Stuck

There comes a moment in everyone's life where you cease to be cool. Wait, I think I need to qualify that-- obviously there are some people who were never cool to start off with, and there are some (like James Dean) who die young and are immortalized as cool. Then there's the once in a lifetime types (like Clint Eastwood) who manage to hang on with a death grip to their coolness, even in old age. But for the rest of us, there is this invisible barrier, this tiny thread we cross over one day, somewhere around middle age, where "cool" is no longer an option.

I remember being in high school, pondering an elderly woman. She was stuck, in her fashion, somewhere between the 60's and the 80's, with polyester pants, the standard old woman helmeted & permed haircut, and those cushy nurse-looking "comfort shoes". As I took her in, I wondered, At what point do you just stop? When does fashion & pop culture and relevancy sort of float out the window, and you just don't care?

Of course, in high school things like fashion, pop-culture, and relevancy matter very, very much. Everyone knows that Beyonce makes the world go round, and that skinny jeans & Tom's define your worth & identity. But when is that magic day when you realize that you just don't care anymore-- when you get old?

My theory is that most people pick a date and stick with it. For most, that date coincides with the year printed on their high school diploma. Or maybe college. There's this moment where keeping up becomes all too tedious, and those flannels & jeans in the back of your closet just seem so comfy-- and, well, they were cool once, right?

Chris & I recently had a revelation that pointed to the fact that, if we hadn't crossed that line yet, it was coming soon. Although I have never really been "into" music-- I don't have an ipod, and have probably owned less than 50 CD's in my lifetime-- he was pretty up on the music scene ever since 5th grade. But the frightening revelation was that, in the past 10 or so years, most of our new music wasn't actually "new", but just recent albums from the same old bands we'd been listening to since our teen years. Then I noticed that our car radio was either set to the news, classic rock, or the "new" 90's rock "flashback" station that Chris recently discovered. Uh-oh. Que the funeral music.

I've also noticed that lately, my cute, punk-rock hubby has taken to wearing running shoes with his 501's & baggy flannel-- and has been accused by several of our students of being "90's grunge". Oh man, it's begun.

One of the really great things about crossing over that line, though, is the simple fact that you really don't care. As a teenager, the idea of not worrying what other people thought of you was almost inconceivable, and with that reality came a constant self-consciousness, a slight discomfort in your own skin.

A student was teasing me the other day about trying to pass me off as 19yrs old, to fit into the dorms. But as I thought about it, I realized that I would much rather be 31, having no idea what was playing on the radio, yet at home with myself. I think I like Me better at 31 than I did at 19. Besides, there are few things more tragic than someone who's past their prime, trying to keep up with the young whipper snappers. ;)

Surreal Saturday

[I apologize, but Blogger is being screwy with pictures. Here's one to whet your appetite-- you'll have to use your imagination for the rest! And, yes, that man is wearing a tweed crab on his back!]

It's been a long run, to say the least. I realize that I haven't exactly "arrived" anywhere (still pregnant, still busy, etc), but I feel like I'm getting a bit of a half time, or a 7th inning stretch, or whatever the sports analogy might be. And let me tell you, it feels great.

Ever since November, I've gotten the one-two punch of pregnancy illness and excessive traveling. There were literally some months where we never bothered to put the suitcases away, and it seemed like if I wasn't on a plane or in a car, I was plastered to the couch moaning about nausea.

But I'm not here to tell you about being pregnant. I'm tired of that topic. I want to share about my weekend-- that glorious weekend that was a big, deep breath. The weekend that marked the (momentary) end of huge responsibilities, and the beginning of Spring Break-- which technically doesn't mean vacation, but at least it means getting our ducks in somewhat of a row again.

Chris & I were faced with an entire Saturday with absolutely nothing to do. It sounded glorious-- the sky's the limit!-- but somehow the thought of all that open space scared us a little, like a big black hole that might suck us in. After a huge crepe breakfast in our PJ's, we looked at each other and asked, "Now what?"

With just a little internet research, we discovered "what": The Old Fashioned Tweed Ride in Berkeley. What better way to spend a sunny spring Saturday than dressed up like a turn-of-the century British golfer, riding our bikes around one of the kookiest towns in America with a band of complete strangers??

[If at this point in the story, you are wondering WHY would a group of people dress up in tweed & ride their bikes around together, let me spoil it by telling you that there is no reason. Some things you just don't question] ;)

After discovering that impromptu costumes are trickier than they seem when you're 5 months pregnant (and also discovering that Chris was actually meant to be a Newsie-- he looked perfect!), we lugged our bikes onto BART, crossed the Bay, and bumped into about 80 other cyclists who looked even more-- in fact much more-- ridiculous than we did. We were dull & clean cut compared to this crowd.

As we joined the bike procession, we took over the streets at a leisurely pace, and soaked in the perfect sunny day. At one point, as we were entering a park that sits on right top of the Bay, overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge & the City, we came upon big rolling green, windswept hills and dozens & dozens of kites flying overhead. Just at that moment, one of my fellow Tweeders passed me, pulling behind him a wagon with an accordion player in tow, serenading us. For a moment, I felt like I was in the movie Amelie... and a little bit like I was on drugs (but in a pleasant sort of way).

We ended our ride at the pinnacle of the park, right on the water, where the accordion player was joined by the rest of his band. I took in the scene around me: an eclectic group of steam punk musicians played everything from a xylophone (with spoons), a ukulele, a plastic keyboard with a mouth piece, and sang into a "microphone" made of a bull horn taped to a mic stand. All the while, a band of gypsies (really, I don't know how else to describe them) danced in little circles around & around a picnic table-- one wearing a top hat, antique aviator goggles & a (real) giant flared mustache, his dancing partner in a leather corset & knee-high lace-up boots. Let me tell you, it was surreal.

I'm sure that part of the experience was the feeling of release, knowing that we had made it through the busiest, hardest stretch of our year. But it was also rather magical about being a part of something so very "other". It was lovely.

We discovered that there is another Tweed Ride scheduled for San Francisco in April, and I can assure you that we will be there. Until then, I'm on the search for tweed maternity pants and a bubble pipe.

Hostel and Hospitality

The truth of the matter is that we happen to live in one of the most fantastic cities in the world. I'm just saying. The up-side is a list so long, I won't even start counting (I really do love where I live). The down-side, however, is that the rest of the world tends to agree.

We also happen to work for an organization that is incredibly well connected-- where you can meet a stranger from the other side of the world, and chances are, you know some of the same people. It happens all the time, and it's really fun.

Well, when you put those two wonderful ingredients into a recipe together, what often happens is that we get requests from people we've never met, asking if their student, their brother, or they themselves can come and stay with us as they visit one of the most fantastic cities in the world.

It's a dilemma.

I'm not saying that it happens every week, but I do have the sneaking suspicion that if we were the loving, open, generous people we should be, our air mattress might never get deflated, and our living room/dining room/office/family room/foyer would be converted into a guest bedroom. Or a Bed & Breakfast, minus the payment.

I realize that I sound like a horrible person. At this particular moment (after sending an email off to a friend of a friend in Germany whose student is visiting San Francisco), I feel rather guilty. My assumption is that these lovely people who send these requests would offer up their homes if asked. I imagine that they already have a menagerie of international students & friends crashing at their house even as they write their email to San Francisco.

I also have this deep belief that one of the keys to life is being generous with what I have been given-- being open with my life, my home, my possessions & my time. I have a romantic image in my mind of becoming the type of little old woman who opens her arms to the people around her, and spends her days making cookies for the neighborhood children. People say that I am a gifted hostess-- sometimes they even throw in the term "Spiritual Gift", which makes the guilt all the greater each time I send off an email politely saying "No".

But the truth of the matter is that we are busy. Our jobs require a ton of emotional & relational energy, and oftentimes, when we get home at the end of the day, we really need some time & space to ourselves. Our little one bedroom apartment sometimes feels cramped with just the two of us (and the giant pit bull) in it, and living in a loud urban environment transforms the relative quiet of our home into a sanctuary.

Within the next year or so, we are hoping to move into a bigger home. We have big dreams of even having a guest bedroom (imagine!). But the question popped into my mind, that if and when we do have this dream bedroom, what will we do with the requests from friends of friends of friends who are stopping by our city for a week and need a place to stay? If we were given a gift as big as a guest bedroom, can we in good conscience politely suggest a local hostel?

When I ran these plaguing questions by Chris this morning, he decreed that it was too early to be thinking about something that distressing. I suppose we'll have to cross that bridge when we come to it. I do, however, want to grow in generosity & openness, and to be gracious even with the little space that we have.

Maybe next time... ;)

Timshell: Thou Mayest

There is the kind of person who, when they walk into a room, a certain energy or presence seems to follow. There are people who just seem set apart-- a little different from the rest of us, and although we are taught to believe that we are all special, there's something about those people who are somehow more special.

One of my favorite literary characters is Samuel Hamilton, from the book East of Eden by John Steinbeck. Now, if you haven't read the book, I forgive you-- but only if you run out immediately and read it. Go ahead, I'll wait. [And, No, watching the movie does not count. It's terrible.] ;)

As I was saying, Samuel Hamilton is the kind of person with which you just want to sit down and share a meal. He's the kind of person who would make me a better person, just by spending time with him. In the book, Samuel talks a bit about greatness-- how he could have become a great man, but was afraid; how he watches his own son struggle with greatness, and how it pains him.

The thing about greatness-- about those people who seem set apart, who were meant to change the world-- is that it comes at a cost. There is a comfort, a sense of belonging when we are average, when we don't set our sights too high. The heroes of this world are lonely; they struggle and strain and sacrifice. And although we all love a great hero movie-- and although we'd all like to think, at one time or another, that we could be that hero-- very few of us are actually willing to step out from the crowd.

All these thoughts came to me a little while ago in a rather round about way. Although it doesn't happen as often as I like, I try to pray for the little peanut growing inside of me. I confess that most of my prayers are motivated by the fear of loss-- illness, deformity, still birth, and all the horrible, worrisome thoughts that will inevitably plague my mind from now into the rest of motherhood.

Usually, once I've finished praying for the basics-- healthy kid, two arms & legs, and all that-- my mind wanders into the more abstract. What will he be like? Can I pray for his personality, his soul?

I found myself wanting to pray for his happiness-- that he would live a life of contentment and security. Who wouldn't want that for their child? But what about greatness? What about the kind of man who would actually change the world around him, who would be willing to sacrifice for others? I confess that, as much as I would want someone like that in this world, it is a difficult thing to pray that for your own child.

It made me wonder about the things that I really value. To a certain extent, I want to be that kind of person-- the kind who choses that which is difficult, and who is willing to sacrifice because there is the higher value. I want the students that we work with to posess those characteristics as well, and I want to be a part of something that is worth the sacrifice (as I believe I am).

But for some reason, this new entity has sprung up inside me that is afraid to pray that for my own child, and I wonder why. What do I really value? How much am I willing to give?

In East of Eden, Samuel Hamilton unwittingly reveals to his friends the meaning behind life. It comes in a Hebrew word, Timshell, which means "Thou Mayest". As he and the characters in the book wrestle with this idea of greatness, they discover in an old Bible story this word Timshell-- the ability to choose between greatness & mediocrity, the earth & the stars. Most of us live in limbo between the two, paralized with the fear of the decision, as Samuel was. We are never really fully alive while we hover in indecision, but I can feel the fear and hesitation inside of me each time the choice is given.

I still haven't quite had the courage to pray that my little 10 oz. baby would one day choose the greater. It's a big hurdle to cross, mentally. But I suppose that each time the decision is laid before me, it gets me a step closer. Greatness may not be in the cards, but there's always potential. As Steinbeck says, "To the stars, on the wings of a pig."

Timshell.

Poverty Mentality

I realize that this is not a foodie blog (despite how much I love to read them), but with a new-found ability to eat (hooray for the second trimester!), I find myself thinking about food... a lot. Actually, to be totally honest, I have been thinking about food more than a healthy, normal person ever since getting pregnant-- especially during those long, sleepless nights after not being able to eat all day.

I lie awake and plan dinner menus, think of restaurants I want to spend fortunes on, and come up with elaborate party themes (and of course, the food I would serve at them). It's kind of sick, like food pornography playing in my mind.

Sometime around last week, I realized that I was able to eat little bits of food that I hadn't been able to before (which had been a list about a mile long, consisting of about everything that wasn't a cracker), and my little mind went crazy. Oh, the joy of cooking, and even better, the joy of eating. A combination of refraining from food for so long, and my hyper-sensitive pregnant nose seemed to make everything I ate taste like the nectar of the gods. So, of course, I have this poverty mentality ingrained in me now, and every time food is within reach, I try to eat everything I can-- until Chris notices & scolds me for making myself sick.

And of course, after feeling like a hermit from being confined to the couch for so long, my very first instinct is to throw a party. My first desperate clutch landed on Super Bowl Sunday. Nachos, homemade pizza (Chris makes a mean pizza), little brownies shaped like footballs... just thinking about it made me salivate. The problem is that we don't have a TV (that is, we don't have a TV that actually shows TV), and no one we knew was having a Super Bowl party.

Well, not to worry. The plan is to scurry out after church today and buy a set of rabbit ears. If it works, well then, we're watching the Super Bowl [commercials], and having ourselves a party. If not-- no problem, I am determined to make (and thoroughly enjoy-- and probably get sick from) a huge platter of nachos, brownies shaped like footballs, and homemade pizza.

You're welcome to join us, and cheer for the...um... Saints. Or the... Colts(?). Or the nachos, as I will be doing.

Best Ever Nachos:
-1 16oz. can Ducal re-fried black beans*
-1 bag Casa Sanchez thick & crispy tortilla chips**
-1 carton Casa Sanchez salsa verde**
--1/4lb. cotija cheese, shredded or crumbled*
-1 tomato, diced
-1-2 avocados
-1-2 limes
-teaspoon ground oregano (approx)
-teaspoon salt (approx)
-small bunch cilantro, chopped & 2 green onions, white parts diced (optional)
-sour cream (optional)

Instructions:
-Pre-heat oven to 200
-Spread 1/2 of chips on a large, oven-proof platter
-Dollop 1/2 of black beans & cheese over chips
-Cover with remaining chips, black beans & cheese
-Place platter in oven for about 10-15 min, or until cheese is melted & chips have browned slightly
-Slice avocado, scoop out flesh into a bowl, and mash with a fork. Add lime juice, salt & oregano to taste. If desired, add chopped cilantro & green onions
-Remove platter from oven, & top with guacamole, sour cream, diced tomatoes & salsa.
-If you prefer a meatier version, grab a rotisserie chicken, chop up some of the meat & fry it in lime juice. Add to top of nachos at end.

*available at Latin markets
**sold in San Francisco at grocery stores, Latin markets, and at their restaurant on 24th & York
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Kitchen Window

So far, it's been one of those mornings where walls seem to bump into me, objects seems to fall out of my hand, gravity seems a little stronger, and things that I dig through cabinets to find were sitting on the counter staring at me. Nothing tragic-- just one of those mornings.

Somehow I managed to work about a 14hr day yesterday, and decided to treat myself to the morning off. As I shuffled around the kitchen in my slippers, I fumbled through the process of making bran muffins, and watched the world pass by outside the window.

Living on the ground floor of a corner apartment means that there's a lot going on right outside the kitchen window. I've woken up to a homeless man bathing outside the window, seen drug deals against the window, heard all kinds of interesting & colorful conversations through the window, and waved at neighbors with purple rubber-gloved hands while doing dishes & looking out the window. But of all the sights & sounds that window provides, my three favorites are Bob, The Cuban Basset Hound, and The Cheerleader.

Bob lives on the far end of our block, and if I had to make a guess, I would say he is an Italian American in his mid-seventies who grew up in Jersey. Or maybe Brooklyn. On sunny days, he opens his garage door and sits in a lawn chair, watching the neighborhood change around him. Rumor has it, he built his house house back when our rough Latino neighborhood was made up of Italian & Irish families. I honestly wouldn't be too surprised to see him in his lawn chair with a rifle spread across his lap, muttering racial slurs, like Clint Eastwood in Gran Torino.

The Cuban Basset Hound, as we call him, doesn't actually have much to do with my story, but I just have to mention him because of the intrigue he brings from the kitchen window. "He" is actually an old wrinkly man with almost chocolate brown skin and white wavy hair, along with his wrinkly, saggy waddling basset hound that shuffle at a snail's pace up & down our block. Together, they look like they look like one entity, dragging their feet towards death's door-- that is until another dog walks by, and the comatose basset hound lunges for a kill, and the grumpy old Cuban breaks into a huge smile and laughs. Quite the transformation.

And last, but certainly not least is the Cheerleader. Every morning for several years, like clockwork, we heard the Cheerleader's singsong voice float through our window without actually seeing his identity. The morning routine is as follows: a middle-aged Asian woman half-jogs, half-walks in tiny little bouncy steps around & around our block, and is always inevitably intercepted right at our corner by The Cheerleader.

"Here she comes! Here she comes! Here she comes!" chirps The Cheerleader in a little song, shrilly squeaking out the "Here" part of the sentence in the same way every day. "You're looking good, you're looking good, you're looking good" rolls up & down like the chorus, followed by a big Mwaaaaaw of a kiss. Usually I hear through the window enthusiastic compliments & small talk, as the woman politely responds in a light Chinese accent, but obviously wants to continue her "jog". It's an adorable little interaction.

Well, the big plot twist, surprise ending to my little neighborhood tale came about a year ago, when the Cheerleader & The Jogger happen to collide a few steps earlier than normal, giving me the opportunity to finally see his face... and it was none other than Bob, the crotchety looking Clint Eastwood of our block. I almost fell over.

I have to say that listening to The Cheerleader/Bob has been one of the best parts of my morning, and as silly & repetitive as he sounds, I sometimes wish that he would follow me around the kitchen, cheering me on, and telling me how great I look at 7am. I think we could all use someone like that, every now & then.

Sadly, it has been months since I've heard Bob's sing-song voice floating through our window, and was reminded of the fact this morning as I stumbled around the kitchen and saw him slowly walk around the corner. My guess is that his jogging friend moved away-- as I'm sure most of his friends have done over the years-- and that he has no one to cheer on as they fight their way through the morning. He looks a little less bright as a result, and I miss his encouragement, even if it wasn't intended for me.

I remember one morning Bob deeply apologizing to The Jogger for missing her the previous day. He explained that his son had called & wouldn't get off the phone in time for Bob to come to the corner. I don't know that she minded-- she might have been grateful for the uninterrupted lap around the block. But I do know that Bob needed someone to cheer on.

And I suppose we all do-- we need to clap & cheer for & compliment others just as much as we need a standing ovation every now & then. I think it sort of keeps us alive. It almost makes me want to take up jogging, just to give Bob someone to cheer for again.

Dear John Letter

We've all seen them: those turbulent on-again, off-again relationships, full of drama and passion and pain. It's the kind of relationship that outsiders shake their heads at and wonder "Why can't they just end it? They'd be so much happier." But from the inside, it's not so easy.

I discovered this recently, and for the last several months have been trying to extricate myself from a passionate love affair with food-- not completely, of course, and not forever. I've been writing a "Dear John" letter in my mind for a while now, that I seem to be unable to deliver. It goes something like this:

Dear Food: cheese, delicious desserts, all things fried, yummy & flavorful, spicy, rich, sweet and aromatic,

I need a break-- just some time apart. It's not you, it's me. I've tried to make it work, and I just can't right now. Please understand, and please don't whisper my name from the fridge anymore. I'm leaving now, and hopefully I'll see you again in August.
Deepest love, Christine

Unfortunately, this alien being living inside-- this little parasite intent on stealing my energy & health, and sometimes even my sane & rational thoughts & emotions-- is a jealous soul. Or maybe just a sensitive one. I try not to blame him/her, try to look forward to a day when all the nausea and issues will subside... try not to cry every time I see a block of cheese.

For now, I am settling into a bland marriage of energy bars, crackers, fruit, dry cereal, and other safe and wise choices. Occasionally, a pickle will saunter into my life and cause my heart to quicken, but only when security is lax.

This pregnancy thing is not for the weak of heart, however weak my stomach might be right now. But I keep pressing on, looking forward to Thursday, when we will get to hear the heartbeat for the first time. I imagine all will be forgiven then.