto. If I fail . . . fail spectacularly.

He-hee, the very thought makes me giggle like a schoolgirl. What a thrill. My entire life has felt like a high-wire act attempting to balance my own nature against the desire to act, and be seen to act, wisely. My natural wish to get out and do something astonishing has always been tempered by a wish to blend; which, um . . . I never have, but 'hope springs' . . you know. The rational I think was that as long as I acted wisely and was seen to do so, how ever 'out there' the plan I'd been working on seemed to others, I would always have a safety net when I really needed it. It's in the unspoken family contract.

Now I say, what the hay.

Will the real General Cranky please stand up?

I live in San Francisco. I'm in San Francisco. I am living in San Francisco. Weird. I've lived twenty-five years of my not terribly big, not terribly interesting life, in one not terribly big, not terribly interesting town on the outskirts of the Bay Area. But now, I've moved to the City on the Bay, where everything is considerably larger...except for me. I am sinking like a stone to the bottom of the ocean and soon my body will collapse into itself, unable to bear the pressure of the vast, dark, deep. It's an odd feeling. You spend your life surrounded by people. The same people. That isn't what it sounds like. It's not boring, or confining or annoying. Okay...it is all of those things. But it just isn't those things. There is comfort in living your life among people who have known you all of your life. People who know your moods without explanation. Growing up in a semi-small town is a little like living in the theme song to CHEERS. However, being grown up in a semi-small town make you remember the first word of that song. "Sometimes." There comes a point when you would like to change, or would like people to notice the changes you've already made by treating you differently. But of course they don't. You're like wallpaper. They looked at you once when you were nine and haven't really taken a look to note the changes the years have wrought. Anyway, enough whining, presently, I will sort myself out. Yes, I feel a little isolated. Yes, this is a big adjustment. But yes, I'm glad I'm here and yes I love this city. And yes, soon, you'll have to watch my dust. ---dB

Tags: san francisco, moving, small town, personality

Heard on the Bus

I am a reasonably well brought up girl, brought up  in the suburbs with, to a large extent,  small town values. 'Please' and 'thank you' are tattooed on my DNA, and the idea of occupying (say on a bus) a seat while someone older or more infirm than myself is unthinkable. Unthinkable to a degree that I've never given the objects of courtesy much thought at all. When I thought of the elderly at all, you know, in the group sense, it was as I knew them in my own smallish burg. Quiet, well-mannered, nice, etc. But it never occurred to me to wonder, what they're like. What they are really like among themselves. What were they like when thrown together in public, at the front of a bus this one with cataracts, that one hobbling on a walker, another in a wheelchair? My role in such situations is clear, to provide assistance and get out of the way. The pecking order is clear, age and experience, 'there but for the grace of god', 'this'll be me one day' and all that. And it was that role which provided me for the first time a fly on the wall perspective of how one might behave when a member of the Silver Wing of bus riders, a club in which everyone is just as infirm as you.

So . . . absolutely, complete and utter true story:

One of my good friends and I are standing on the bus after a day of sightseeing, barely speaking. But...let's not go into that. We're standing toward the front, when it comes to a stop. A gravely voice somewhere in the direction of my right elbow comes to me. "Excuse me...excuse me," it growls. "Watch your feet." An older man wearing a baseball cap rolls into sight, attempting to maneuver his small mechanical wheelchair past the other seniors who occupy the front of the bus. "Excuse me, watch your feet," he repeats. Things are going well, well relatively well, considering the crowd on the bus. Oops, spoke to soon. "Wait a minute! Wait a minute! (Blasphemy!) (Profanity!)" A white-haired old guy with wrap around sunglasses takes a couple of aborted leaps into the air. "You're running me over! (Blasphemy!) (Profanity!)" "I said 'watch your feet." The fracas dies down as the old guy in the wheelchair manages to wedge himself into the doorway. As the bus's lift lowers him to the ground. An elderly Chinese man with a New York accent speaks up. "That chair (two syllables)--it's so big! You'd think he'd pick a smaller chair." "These schmucks in wheelchairs," the old guy with the sunglasses growls back, "most of them got no consideration at all." Aahh...welcome to San Francisco.

Tags: san francisco, public transportation, funny stories, senior citizen