I miss Karena Chop Chop. She has had control of my hair for the last several years. Every five to six weeks she would send me a jaunty message, reminding me of my next appointment, so I never had to go around with visible roots and straggly ends. She would slot me in after work, on my days off, whenever it was convenient for us both. Her basement salon has quirky things like an Elvis clock with swivel-hipped second hands, a Basset Hound calendar, and a Minnie Pearl Librarian Action Figure. The computer plays great jazz standards like Ella Fitzgerald. And Karena herself is a fascinating conversationalist, with lots of pithy opinions and good gossip. She is quick and has me looking fabulous within an hour and a half.
Now, Albuquerque has more nail and hair salons per capita than I have ever seen. But they are not cheap, and cheap is what I need right now. So, after my first $85 appointment at a very trendy salon, I pulled back and tried out the Aveda Institute. For half the usual price, you get a student to cut and color your hair, under the supervision of one of the teachers. They use good Aveda products, and are well trained. However, they don't do color appointments after 3:30, so I have to go in on my day off. And they take over 3 hours.
And, they are not quirky. Or at least, not in the NW hipster style I've come to know and love.
It's a tall concrete building, with a blank facade on the busy street. I pull into the parking lot, filled with Lexuses and BMWs, and park my junker truck next to the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. I try to pretend like my truck fits in as I lock up and walk past the windows. I enter into a soothing atmosphere of trickling water fountain, soft lighting, and the scent of lavender. The person at the station takes my name and asks if I'd like water or tea. I tried tea the first time and water the second: both times it was served in a small white ceramic mug, stenciled simply in pea green: AVEDA.
From there you go straight into a room of total contrast. It's a brightly-lit warehouse of steel, glass, mirrors, concrete. Colors are monochromatic: black, white, steel-grey. Techno music fills the background, but despite the pounding rhythms, it does not prevent conversation. You can hear each conversation, echoing through the space, and it's perfectly easy to talk to your student and the teacher.
There are rows of stations, back to back, and side by side, with large aisles between the rows. The stations consist of a 6 foot tall mirror, centered over a counter placed between two metal cabinets, with three narrow drawers each. The surfaces have the usual salon accouterments: hair dryers, combs, scissors, bowls of clips, all neatly displayed on black terry cloth towels. I never saw anyone use them. The cabinets have nothing above them, so you can see between the mirrors into the other stations and catch the eye of the customer seated katycorner from you. You can see the ankles and feet of the customer on the other side, and they can see yours. It's awkwardly intimate: you are inches away, you can hear them talking, you can see their feet twitching, but you have no idea who they are. Today the person on the other side was wearing gold slip-ons, and so was the person working on her. But I heard a very deep voice, which did not seem to match the feet. I craned my head around and saw another pair of feet behind them: big black Keens. Mystery solved. I think.
Last time, my stylist was a small 20-something woman, with elaborately braided and bunned blond hair and a Latino last name. She was heavily made up, very thin, and very silent. I discovered that she was a month away from graduating and planned to start her own basement salon, like her boyfriend's mother.
This time, my stylist was a very fat young man, with thin black hair pulled back into a straggly ponytail that showed a white scalp beneath. He wore a black arm brace and had very tiny features, including a rosebud mouth, centered in a large round face. He was no advertisement for hair styling, but he was sweet and did a good job. He too is graduating in a month, but he's an accountant and plans to do hairstyling on the side while he goes back to school. It's just something he's wanted to do since he was young.
Everyone wears long black aprons, black t-shirts, and black jeans or slacks. Everyone but the teacher is 20-something. There's a pretty even mix of the sexes. The girls are all vivacious and painfully thin, with very black eye makeup and long hair. The boys are not the stereotypical hair dresser: some are hollow-chested with spiky hair and multiple piercings, but some are beefy, with shaved heads and tattoos. They too are chatty. The teacher looks to be in her 60s. Her skin is a wrinkled orange-white, and her hair is long and bright orange, in a frizzy poufy 70's style. Most of the clients were like me, older women with conservative style. Somehow, though, everyone but me seemed to fit in.
When not working on clients, most of the students were practicing on bodiless Styrofoam heads with wigs; but today I saw something truly baffling. A young man stood in the center of the room, with his arms stretched out to each side. He was wearing pants, but his torso was draped in a white towel or sheet that left arms, neck, and midriff bare. His hair was red-brown, teased into an Afro that created a sphere that was at least 4 feet in diameter (including his head.) His tanned and freckled face was serious, his gaze downward. One of the students was spraying something on his thin white arms and scrubbing them. Another was watching, and the teacher stood nearby. It went on for the entire time it took to wash my hair and come back to my station.
I have no idea what they were doing.
When I left, I went back into the spa atmosphere to pay my bill and tip (which goes into a separate envelope.) The bathroom featured a large round sink/bowl on top of a concrete slab, cloth towels rolled up in a basket, and a body mist specially mixed to Inspire.
Truly, a schizophrenic experience. I went home, made a salad, and crashed for the rest of the day.
But, at least my hairs are all red again.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Breaking 100
When I went to high school, the state of Illinois required 1 credit of PE. The high school gave you one quarter credit each year, so to be in compliance with the state we had to take 4 years of gym.
In theory, this was good. Growing minds and growing bodies both need to be trained and nurtured, and habits of study and exercise are both worth acquiring. Unfortunately, it didn't work out that way. By making everyone take PE, the school ensured that classes were overcrowded. We got 10 minutes of calisthenics, followed by, if we were lucky, 10 minutes of the sport of the day. In the fall it was field hockey and archery, in the winter badminton, gymnastics and basketball, in the spring field sports. There were too many students to give any one student more than a few minutes on the floor, and if you were not talented physically, you spent as much time as possible on the sidelines, where the coach/teacher was happy to leave you. I spent most of those classes on my back with my legs up the wall: little did I know that I was practising yoga.
I was not bad at sport, actually. But I wasn't naturally talented at it, I lacked the interest and the stamina, and there was no incentive. If you aren't talented at something, you don't tend to do it, and it doesn't tend to be on your radar of possibilities. Mediocrity is not tolerated, so you aren't supposed to enjoy things you don't do well. Moreover, I had a family stereotype to uphold: my twin was the athletic one, I the brainy one. This stereotype was a disservice to us both; in later life I became more physically active, and she is by no means stupid, but we neither of us developed a respect for those parts of our beings. We have continued to operate at a disadvantage.
Today, I mourn the lost opportunities. In fact, I strongly believe that our culture does not honor the multiplicity of the human body and brain. Sport, music, theatre, art, journalism: all are electives in school, only pursued by those with talent (or parental push). Because mine was a small school, I was able to be active in anything that interested me. That meant, I did not do sports. I went to speech contest, edited on the newspaper and yearbook, acted in plays and musicals, etc etc. I also took orchestra class, which, unlike the extra-curricular activities, garnered a quarter credit and met 1st period 2 days a week, alternating with gym. My senior year, the music teacher lobbied for a real orchestra class meeting 5 days a week. Because of the state law, the high school had to resolve the dilemma. Some of us were college bound, and could not give up two hours to gym and music.
The result was the very first independent study at my tiny high school. We were allowed to earn PE credit by putting in 5 hours a week of sport or exercise. We had a little score card where we kept track of activities and time. It was my first experience with an honor system. They were very broad in the definitions: it could be a walk to school, or a game of pool. We just had to record some sort of activity. While I fudged a little, for the most part I tried to do something vaguely athletic. I played squash at the college courts with my older sister, swam in the college pool, and went bowling at the college lanes, all of which were a few blocks from my home. Because of my other activities, I was usually crowding the hours in on the weekend. Sadly, I was not learning to have a consistent exercise schedule.
That's when I first developed my bowling skills, which can best be described as erratic. A strike frame would be followed by two gutter balls, a spare by one. Only once, in my experience, did I break 100. But I loved it. There's something about the sound of the ball rolling down the lanes (or the gutter), crashing into the pins (or the back wall.) Something about the way the ball reappears in a swoosh of cool air, popping out of the ball return shoot, rolling into the slot. Something about putting on the special shoes, wearing them for an hour, giving them back, and reassuming the heavier sneakers. Something about coming out, overheated and dazed with the noise, into the cold still winter night, blue-white stars glinting in the black sky.
So, it's a little confusing why, when we first got together, I was so resistant to D's desire to join a bowling league. Some of it was because I was so busy with other activities. Some of it was because that was something he and S did, during their 7-year relationship. I wanted us to have experiences that were not repetitious of old relationships. But that was over 10 years ago. We have 10 years of joint experiences. I watch football with him and go to Blazers games. He attends my concerts (sometimes.) We both go to jazz and rock concerts, movies, plays. And I have gone bowling with him. But I wouldn't join a league.
Until now.
I am now the proud possessor of the highest handicap in the 5 Warm Bodies league, which meets on Tuesdays from 6:30-9:30. I still have the most erratic game possible. My average is 92, and my handicap is 115. D's knees bothered him at first, and it took awhile for him to get back his skills, but he is getting better. The other couple on our team (Busted Flush), is a mixed bag too. He's actually quite good, and they have their own equipment. He is a short, light-skinned man in his early 40's, with glasses, an asthma inhaler, medium build, and a shaved-bald squarish head. He stands holding the ball chest high in that special hunched-shoulder bowling stance, moves forward with a sinuous feral crouch, the bowling ball curling behind his back before the smooth release, curving down the lane to hit the headpin just right. His wife is plump, with shoulder-length squiggly blonde hair, parted in the middle. She wears the same flower-patterned blue tunic and jeans every week. Her bowling ball is purple swirls, but she does not have the power or skill of her husband. She picks up the ball, walks slowly to the lane and lets it go with a thud. She turns and walks back, not watching as it trickles down the lane, usually straight to the head pin, which it usually hits straight on. The rest of the pins slowly fall, sometimes all, sometimes a split, sometimes a few to the side. She watches us to see the result, smiling her sweet shy smile.
We have the same handicap and average.
Her husband plays several nights, but this is their night together. They are polite, but don't talk much to us. They know most of the other players. He is involved in a roving poker game, and continually leaves the area to pick up his cards. He also partakes in a football pool. He takes charge of the scoring and the technical aspects of the games, which continue to baffle me. The pinfall and marks scores don't seem to be attached to any actual activity on our part, and I can't figure out whether we are winning or not. They give me laconic explanations which only serve to confuse me further. I very much doubt I'll ever get it.
But they are kind, and so are our opponents. When I roll a strike or a spare and turn around to do my happy dance, face beaming, thumbs up, arms weaving, they all applaud and give me high-five hand strikes. When I choke, they smile sympathetically and give the closed fist bump: nice try.
Last week I bowled 116, 98, and 72. When I bowled my last strike, in the 10th frame of the 3rd game, followed by 2 gutter balls, one of nice (and talented) guys on the opposing team threw up his hands in disbelief. "I've seen you bowl so many strikes, your first game was great, what happened?"
Hell if I know.
But the beauty of a handicap league is that, despite the scores of 200+ the other team put up, we actually won a game. And, maybe by the end of the year I'll be able to consistently break 100. Even though I am not an athlete.
In theory, this was good. Growing minds and growing bodies both need to be trained and nurtured, and habits of study and exercise are both worth acquiring. Unfortunately, it didn't work out that way. By making everyone take PE, the school ensured that classes were overcrowded. We got 10 minutes of calisthenics, followed by, if we were lucky, 10 minutes of the sport of the day. In the fall it was field hockey and archery, in the winter badminton, gymnastics and basketball, in the spring field sports. There were too many students to give any one student more than a few minutes on the floor, and if you were not talented physically, you spent as much time as possible on the sidelines, where the coach/teacher was happy to leave you. I spent most of those classes on my back with my legs up the wall: little did I know that I was practising yoga.
I was not bad at sport, actually. But I wasn't naturally talented at it, I lacked the interest and the stamina, and there was no incentive. If you aren't talented at something, you don't tend to do it, and it doesn't tend to be on your radar of possibilities. Mediocrity is not tolerated, so you aren't supposed to enjoy things you don't do well. Moreover, I had a family stereotype to uphold: my twin was the athletic one, I the brainy one. This stereotype was a disservice to us both; in later life I became more physically active, and she is by no means stupid, but we neither of us developed a respect for those parts of our beings. We have continued to operate at a disadvantage.
Today, I mourn the lost opportunities. In fact, I strongly believe that our culture does not honor the multiplicity of the human body and brain. Sport, music, theatre, art, journalism: all are electives in school, only pursued by those with talent (or parental push). Because mine was a small school, I was able to be active in anything that interested me. That meant, I did not do sports. I went to speech contest, edited on the newspaper and yearbook, acted in plays and musicals, etc etc. I also took orchestra class, which, unlike the extra-curricular activities, garnered a quarter credit and met 1st period 2 days a week, alternating with gym. My senior year, the music teacher lobbied for a real orchestra class meeting 5 days a week. Because of the state law, the high school had to resolve the dilemma. Some of us were college bound, and could not give up two hours to gym and music.
The result was the very first independent study at my tiny high school. We were allowed to earn PE credit by putting in 5 hours a week of sport or exercise. We had a little score card where we kept track of activities and time. It was my first experience with an honor system. They were very broad in the definitions: it could be a walk to school, or a game of pool. We just had to record some sort of activity. While I fudged a little, for the most part I tried to do something vaguely athletic. I played squash at the college courts with my older sister, swam in the college pool, and went bowling at the college lanes, all of which were a few blocks from my home. Because of my other activities, I was usually crowding the hours in on the weekend. Sadly, I was not learning to have a consistent exercise schedule.
That's when I first developed my bowling skills, which can best be described as erratic. A strike frame would be followed by two gutter balls, a spare by one. Only once, in my experience, did I break 100. But I loved it. There's something about the sound of the ball rolling down the lanes (or the gutter), crashing into the pins (or the back wall.) Something about the way the ball reappears in a swoosh of cool air, popping out of the ball return shoot, rolling into the slot. Something about putting on the special shoes, wearing them for an hour, giving them back, and reassuming the heavier sneakers. Something about coming out, overheated and dazed with the noise, into the cold still winter night, blue-white stars glinting in the black sky.
So, it's a little confusing why, when we first got together, I was so resistant to D's desire to join a bowling league. Some of it was because I was so busy with other activities. Some of it was because that was something he and S did, during their 7-year relationship. I wanted us to have experiences that were not repetitious of old relationships. But that was over 10 years ago. We have 10 years of joint experiences. I watch football with him and go to Blazers games. He attends my concerts (sometimes.) We both go to jazz and rock concerts, movies, plays. And I have gone bowling with him. But I wouldn't join a league.
Until now.
 |
| D's knees bothered him at first.... |
We have the same handicap and average.
Her husband plays several nights, but this is their night together. They are polite, but don't talk much to us. They know most of the other players. He is involved in a roving poker game, and continually leaves the area to pick up his cards. He also partakes in a football pool. He takes charge of the scoring and the technical aspects of the games, which continue to baffle me. The pinfall and marks scores don't seem to be attached to any actual activity on our part, and I can't figure out whether we are winning or not. They give me laconic explanations which only serve to confuse me further. I very much doubt I'll ever get it.
 |
| D waiting for his turn |
Last week I bowled 116, 98, and 72. When I bowled my last strike, in the 10th frame of the 3rd game, followed by 2 gutter balls, one of nice (and talented) guys on the opposing team threw up his hands in disbelief. "I've seen you bowl so many strikes, your first game was great, what happened?"
Hell if I know.
But the beauty of a handicap league is that, despite the scores of 200+ the other team put up, we actually won a game. And, maybe by the end of the year I'll be able to consistently break 100. Even though I am not an athlete.
The girl's still got it
In 1983, a 20-something homeless dude asked me out. I was working the checkout desk at the downtown library, and part of that duty involved chatting with random library users. Of course, it wasn't necessary to date them, but he seemed sweet, a little naive, and pleasant enough. We had lunch at the Sisters of the Road Cafe: takeout BBQ and cornbread in a styrofoam container, which he paid for by washing dishes later on. We spent the lunch hour in the Park Blocks. It was no more awkward than any first date, but there was no second date. He just wasn't my type: too young, too aimless, too confused. Too homeless.
Some months later, he showed up in sandals and a brown ankle-length burlap tunic, roped at the waist. His light brown hair swung lankly against his bearded cheeks. He looked like a medieval mendicant, or a popular portrayal of Christ. He had spent the summer at Rajneeshpuram in Central Oregon and was back in town. By now he seemed seasoned: still homeless, but not confused about it. While recognizing that the Rajneesh adventure was political maneuvering on their part, he seemed to come out of it with a sense that he was on a spiritual quest.
I've often wondered what happened to him, but I don't even remember his name.
Flash forward 30 years; once again I am working at a downtown library. I am working the reference desk in between supervising a system-wide project that is currently based downtown. I have years of library service under my belt, years of dating, years of being married, years of dealing with social issues and crazy patrons. I am long past the time when I could be considered the Library Fox: my hair is dyed red with white roots, my chins are trebled, I wear long skirts and tunic tops. When I stop at the coffee shop without my ID and ask for the discount, I get it because I "look like a library lady."
I have been scheduled for 2 hours at the desk, and I am busily taking care of the project, e-mailing delivery people and arranging schedules. A gent comes up to me, handing me a 4x6 piece of scrap paper wherein he has listed 11 government regulatory agencies that he came across in a National Geographic article. He wants their phone numbers. He has a hand-written document which he wants to mail to said agencies. He is concerned about water and food shortages and wants to make sure the agencies do something about it. Apparently he has the solution.
-That's great, I say, but these agencies have numerous departments, projects, and contact people, and most of the websites are educational in nature. They don't seem to have the sort of contact information you are asking for, and most of the contact info they do have is by webforms or e-mail.
-Uh, no, I'm computer illiterate, he says.
-Then, perhaps I could give you some mailing addresses? (I'm trying to spare everyone the phone call: him, the hapless clerks at the agencies, the various project managers.)
-Uh, no, I need to talk to them, to be sure they are the right people who will know what to do with my information. (Toss it in the circular file, I'm guessing.)
Half an hour later, he leaves, a sheaf of printouts in his hand. I've also looked up the patent office: apparently, the document he wants to mail also contains specifications for an invention, but he can't afford a patent lawyer. I declined the offer to read the pertinent pages, but I feel bad. He has shaken my hand and thanked me several times, but I haven't really helped him. No one is going to win here.
Ten minutes later, a 20-something dude strides up to the desk, radiating urgency. "Where are your newspapers?" I point to the stand behind the desk. The desk is a circular marble counter, approximately 4 feet high, with a circular inner desk/counter and two entrance gaps into the center where we sit. My partner is sitting at the gap in the counter where the desk is open to the public, facing towards the front door: I'm sitting below the high counter, facing towards the public computers. One of the entrances is to my right, the other is diagonally across from me.
The dude appears at the nearer entrance to my sanctum, crouching in the gap, sitting on his heels. "Can we have a real talk?" he whispers. I look at him. He is dressed in paramilitary garb, has short spiky brown hair, big brown eyes, stud earrings, and lavish arm tatoos. He is handsome, well muscled, earnest, and anxious. And young. I say, "I don't know." He says, "I really need to see today's paper." He is looking at me beseechingly. That's when I remember that the current local newspaper is kept behind the desk. "Oh of course, my apologies, the paper is here, do you have some ID?" He riffles through his pockets and eventually comes up with a crumpled New Mexico driver's license. The picture has shorter hair and looks drugged, but I take it and jot down his name and hand him the paper.
Two minutes later, he is back. "I know this guy," he explains, pointing to a picture in the teaser article on the front page: Inside: property crimes and criminals; names, photos, and phone numbers. 9x9 tiny mugshots, with details promised. "He's not a good person. I need to call him." "Are you looking for the phone number?" "No, I need a phone. I need to contact him. Please. I'll even take you to lunch." I turn to my partner, "Uh, M, where's the nearest phone booth?" "Over by the 7-Eleven."
I turn back, but the dude is gone, striding away without looking back. Is he angry? Upset? Did I hurt his feelings? Was it a rejected date, or a failed bribe? D prefers to think the latter ("I'll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today"); but I think it's proof that I'm still that Library Fox.
Some months later, he showed up in sandals and a brown ankle-length burlap tunic, roped at the waist. His light brown hair swung lankly against his bearded cheeks. He looked like a medieval mendicant, or a popular portrayal of Christ. He had spent the summer at Rajneeshpuram in Central Oregon and was back in town. By now he seemed seasoned: still homeless, but not confused about it. While recognizing that the Rajneesh adventure was political maneuvering on their part, he seemed to come out of it with a sense that he was on a spiritual quest.
I've often wondered what happened to him, but I don't even remember his name.
Flash forward 30 years; once again I am working at a downtown library. I am working the reference desk in between supervising a system-wide project that is currently based downtown. I have years of library service under my belt, years of dating, years of being married, years of dealing with social issues and crazy patrons. I am long past the time when I could be considered the Library Fox: my hair is dyed red with white roots, my chins are trebled, I wear long skirts and tunic tops. When I stop at the coffee shop without my ID and ask for the discount, I get it because I "look like a library lady."
I have been scheduled for 2 hours at the desk, and I am busily taking care of the project, e-mailing delivery people and arranging schedules. A gent comes up to me, handing me a 4x6 piece of scrap paper wherein he has listed 11 government regulatory agencies that he came across in a National Geographic article. He wants their phone numbers. He has a hand-written document which he wants to mail to said agencies. He is concerned about water and food shortages and wants to make sure the agencies do something about it. Apparently he has the solution.
-That's great, I say, but these agencies have numerous departments, projects, and contact people, and most of the websites are educational in nature. They don't seem to have the sort of contact information you are asking for, and most of the contact info they do have is by webforms or e-mail.
-Uh, no, I'm computer illiterate, he says.
-Then, perhaps I could give you some mailing addresses? (I'm trying to spare everyone the phone call: him, the hapless clerks at the agencies, the various project managers.)
-Uh, no, I need to talk to them, to be sure they are the right people who will know what to do with my information. (Toss it in the circular file, I'm guessing.)
Half an hour later, he leaves, a sheaf of printouts in his hand. I've also looked up the patent office: apparently, the document he wants to mail also contains specifications for an invention, but he can't afford a patent lawyer. I declined the offer to read the pertinent pages, but I feel bad. He has shaken my hand and thanked me several times, but I haven't really helped him. No one is going to win here.
Ten minutes later, a 20-something dude strides up to the desk, radiating urgency. "Where are your newspapers?" I point to the stand behind the desk. The desk is a circular marble counter, approximately 4 feet high, with a circular inner desk/counter and two entrance gaps into the center where we sit. My partner is sitting at the gap in the counter where the desk is open to the public, facing towards the front door: I'm sitting below the high counter, facing towards the public computers. One of the entrances is to my right, the other is diagonally across from me.
The dude appears at the nearer entrance to my sanctum, crouching in the gap, sitting on his heels. "Can we have a real talk?" he whispers. I look at him. He is dressed in paramilitary garb, has short spiky brown hair, big brown eyes, stud earrings, and lavish arm tatoos. He is handsome, well muscled, earnest, and anxious. And young. I say, "I don't know." He says, "I really need to see today's paper." He is looking at me beseechingly. That's when I remember that the current local newspaper is kept behind the desk. "Oh of course, my apologies, the paper is here, do you have some ID?" He riffles through his pockets and eventually comes up with a crumpled New Mexico driver's license. The picture has shorter hair and looks drugged, but I take it and jot down his name and hand him the paper.
Two minutes later, he is back. "I know this guy," he explains, pointing to a picture in the teaser article on the front page: Inside: property crimes and criminals; names, photos, and phone numbers. 9x9 tiny mugshots, with details promised. "He's not a good person. I need to call him." "Are you looking for the phone number?" "No, I need a phone. I need to contact him. Please. I'll even take you to lunch." I turn to my partner, "Uh, M, where's the nearest phone booth?" "Over by the 7-Eleven."
I turn back, but the dude is gone, striding away without looking back. Is he angry? Upset? Did I hurt his feelings? Was it a rejected date, or a failed bribe? D prefers to think the latter ("I'll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today"); but I think it's proof that I'm still that Library Fox.
He wants the desk phone
To call an old enemy.
"I'll take you to lunch."
Sunday, September 9, 2012
In which we try to avoid talk of pornography
The church has various social groups, one of which is called "SipNSup." 8 people get together at the host home for a potluck. The idea is to make connections and meet new people, so the people who sign up for the group are rotated around, as are the hosts. D signed us up, and we attended our first event last night.
Our hosts lived in a gorgeous new home in Placitas, a small town 10 miles north of Albuquerque, 5 miles to the east of Highway 25. This is an area we have already investigated: in addition to the original town there are open spaces and several developments in the surrounding hills. The views of the Jemez and Sandia mountains are stunning, and the homes are, for the most part, xeriscaped and reasonably separated. They are also square stucco mansions, fairly uniform in design.
Most homes are, of course, out of our price range, and living there would add a 20-minute one-way free-way commute to the daily routine. But the stars and views and the peace might be worth it.
So, there we were, sitting in a circle around the kiva fireplace, looking out the westward-facing windows at glowing orange-pink sunset clouds, watching hummingbirds darting around the house. The conversation was socially apt: we shared life histories (DN was from Alabama, had lived in NM 4 times and traveled the world as an engineer, V was from Texas and had volunteered with the Peace Corps in Guatemala, our hosts had lived in Placitas for 2 years, L had done her research on why rural doctors stayed in their small communities, B had unsuccessfully run for Congress and traveled to China to sell airplanes, DY had worked for a non-profit in Flint, Michigan.) D, DN, and I were the only non-retirees in the group.
Eventually we gathered around the table, a beautiful round wooden antiqued surface with a glass lazy susan and a dried Hawaiian flower centerpiece. We talked about Unitarianism, Buddhism, atheism, the Democratic convention, books, music, movies, Antarctica, travels, cats....the usual. Then, B (who is seated to my right) took over. He had already exhibited signs of social ineptitude, dropping names that few of us recognized, talking obliquely and at random length about his life history: "I am winning my fight over OCD and bi-polarism, I was knocked off the ballot, I have much life experience and was the best qualified person for the job...."
Now he breaks into our general discussion..."I have been talking to Christine (the minister) and she is not answering my calls, but I want to know what you think about our fellow Unitarian who lives just a few miles from this very house and who has a different story to tell than the newspapers tell, I have visited him, he is a good man, a teacher who wants to be a writer and is gathering images, doing research for a Silence of the Lambs sort of book...." There's a rustle of discomfort and DY mutters, "Oh, the pornographer," while B continues to ramble on. Our host, L, says, "I have worked with children as a social worker, I cannot discuss this man's situation dispassionately." B talks on. I look across at DN: he is staring down at his plate. I look at V: his gnome-like face has lost its smile and he is staring up at the ceiling. D is uncharacteristically silent, for which I am grateful: I can see in his face that he is seething. I say, "I think it's clear that this group would prefer to not discuss this topic. We are willing to trust in the judicial process, and while we may appreciate that compassion that leads you to reach out to this man, it's an emotional topic and we should not pursue it." He talks on about OCD, Congress, politics, being bipolar, the discomfort on our faces and V finally loses it: "What point are you trying to make?"
Somehow, I'm not sure how, we wrench the conversation back to neutral topics. There's a short pause and B starts in again, not mentioning the pornographer directly, but musing about what this evening is showing about us, and referring again to his political past and life experience. DN goes to the restroom. Our host, to my left, leans forward. His cat has been sitting in his lap through much of the dinner. Petting his cat calmly he says, "Your experience means nothing to the collective experience around this table, we don't want to hear this."
B gets up and leaves. I think he's going outside to cool off. Our host follows him to the door to turn on lights. The rest of us begin talking about the convention again, and our host returns. Settling into his chair he says, "Well, we've made history. We have hosted this event 5 times, and this is the first time someone has abandoned ship." And we begin discussing what had happened. Apparently DY and V have attended 4 other SipNSups with him, and he has behaved the same at all of them. DY had actually called the organizers when she saw his name, and they had offered to move them to another group. Uh, what about moving him?
But I'm wondering: was it perhaps good to have someone outrageous in the group for the rest of us to bond over? And, was his behavior really so innocent? While I chose to pretend he was sincerely concerned about the pornographer, and that he just couldn't pick up on the social cues, I don't really believe it. I think he was deliberately introducing discomfort into the gathering to see how we'd respond, and I think he enjoyed the results of his social experiment.
In a way, so did I.
So, the night wound on. When we left, we could see the Milky Way.
Our hosts lived in a gorgeous new home in Placitas, a small town 10 miles north of Albuquerque, 5 miles to the east of Highway 25. This is an area we have already investigated: in addition to the original town there are open spaces and several developments in the surrounding hills. The views of the Jemez and Sandia mountains are stunning, and the homes are, for the most part, xeriscaped and reasonably separated. They are also square stucco mansions, fairly uniform in design.
Most homes are, of course, out of our price range, and living there would add a 20-minute one-way free-way commute to the daily routine. But the stars and views and the peace might be worth it.
So, there we were, sitting in a circle around the kiva fireplace, looking out the westward-facing windows at glowing orange-pink sunset clouds, watching hummingbirds darting around the house. The conversation was socially apt: we shared life histories (DN was from Alabama, had lived in NM 4 times and traveled the world as an engineer, V was from Texas and had volunteered with the Peace Corps in Guatemala, our hosts had lived in Placitas for 2 years, L had done her research on why rural doctors stayed in their small communities, B had unsuccessfully run for Congress and traveled to China to sell airplanes, DY had worked for a non-profit in Flint, Michigan.) D, DN, and I were the only non-retirees in the group.
Eventually we gathered around the table, a beautiful round wooden antiqued surface with a glass lazy susan and a dried Hawaiian flower centerpiece. We talked about Unitarianism, Buddhism, atheism, the Democratic convention, books, music, movies, Antarctica, travels, cats....the usual. Then, B (who is seated to my right) took over. He had already exhibited signs of social ineptitude, dropping names that few of us recognized, talking obliquely and at random length about his life history: "I am winning my fight over OCD and bi-polarism, I was knocked off the ballot, I have much life experience and was the best qualified person for the job...."
Now he breaks into our general discussion..."I have been talking to Christine (the minister) and she is not answering my calls, but I want to know what you think about our fellow Unitarian who lives just a few miles from this very house and who has a different story to tell than the newspapers tell, I have visited him, he is a good man, a teacher who wants to be a writer and is gathering images, doing research for a Silence of the Lambs sort of book...." There's a rustle of discomfort and DY mutters, "Oh, the pornographer," while B continues to ramble on. Our host, L, says, "I have worked with children as a social worker, I cannot discuss this man's situation dispassionately." B talks on. I look across at DN: he is staring down at his plate. I look at V: his gnome-like face has lost its smile and he is staring up at the ceiling. D is uncharacteristically silent, for which I am grateful: I can see in his face that he is seething. I say, "I think it's clear that this group would prefer to not discuss this topic. We are willing to trust in the judicial process, and while we may appreciate that compassion that leads you to reach out to this man, it's an emotional topic and we should not pursue it." He talks on about OCD, Congress, politics, being bipolar, the discomfort on our faces and V finally loses it: "What point are you trying to make?"
Somehow, I'm not sure how, we wrench the conversation back to neutral topics. There's a short pause and B starts in again, not mentioning the pornographer directly, but musing about what this evening is showing about us, and referring again to his political past and life experience. DN goes to the restroom. Our host, to my left, leans forward. His cat has been sitting in his lap through much of the dinner. Petting his cat calmly he says, "Your experience means nothing to the collective experience around this table, we don't want to hear this."
B gets up and leaves. I think he's going outside to cool off. Our host follows him to the door to turn on lights. The rest of us begin talking about the convention again, and our host returns. Settling into his chair he says, "Well, we've made history. We have hosted this event 5 times, and this is the first time someone has abandoned ship." And we begin discussing what had happened. Apparently DY and V have attended 4 other SipNSups with him, and he has behaved the same at all of them. DY had actually called the organizers when she saw his name, and they had offered to move them to another group. Uh, what about moving him?
But I'm wondering: was it perhaps good to have someone outrageous in the group for the rest of us to bond over? And, was his behavior really so innocent? While I chose to pretend he was sincerely concerned about the pornographer, and that he just couldn't pick up on the social cues, I don't really believe it. I think he was deliberately introducing discomfort into the gathering to see how we'd respond, and I think he enjoyed the results of his social experiment.
In a way, so did I.
So, the night wound on. When we left, we could see the Milky Way.
concert at the casino
A desert wind blows
And a gibbous moon shines o'er
blues, funk, rock, and roll.
We had tickets to the Tedeschi-Trucks band, playing at the Sandia Casino resort, a little north of our apartment. D picked me up at work and we went out to watch the sunset light on the Sandia foothills. The outside amphitheater faced the casino and its fountain, with a further backdrop of the mountains and the big sky. While the day had been in the 90s, it cooled off rapidly as the sun went down, and the wind picked up. The crowd was our age, and they were, for the most part, into the music. If we had been in better synch, it would have been the perfect concert.
Still, as the concert moved along, the sky darkened, and the moon glowed, we found ourselves holding hands, and then dancing. This band was tight, and the guitar work amazing.
Her hair blows across
Her face as she rips into
Her guitar and screams.
And a gibbous moon shines o'er
blues, funk, rock, and roll.
We had tickets to the Tedeschi-Trucks band, playing at the Sandia Casino resort, a little north of our apartment. D picked me up at work and we went out to watch the sunset light on the Sandia foothills. The outside amphitheater faced the casino and its fountain, with a further backdrop of the mountains and the big sky. While the day had been in the 90s, it cooled off rapidly as the sun went down, and the wind picked up. The crowd was our age, and they were, for the most part, into the music. If we had been in better synch, it would have been the perfect concert.
Still, as the concert moved along, the sky darkened, and the moon glowed, we found ourselves holding hands, and then dancing. This band was tight, and the guitar work amazing.
Her hair blows across
Her face as she rips into
Her guitar and screams.
The seats were not that comfortable though, so we went up to the area above the seats (no mosh pit for us), where people were smoking and forming little knots of conversation and dance. I watched a man walk straight into a smallish woman as he lit his cigarette. She did not accept his apology.
He walks as he lights
His cigarette and smashes
His smoke in her face.
We stuck around through the first encore, but as they moved into the second richly deserved encore, we began feeling our age: hard seats and long nights are no longer something we can do.
So sad.
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