Burning Desire

***I just found this piece I wrote many, many moons ago.***
I was hanging out at home on a Sunday morning, drinking coffee and reading the paper, the girls were happily arguing over something in their room, all was well until the phone rang. My good friend, Dara, whispered frantically, “You’ve got to get over here!” Dara and I had met in a ceramic class in 1990. I knew I had to get to know her after seeing her performance art piece in which she ranted at the pots and bowls in a raku fire pit as if they were her dead mother. She was so weird, I was attracted to her immediately. Tall with jet black hair, she had the body of a fifties country-western singer: slender, with huge breasts and no hips or ass. For me, Dara represented that kooky, bohemian side of San Francisco. Hanging out with her was always an adventure. Over cocktails and cigarettes, she recounted the stories that made up her life. As a child, she lived with her artist-mother, in a loft south of Market way before it became trendy. A teenage bad girl, she did it all: skipped school, smoked, drank, had a fake i.d. and dated older men. Dara married one of those older men at age eighteen and promptly had two children with him in two and a half years. By the time she was twenty-four, she was divorced. After telling the judge during her divorce proceedings that she would not stop smoking marijuana, she lost custody of her kids. The morning of Dara’s frantic phone call, her children were visiting her for summer vacation. I became alarmed that something terrible had happened to one of them. Something terrible had happened, but not to them - something terrible had happened to her. She could barely get the words out between her embarrassment and not wanting her kids to hear. “I can’t believe what happened," she sputtered. “I was masturbating with a small candle,” she continued in a whisper.
“A votive?” I asked simultaneously imagining what the possibilities were with a tiny church candle.
“No, a taper.” she said with growing anxiety. “Ten or twelve inch?” My fantasy life was really starting to run wild now. “Look I don’t know, I used it the last time I had someone for dinner, it burnt down to about three inches.” Okay, what harm could a three inch taper do while masturbating, hey, wait a minute, “Where were the kids while you were using this candle?” Dara was living in a small studio apartment. Her daughter slept with her and her son camped on the floor in a sleeping bag. I personally wouldn’t dream of masturbating in the same room in which my kids were, say, watching cartoons. She was losing patience with me and my fascination over her creative abilities, “I sent them to the store for cereal, look, are you going to help me, or what? This is a big fucking problem!” I grabbed hold of my senses and asked, “Okay, you were masturbating, what happened?” What she told me next really cracked me up, no pun intended. “The candle is stuck - " she moaned.
“In your twat?” I said authoritatively knowing that if a woman could get a baby out of her vagina, she could certainly get a candle out. “No, I’d be able to get it out, the god damn thing is stuck up my ass!”
“Oh! Oh fuck!” I said trying to sound sincere as I suppressed a burst of laughter. “Do you know of anything I can do?” she sounded desperate. I gave it some thought. The last time I had anything stuck up my ass, it was more of a natural problem. I asked, “Have you tried sitting on the toilet?” Exasperated she answered, “Of course, it was my first instinct.” Dara’s frantic words came out high and thin. This was not the relaxing Sunday I had in mind, but what could I do, she was, well, stuck. “I’ll be over as soon as possible.”
It took about an hour to gather up the girls and make the trip across town by bus. I’ll admit that on the way, I had hoped the damn thing had come out before we got there. Maybe she relaxed a bit knowing help, well, at least company, was on the way, and it slipped out as easily as it had slipped in. No such luck. We arrived and she whispered in my ear that she was still, so to speak, burning the candle at both ends. The first order of business was to get the kids out of there. The studio apartment was just not big enough for the four of them, Dara, myself and that damn candle. We sent the kids down to the park.
“I took a laxative,” she stated dejectedly. I on the other hand, found it hard to wipe the smirk from my face. “Have you tried squatting?” I didn’t want to get invasive right off the bat.
“I’ve tried everything, it feels weird,” she said, close to tears.
“I bet," I said still trying to look and sound serious. I put on my thinking cap, “Do you have any gloves?” (I was thinking surgical, not white at this point.) Fortunately she had a box of hair dye and we used the gloves provided by Lady Clairol. I crouched on the floor between my friend’s legs, about to use those Lady Clairol gloves in a way, I’m sure the company had never dreamt of. I put a couple of fingers inside her vagina and I felt the offending candle. Then I really started to brainstorm, “Okay, let’s try coaxing it out, I can feel the top of it, so when I say to push, I want you to push like you’re taking a shit and I’m going to gently push on the top of the candle and maybe we can get it out."
At this point, she was game for anything, so I said go, and she pushed and I nudged, she pushed and I nudged. We tried this routine for about fifteen minutes, but, no-go, the train wasn’t departing the station, the candle wasn’t going anywhere.
Hysteria was well on its way, before I realized it and made the mistake of saying, “Maybe you should go to the hospital.”
“No!” she cried. Dara was starting to lose it, (her composure, not the candle). “Look,” I said gravely, “plenty of people must go in there on a daily basis with all sorts of odd things stuck up their asses, this is San Francisco, for Christ sake!” She wasn’t buying it, “I can’t go in there like this, it’s way too embarrassing.” She moaned, looking at me intently, “Do you think I could die?” Hmmm, I tried imagining the death certificate, “Cause of Death: candle, a burned down taper, used at victim’s last supper, stuck up ass.” I told her I didn’t think anyone could die this way, but still, it couldn’t remain in its current location. It had to come out. We entertained the idea of melting the wayward romance enhancer, we thought that perhaps a nice hot enema might do the trick. But then, it would have to be a boiling hot enema, so we gave up that idea. “Get back on the toilet,” I ordered. She needed to get a grip, and at the same time loosen up. I on the other hand was starting to lose my patience with the candle and her creative use of home furnishings.
She was ready to do anything I told her. She waddled into the bathroom and shot me a very worried look before closing the door.
I sat down at the table in her tiny kitchen and noticed the unread newspaper thinking that she should have been reading it instead of masturbating with candles. But then, it was the Sunday Examiner, a notoriously bad read. Ten minutes later the kids came back, all rosy-cheeked and chatty. They had to pee. I had the unfortunate task of telling them to hold it, Dara had a tummy ache and was in the bathroom. Of course kids don’t care about anyone else’s toilet problems, when they gotta go, they gotta go! Another five minutes of pissing and moaning, or should I say moaning about having to piss passed, and then, Dara finally emerged from the bathroom, and one kid after the other charged in. By the look on her face, I could tell she had triumphed over her waxen enemy, it was pure relief, the look that said, “I have been spared telling an orderly that I have a candle stuck up my ass.”
We never figured out what it was that made the candle pop out. Whether it was the finger nudging, the laxative or just plain gravity. Maybe it was a combination of all three. As I hustled my children out of her front door, I turned and said, “Next time, use a zucchini!”
We walked down the hallway, and my older daughter asked, “What’s Dara going to cook, Mommy?”

Some oldies...

August 28, 2008

The Absurdity and the Human-ness of Assumption

            I love these late summer heatwaves in San Francisco.  The fog clears, wind dies down, and a sultry miasma sets in.  It sends me into a frenzied search for something to wear, something that I won’t boil to death in.  After an assessment of the day’s activities, the goal was to find something comfortable, something I could sweat in.  I decided on a tank that I bought from a little boutique on Union St. called “Bella and Daisy’s”.  Bella and Daisy are dogs.  The boutique is one of those ridiculous shops dedicated to all things dogs (and some things cats); gourmet food, jewel encrusted collars and leashes, foolish looking outfits, but also treats of all kinds, bowls, beds, and bones.  They also have a small collection of human wearing t-shirts, one of which I bought while in the shop a couple of years ago.  The reason I bought the tank top is #1 it is black, and #2 it says, “Who needs a husband when you can have dog?” which I thought was funny, and a bit ironic, since I often say that Mojo is my favorite husband.  At any rate, I only wear this tank when it’s hot, and that means that I don’t cover it up with a jacket, which means that people who don’t usuallly look at me, do, just to read the words emblezoned across my chest which is another thing people don’t usually look at.  This all gives me a big kick.  The kick comes not from the looking (well, maybe just a little), but from the look on their faces once they read my chest. 

            So I put it on and promptly took Mo out for a walk on the sunny, hot streets of my uptight neighborhood (lovingly referred to as ‘the land of scowling assholes’).  I immediately encountered a couple of women walking along with three little girls and two strollers.  As I passed, one of the women said, “I love your shirt!” and I said, “Oh, thanks.”  Then she added, “I need that shirt. It’s exactly how I feel today!”  Um, sorry.  Another woman I encountered wanted to know where I got it, because she just had to have one.  But the most delightful responses in my opinion, are the silent looks I get.  Older women read it and give me looks that say, ‘right!’  The men are the best.  The twenty and thirty somethings usually laugh.  But those men older than forty almost always stare in anger, indifference, fear or confusion.  Like the shirt is just incomprehensible, I mean really, who would rather have a dog than a bread-winning, warm body next to them?

I would.

            Which is not to say that I wouldn’t enjoy having a partner in my life, partner being the operative word.  God knows I’ve looked.  What I have discovered is that it’s a tall order for men of my generation.  After a life of men who grew up with fathers who wore the pants, and therefore think that is their right too, equality in my relationship is something there’s no compromising. I think that some readers of my tank top, get that.  But the others?  Who knows, but I’m sure they’re making assumptions about the wearer, that would be me.  Really though, it’s just a tank top, I don’t agree with my top completely.  Mostly I just wear it for the reactions…

            I certainly make my own assumptions about the looks and comments I get.  It is, afterall my job as a writer to constantly observe people and their behaviors, and I can only surmise that behavior based on my own experience, with a little help from my imagination.

            Later that night, I got a phone call from a very good friend.  She called to ask if she could give my phone number to a neighbor of hers that I met recently.  During my chat with this neighbor, I found out that he had just broken up (one week ago) with a woman that he was in a five year relationship.  I told my friend no, do not give him my number.  I went on to say that I was not interested in being someones ‘transition woman’. Being that I know a thing or two about break ups, I have no interest in listening to his moaning about what went wrong.  I am a very good listener, but not a qualified therapist… I asked if she would let him know my reason, and she declined, saying she would only tell him I said no.  Well okay.  I really liked the guy, he’s very nice, and I just hope he doesn’t make assumptions and think it’s because he’s bald or something. 

            But then she said, “Well, at least it’s good to know somebody is interested in you.” 

Um, what?

            Another assumption.  The one that apparently still sits in the dark recesses of the cultural zeitgeist; that a woman alone, especially a middle age woman, seeks ultimate fullfilment by being with a man.   Um what? is exactly what my response was.  She made a quick retreat, and said that she didn’t mean it in the way it sounded.  Uh-huh.  We got off the phone.  I took Mo out for his night time walk with her words burning in my head.  I was pretty pissed off.  First of all because she is my longest standing friend here in San Francisco, secondly, because I thought she knew me better than that, and finally because she’s a feminist and god damn it, if the feminist can’t get this bullshit out of their conciousness, who can?  I walked and smoked and steamed in the warm night air.  I am unclear as to where this crazy assumption came from because it is not my experience.  Why is it so hard for people to understand that you can be alone and happy?  Truly happy.  That life offers so much, that the food for the soul is so abundant, and can be found in so many places. 

            The following day I happened to be walking down 5^th street with a colleague after an all day faculty conference.  For those unfamiliar, 5^th street is a bit seedy with plenty of homeless men hanging around.  At least that was the scene on that day.  My colleague is a fellow my age, who despite his passe hairdo (he wears a ponytail!), is one of the smartest people I know.  We were embroiled in a conversation about the upcoming semester, walking at a pretty good clip, and I was smoking.  From behind came this voice, complaining about my cigarette habit.  We turned to look at a giant troll of a man – long hair, beard, and dirty, walking with a wooden cane and spewing angry venom at me and my smoke.  Hmm.  I wonder if he would have done that if I weren’t a rather demure in stature, middle-aged woman?  Maybe it was my colleague’s ponytail that made him think we would be sheepish victims of his diatribe?  He continued to follow us keeping the pace even though we quickened ours just so we could resume our conversation without his vectives interupting.  And I continued to smoke.  Because his assumptions that he would scare or shame me into putting it out couldn’t have been more wrong.  I said to my friend that if he weren’t carrying that big cane, I would say something to him.  But I was making my own assumptions, although he really did look like someone that wouldn’t think twice about using it, and probably had – many times.

            He continued to follow us for several more streets saying the craziest things, and we continued trying to ignore him.  When we finally ditched him, I said, “I bet he’s a real hit at the homeless shelter.”  It was funny in the moment, I always go for the sarcasm when faced with these types of situations.  But later, it got me thinking about my own assumptions, and sometimes they are so right on, and other times they are so wrong.

Which leaves me thinking about the human-ness of our assumptions, how we can’t help but have them.  How they can help us get out of sticky moments, and draw us right into them.

November 27, 2008

A Little Thanksgiving Mojo

            We had a really wonderful Thanksgiving dinner, way too much food, and many laughs. I was up until 1am cleaning the kitchen and spent all of yesterday recuperating.  I did manage to take Mo on a walk down to the Marina Green.  We had to do something to work off that meal and since letting my fingers do the walking across the keyboard isn’t quite enough, I’m left to walking the dog…  So the usual walk consists of circling the green clockwise, starting and ending with Fillmore St. We were approaching the light/crosswalk at Fillmore to head home.  Mo was off leash, it’s part of our Marina Green walk ritual. I get to space out and not be bothered with tugging him along, and he gets to munch grass to his heart and belly’s content. If you’ve been to the Marina Green, you know that on a clear day the views of the bay, Golden Gate Bridge and Marin County are a knockout and what every tourist would not leave SF without seeing.  It was one of those days, and the place was just bustling with people walking/biking/running/kite-flying/Frisbee-throwing and of course, dog-walking. As I mentioned, we were getting close to the crossing light where I usually leash him.  I was staring off deep in thought, when a women walking her dog said, “hey, your dog!”  I turned to look at Mo who is usually right behind me, and he was heading for Marina Blvd – four lanes of traffic!  I yelled his name, he usually listens but not this time, he dashed, and I mean dashed out into the street with me following.  I’ll tell you what; the goddess or karma or what have you was with us both, because neither of us were looking for cars as I called to him while he picked up speed.  Mojo is a noted momma’s boy, he never runs from me, it was inexplicable, confusing, crazy, and a bit silly.  I haven’t seen his old fat ass run that fast in a long time.

            He was cruising up Fillmore, me in hot pursuit when a jogger approached coming from the direction we were headed.  He sensed this wasn’t fun and games, but a run-away dog.  He joined the chase.  Now the old fart had two of us chasing him!  I thought the guy had him at one point but he must have only had the fur, because Mojo slipped through his hands like a giant bar of soap.  Well, this young, cute, Marina-dude was not going to let Mo get the best of him, he continued in the chase for two more blocks.  He was finally able to head him off, while I came up from the rear.  I grabbed the devil-dog while mumbling a breathy, “Thanks,” to the runner and a ‘what the fuck?’ to Mojo. 

            What the fuck, indeed.  After leashing him, he still wanted to run. I couldn’t even

yell at him, I was so dumbstruck by this strange behavior.  I have no idea what got into him.  All I know is that night I lit a fire in the fireplace and put out the floor pillows in front of it to watch ‘Seven Years in Tibet’, during the movie and for the entire evening he lay right next to me, chin resting on my lap.  Occasionally he would look up at me gazing directly into my eyes as if trying to explain his 2000 yard dash.  If only I were as good a mind-reader as he has been over the years.

            Later I fell asleep on the couch. I can tell myself that I was exhausted after my sprint with the old guy, but if you know anything about me – you know that I often crash right there, t.v. and lights on all night.  When the sun comes up, it’s hard to sleep too long in any room of my home due to the skylites.  So at the crack of dawn and with the newsy/entertainment show blathering from the tube, I opened one eye.  They were doing a segment on who or what you’re grateful for/to.  This fellow did an homage to a newscaster/mentor who was no longer alive.  Turns out seven years before he died, he was walking his dog when it suddenly got unleashed and went bolting across a busy NYC intersection with the newscaster in hot pursuit.  Well you know what happened.  The guy got hit by a car.  The really terrible part is that he was left severely brain damaged.

            Well.

            Since then, I have kept Mojo on leash. But later today I will take him back to the Marina, and I will let him off leash.  I’m pretty sure last week’s sudden burst of youthful vigor was more than likely the result of too much turkey skin (which I noticed several of my dinner guest slipping him under the table).  At any rate, we will continue to enjoy our Marina walk; Mo munching grass, and me looking out at the incredible beauty that lies at the northern most end of our most glorious city and I will weave into my daydreaming that we must still take a little risk now and then if for nothing more than to remind us of how very much alive we are.

Fucking Old Bat

I almost got hit by a car today. I was in the crosswalk with Mojo and I turned to make sure he was close and when I looked up this Volvo was heading straight for me. It was so close I involuntarily screamed. I didn't scream No! or Stop! I just screamed. When I looked to see who almost squashed us, it was this woman who looked to be in her 60's waving her hands and covering her mouth like she was as freaked out as me. I immediately started saying, (her window was half open) it's okay, it was an accident, it's o... when she told me to get out of her way. Apparently in my stunned moment I was telling her it's okay and trying to make sure Mo was okay and not moving fast enough. She suddenly veered around us and I have to tell at that second I thankfully had the where withal to scream, "You need to watch where you're going you fucking old bat!" HA! I'm so glad I called her a fucking old bat! I hope she heard me, I did notice the guy up the street did who witnessed the entire thing and gave me a big smile as I watched the fucking old bat floor it up Steiner Street. Geesh, people are so fucked up!

Mary, Mary quite contrary - how does your garden grow?

 It is quite satisfying to make a soup using every single last vegie in the fridge that is on the edge of becoming compost.  Lately, I have been hell bent on cutting out any wastefulness and that goes double for food.  My freezer has become a stockpile of everything from bread on the brink, a mistakenly doubled recipe for pumpkin pasta sauce to chinese takeout.  The on-edge soup will eventually find a place within the confines of fake tupperware piled atop the General Tsai chicken or the languishing pumpkin sauce.

While chopping away at the soup ingredients and tossing them into the pot, I marveled at the nature occurring just beyond my back door out on the deck.  This summer I decided to grow some food.  I have grown food before, albeit a long time ago.  None the less, I am a very accomplished indoor gardener, and felt ready to take on the task of container food gardening.  I was fairly successful.  I grew a red bell pepper plant that produced three good sized specimens, two Royal Purple bean plants of which I got several handfuls of pretty purple green beans and a tomato plant, which was cheating because it came from from Trader Joe's with little green tomatoes already on it.  At any rate I was out on the deck earlier today with the plan to empty the pots and get them off the deck, when I noticed a tiny bell pepper. Do pepper plants continue to fruit? I didn't know, but when I turned to grab the tomato pot, several little flowers were blooming all over it! Delightful! Does this mean I'll be munching fresh vegies in February?

I don't know if it's the beautiful autumn weather, or being in the kitchen cooking up a cozy soup or what, but it got me thinking about how easy and satisfying it is to take care of plants. I thought about that saying, how relationships are like gardens - you just have to pay attention to them and they'll grow.  I think that's bullshit. Because I thought I was nurturing: pruning them with phone calls and emails, watering them with hikes, lunches, dinner parties and feeding them with love. I have taken very good care of my friendships and have still managed to lose two just this year.

This may have something to do with being in my 50's...

NaNoWriMee

I've decided that having a blog might encourage me to get serious during NaNoWriMo. My intent is to post some excerpts from by 50000 word barf, and finally get serious about my writing.