100 words a day

Maybe it’s the novelty, but saying “my husband” seems a little illicit (even though it’s the opposite - the papers actually legitimize the relationship). When I’m shopping for something for our home, and I tell the salesperson that I’ll have to bring my fiance back so we can decide together, I wish that I could say husband. It has more gravity. By the same token, I imagine him saying “I’ll have to run that by my wife.” As a wife, I have power. As a fiancee, I sound like an obscure French cooking appliance. I can’t wait to be his wife.

With Cecilia, I’m half nurse, half esthetician. She needs help taking off her clothes and getting onto the table. She’s a 60-year-old ex-nurse and ex-lawyer, never been married. Two computers implanted in her body for management of what I can only imagine is unbelievable pain. Last week she had an update for me.“Catherine, I’m in love. His name is Michael, and he’s a gentleman and a scholar. He’s in love with me too. He says he doesn’t mind that I can’t move very well.”I helped her get ready for her date. Lucky guy, Michael.

Dear 100 Words A Day,

I have sadly neglected you. I cant pretend this will be the last time, and if you read back through my posts you’ll see it’s not the first time I’ve come crawling back, ashamed.

I have no good excuse: I haven’t been stuck on a deserted island without internet access, nor have I been in jail or laid up in the hospital. I’ll chalk it up to lazy and lack of self-confidence, if I’m really being honest.

And that’s one thing I have always given you, my dear 100 words, is honesty. Scout’s honor.

Consider this something of a public service announcement. I had a client the other day who worked at a high-end lingerie shop. She took one look at my sorry Victoria’s Secret state of affairs and said, “You should really come in for a bra fitting.”

It’s comforting to have someone besides yourself in charge of making the most of your assets. She picked out bras for me, prodding, pulling and tightening. All harnessed in with my t-shirt back on, the girls looked like they did when I was 18 and I looked like I’d lost five pounds. Genius.

I went to a great event the other night and saw Adam Savage, a Bay Area native of “Mythbusters” fame, read some of his writing. He stood up on stage in front of a packed bar (one of the other presenters remarked that only in San Francisco would a literary event be standing room only) and read a stack of notecards. They were 100 wishes. His first wish was “I wish I had a light saber.” His most poignant wish was “Napping on the couch with my dog - I wish every vacation was like that.”

Let’s all make our wishes.

I’ve lived in San Francisco long enough that very few things surprise me. Smoking marijuana in broad daylight in public? Meh. Par for the course. A man walking a chicken? I saw him last year at the Bluegrass Festival. A dad riding his tandem bicycle, jury-rigged so that his four-year-old could be his riding partner.

But on a run this morning, I faced a new scenario. Golden Gate Park. Approximately 10 am, in the Panhandle. Spotted: two homeless guys, not far removed from their pile of sleeping bags under a tree, fighting with swords. Like, REAL swords.

Remember the clover? Remember me wishing that 2009 would treat me better?

I didn’t think it would happen. I’m sorry to all the cynics with whom I have always kept company - I’m sure you’ll be fine without me.

It was at the gayest karaoke bar in the gayest neighborhood in the gayest city in the world. I found the one available, handsome, stable man there. He told me I was the most beautiful girl he’d ever talked to. Oh, stop. No don’t stop.

He has continued to treat me with the love, respect, and kindness I always dreamed I deserved.

I arrived at work, harried and rushed, half-drunk coffee in hand, to find that someone had booked a last-minute massage appointment. Full disclosure: doing massage is NOT my favorite part of my job.

We sat down in the lounge and chatted about how she was feeling, what was going on with her body, and what she wanted to get out of the massage.

She teared up. “Well, I just lost my husband six weeks ago. So…that’s been hard.”

My annoyance softened. She just needed some healing touch.

When she left, she was smiling. It was so rewarding.

My roommate, after a long-ish period of couch-sitting, video-game playing unemployment, got a job. He’s the assistant general manager at a new restaurant opening up in the Bay Area.

He’s arrived home each night exhausted, having worked 12+ hour day interviewing people - almost one hundred people each day. After interviews, it was time for the hiring calls. In this economy, I can’t imagine playing a more rewarding role: being the person giving someone the news that they have a job, that they can now pay their rent, feed their family, and that their future is secure.

I sat down on the 5 next to bald, white guy with a crazed look on his face.

“Hi, I’m Jerry! What’s your name?”

“I’m Violet.”

“You’re my first Violet! I’m not well, Violet.”

Awesome.  At this point, his attention was mercifully redirected to two guys who boarded, holding burritos.

“Excuse me gentleman, on behalf of the MUNI Burrito Confiscation Task Force, I’m going to have to ask you to hand over those burritos.” The guys just laughed.

“What type of burrito is it?”

My apartment is between two bus stops. I exited my gate and looked left – the bus was already boarding passengers. I made a break for the stop to the right, 1.5 blocks down. I was wearing a skirt and knee high boots:  not the stuff of track stars. I was halfway there when I noticed the bus trundling along 3 feet behind me, honking. The driver stopped in the intersection and opened the doors.

As I boarded breathlessly, a grizzled, toothless, man said angrily, “You know he only stopped for you because you’re cute. He wouldn’t have stopped for me.”

“So, I entered a raffle for a chance to win a date with Joey,” my roommate says.

“Joey…Joey from Friends?” I’m confused.

“Joey from the coffee shop.”

“What?”

“I’m a sucker for supporting independent arts. One of the baristas there is making an independent film. They’re raffling Joey off to pay the crew.”

“I wonder how Joey feels about this? What are you going to do if you win?”

“I’m not sure. He’s very boy-next-door and about ten years younger.”

“And anyone can enter?”

“I guess so.”

“Well, I hope you win, or this could end very badly for Joey.”

Work day: completed.
After-work appointment: attended.
Kitchen: cleaned.
Jon Stewart & Colbert: watched.
Legs: shaved.
Dinner: made. (Fresh cherry tomatoes, home-grown basil, garlic-infused olive oil with shredded parmesean and balsamic.)
Robe and nightgown: Donned.
Kitty cats: snuggled.
Wine: poured.
Online shopping: done.

Now it’s time to write. Why is it that EVERYTHING becomes before writing? There are so many things in my life that I feel like I must do. When I feel like I’m just trying to keep my head above water, it doesn’t feel like a comfortable time to write. So I should do it anyway.

I have a new dry cleaner. It took me a couple of visits to realize this, but when I say “Thank you,” the lady behind the counter says, “You’re welcome. It’s my job.”

Apparently, we’ve bonded. Yesterday, apropos of nothing, she yanked a photo of George Michael out from under the counter and shrieked “My husband!” After showering Mr. Michael with kisses (the photo was laminated, I imagine for this very purpose) she shook her head sadly and said “So gay. So gay. No chance.”

“Thank you,” I said, as I handed over my laundry.
“You’re welcome. It’s my job.”

May 30, 2009. I have a sterling silver cake knife engraved with today’s date, and my name linked with someone else’s. The knife will go unused. We are no longer planning our lives together.

Vows to myself:

I promise to follow my gut.
I promise to trust my closest circle.
I promise make sure that I get everything I need.
I promise forgive others and myself.
I promise to choose life.
I promise to be grateful.
I promise to respect and love myself.
I promise give love freely.
I promise to be open to love when it finds me again.

I haven’t written in a while, and I’m sure I flatter myself by thinking you all missed my words. I missed them. Why is it that when life upends we say to ourselves “Oh, things are too crazy - I can’t write. Too much else to do.” It should be the opposite - over these last three weeks or so, writing could have been the one place that I visited that remained constant. Everything else is new. Everything else is different. Everything is scary. Writing, I suppose, is just old and scary. Still, I feel worlds better within these 100 words already.

I wonder what happened to my wedding dress. What happens to dresses that get sent back? At the designer’s workshop, is there a room in the back with half-finished dresses of brides who changed their minds? I picture seams half-sewn, embroidery abandoned. Dress forms forced into long-term servitude by dresses that may never move on to adorn a human form.  Maybe they wait for another bride in my same size to order that dress. Isn’t that bad luck? I just went back and tried to edit that to not make it so sad, but it’s just sad.

I burnt my arm seriously on a wood-burning stove the other night. It’s the first injury I’ve had in a while that I couldn’t treat myself. I was scared. I needed somebody else’s help. My savior was an individual I didn’t expect to step up to the plate, one who doesn’t normally offer help. It felt lovely to be taken care of. I was surprised at the overwhelming rush of love and gratitude I felt for a simple task that one human wouldn’t normally hesitate to perform for another. What does that say about what’s missing from my life?

I took ballet for ten years when I was young. It was my first passion. When I quit, I told myself and everyone else that it was because pursuing ballet seriously, professionally, was too much of a commitment. The truth was that breasts were too big, my hips too wide, and my teacher let me know that. Years of staring at my imperfect body in the mirror and thinking I was fat has made a dent in my adult body consciousness. I have a ticket to Swan Lake at the SF Ballet next week. I expect inspiration or crushing regret.

1. I have my first chronic pain. Realize I might not be indestructible.
2. The prospect of a crushing hangover impeding my next day’s activities actually tempers my drinking.
3. Expensive, sexy shoes that I can barely walk in seem like a waste of money.
4. I have recently worried about covering my grays. There are freakishly many of them on my head for a late twentysomething.
5. At a local show, I recognized the “rockstars” for what they are: middle-aged, frustrated guys with bad day jobs.
6. Any bar that makes me stand in line or pay a cover is out of the question.

(Two hippie/homeless/backpacker kids board the #43, encountering a colleague.)

Kids: Hey man! I didn’t know you had a rat!
Man With Rat: Hell, yeah! I’ve had her about a year now. (A cursory glance reveals a middle-aged white man with a grayish brown rat snuggled up in the crook of his neck.)
Kids: What does she eat?
Man With Rat:  Garbage and s**t.
Kids: How long are you around for?
Man With Rat: I’m stuck here for 89 more weeks, on parole. My old lady’s in Fort Collins. She’s got my truck and all my armor.

I didn’t think this day would come. I didn’t think it was impossible, but I didn’t count it as likely. I’m sitting alone in my living room, clapping with sore hands. How many times do you find yourself clapping alone? Applause seems, by definition, a group activity. I wonder how many people in my building are sitting in front of their own televisions, applauding.  I’m happy and hopeful, but I’m lonely and I feel adrift. If Obama was in charge of overhauling my life only, I wouldn’t be worried. But he’s got a lot of people to take care of.

My four-leaf clover lost a leaf.
Seriously. Last Christmas, I received a four-leaf clover pressed between two panes of glass as a gift. Right around the time that everything in my life started to head South, I realized that my goddamn clover had lost a leaf. You can see it, that lone leaf, hanging out at the bottom of the frame.

Engagement? Broken. Purse? Stolen. Diet? Failed. Job? Lost.

2008 hasn’t been such a stellar year for me. Maybe 2009 will be my year. Maybe it won’t. But I sure as hell am throwing that fucking clover out.

My Holiday Gift List, disregarding the bounds of time and money:

For my mom: Monthly facials at my spa, including roundtrip airfare, and a magical device to stop my dad’s freakishly loud snoring.

For my dad: Round-table discussion with the Dalai Lama, the Beatles, and Jesus.

Brother: The instantaneous knowledge that he will look back 5 years from now and remember this time in his life fondly.

My boyfriend: A new dream.

Childhood best friend: Guarantee of a long and happy marriage with her new husband.

College best friend: Her first three years of corporate law/slavery, fast-forwarded.

We pulled into the bar’s parking lot; the eye of the frozen, deserted corporate complex. C sat in my passenger seat like lanky relic, same smile. We were ten years wiser and not holding hands.

The basement featured loud music, plastic cups and hundreds of ghosts of high school past. The girls had diamond rings and photos of toddlers. The boys were now “men,” chubby and balding.

E definitely won. You can buy her humanitarian fashion statement at the checkout of any Whole Foods. We used to have a joint birthday parties together. I felt a little like a loser.

Whenever people ask me what I do, and I tell them that I’m an esthetician, the inevitable reply is:

“Well, no wonder your skin is beautiful.”

What would be the analogous commentary for other professions?

“I’m a barista.”

“No wonder you seem caffeinated all the time!”

“I’m a garbage collector.”

“No wonder you always smell like crap!”

“I’m a doctor.”

“No wonder you’re scared of germs!”

It’s such an American thing to define people by their professions. Why do people care how we make money? It’s always the first cocktail party question: what do you do? Oh, really? No wonder…

I joined in protesting Proposition 8 at San Francisco’s City Hall this morning. Apparently, some unenlightened 52.2% of Californians think that homosexual partners should not have the right to marry or raise a family. Instead of dwelling on that depressing statistic, I’ll share some witty poster slogans (some of which referred to the Mormon church’s generous financial backing of Prop 8):

“You have six wives, I only want one husband. What’s the problem?”

“You’re not the boss of me, Utah!”

“I can’t believe I still have to protest this crap.”

“Get your hands off my wedding ring you Mormon bitches.”

I can’t believe it’s been almost a week since the world changed drastically for the better. I’m a little obsessed with Barack - I picture what he must look like when he’s brushing his teeth or what kind of coffee he likes.I can’t believe he didn’t even take a day off after the election. I heard he’s replacing the White House bowling alley with a basketball court. I wonder what kind of dog they’ll get. Is this strange? Yeah, probably. Kind of. But for the first time in my voting life, I really like the guy in the oval office.

I’m reading this book that I recommend to all the ladies in the house: Mama Gena’s School of Womanly Arts, by Regina Thomashauer. It’s about pursuing your pleasure and just doing what you want and what makes you feel good. The first exercise is checking in with yourself each hour, assessing how you feel, and saying aloud “I feel ______ and that is a right feeling.”  My first affirmation was “I feel sleepy and that is a right feeling.” And so I let myself just take a nap, and it felt so fucking good. Midday, lots of shit to do. Naptime.

Honestly, who out there actually likes looking at pictures of themselves? Supermodels? Because in pretty much every picture that I ever see of myself, I can point out at least one flaw that makes me want to head for the delete button (I was going to say “tear it up” but nobody has paper pictures anymore.) And somehow, that ruins the memory for me. I could have been having a fabulous time, talking and laughing with friends or doing something silly, and when I see the photos posted and I hate how I look, the memory is sullied. Sick? Sick.

Phone System: “…for payment and billing, say payment and billing…”
You: “Payment and billing.”
Phone: “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that. To go back, say back. To speak to a representative, say representative.”
You: “Representative.”
Phone: “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that. To speak to a representative, say representative.”
You: “Representative. REPRESENTATIVE!”
Phone: “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that. Let me transfer you to a representative.”

Wouldn’t it be great if you could just call on a representative at any time? Lost your keys? Spilled coffee in your lap? Cut yourself shaving?  Having a shitty day?

REPRESENTATIVE!

Oh, California. The things you’ve made me do. Yoga. Uggs. Layering dresses over pants. Soy. Juice cleanses. I can never move back to the East Coast now, after the countless Left Coast crimes that you have encouraged me to commit. The latest? Nudist hot springs trip. (Full disclosure: this weekend was actually the second time I’d been there. Yes, the California-itis is that bad.) A bunch of hippies, young and old, rotund and slender, all naked, all tanned within an inch of their lives, hanging out around some pools. Even the second time, it was an eye-opening experience.

There’s been an epidemic of stolen wallets and purses. I had my purse stolen three weeks ago, and since then I’ve had three friends suffer the same fate. From restaurants, from bars, at work, from their car. I can’t help but see this as a sign of the desperate times. I can’t imagine that stealing wallets is a lucrative pastime these days — no one carries cash, and the victim always cancels all of their credit cards immediately upon recognizing they’ve been robbed. People are just that hard up. What does it take to push someone to thievery? What about you?

Disappointment is the worst of all possible feelings. When you were young, and you did something wrong, the most terrible thing your parent could say was “I’m not angry. I’m just disappointed in you.” At least anger is aggressive - an outflow of energy, an emotion that you visit upon others. Disappointment happens to you. You are both the author and the victim of disappointment, because without expectations that you set up, disappointment could not arrive to fall short of them. How do you protect yourself from the repeated, bludgeoning failure of someone or something not meeting your expectations? Tell me.

I believe that public transportation is a writer’s best source of material. I believe the roots of women’s highlights mirror the state of the economy. I believe that red wine is good for the constitution. I believe that it feels better to take a shower when you really need one. I believe that police use their sirens when they don’t want to sit in traffic. I believe that dogs can make better companions than humans. I believe that being pretty or rich makes life easier. I believe that McCain’s cheeks are puffy because he’s storing dead baby penguins in there.

I heard that John Lewis compared McCain to George Wallace and his hate-inciting tactics in the 1960s. I had to ask my mom who George Wallace was. She said, “Wow. There’s the generation gap for you.”

I was out on Saturday night, coaxing Medjool’s bartender into pouring me a more-than-generous glass of red wine, when I felt someone pulling on my purse. I whirled around and some blazer-clad douchebag was attempting to violently remove my “Obama 08” button. He sneered at me, said “Just so you know, I’m voting for McCain,” and disappeared down the stairwell.

Catherine lives and works in San Francisco. She attended Middlebury College in Vermont, and originally hails from Philadelphia. (And yes, she does miss her family.) By day, Catherine works as an esthetician. You can read her skin and beauty blog at http://thefacialdiaries.blogspot.com.  Catherine likes sunlight, animals, foreign languages, reading, insalata caprese, a freshly made bed, and getting her hair cut. She dislikes bell peppers, the word ‘tamp,’ touching fur that’s not on an animal, waiting, crawly things, and entitlement. She believes Rilke, who wrote “And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now.” She thanks you for reading.