Extended Family

I drove back into town early last night, the trip from Eugene not as bad I had expected, what with the head cold and all.



I realize now that I took hardly any pictures of my trip to the Pacific Northwest this time around. Perhaps because I've been there, done that, a few times before. Not to say I was bored on this trip at all — just that it was more of a mental refresh than a fancy new adventure.

And that suited me just fine.

I found on this trip a reminder that there's two kinds of family: the one you're born into, and the one you accumulate through friendships. It's easy to forget about the latter when I'm embroiled in a cloak of depression and routine. It was such a relief to let go just a little and be one of the parts of myself that doesn't get a chance to escape too often.

Because really, that's what family is: the people who know you so well that you let go around them, emotionally and psychologically and mentally. You act with them differently than you would around the rest of the world and — if they're the good kind of family — you know that pretty much no matter what you do they'll still open the door and let you crash and vent and release.

So. Easter weekend I stayed with Steph, whom I've known since high school and survived Epic Farts with and we still haven't yet killed her, and together we pretty much acted like we were still in high school: driving around town, spending too much money on stuff, hanging out at the bookstore (Oh, Powell's, how I love you so) (I controlled myself, by the way: only spent $180!) (Mostly because the basket was getting too heavy for me to carry it anymore. And Steph needed to move the car, so it was time to leave.), eating, and poking around in nature looking for rocks.

The week after was spent with the Kirkland Crew, and working out of my company's Seattle office. Most of the trip involved drinking and bullshitting, board games and bad movies. A night of dinner and wine with Emily and her new beau, happy hour on Friday with the coworkers, and a couple excursions to Pike Place Market pretty much rounded out the trip. The drive down was eased by a stopover in Eugene with my cousin Ryan, the weather was nice enough for a walk before dinner, and then a soft warm bed to pass out in before making the final journey back to San Francisco.



Nothing terribly exciting to report, then. At least, not about my vacation. Maybe my happiest vacations are the least eventful ones. The big adventure, however, is coming up this late summer/early fall. Hopefully that will make up for all of this.

Auntie: Up

I was thirsty.

So, off a comment on a picture friend Buhler posted to Google Plus, I inspired myself into yanking some of my parents' backyard produce, and being productive with it.



I have a lot of zucchini bread now. Most of it is in muffin format, bagged and tossed into the freezer for at least a month of future breakfasts. One giant zucchini produced two dozen muffins and a loaf. Not bad for elephantitis of summer squash.

Also gathered from Suburban Eden were some tomatoes

and some peppers, which I combined with some thai peppers I'd bought from the Farmer's Market to make into "napalm" jam.


Haven't figured out yet what to do with the eggplant. Maybe baba ganoush?

On top of all this kitcheny productivity, I also spent pretty much the entire weekend in the presence of small children. Yesterday I was Favorite Auntie Sarah to the World's Cutest Nephew, and together we learned how to lick Play-Doh and steal chocolate.

No, you cannot resist his cuteness. Don't even try to.

Today I was Favorite Auntie Eapa to my friend's son. The family invited me to join them at the Exploratorium. I haven't been there in probably fifteen years. And just goes to show how much of a geek I am in that I completely had a blast. And got a little thirsty, as you can tell from the picture up top.

Hadn't really thought about this until I was actually walking down the hill from where the 24 dumped me off, but it has been years and years since I was last in that part of town. I'd forgotten how beautiful the Palace of Fine Arts is.







I'll have to revisit on a nicer day, such as when it isn't summer here in SF.

Waiting Rocks Less Than Cleveland

Apparently, I am a month overdue with a report on Cleveland.

Oops. Sorry. Life has just been ... well, life. A lot of things have happened: I wrote a short story in 24 hours (will hear back about it by the end of the month). I got dumped. I went to Alcatraz, at night (might do a quickie blog post about that soon, since I have some pictures). I did my taxes and got my refund, half of which I promptly used to buy myself a new computer. My new computer came in pieces, so I put it together, but have not yet turned it on, mostly because I didn't yet have the Operating System. The OS (Windows 7, if you must know) came today, but instead I had to watch the Sharks make a magical comeback in game 3 of the first round of the Stanley Cup Playoffs, so turning the new computer on will come tomorrow.

And that's just part of the adventure that has happened to me. Oh, end-of-March, most-of-April. How you have been gusty.

So yeah, Cleveland. A brief summary:



I know, I know. Couldn't resist. Though I did not see Drew Carey (or Betty White, for that matter) on the Ohio leg of my trip back east at all. Alas.

Perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised — having kept my expectations low — but I really liked Cleveland. As in, I wouldn't mind going back there again, if I had someone to stay with that was a good friend. This time that friend was actually my oldest cousin, Jason.

I remember back when I was a wee thing of three (or was it four?), being incredibly intimidated by my much older boy cousins (Jason has 6 years on me, I believe, and his brother Ryan has 3). But now here we are, both in our 30s, all grown up. Kind of weird, but much cooler than being shy and wistfully wishing I could play with the big kids. Because heck, now I am one of the big kids.

Giant stuffed apes notwithstanding.

I drove in the Wednesday night (not a bad trip, and I think just those 8 hours of open road, with only myself were exactly what I needed to smooth my ruffled emotions), and on Thursday I took a bus downtown to visit my company's office and then head over to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Highly recommend. It's not exactly a museum you need to go to more than once (or maybe twice) in your life, but they've got a great exhibit of the history of rock and roll, with a lot of listening stations playing the classic foundations of the genre. I spent a good three hours there, and barely felt it.

Plus, it's right on the shore of Lake Erie. It's weird to be on the edge of such an expanse of water, and know it's not sea or ocean.



And really, I think that was the last real money I spent on the entire trip. Auntie Roz and Uncle Charlie, you both did something right in raising your sons: I was kept well-fed and well-entertained the entire time. There's a lot of good food to be had in Cleveland, and J's boyfriend, Gen, is a marvelous cook. Not fair at all.

The "point" of this venture into Ohio was to see the Trashcan Sinatras. I have to admit: this was the better show of the trip. We sat up close (maybe 10 feet away), the crowd had a great vibe, and the band were having fun that night.



We did a bit of exploring, especially around Ohio City and Tremont neighborhoods. Saturday before I had to head to the airport, we hit up the West Side Market.


Seriously, this is what the SF Ferry Building should be, instead of the touristy, bland, overpriced bourgeois crappy thing it is now. It's like the Farmer's Market, but every day. And better.



We picked up some fish and Gen served it up as sushi.



And then Jason and I walked off the luncheon around Tremont while Gen went to his job, before finally dumping me off at the airport.

Did Cleveland save my trip? No: it was a great trip overall, I had just forgotten that in the swirl of birthday and back issues. But it reminded me that leaving this little piece of 7x7 every once in a while is the best thing I can do to realign myself emotionally.

The Glaze Makes It Kosher for Christmas

The fortune cookie from today's dinner at the Green Elephant promises that "Your dearest wish will come true."

I take heart from that, even if it is just a slip of paper.

It's by now an annual occurrence, my mom announcing that we are "cutting back" on Christmas that year. And perhaps we did this year, in that we cut back on "junk" presents — useless tchotchkes — but with a nephew/grandson that needed spoiling, I don't think we really cut back on the amount of wrapped gifts under the tree.


Yes, his dad bought him a car for Christmas. Note the height of the pile of presents visible in the background. There was the stuff under the tree and in my parents' suitcases.

Since my parents flew in from Paris (I know, poor them) late night on Christmas Eve, we stayed in as an immediate family on Christmas Day instead of joining the extendeds at their various dinners and such. I made my glazed ham, Nicole made potatoes gratin, Jackie surprised us all with a more-than-edible corn bread souffle thing, and Mom got to nap all day long after the present-opening orgy while Dad watched basketball.


Hard at work, making pie.

I know a lot of people really hate this time of year: the crowds at the mall, the stress, the family (or lack thereof), the traveling, the spending, the weather, everything. But I kind of like Christmas, maybe more than any good Jewish girl should. I love the colder temperatures, the excuse to see people and have gatherings and share food. I almost even like the music, in small doses. (Which is why I completely avoid the local radio station that plays nothing but Christmas songs from November 1 through Christmas Day. Too much of a good thing.) To be honest, I even really like spending time with my family ... but shh! don't tell them that.



Happy holidays, everyone. I hope your Christmas/Giftmas/Yuletide celebration (or uncelebration) was full of happiness.

Killer Fluffy Bitch: A Chlode

This has not been a good year for dogs in my family.

It's been four days since Chloe, our Killer Fluffy Bitch, died, and I'm still having problems saying something about it. Perhaps what disturbs me the most is the lack of feeling: I have hardly cried, but I also can hardly believe she is gone.



Chloe was an impulse purchase by my mother and youngest sister. She was just a little ball of fluff at first, but had no qualms about showing everyone that she was the boss. She nipped at ankles, attacked my hair, and charmed all of us in an instant. (Except for maybe Luke.) Only two people could never do any wrong in her eyes: my dad (the pack alpha), and my brother.

My brother was still practically a baby back when we adopted Chloe — only just five years old — and they grew up together, she gradually becoming both his (fourth) surrogate mother and his best friend. She was the only one that could wake him up on school mornings, and I'm pretty sure she was the only member of the family that he really missed when he went away to college.

Her long hairs shed constantly, leaving the entire house buried under a thin film of fur at all times, starting two minutes after any cleaning. I often came home from visiting the family with traces of her covering my legs.

The straight woman to our goofy chocolate lab, Chloe was the dignified member of the family — not a lady, not at all, but a gentlewoman full of the need for dignity, and willing to be violent to get it.

She defended house and home with a mighty bark, kept Luke in line with tooth and claw, but otherwise she tried her best to be dainty, crossing her front paws delicately to lie down, the quiet dog in the room. Watching our antics with a tolerant air, sometimes forgetting herself if the play seemed to fun or if there was good food involved. She would only just deign to do any tricks to earn her daily pig's ear, but from time to time you could coax a free "bisou" out of her if she was in the mood.

While Luke, who was a year older than she was, died slowly, lingering on for months and months, Chloe was here and then suddenly gone. The last time I saw her, I knew she was starting to go downhill, but I never expected it to be now. I thought I had at least a few more weekends, a few more bisous left out of that bitch.

Wherever you are, pretty girl, I hope it suits you royally.


Chloe. Sept. 24, 1995 - Dec. 11, 2010.

Ah. There are the tears.

Feeling Heated

My cell phone rang this morning just as my alarm was due to go off; it was my parents' number, and I had a moment of panic where I wondered who was going to the hospital today. I hate it when I get calls at odd or off hours — too early, or too late, or when I'm supposed to be sleeping. It leaves me shaky and takes a while to calm back down.

At any rate, this phone call was more excitingly newsworthy than horrible — the neighbor's house burned down, and all humans were safe.

So okay: yes, that was horrible for the neighbor (she's 80 years old and has lived in that house with about a million animals for over 30 years ... the only animal that survived the fire was one of her three dogs, unfortunately). And it could have been horrible for us: there's a fence between our houses, and some yard, but her side of the fence has (had) a lot of foliage and trees and a bunch of other pretty flammable stuff. But we all survived (I guess there was little chance of me not surviving), and three of my family members ended up on the news. True, my dad's clip had him labeled as "Kahled Labib", which is our neighbor's name, but still: family famous. Even my mom's damned hamster/dog was on there.

In other news:

Living in this city as long as I have, I've forgotten how to be hot. Hot as in 90 degrees hot, which is just about what the temperatures got to this Tuesday afternoon. It was sweating hot. I wore a skirt. My legs blinded people. No one wanted to move, but we all wanted to be outside. It was a minor miracle and now, two days later, we're back to humdrum fog city and already the memories of warmth fade away. Thirty-six hours of summer, that's all you get, San Francisco.

To celebrate (the weather going back to cold normal, and the failed plans for my evening), I ordered Chinese food and put on my Scottie Dog pajama pants. I love you, crab rangoon, sweet-n-sour pork, and chow mein. Love love boof.

Goodbye, Cookie Hound

Luke,

Your entrance into our life was probably an accident of Fate. Mom, desperate to fill the hole in our lives that Charlie (the canine love of her life who, just like the Charlie in All Dogs Go to Heaven, was a German Shepherd) had left when he died, had met with several failed attempts to find a replacement. It was pure chance that she and Dad happened to see your mother, tits down to the ground, on a walk with our neighbor.

"That's a bitch who just had puppies," Dad said. (Probably not his exact words, but close enough.) And he was right. And as it happened, those puppies were close to being weaned and ready to be adopted. We would never have chosen a chocolate lab, much less a purebred one with papers, if not for this.

Your mother's owner told us to pick the one with the softest head — for quality? — and that was you. We sat around petting you for a while amidst your siblings and then brought you home, where you were a sleepy puppy for the first few weeks, except for the times when you were busy dragging our other dog, Clifford (named for the dog of the books, though neither big nor red) around by his collar.

We picked your name for Luke Skywalker, because I was newly a Star Wars fan at the time. It seemed to fit you, better than the other options that would reasonably come up for a dog of your color.



You were not the smartest of best friends, nor even the most loyal (I'm thinking here of the time you ran away and jumped into another family's car, as if you were going to join them on their vacation). But you were the best to snuggle with on a day home sick from school.

And you were always the first to know when a package of cookies was being opened somewhere in the house.

Mom fed you pieces of chocolate "to help him keep his color" on lazy Saturday mornings. Dad would always have to be the one to walk you, because the minute you got on the leash you would fly forward with all your weight, eager to be out and piss on every bush you could raise your leg to. My sisters and brother and I would joke about how when you died we would make an area rug out of your coat, and fight over who would get your soft soft ears to make into mittens.



Sometimes you were frustrating. You liked to bark at passersby who came within 100 feet of the house. You loved to steal food from the dinner table. You hated having to be outside when we had company over. And once you even peed on Dad's foot when we didn't let you out, even though you'd been standing by the door for five whole minutes. (That last was pretty funny.) Eventually he forgave you.



As you grew older, and your body started growing lumps and sores, and your legs started to not work right anymore, we kept wondering, Is it time yet? But you kept being so aware, and you kept hounding after those cookies. Your head didn't seem to know yet that your body was done with, and we couldn't bear to let you go. So we bore with you, carrying you in and out of the house, lifting you up so you could perform basic bodily functions, grumbling to ourselves how annoying you were, but still not able to give you up.

But today, we all had to admit to ourselves that it was finally time to let you go. Sixteen years we had you — more than half my life. The house will be empty to return to without you.

I hope there are a lot of cookies for you in the big Dog Park on the other side of the ocean. Sleep well, old man.

Staying Up With the Vampires[Insert exclamation mark here]

A few weeks ago, my parents drove up the coast on a little romantic, escape-the-house-full-of-progeny-and-dying-dog jaunt, just the two of them. They weren't sure exactly how far they would go, but after a few days they made it as far as the Olympic Peninsula up in Washington State. Last time they were up there was about 15 years ago, with all of us spawn, when we spent a few days camping or living in a cabin or something like that during the one dry and sunny week a year that part of the world gets. Which is probably why I have fond memories of Washington state, and am looking forward to my own upcoming trip.

(As an aside, it feels like the Pacific Northwest is the destination this year. Seriously, I know at least six or seven people from the Bay Area who have been there or are making the trip up there this year, not even including myself.)

At any rate, they were moseying along, driving through Podunk town after Podunk town, when they happen to enter this wee little village by the name of Forks. And my parents, unaware of the existence of such a place, much less the fact that it might have any significance to anyone beyond the people who lived there, were shocked when they suddenly came to a strip of stores that seemed ... out of place. My parents decided to stop and check it out, and it was probably when they walked into this store in particular that they (likely my mother) suddenly realized where the fuck they were.

I was at work when I got the phone call from them. "Guess where we are!" my mother proclaimed.

I did not guess correctly.

"What do you want from here?" This question put me at a loss. Now, admittedly, I've read three of the four books written by Ms. Stephenie Meyer. So I know where Forks is, what the hype is about. But I don't really want anything from there. I didn't even buy the books — my sister lent me her copies. Fuck, I still don't own a single Kelly Clarkson CD, and I like her a whole lot more (guilty, guilty pleasure) than I liked the Twilight Series.

My mother started listing the options, and I finally consented to two things:

1) a mug



(My co-worker was very concerned to see this mug on my desk. I'm expecting any day now to be inundated with the latest Sookie Stackhouse novel just to "cure" me of the sparkliness.)

and

2) a bag of Twilight-themed coffee. I finally had a chance to try some of the coffee this morning. It's actually not terrible. A bit on the bitter side for my taste, but that seems to be the way (to my inexperienced coffee-tasting tongue buds) they do that sort of thing in the Puget Sound area.

Now the real question: will I make a pilgrimage of my own out there while I'm up north? If I do, I will promise to make sure I do it with a camera. And a group of especially cynical friends.

Stoned and Dethroned

... which is an album I haven't listened to in years, really. If I ever get back to that whole plan to listen to all my CDs in alphabetical order (by artist), I may well get to it. In about three months or so.

I'm going to blame the vicodin for today's little bout of naval-gazing. (It's leftover from back when I sliced the tip of my finger off ... so yes, the prescription's mine, druggies.) The vicodin, and Julie and Julia, which I just finished watching on my Netflix Instant Queue gods bless the Wii I stole from my brother.

I miss New York.

Yeah, I know: I do this pretty regularly. Go along happy with San Francisco for a while and then bam suddenly I'm sick of it and just want to pick up and move back east.

Wait, let me pop another pill, bring it up to a full dose of painkiller.

Ah.

Where was I? Oh.

It's not that things aren't happening for me here in San Francisco. I'm starting to build up a network of friends that I like and can call up to do stuff here. I know the city more and more, my apartment gets more and more comfortable.

But there's something missing. Not exactly sure if it's what I think is missing, but whatever it is, it's not there.

That's all, really. Most of the time I'm okay and can ignore that hole, but it's getting more frequent now that the void becomes palpable. Maybe it's not New York where I'll find what I'm needing, but it's a place to start, isn't it?

Or I could just stay here, and try to figure out why that hole is there in the first place.

---

In the time since my last post, I've

• Gone camping for the first time since 2000;
  
• Broken my camera into un-usability;
  
• Celebrated my grandparents' 90th birthdays (and 65th wedding anniversary);
  
• Been injured again in my shoulder (hence the vicodin);
  
• Seen all my paternal cousins save one; and
  
• Got through a major family event without wanting to kill anyone related to me.
  

I'd say that was a more-or-less successful couple of weeks. It would be nice to be able to turn my head to the left again, but there you go. Life can't be perfect.

Sharks Win 4 - 3; Day "Not a Complete Wash," Says Sarah

So, date canceled on account of sick (his being sick, not mine), and the decision of what to do with the waste of my day was decided by the call of my sister looking for company that didn't live within 30 feet of her. I ended up driving down to San Jose, going out to lunch with my sister and her son (ran into my high school friend Shortie, literally as I was saying her name in discussing the last time I'd been to that restaurant), and watching the game with my dad. All-in-all, not a bad day, even if I did end up getting enlisted in the big ol' furniture moving to get ready for the painters coming in a few days.

Bonus prize for the day: getting to swipe my brother's Wii. I'm wondering just how dangerous it's going to be, with me having video games in the household. Hopefully I'll still remember to go to Krav.

Boiling Down

I wonder if I should put this comic strip on my dating profile? It kind of states about 33% of my requirements in a boyfriend.

We had our family Passover Seder yesterday, and it inspired me once again to look into making my own Haggadah for our family. It's a project I've had in the back of my mind for a while now. The one we've been using for years is really basic, and kind of skims over a lot of the story. There are elements of it I'd like to keep, of course, but for the purposes of our own family gatherings, and especially considering the fact that we're not very religious and that we almost always have one or two outsiders there who have never experienced a Seder before, I think it would be nice to have something that fits in with our own pool of beliefs and experiences. Probably blasphemous ... but what else is new?

Just another thing to add to the list of projects I want to do someday. Eventually I will get around to starting on that list.

Today's fabulous San Franciscan adventure: butchering a chicken and making chicken broth. I have to say, I'm glad I'm a carnivore, because one of my favorite things to do in the kitchen is cut up a chicken. I might have mentioned this before. But I say it again because it's just that much awesome, once you know how to do it.

The chicken body parts, except for the insides and back, went to making Chicken Paprikash, which is one of my favorite easy-peasy leftovers-guaranteed (because I'm cooking for only one) recipes. Most of the rest is in my stockpot, simmering; it's been going about 3 hours so far, and I'll probably keep it on until I'm ready to go to bed — I like my chicken broth to be boiled down, dammit. Not sure what to do with the liver. The one in this chicken is huge, but I only have the one. It's in the freezer for the moment ... maybe I'll collect a bunch and find a good recipe for chicken livers. At some point. Maybe.

Ah, the life of a single woman in the City. Are we jealous yet? (Didn't think so.)

Exercising my Options

After an initial humiliating experience in the Conditioning class at my Krav Maga studio (which, I notice, I failed to mention on my blog at the time in a stirring act of self-censorship), back at the end of September, I was finally convinced to attempt it again by the instructor about a week and a half ago. Thought I'd only be able to make it halfway (the first time I lasted 20 minutes), but the instructor and some of the other regulars in the class talked me through the entire thing, until I found myself at the end of the hour, trying to support myself with my weak, shaky arms through Downward-Facing Dog and the cooldown stretches. Yes, walking (or any movement, really) was difficult for the next four days, but I was so damned proud of myself. You'd think I'd won the New York Marathon or something, instead of just making it through 60 minutes of full-body movement.

I went again this past Thursday, partly to convince myself that the first time wasn't a fluke, and mostly to try and make this into a part of my regular weekly routine. The Cute Guy was there, and he and I finally had a conversation while waiting for the class to start. Found out that he delivers wine for a living (access to wine = big plus!), but we also spent most of the 20-minute conversation discussing his new '07 Toyota Camry (car talk = somewhat of a minus). Not that he'd ever be interested in someone like me — I'm probably lumpier than the type of girls he'd generally go out with — but for some reason talking with him made me feel much more like a regular and a part of the "Krav Krowd". I made that term up, by the way. But if I do somehow become popular at the facility (hahahaha), I'm totally making a FB group called that.

In other news: Today I missed taking the Krav Maga test to move up to Level Two. I think I was ready for it, but I was also supposed to help my grandparents move out of the house they've lived in for almost 60 years into their new apartment at a retirement community. I was kind of torn, since I really feel like I'm ready to move on after about seven months of going pretty religiously, but you know how it is — sometimes you have to put things off in favor of the more immediate need ("family first", yadda yadda).

Except it turned out they didn't need me, so I should have signed up and just taken the test, anyway. Now I have to wait three months until the next one. Not that I'm peeved or anything. No way.

The day turned out to be not so much of a waste. My sisters called up to see if I wanted to hang out, and I drove down to Mountain View for a few hours to do breakf- err, a late lunch at Sizzler and shopping at Cost Plus.



Call me crazy, but any time spent with my nephew just seems to make life better. Does this mean I'm getting old?

Broken (Into)

Let's start with the positive: I had today off via a shift switch with another coworker, so I convinced my baby nephew to visit (along with his entourage of his mother, my mother and my other sister) for the afternoon. A picture of him sleeping on my bed — innit he cute?



Now the negative: While we were lying around waiting for the entourage to gather energy enough to drive back home, I got a knock on my apartment door — a rare occurrence in this fourplex — that turned out to be my neighbor telling me that my car had been broken into over the weekend.

How lovely.

I went downstairs with my mother to check it out. It's actually almost laughable: they smashed the back triangle (that wee one behind the rear passenger's window) and reached around to unlock the door. Which probably means they at least scraped up their hands and arms a bit to reach to the far side of the main window and get at the back door lock. On top of that, the only things that they took were my CD stereo — and the CD function was broken; my old cell phone — which was completely worthlessly dead and broken; and the small coin purse I kept my bridge toll cash in since my coin drawer had been ripped out by the last person to break into my car — and the coin purse, while not broken, was definitely broke.

So, dickhead that violated the sanctity of my vehicle: was it worth it? Because frankly, there wasn't really anything of value in the car in the first place (lesson learned from the first break-in), and it really peeves me that it'll take more cash to fix that tiny back window than the entire value of everything that you took. I hope the cuts you got end up gangrenous.