BipolarLawyerCook

Wide solemn eyes,
contemplating the chocolate bar he’s chomping on,
cross-eyed.
His towheaded pageboy tops an oversized
blue oshkosh hooded sweatshirt.
As he munches his chocolate bar,
he kicks his small feet in sandals so large
his toes are nearly invisible.

“When does the train leave?”
“Soon.”

A pause.  Another bite of chocolate.

“When’s soon?”

“Plateau,” over at RealMental, hopefully self explanatory regarding my neglect to write here and to visit you and your own wonderful writing and sharing at your blogs.

Never fear, though.  Unlike the Monty Python Dead Parrot, I’m not dead, merely resting.

This week’s post, “Dutch Heaven,” is up.

I knew my parents were getting older.  But every once in a while, something beyond the greying hair and the slowed pace imposed by arthritis takes me aback.  Yesterday, it was my dad’s increasing dithering.   He’d asked me to lend him my car, since his own was in the shop and he’s got a drive to work that doesn’t allow for taking the T, like me.  I was glad to, and drove over.  I was perfectly happy for him to drive me to the local train station– it’s on the same line as the one I live near, and it wouldn’t have taken me any more time to get home than if he’d driven me all the way back home, while saving him the extra half hour returning.  I guess it’s a generational thing– the car is always the preferred method of transportation for him, and I honestly don’t mind the public transit system.  It’s quiet time for me to read, or write, to observe, or to just be alone with my thoughts.

But he insisted on driving me home.  And I knew it was a somewhat good idea, since he rarely drives my car, and might have questions.  I was ready to scream, though, by the second stoplight.  He drives a stick, and I have an automatic, so he kept putting it in neutral or park, and then getting confused when the car wouldn’t roll forward as he took his foot off the brake.  (Don’t even get me going on the way he drives his stick.)  The ride home was quite a trip.  He almost ran a red light, fumbling with the overhead visor, and downshifted the car needlessly several more times.  I snapped at him once or twice, feeling bad, but I couldn’t really help myself.  When we got back to my place, he wanted help with putting cash on his Charlie card (the transit system ticket card), which engendered some more dithering and my getting impatient and taking it away from him.

I felt awful after he left.  It really wasn’t a big deal, he’d wanted to do the nice thing and drive me home, and had wanted to spend the time with me in the car.  I realized that part of my impatience was due to my own discomfort with this sign of age on his part.  Don’t get me wrong, he’s still totally with it.  But the absentmindedness can’t be chalked up just to not enough blood pressure medication.

So now, I’m working on shoring up my patience, as well as my heart, since time will go on.

The fantabulous Schmutzie has beaten me to the punch and posted links to all the posts that were read at the BlogHer community keynote last Saturday.  These posts represent why blogging is so wonderful– honesty, humor, varieties of experiences laid out for judgment– and being in that audience, trying to give back some of the love that these writers showed by baring their hearts to us, was one of the best experiences I’ve had so far.  So please, link, comment, enjoy.

The three of them were no older than 14, but curvy as so many young girls are.  I remember being flat as a board at their age.  You could tell they were all good friends; there was no third wheel, here.  They bopped along ahead of me, to their own private soundtrack, laughing at their own antics.  I smiled, started to pass them on the left, when one of them hip-checked me in the middle of another dance step.  She was immediately apologetic.

“It’s OK.  If I had moves like that, I’d shake it, too.”

Their “yeah, baby”s followed me down the street.

Trust me, the title is way better than the actual article.

Dear Redwood Credit Union at 241 California Street, San Francisco:

I wish that the guy at your 800 number, who I spoke with on Saturday, had told me that your ATM machines automatically shred every card that they eat (for no good reason, by the way, since I had money in the account and the BH’s card worked fine for the rest of the weekend), so that I didn’t have to wait until Monday to find out in person from the teller at the branch.  I could’ve gotten a two day start on a new ATM card.  I hope she called you to tell you that you should know that about your own ATMs. 

Grumblingly yours,

BLC

Today’s post, “Too much of a good thing,” is up at RealMental.

258 photos at the Ferry Farmer’s Market– less fattening than Cowgirl Creamery Cheese.

* * *

The Ferry Farmer’s Market: like heaven, just foggier.

* * *

BLC (out loud): (To guy nearly kneecapping me with his cane) Hey, watch it!

BLC (internally): Oh, shit. Another blind guy.

* * *

I’ve never been afraid of heights before. But I tried to walk across the Golden Gate Bridge today, and only made it as far as the first tower before hyperventilating. Wind + lots of traffic + wide expanses of incoming tide = hyperventilation. At least I got some good pictures. And the BH, trooper that he is, went to the middle of the span for me to finish out the photos.

* * *

“None is more wondrous than man.” (Sophocles). I don’t often think this, but something as artificial, as ingenious, as scientifically and aesthetically designed as the Golden Gate Bridge? It makes me change my mind.

* * *

I should have done a photoessay: “Glasses of BlogHer.” There were some seriously cool specs on offer this weekend. I love girls who wear glasses.

* * *

Two new verbs from the Better Half this weekend:

“These [Zuni Cafe] fries are so good, I am going to invent a verb. I am going to ‘cookie monster’ these.”

“I don’t know what I want. I am going to just ‘Stevie Wonder’ here until I do.” (File under “going to hell.”)

* * *

Re: this morning’s crack-of-dawn cable car ride: “I love the smell of steel dust in the morning.”

* * *

There’s a blues/rock band on the corner, and marijuana smoke in the air. Sunday night in Union Square.

* * *

The laughter and spit takes after finishing a bottle of wine? More than worth the fact that we’re too drunk to f*ck.

* * *

BLC: I never regret it [drunkeness]– I never remember it.

* * *

BLC to BH: That reduced liver function whinge? It might work better if it wasn’t because of a bad McDLT.

BH: Yeah, but are you going to write “contamination by fecal matter” on your blog?

BLC: No, I don’t want the google hits.

(Ooops. Well, too late.)

* * *

You did NOT just lick the crema out of your cappucino cup, did you?