Transplanting

I accumulated too much stuff in the 10 years I lived in one place. So my wonderful life-long friend drove up from her town to help me sort, pack, and move. What an ordeal. But, we dug in and filled many trash bags, boxes for donation, and boxes for storage. By the time I was ready to turn in my apartment keys, and be on the road, I had only a car load of stuff. Still, it seemed like too much.

Now, I will have 2 years to live without many of my things. So far, it’s going okay. I hated that I had to buy hangers because I forgot to pack any, and I had many. But oh well. In any case, I know one thing, I will never accumulate stuff as I did these past 10 years. It really is cathartic. 

Change

Last fall, I knew my life needed to change. I had come to an end in my interpreting career. Budget cuts at the community college were the big exit signs on the freeway.  I couldn’t ignore those flashing arrows. So I began taking some preparatory classes, and I started my search for a program in a new career field: cardiovascular diagnostic sonography. After application processes, I was accepted into a school in the Midwest.

When I tell people what I will be learning how to do, they wonder why I have to go all the way to Omaha to learn “stenography.” A nurse who gave me a few of my vaccinations wondered why the “stenography” school required the same immunizations as nursing students. I have started to say “ultra sound.” Everyone understands me when I say “ultra sound school.” It almost sounds like the school is incredibly grounded. Now that is another sign along the way that tells me: it’s all a new adventure, and relish all it will offer.

This summer isn’t really one I want to do again. I am finishing up the pre-requisite classes while packing up my things to shove into a storage unit, and saying good-bye to a place I have called home for many years.  I will have a couple of boxes of clothes, kitchen things, and my plants in my car on the way out to the Midwest. One car load of stuff will be all I can take with me at this point in the adventure. It’s already interesting.

My Kid Friended me on FaceBook

Friend is now a verb. For a long time, I carried a quarter in my wallet in case I needed to make a phone call from a pay phone. Now it’s all about signal bars and 4G networks. As fast as technology changes, the farther apart the generations it seems.

But there is one place where we have met: FaceBook. I always hear the kid’s point of view on this topic. How embarrassing it is when a parent comments on their child’s status update regarding the really bad ending of a party the night before. Ack.

We know this side of the story. But what about the parent’s side? I’m not as unworldly as my child wants me to be. After all I was a teen when there were key parties (just in case my child comes across this blog, I want to be clear: I never attended one). Along with the nonsense, there still are many things I don’t want to tell him.

I love all this social networking. In my childhood, letter writing was the only way to communicate. I wrote letters, but hardly anyone took time to write back. When email and status updates came along, I always got instant replies. I loved it from the very start—from the time when I was stuck in the house potty training that child who learned to read until now. Now we cringe in unison over our status updates.

The both of us are in a similar position. We might not appreciate certain aspects of the generations meeting on common ground. I censor my own status updates. Would I want my kid to know that I spent any amount of time with one of his friend's fathers (a divorced or widowed one of course)? Do I want him to see that his teenage years are making me a nervous wreck? These are only scenarios because I won’t dare tell him what I really did on New Year’s Eve. Not that he doesn’t know—I am his predictable mother in spite of everything.

I would never want my child to unfriend me—how embarrassing would that be? In any case, it’s time to begin a list about FB Etiquette for Teens who Have Friended Parents.

1) Always post a flawless Photoshopped picture of your mom with George Clooney.

2)Never tell your parent in a comment that it has been the worst year of your life all because of you.

3) Never ask your parent in a comment if they are stalking your status updates. They are so get over yourself.

4) Once in a while write a brief I love you in a comment. It makes your parents very cool among their friends.

Well, it’s a start anyway.

Comfort Zone

Dressing up in leathers, as they are called, and being in an atmosphere of steel, figuratively and literally, I’m experiencing a new thing. I want to be incredibly girlie. I want to wear a diaphanous dress made of baby blue chiffon. I yearn to let my hair flow delicately behind me as I run barefoot through a field of wildflowers. In this image I include purple, yellow, and blue butterflies fluttering overhead.

Ridiculous.

I know, cheesy picture but too fun to pass up.

Description Play

Fall is flirting with these early mornings—cool and crisp.

This early morning, a cool breeze fans the machine shop. Floating through the air, remnants of former sparks land on my jacket and chaps as lightly as snowflakes. When I catch one in my hand, it doesn’t melt into water, instead it smudges like charcoal.

Blue-flamed torches send a waterfall of yellow sparks pouring towards the concrete floor. Some sparkle and then turn to black dust before they hit the ground; others hit the cement and die out completely. The sparks are unpredictable. They have been known to wiggle inside a glove causing blistery burns.

The torches burn so intensely it’s like staring at the sun. Different shades of dark lenses, depending on eye color, are supposed to prevent blindness.

By nine am fall has retreated. The sun burns away any coolness, the wind blows warm and dry. The seasons start later now.

Idenity Twist

Luckily I wasn’t the one who had sprayed my hair until it could walk on its own. But my silk blend blouse gave the men in the shop a stroke. Sparks. All it would take was one wayward spark to make its sneaky way towards us and set us on fire. Who would have thought?

So to be one of the interpreters in this program, I must wear a formless leather jacket, a cap, safety glasses, leather gloves, clunky steel-toed work boots, and worst of all, leather chaps. None of these pieces of fashion are made for women. Women do not need chaps to have a baggy codpiece in the front. There is a bonus though: there is a double guarantee that sparks will not ignite around anyone.

Sure does take the fun out of a day.

Every morning I spend an hour getting ready for work—hair dryer, curling iron, eyeliner, mascara—that kind of thing. And when I arrive, I change into my get-up tucking my hair into my cap, and stuffing my feet into those silly boots. When my turn is up and I pass the baton to the next interpreter, my hair style is ruined, flattened against my scalp. I do have my priorities straight.

Fashion isn’t the issue. It’s really being in this predominately all alpha male world. The other day, I wondered why these alpha males were giving me such attitude when I was dressed to look like them. Apparently, I wasn’t playing the part well enough.

 My coworker told me my communication style is like I’m asking these alphas to join my kumbaya circle. She has cracked the alpha male code. She said if you speak to these alphas as a reporter, then their invading feather receptors will return to normal. I tried it. I clomped up to the alpha males, and reported the facts of the day.

I learned the proper response. Nodding. Not just any nodding, but one nod, no smile. In alpha male language that is being agreeable. Yawn. Makes me understand why men fall asleep so easily.

This is going to be a very long year.

Happy Birthday

I had one of those significant birthdays this month. My long time friend got an idea that I would love to spend it on the town drinking sweetened apple martinis and dancing in the strobe lights—colorful strobes, of course.

She’s known me for how long? I reminded her of this: wine, cheese, grapes, and then popcorn, fuzzy slippers, and a couple of rented movies. It’s all about HD nowadays; movies look great at home now. No way, she said. You are going to have fun. She sat in my dining room chair facing me, checking the clock—finally, it’s 8:30, let’s go.

I knew 8:30 was a little early to start this whole clubbing activity; but, the fewer the crowds, the better, kind of like arriving at the gate into Disneyland before it opens. I don’t know much about this whole clubbing thing nowadays. The last time I did the whole clubbing thing was, well, Prom, if that counts. And when I say Prom, I mean the time when boyfriends wore baby blue tuxes with white ruffled shirts.

Needless to say, I was going to disappoint my best friend forever as thoroughly as losing my son’s passport right before his trip to Mexico (luckily, two minutes before the last car transporting the kids down there took off, I found it in the trash where I accidentally tossed it with the banana peeling). This time, I figured I wouldn’t be able to redeem myself.

When we arrived to the row of bars—I mean clubs—they were empty. Too early. So we walked. She had on her sparkly, strappy high heels, but walked in them like they were Air Jordans. I wore my flat-thong sandals but fantasized about my fuzzy slippers.

We passed by a young girl wearing short-short cut offs with a white t-back tank top, and sports socks white, with a red stripe, pulled up to just below her knees. Her eyes were drooping, and she couldn’t stand up without help. We approached a couple who had spiked hair, spiked bracelets, chains, strategic holes ripped in their black clothing. The girlfriend said, “You can make it to the trash can this time.” And the boyfriend obliged. He threw up neatly.

I looked at my friend, “Isn’t this fun?” She said yes it was. Okay. I heard some pounding music, saw some strobes and pulled her into the bar. On the dance floor were three college boys doing some kind of shivering movements. On the edge of the floor were some gangsters and their girlfriends. One of the girls looked pregnant and I wondered about the drink she held in her hand. My bff insisted she was just fat. I glanced at this girl’s belly off and on while I sipped my sweetened upon sweetened apple martini and still, it never looked like fat to me. “Fun. Remember?” my friend said.

When the college boys bought rounds of beers and had their chug-a-lug contests, and more gangsters with girlfriends sauntered in, I finished my drink, and walked out. This time my friend followed me, past the Lolita drunken girl, past the full trash can, past the newly formed line in front of the bar that was starting 80’s night, into the car, and home.

My friend said I lasted a lot longer than she thought I would. She said by the next birthday, she knows she will succeed in getting me to have fun. This must be why we have been friends for most of our lives. Our definitions are different, but, we each know, one day, through diligence, we will convince the other the real way to have a blast on our next significant birthdays.