Mom gave me a new journal for Christmas. We’ll see how this goes.
Sunday was amazing.
To start, it was the first day of standard time. The real beginning of autumn is always nice. The weeks leading up to it are a little bittersweet. They remind me of the end of summer, the start of school, of days passed. But I like autumn. It’s rained a little a couple times, and things are kind of fresh and green(er). And the light in the morning and evening is amazing. I’m looking forward to running again — I’ve taken the last week or so off, to give my knee a little break — because there’s sunlight early in the morning again.
The Oyster Girls did one last Sunday with us. They come every weekend, but October is usually their last month. But with the nice weather, they extended one final time. The crowd was mellow, enjoying themselves. Everyone was having a good time. Even those of us “working.” Every time I walked through the office, someone was giggling or laughing.
Finally, I think the funniest thing I’ve had happen at work finally occurred. I think it was only possible because we’re an outdoor tasting room. But I’m not sure. Maybe it would have happened no matter where these folks were.
I was working out front with the oyster bar. I only had four folks at my bar — two couples — and the Oyster Girls were chatting with a guy who was there with his small son and his older father. There was some haggling over who was going to pay for the oysters they wanted. In the background, I heard, loudly, the little boy announce:
“I have to PEE.”
I didn’t think anything of it. Kids say stuff all the time. I’ve heard and seen weirder things out of the mouths of babes in four years of working at summer camp and another four working with the general public. An announcement about the status of a bladder from a potty-training toddler wasn’t anything to give a second thought.
Until the two guys at my counter gasped, shocked, and I heard the child’s father say, “Oh! No, wait, hang on!”
Because of course, the little boy had decided that, since he had to PEE, and he had announced it, now was the time to do it.
After all, he did warn us.
We were all laughing. I’m not saying that if you have a kid you’re potty training that this is OK. But there’s no point in getting upset. It’s much better to laugh. And the best part was the grandfather, who just about passed out from laughing. He had his head down on his arms, supporting himself on the bar, as the father swooped down, pulled the kid’s pants up, and hustled him to the bathroom.
When relaying the story to my coworkers as we closed, my managers were wiping tears from their eyes.
“I have to admit,” they agreed, “that’s a new one.”
And to think they’d seen it all.
I had a friend get hurt last night.
I got the phone call from her around 11:00. Peter and I had gone to bed, me deliriously happy (and maybe a little smug) about the Giants’ win in the World Series. Peter was also pleased, but as is his usual personality, he’s much more composed than I am. He cheered mildly with each Giants success and cursed any failure, but on the whole, just enjoyed watching an excellent baseball game. Me, on the other hand: as soon as Pablo Sandoval caught the pop-up by Salvador Perez, I’d pulled the bubbly out of the fridge and was leaving a voicemail on my brother’s cell phone that went something like this:
So tell me again about how the Royals are going to beat the Giants?! Neener neener neener! I love you. Come home for Thanksgiving. I’ll see you at Christmas.
Jerked out of sleep in the dark, my friend’s voice was calm but strained. She’d fallen. Her knee was messed up. Could we come to try to help her move from J’s kitchen floor and into her car, and hopefully home? She thought it might be dislocated or twisted; maybe the previous injury from earlier this summer had flared up again.
We hustled over, and it became clear pretty quickly that a trip to the emergency room was in order. The boys tried — and failed — to lift her without pain into the back of her car. She said it felt like her leg was being pulled off. Scratch that plan. I called 911, and they sent the fire department and an ambulance. The paramedics got her onto the gurney and into the back, then took her to the hospital. Peter took W home, but not before W told the paramedics: We love her, and you’d better take good care of her, or I’ll find you. The EMT laughed. “I’ve done this a long time,” he said when we apologized. “Trust me, he’s got a long way to go before he reaches the worst.”
I followed and sat with her, feeling completely and utterly useless. Here was my friend, one of the strongest women I know, who has been a rock in my life ever since I’ve met her, who has always been there if I needed her to be; and here I was, unable to do anything to help with the pain of the injury or the frustration of having to go through the whole thing in the first place. All I could do was sit.
I hadn’t felt particularly helpful until the end of the ER visit, when I was able to, from my viewpoint, actually do something. That “something” came in the form of finding the 24-hour pharmacy to get the pain medication prescription filled. And then this morning, when a trip to her storage unit was needed to find a wheelchair. Or even to get a glass of milk from the refrigerator to avoid upset stomach. But all those were small. Mostly I sat with her and waited and felt helpless.
And yet W and J both sent me messages today: You’re a good friend. You’re a good person. Thank you for your help.
I told them both the same thing: I try to surround myself with good people and take my cues from them. If in fact I was helpful or comforting to my friend, it’s only because I learned from the best: I learned from them.
And I was just glad to be there.
I did some quick and dirty math:
Since I started running in April, I’ve seen approximately one hundred sunrises.
And now all those early wakeups are about to pay off. Every time I dragged myself out of bed to run sprints at the track; each time the alarm went off in the dark, and I shuffled out the door into the fog; all the times I felt like sleeping in but got up anyway; all of that buildup will be tested on Saturday.
The race is tomorrow, you guys. I’ve got my dinner for tonight and breakfast for the morning all planned. My clothes will be laid out and ready to go. It’s supposed to be colder tomorrow than I’ve ever run in, so I’m going to be a big baby and buy handwarmers to hold in my pockets before we start. And unless the Giants game goes into extra innings, it should be a 9:00 bedtime pretty easily.
They’ll even let me drop off clothes to change into when I arrive, and the race organizers will hold onto them and give them back at the end! Amazing! I joked to my friend Jordan that I was going to bring my bathrobe. I’m kind of considering it.
Everything is in line. Everything will be fine. I’ll be running with former coworkers and current industry cohorts. And friends.
Of course we’ll miss the sunrise tomorrow, because naturally tomorrow is the only day this week with a likelihood of rain to match my sunrise quota: one hundred percent.
My housemate got a dog a couple months ago.
He’d been talking about getting one for a while, and our other housemate (the homeowner) was totally down with it, and so the process began.
At the same time, I saw something in my news feed: a post from the Sonoma Humane Society with a picture of a 4-1/2-month-old mutt with the floppiest ears I had ever seen. Then I realized it was a shared post. My housemate’s shared post. With an announcement that he had just filed the adoption papers for the pup in the picture.
It’s been a fun time since Bogart came into the house. We were all immediately smitten. How could you not love that face? He’s got some terrier in him, so his energy can be a little manic at times. His favorite thing to do is to stand on the arm of the leather chair by the front door — a habit we’re trying to break him from, as he’s still growing.
Nothing is safe on the coffee table. He’s pretty good about keeping his mouth off things, but his whip-like tail is another. I think I have bruised shins from Bogart’s tail. The radiator in the hallway is dented from it. Bogart is unfazed.
He also has no concept of personal space, which can be hilarious (like right now, he’s lying on Jon’s back chewing on his elk antler). Peter and I will be sitting on the couch with our feet up on the coffee table, and Bogart will try to climb over our legs, one by one, in an attempt to climb into our laps or behind us. He loves to hang over the back of the couch, too. He just wants to be involved.
Jon is trying to turn him into a running dog. We’ll see how that goes. Jenny took him for a three-mile run a few weeks back, and Bogart flopped down into the first patch of shade he could find. Jon had a similar experience today.
But he sleeps pretty well at the end of it.
I really should call my mother more.
On Friday, I was talking to a guest. We were trying to sort out an issue with her shipment, which seemed to have gone to her mother’s house in Minnesota instead of to her own home in San Francisco. And she commented, “I talk to my mom almost every day,” saying her mom would have let her know if anything had arrived.
“I should call my mom that often,” I told her.
My mom has had a rough year. Without airing too much of her personal business here, let’s just stick with that. And part of the difficulty has been that, as she recovers, she feels we don’t understand what she’s going through, and that we aren’t listening to her. I promise you we’re trying; but she may also have a point. Our communication — hers and mine, I mean — has not been as good as it used to be. Tempers are shorter, and my mother is, I think, unhappy. Or less happy.
And to prove the old adage, when mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. You see, growing up, my mother was the touchstone of the family. She was waking us up every morning, dark or light, rain or shine. She was home every day when I got off the school bus. She’s the one you call when shit goes down. And she’s always right. I mean really.
Case in point: in July, two months into her recovery, she sat me down and said, “You haven’t been around. You haven’t been here for me. I haven’t seen you. I understand this is hard for you, and if you need help dealing with it, we can talk, or we can find someone you can talk to. But buck up and pull your shit together.”
Okay, she didn’t say “pull your shit together.” My mother doesn’t swear. She doesn’t have to. But she was totally right: I was avoiding dealing with her healing because the idea that my mother will not be here forever was fucking terrifying me.
I’ve always had a sort of Peter Pan … thing. I’m in denial about my adulthood, about all the changes in my life. I stood in the back yard of my parents’ home, where they have lived for more than thirty years, and I don’t see the changes that have happened. I know they have, of course. There used to be a deck where there is a patio. There used to be a wall where there’s a kitchen. The wallpaper used to be beige with brown, floral designs. I know these changes have happened, but at the same time, I can’t see them. My family remains unchanged in my mind. My parents are indestructible. They’ll be there forever.
So this thing that happened with my mother, it scared me. It scares me. It’s a reminder that she’s older. That we’re older. That everything changes. And that nothing waits for you to be ready for it; it just happens.
I’m lucky, still. My mother is here. I can still call her if I’m having a bad day. Instead, though, I should call her if I’m having a good one, because I think it’s time for me to be there for her once in a while.
Apparently I have a problem with water. *
Dan: Did you take water?
Me: Yes, I drank almost seventy ounces in 11.6 miles.
Dan: Dang. That’s too much water. You don’t need that much.
[a few days later after a bonafide sprint** around Magnolia Drive]
Dan: See? You don’t need water!
Me: Maybe not, but I’d be happier if I did.
Dan: I think you have a problem with water.
Me: I have a problem with the substance that sustains all life on this planet?
Dan: Uh huh.
Me: Maybe. Do we have time to get gas? My warning light just turned on.
**Okay not a sprint. But we ran fast(er than I wanted to)