At last, an update, in seven parts, plus a preamble

My sluggish rate of blogging in the last few months owes to a lot of different factors (work stress, housing stress, general distraction). One that I haven't yet mentioned is that my hard disk has been on the verge of crashing for about two months--been getting the Click of Death and then everything freezes up--and this has put me in a tailspin of not writing 'cause I'm paranoid that everything I write will be lost in the abyss of lifeless computer parts. As it is, I've been burning backup CDs like every other day just to be sure I don't lose anything once this thing dies. And while I'm actively writing something, I've been burning to disc every other paragraph or so. Arg. Now I'm trying the method of saving to an email draft, so that if my computer dies, my entry will be intact on my mail server. I gotta get me to an electronics store to buy a new hard disk...and then get one of my geek friends to install it for me (thanking you in advance, Exene and/or Oliver!)

But, meantime, here are some blips from my riveting life of late. You can fast-forward by clicking the links to any part that looks compelling to you, but I highly recommend reading them all:

Part One, in which she buys bras.
Part Two, in which she encounters drunk people on the street.
Part Three, in which she pays 50 cents for a joke.
Part Four, in which she says good bye to the visitors from Guatemala.
Part Five, in which she stages her own intervention.
Part Six, in which she becomes a fire-breathing dragon.
Part Seven, in which she is confronted, rudely, by her past.

Part One, in which she buys bras:

I went to the Serramonte Center a couple weeks ago to buy bras--whoo hoo! (This is the epitomal in self-indulgent blog entries. Who the fuck else cares about my bra shopping? I mean, really, Bree you don't post for a month, and then you decide to write about bras--sheesh.) Anyway, I hardly ever go to malls, despite my rearing in a town entirely defined by its mall culture. The whole scene is so foreign to me now that I'm not a fourteen year old kid. Picture me, this fat dyke, in an old paint-stained tee-shirt and my unshaven legs in cutoff shorts, walking through the mall with only one shopping goal and no disposable income to blow on anything at all else. My eternal quest for the practically nonexistent bra that can fit my large frame and small tits is always an elusive one. For the last few years, I've been buying this "demi" cup bra available at Lane Bryant, the "fat girls store," as my friend, Ramona, calls it.

I don't use the term as a pejorative at all; I rather identify with my fat girl self. But, as it turns out, Lane Bryant has discontinued the bra in anything but frumpy flannelish cotton--I can't stand how cotton bras cling to my clothing. The saleswoman at the store asked me what size I wore, and I told her that in the demi bras, I wore a 44C, 'cause the cup runs smaller in that line, but that I'd always been more of a B cup in other bras. She shook her head at once and insisted I wasn't a B and I wasn't as big as a 44, and proceeded to wrap me up at the sternum with a handy measuring tape. Turns out, I'm 40" around, not 44, and definitely at least a C, "maybe even a D," she said. I laughed!

One of the Stepford stores at Serramonte. I really can't imagine a more hideous fate than being 21 forever. Can you? (Apologies to my 21 year old readers.)

Anyway, I ended up buying a couple bras that fit me much more comfortably around but are just a touch too roomy in the cup. The theory of adjusting my size is definitely something to keep experimenting with, 'cause there are definitely more options for 40C than 44B, that's fo-sho.

* * *
Part Two, in which she encounters drunk people on the street:

I was walking home down Haight Street after dining with Raquel a couple weeks ago. It was around 10 o'clock, I guess, and a foggy, but atypically warm evening. I chanced upon these cats:

Blaize and Eugenia, as they later introduced themselves, were loping down the street, about half a block in front of me, Blaize all manner of drunk off his asshole. He was weaving the entire sidewalk, and making very crude but not unwelcome gestures to his walking companion as she laughed and continually tried to keep him toned down. As I passed them, Blaize propositioned me as well, but I told him tonight wasn't gonna work. It was all very amiable. I snapped their picture, told them I'd post it on the internet, and bid them a fond farewell.

* * *

Part Three, in which she pays 50 cents for a joke

Also on Haight Street (and you thought the scene died after the Summer of Love, man) I happened upon these folks busking out their second story window:

They shouted at me across the street, "Want to hear a joke? Jokes, only 25 cents!" I figured a joke told to me from fifty feet up by two probably very stoned--yet industrious--neighbors was exactly the remedy I needed for my blah mood that evening, so I crossed the street and listened. They told me the joke, and then lowered the payment receptacle slowly to the sidewalk: a paper produce bag on a caution tape leash.

The joke was about George Bush, had something to do with his stupidity, I think. I actually don't remember; it wasn't a remarkable joke, and neither was the second joke I asked them to tell me. The experience itself was worth much more to me than the 50 cents I gave them. Thanks y'all.

* * *

Part Four, in which she says good bye to the visitors from Guatemala

Iris and (now two-year-old, not really a baby at all) Noodles have been visiting the States, which I mentioned in this here entry. I got to spend some good time with them, hanging out at Santa Cruz Pride at the beginning of June, then with friends for dinner, and then a final hang out, just the three of us. Now they're up in Seattle, visiting Iris' sister, sister-in-law, her mom, and other friends. I'm sending lots and lots of love to Iris. I wish I could see her much more often, and I miss her a great deal. When I said good bye to Noodles, knowing it'll probably be another year or more before I see her again, in which time she will have changed so incredibly much, my heart actually pained me. It flared up in my chest and I ceased to breathe for a moment.

* * *

Part Five, in which she stages her own intervention

So, most of you have heard me moan (for years!) about my job situation. I've been uninspired and unwilling to change things in the dramatic way they really need to change. For months, though, I'd been hatching up this idea for a way to brainstorm career moves--I decided I'd get some of my closest friends together to tell me what they think I should be doing. It was a risky and, I must admit, completely self-indulgent thing to do, to ask people to tell me what they think I'd be good at, to get them to spell out to me what my strengths are. But the truth of the matter is that I've been so numbed out about work for so long that I've really lost sight of those things. I can go on for days about what I would hate to do, what I suck at, what kind of jobs and companies I'd never in a zillion years want to work at. But I realized it was only my close friends who could give me the positive inspiration I needed to remind me of my strengths, my power, my dreams, my passions, my natural talents.

We list Bree's skills, strengths, and what she has to offer. Note: being a horny Jewish dyke counts.

So Sunday, the tenth of July, I made a delicious spread of lunch food over at B's house. We were joined by the lovely Raquel and the excited mother-to-be, Mrs. C. Our first task was to brainstorm my strengths and passions; the next was to look at types of work I might be suited for, I might enjoy, I might open my heart to.

Two definite themes emerged, and though different from one another, are not so mutually exclusive that I can't do both simultaneously or even at different points in my life. On the more practical side of things, it became quite clear to me and everybody else that I have talents in the mediation/facilitation world of skills--that I might take steps to learning nonviolent conflict resolution, counseling of some sort, working in communities or in a discrete workplace to resolve personnel issues or larger-scale disputes. In the more creative realm, the theme became writing, and more specifically, cultural commentary, creative nonfiction, and screenplay writing, which is something I can imagine myself indulging if it weren't for fears, money constraints, and my general tendency to hold myself back. In fact, I may even be taking a screenwriting class this fall at City College, which I'm thrilled about, even though I know it's not the most strategic "career path" move. I'm excited to start using the creative muscles more, and I hope it'll spark my passions in many different ways.

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The job options were as diverse as youth outreach coordinator and phone sex operator. Our favorite of the day was "Psychic Ballerina," which didn't quite make it onto the board.

So, I still don't know exactly what I wanna be when I grow up, but I'm so grateful to my pals for going through that exercise with me. I'm still ruminating on all the ideas we came up with, and I know, at least to start, that it's going to inform me in my job search and help me to completely revamp the way I communicate my abilities to my potential employers. I can now think beyond just the job descriptions I've held, and really focus on projecting what makes me unique, what makes me shine. It's a damned good start.

* * *
Part Six, in which she becomes a fire-breathing dragon

Then last week, my dear friend Callie and her three-year-old daughter Bean visited me from their home on the Olympic Peninsula. I haven't blogged about Callie before, but she deserves her own little aside. She and I met in Santa Cruz in the Summer of 1999, back when I was last footloose and fancy-free, to use one of my favorite old time idioms. Callie was a hottie about town I'd had my eye on for months, and we finally met over Chinese dinner with some mutual friends after a Girl Fest show. We seduced each other with language--I called her "acerbic" at one point, piquing her interest, and when she used the word "delineate" later in the conversation, I was hooked. Everyone at the table could feel the sparks flying as we slurped our hot and sour soup. So Callie and I wound up having just the loveliest, sweetest, sexiest summer fling, a fling which had a natural ending point when she moved up to Washington. Three years later, she had a kid, and we both had long term relationships with other people. Now we have a yummy, intimate, sometimes romantic friendship that we get to take advantage of from time to time. We had a beautiful visit.

I'd never spent a whole week hanging out with a three-year-old before last week, but if you're gonna try it out, I highly recommend Bean as your icebreaker--she's a dream child. The only meltdowns all week were spawned by the completely reasonable combination of Exhaustion and Extreme Hunger (all the fault of the adults). Otherwise, she was an utter joy to spend time with--so smart and sweet and incredibly imaginative. One minute we were fire-breathing dragons, walking around my apartment melting things with our breath, the next, we were baby kittens lying on the rug with our bellies up for scratches. We visited Santa Cruz, where we buried Bean in the sand on the beach, and took a little day trip to the San Francisco Zoo.

Feeding the goats on the Family Farm at SF Zoo.

We also did a whole lot of playing on playgrounds, eating meals with friends, and just general hangin' about. I'm so very glad they were able to come out for a visit, and I miss 'em already.

* * *

Part Seven, in which she is confronted, rudely, by her past

So, when Callie and Bean and I were down in Santa Cruz, we ate at Zachary's not once, but twice, since Callie used to work there, and hadn't had a chance to eat their amazing tofu scrambles and homefries since she'd last visited, five years ago. We ate there promptly upon rolling into town on Thursday afternoon, and again on Friday morning with a big gang of folks, Callie's friends she hadn't seen in years, a couple of my pals, and my niece, Halina, who is in town this summer working for Shakespeare Santa Cruz. So, all of us were happily ingesting our carb-heavy breakfasts, perfectly seasoned and griddled, when my eyes were drawn to a woman walking through the front entrance of the restaurant. It was Bianca. Fucking Bianca, who I hadn't seen in six or seven years. She was walking through the restaurant and straight toward me. If you don't click any other links in this entry, click the link for Bianca. I'll sum it up by saying that there's no one else in my life I have more unresolved feelings about (with the possible exception of my dead dad). I thought she was on the east coast, but in fact, here we were, at Zachary's, a random Friday morning, both of us paying a visit to the town where we knew each other, the scene of the crime. I'd long since put my mind off the possibility that we'd cross paths anytime soon.

She was with someone, a woman. Maybe her girlfriend, I don't know. As she got closer to me, I called her name, but she didn't hear me. I said her name again. She looked at me, both of us with eyes wide now. I bolted up out of my seat, I was shaking. I said, as congenially as I could manage, "What are you doing on this coast?" And she said she was living back in the Bay Area again. I barely understood her response, the blood rushing in my head had impeded my language comprehension. I asked her if I could give her a hug. It was so awkward, but I couldn't help myself, wanting to express some affection for her, but not wanting to be intrusive, and yet, what could she do, say "No, you can't hug me?" How presumptuous was my warmth? So we hugged a cursory, awful hug. She introduced me simply as "Bree" to the woman she was with, whose name I immediately forgot. There were no contextualizations, no anecdotes of how we knew each other, no pleasantries. Her tone of voice was flat; she wanted to be done with the interaction. I introduced her to Halina and Callie, but skipped everyone else, 'cause it was clearly irrelevant. I asked her if she'd finished her grad program, and she told me that she had, and was now teaching at a high school in the North Bay. She asked me no questions about how I'm doing, but she kind of didn't get a chance, in a way, 'cause when it became too awkward, I just said, "Well, I'll let you get to your breakfast..." and they were off to their table. When they left the restaurant, our party was still finishing up. She didn't even look over to wave good bye to me, she just exited, as if I was never there. The whole interaction would taste different to me now if she had only looked back and waved good bye.

Peace,

Bree

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