TERRY'S TIP #1:I know everyone's into tongs, so this isn't REALLY a tip, but I think I have particularly nice tongs. I got them for my play, WAITING FOR THE PODIATRIST, where the climax of the play is a very dramatic scene in the Intensive Care unit where Nurse goes behind a screen to cut the toenails of comatose Dad. (It's kind of a tragic farce -- Mom and Dad are hand puppets.) So there's thrilling music, and Mom and Daughter are on tenterhooks waiting, and the Nurse appears holding one gynormous toenail clipping aloft in triumph. I thought these tongs would be perfect for the moment, but they were too small to read from the stage. Dang. The toenail clipping was just a piece of cardboard, but the IDEA of it inspired a horrified collective "Ewwwww!" from the audience. Talk about suspension of disbelief!!
Anyhow, the tongs have proven very useful of late, whenever I feel terrified of grabbing something like the bag of chard.
TERRY'S TIP #2: As you can see on the far left, I have seven paper bags in a row. Well, you can barely see the last one on the end. But it's there.
They're all labeled with a day of the week, as you can see in the picture on the right. So when the mail comes in, I pick it up with the purple tongs and put it in the Bag of the Day. Then, in a few days, I know it's safe to open all of it. I know the paper bags are pristine, because my last housemate left me with a huge supply of them. It really disturbed me that she never re-used or even recycled them. What was she keeping them all for? And then, she didn't take a single one when she moved out! I guess they were waiting there for the pandemic, just like the purple tongs.
THE WALK: Yesterday was a bit cloudy and cold so I just went to Kite Hill, the nearest open space to my house. The California irises have begun to bloom! Aren't they wonderful? They're native wildflowers that come in so many different colors.
Many many people walking on Kite Hill. Yup. People walking everywhere. So far, I've never been anywhere too crowded, but I know it happens.
I threw the ball for Nikki and Loulou. They love looking for it in the tall grass. Their tails wag furiously while they search. Sadly, they lost this one. The fate of all balls, sooner or later.
Where do all the lost balls go? That's what I want to know! And why do I almost never FIND a ball??? Where is THAT at? When I think of all the balls I've lost on Kite Hill in 43 years, and subtract the few I found, the whole fucking hill should be CARPETED in balls! But it's not!
And what about PENS? Huh? How many PENS have YOU lost? And almost always good ones. And when, every once in a blue moon, you find a pen, it's out of ink and you toss it in disgust. Hopefully in a waste basket, so some other fool doesn't come along and have a moment of joy when she finds the pen, only to plunged into morose depression when she tries to use it. I want to know WHERE THE HELL ARE ALL THE PENS AND BALLS!
Well, I know where they are. The Monkey has them. The Monkey also took my external CD/DVD player. After 2 1/2 years of saying, "I have a DVD player that plugs into my computer.... somewhere in the house," I gave up and ordered a new one online. It arrived and is in the Wednesday bag.
That goddam Monkey is somewhere, lolling on a bed of old tennis balls, writing letters with beautiful fountain pens, and listening to CDs on my player. I know it.
When all hope of finding the ball is gone, I take this magical path to Stanton Street, which is just one block long -- if you can even call it a block -- a kind of an alley, not really paved, between Kite Hill and Upper Market, which is a major thor-oughfare.
Once I met a woman on Kite Hill. She was living on Stanton Street temporarily, because her husband was being treated for cancer at UCSF, over the hill. They had been living on a rubber plantation in Indonesia, and she said the transition to the city was difficult, but not impossible, because she lived on Stanton Street and could spend her days when she wasn't at the hospital on Kite Hill.
And then onward to home.
This big pink house is Barbara's house. When I first moved to the neighborhood, I used to see her on Kite Hill every day with her dog. I just loved Barbara. She was a retired librarian. Very politically left. Did you know that librarians are happier in their work than any other profession? I love walking by Barbara's big pink house and thinking about her. I wish I had invited her over to my house. But it never occurred to me because she was so much older. She could have invited ME over, but old people
usually think that young people aren't interested in them -- which is frequently true. So I should have done the inviting.
And finally at home, in my own garden, which is getting alarm-ingly exuberant.
You know, I'm going to talk about virginity tomorrow. This blog is long enough.
Thank you, dear Bloggelinis, for journeying with me today. Terry