Displaced

It didn’t look like a good idea, going down a 70-degree hill in an electric wheelchair, but he seemed determined.

I’ll back up.

My office overlooks the street. It’s not usually an interesting perspective because we live on a 100% residential block, but the sidewalk in front of our house drops off like a cliff down a steep hill plus we’re on the uphill side of the street, so I can see all of western San Francisco from our perch at two edges. Not with any specificity, mind you – I’d need a telescope to see any funny business going on over in the Castro – but still.

Not much happens on our street except our burglary and the odd family across the street – heavy 70-something mom in a sweatshirt, dapper angry dad, shiftless 40-something son in a porkpie hat and trimmed-flat bears – who move their red Volvo across the street and up and down the block all day long, even on weekends and at night. Maybe they’re running single errands for every individual grocery they need.

Then, last week, an electric wheelchair approached from the flat end of the street. The man in it was bald, old-ish and steering down the middle of the road even though you can’t see any traffic coming up the hill. He was wearing blue hospital pants covered by a lap blanket and a short-sleeved hospital issue shirt.

He veered and slowed as he approached the crest of the hill but didn’t pull up. Straight down at what looked like maximum speed for a motorized chair.

My first thought was, “Huh. A dude in a wheelchair on our hill.” I had to think twice to think twice and consider how odd it was. Like, not a street cleaning move or something.

My next thought was that he’d made an understandable jail break from the nearby hospital.

San Francisco General Hospital is four blocks away. I’ve never been into it and hope to never have to: from what I hear, they cater mainly to gunshot victims, gang members shooting each other in the Mission. When I took a Baby First Aid class, I asked the young EMT if he thought it’d be better to take A. down the hill to the hospital or call 911 if we had an emergency. I said I thought maybe if she’d been shot, I’d head for SF General. He diplomatically suggested I give the ambulance EMTs a try first, then added the caveat that if she’s been shanked, yeah, maybe the hospital should be our first choice.

So that’s SF General. Good for this guy for getting the hell out of there.

This morning, he cruised back by, still in the middle of the road but with no pause at the crest. Just straight down.

Maybe he’s training for something. Our hill attracts that type. Some crazy, middle-aged skinny woman trucks by with a backpack on twice a day like she’s fleeing the Rapture, canned goods and all. Is there Wheelchair Motocross? He could get on that. He needs a better uniform though and maybe some flame detailing. Better yet, some actual flames. Do wheelchairs have exhaust pipes? Maybe I’ll have a word with him next time he tools by. I could be his agent. This is going to be great. New client! Happy Wednesday after all.

This has not been my week. I’m not complaining – stuff happens – I’m just saying I’m glad we’re getting close to Saturday evening and a clean slate tomorrow.

It started last Sunday. I cracked an egg on the edge of the sink since it has a better edge than the bowl. Since I usually drop the eggshell’s contents into the container I’m cracking it on, I went ahead and dropped the egg down the drain.

No big deal. Just an egg.

An hour later, I had filled R’s cup of coffee partway at a cafe when the carafe ran empty. I put a lid on the cup and picked up a full carafe at the counter. Then I pumped boiling hot coffee onto the lid of the cup to fill it up. Caffeinated chaos all over the counter. Burned my hand.

OK. Fine. Accidents happen. Clamp down. Move on.

We were on our way to the beach so A. could have a little fling with the sand. Halfway there we had to turn around because she was crying so hard in the backseat. Teething? Maybe. The risk of being in proximity to a large body of water with me? Smart.

Back home, the neighbors were coming by for dinner, so I started a dessert that involves melting butter in the cake pan in the oven. The pan slips, spilling liquid butter into the oven. Which caught on fire. Not a whoopsie little “fire” either. Actual foot-high flames in the oven. I closed the oven door and just looked at it. I wasn’t surprised. I know where the fire extinguisher is, but what was the point? It would’ve exploded. Or melted. Something. So we all just stood there looking at the flaming oven.

Eventually the fire went out. Good to know. Just stand still so it can’t tell you’re there.

Then I put a spoon down the garbage disposal.

Then I went to bed.

The whole week’s been like that. Just one flaming spoon after another. I’m trying to steer clear of sharp corners and pointy objects until I get to bed tonight. Wish me luck.

So first there was all that hoopla about Apple tracking my whereabouts. I kind of let that one slide because I pretty much assume people are recording my every move anyway. On the flip side, I also assume that a.) whoever “they” are aren’t organized enough to synthesize all that data so they couldn’t actually locate me at my coffee shop until three weeks from now, and b.) I’m not important enough for them to try.

Come to think of it though, if they did try, in three weeks, I’ll probably be back at my coffee shop, so old data’s probably a-OK in my case. I’m just not very wily.

But now there’s this whole Luddite thing with Bin Laden being located by tracking his courier. That’s some old-school sh*t. (Of course it took them ten years, so either that’s one slow-moving courier, one big-ass errand or a hell of lot of stop-offs to explain to the boss.)

It made me think twice about ever sending A. out to run an errand for me. What if she runs up the hill to our local bodega to get a paper and a coffee for her lazy-ass mom and they follow her back to our house?

Not that she’ll be running errands anytime soon. She can’t walk a straight line for three feet and usually falls down after five, so my coffee would be in jeopardy. Right, yes: also her one-year-old safety.

And no one runs up the huge hill by our house anyway except this crazy wiry woman I see every day who appears to be training for the Apocalypse when she’ll have to fight for food and matches.

But my concern remains, impracticalities aside. What if A. just scoots down to the corner on her ride-upon ladybug and some spook follows her that whole half-block home? What if that happened?

I can hear you now: “Sooo…what if it did happen?”

I don’t know. I don’t know what. Probably nothing. But I’m still worried.

I hear you: I know our name is on our mailbox right out in front. It’s not like they’d have to follow little A. home to find us. But they could and it seems like it’s part of their handbook of plans.

I just don’t like the idea of someone being able to follow my courier. It’s so…personal. I like to think of my trackers as guys with interesting motives in masks in black helicopters way up high in the sky. If there are actual SEALs coming up the stairs, that’s more threatening. Should we stop getting Chinese food delivered in case they’re following that guy? It’s not usually the same guy though. That might throw them off the scent.

God. Am I really going to have to start running all my own errands? And wouldn’t that just make their job easier anyway? Is there no way out of this? Other than returning to my right mind and finding something productive to do with my time, I mean.

“Well that speech was shorter than I thought…” – Octopus Patronus.

Since my early crush on Han Solo, I’ve always liked action movies and I haven’t gotten over it. What right-minded girl doesn’t wish she were dating Jason Bourne? He has everything: abs, mental illness, multiple passports. What’s not to love?

Yeah, sure, I went through a grandiose phase in my teens (Greystoke: Legend of Tarzan, anyone?) and I saw a serious lot of drama and tragedy and just all-out weird shit when I studied film in my twenties, but I think I settled out into the middle when I hit my thirties. Comedy, action, rom com, some documentaries and drama.

(I’m still puzzled at why I stopped watching the edgier films when I got together with R. Maybe it coincided with my getting happier. Or because it’s harder to talk to your boyfriend when you’re trying to read subtitles or follow a plot that involves more than a dodgeball.)

Here’s the weird bit though: after we had A. last spring, my tastes narrowed even more. R. and I used to go to the movies a lot pre-A., but when we started going out again, about two months after A. was born, we had to be choosier because we got out less often. So what did we see? The Losers. Then The A-Team (punctuated by me saying, “This is the best movie EVER,” repeatedly to an uncomprehending R. Apparently, there’s no making up for missing out on Dirk Benedict when you were a twelve-year-old girl.) Then Iron Man 2. More recently, Red. Unstoppable. Limitless. The Mechanic. (Statham = reliable awesomeness on a stick.) God help us, we even saw The Expendables which you could tell from the trailers was going to just flat out suck and totally lived up to that expectation.

What is going on??

I have a couple of theories, naturally.

1. I’m trying to keep my adrenaline up to keep up with the baby. Although taking down an assassin with a book and an armoire in Tangiers does seem to require more aerobic exercise ahead of time and more specialized skills than bending over 175 times in a day to pick up a 22-pound weight and trying to aim a rubber spoon accurately between two windmilling arms. Or maybe not.
2. I haven’t fully recovered from ten and a half months of interrupted sleep and only super-bright explosions can keep my attention. Mumbling French people have no chance. Ditto, angsty teens, worried lesbians, bickering couples, and men living alone. Especially with beaver puppets. Bring the fire power, people.
3. I have exhausted my interpretive abilities trying to guess if our tot is hungry, thirsty, tired or reaching for a wall socket, one of her books, or the large glass container of sugar that has recently come within her reach in the lower kitchen cupboard (deadly, much less interesting and bodily harmful, respectively). I have nothing left to apply to complicated emotional situations involving very attractive people I don’t know and who seem to have really very nice lives off-screen from what I can tell in the four and a half seconds I have to read up on them in Us Magazine in the grocery check-out line while R. pays and the baby is momentarily distracted by a passing balloon or piece of lint.
4. I have become shallow.

Or maybe it’s just a phase that will pass when Astrid gets a little older. Then I can start watching Bugs Bunny with her, which demonstrates far greater depth I’m sure than my umpteenth viewing of The Bourne Reluctancy. In the meanwhile, if you need me, I’ll be at the 8:10 showing of The Fast Five.

If you can’t beat ’em – and I definitely can’t: look at them for Pete’s sake – you might as well join ’em.

OK, so you’re in your car with someone else and you live in California so you are constantly getting cut off by $#&*!, um, let’s call them “people” driving 4 mph in a 35 mph zone who have no idea where they’re going but decide that this left turn, yeah that one right there 20 feet away, must be the one they need to take even though they’re in the far right lane, so they nearly kill everyone in their path, not to mention slow traffic speed to a standstill, so they can make their turn.

What do you do?

Take a breath? No.

You yell. You say bad words about stupid people and curse this state’s lax law enforcement and poor driver’s education that allows clearly incompetent, aimless people on the roads with the rest of us.

I’m not saying this is the most constructive response for my blood pressure, but you don’t know: maybe my head would explode if I didn’t let some of the steam out.

In the last year or so though, there’s been an increasingly large wrench in those mechanics, namely that the passenger with me is very small, facing backwards in the backseat, unable to see the offending event, and, even if she could, unaware of traffic laws (written and unwritten). So she understandably believes that the loud expletives from the front seat must be meant for her, same as the little chunks of cheddar cheese that magically appear over the back of her seat with soothing reminders that we’re “almost there”.

It’s probably good that I learn to curb the yelling now before she starts imitating the content which could lead to some X-rated exchanges that’ll get her kicked out of preschool in a couple of years.

Generally, I’ve been trying to keep a handle on what goes into her ears while I still can, but, even before she falls in love with ska and playing the trumpet in the basement, it’s already a seriously heavy lift.

I’ve refrained from introducing A. to our music list beyond our classical collection because she’s always been sound-sensitive and our tastes veer towards heavy beats (too loud) and complaint rock (too whiny). She prefers easy to understand single voices with obvious instrumentation. Like Raffi. And cowbell.

But I can’t listen to that indefinitely, so, since she’s gotten more noise-tolerant lately, I tried our local techno radio station last week. Ah, Rihanna:

” ‘Cause I may be bad, but I’m perfectly good at it. Sex in the air, I don’t care, I love the smell of it. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but chains and whips excite me.”

Let’s let the issue lie of what the hell she’s thinking putting out a song like this after her personal experience with getting the crap kicked out of her by a boyfriend and take up what a one-year-old mind would make of these lyrics.

Probably nothing, right? But I’m not starting that sex-me-up diet this early. She’ll get that from billboards, magazines and the internet soon enough.

(Not to be old-fashioned but, holy God, what twelve year olds are wearing these days is the equivalent of what I wore to college parties when I was feeling particularly sure-I’ll-go-home-with-you. I was walking behind what looked like a pre-teen yesterday and I wasn’t sure she was wearing anything between her giant sweatshirt and her Uggs. Going entirely pantsless is pushing the, “But I’m not cold!” excuse a little far, isn’t it? No? OK. Whatever. I guess any sentence that includes the phrase, “these days” marks me as uncool already. And A. is only one. That doesn’t bode well…)

I switched the station to NPR. The voices are soothing and A. bounces to the theme music. But then I had to turn that off too: a steady stream of bad news, and particularly graphic bad news, about civilian casualties in Libya, pedophilia, tsunamis, reactor meltdowns and the infallibly depressing coverage of our dysfunctional Congress aren’t much better than S&M enthusiasts.

I guess it’s back to swearing and Raffi. At least it’s preparing her for fending off bullies and chatting with longshoremen. That’s something, right?

Do you remember Weebles? “Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down”?

By the way, I always thought they were “Weeble Wobbles,” not “Weebles,” which goes to show how effectively that advertising phrase caught on plus how important it was to me at six that everyone have the dignity of a full first and last name.

If you’re not familiar with them, Weebles are egg-shaped plastic “people” with a weight in the bottom. When you tip them to the side, they pop back upright, (unlike real eggs which untidily roll off the counter to their deaths. Which is a bummer for a small child looking for a good time from an egg-shaped friend.) The Weebles’ resilience makes them seem perky and well-balanced. Or out-of-touch, like that friend you have who smiles no matter what and sometimes you think she should really get some therapy, just in case one day it all backs up on her.

Anyway. A. is like that. Not the crazy, the resilience. Like most babies, when she tips over, she pops back up, but it’s not just the fall down/get back up. Her emotional recovery time is remarkable. When she gets shots (not shot, shots), she cries for twenty seconds, looks sad and is on to the next thing. She bumps her head and cries a little if we look worried. Closes a drawer on her fingers? Tiny short-lived weeping. Isn’t allowed to put her fingers in the wall socket? Complains, moves on.

For a while I thought maybe she had that thing that was on House that one time where that girl couldn’t feel pain so her mom had to keep track of her all the time because she could break her leg and not know it or burn her hand and not notice. Sure it’s rare, but so what? A. could have it. She’s special.

I kept asking R. if he thought maybe that’s why she didn’t seem to mind cold diaper wipes when all our friends’ babies freaked out at chilly wetness. It seemed like a reasonable explanation and not an overreaction at all. Like when you have a sore throat and go to Web MD and find out you have dengue fever because you maybe feel like you also have dry mouth and had a headache that one time and the medication you’ll need is still being tested but would cause serious liver damage so you decide maybe you’ll just take some Robitussin in case it’s just a sore throat.

(To read side effects lists, you really have to be surprised that anyone at all still has an intact liver. Liver damage is on pretty much all of them. And all the patients on House end up needing a new one at some point in the episode, so there’s probably a shortage if you do damage yours.)

A. must have gotten that snap-back ability from her father or the good will of the universe, because I definitely do not have that. I have a quick trigger and a long recovery cycle. I’m trying to get more Weeble. Except for the bottom-weighted thing. And the egg shape. That’s just unflattering.

More at Lost at E Minor.

It’s been raining in San Francisco for…ever, I guess. Rain has been predicted every day for weeks. Meteorologists being what they are (surprisingly poor guessers, given, um, science), and us living in the sunniest neighborhood in the city, there have been a couple of nice days in there somewhere, but they fade in the memory, doused by the gallon buckets of water that pour down on our heads as we leave the house. In the new global warming world order, I guess San Francisco is will be Indonesia. Maybe we’ll start to get some sun when the monsoons aren’t in town.

Can I just say, on a separate note, that I hate our living room? Hang on – it could be a related note… Here you go: “Much like living in New York spoiled living in San Francisco for me, seeing the previous owners’ living room has made me hate what we’ve done with the place.” Yeah, that’s a stretch, but I’m disgruntled on both counts, so there’s your thread.

One of the owners was a painter, so the colors are subtle but true choices, and the décor was harmonious and cheerful. Room & Board meets someone less cheerful than Dr. Seuss but still very friendly. Our décor isn’t really décor, it’s furniture, and heavy furniture at that, and it weighs the room down.

One of the reasons I loved this house is that the backyard is not only done, which is surprisingly rare in the city where unused wild backyards abound, but well-done. Tiled steps and patio for a table and chairs, well-defined garden beds, sun deck and small lawn, all of which merges into the house at the living room’s double doors. It feels – well, felt – like there was an indoor living room and an outdoor living room. Except now, with our stuff in place, there’s an outdoor living room and your great uncle’s indoor furniture depository. Which is not the same at all.

You know that relationship you had in college with the guy who was a really very sweet but smoked a ton of pot and you thought, “If he were just stoned less, this relationship would be perfect,” and then he cut back and it turned out it wasn’t just that one thing at all and really you couldn’t stand him? It’s like that. It’s not just the Oriental rug (family heirloom, presumably expensive, dark, dark, dark) or the piano (excellent to have, hulking blackness along one wall) or the giant square coffee table (no redeeming value except storage, which we no longer need) or the blocky sofa (first one R. and I bought together – save your, “Aww!” until you’ve tried to lie down on it’s just-too-short-ness) or the waterfall of wires from all the electronics attached to our TV. It’s all of them colluding to make the room feel like we have poor taste and are maybe half-blind.

*sigh*

For the record, this is what I want: this rug, this sofa, this chair. And no more cascading cables from the DVR/TV/Mac Mini/Time Capsule stack.

And I’d like to win the lottery. And I still want that pony. I promise I’ll feed it and take it for walks. Promise.

My doctor left our insurance group last year and I had to choose between staying with my obstetrician or following our GP. Since our GP was treating me for sore throats and my OB would be delivering our child, I picked the OB. Call me crazy.

So this year, we were in the market for a new doctor. We managed to get into a well-rated practice with a doctor who came highly recommended. Here’s an outline of how that went.

Me: I seem to have developed eczema on my hands, which is weird, since I’ve never had any skin problems. But a friend of mine got it postpartum and I’ve done some research and it seems like that’s something that happens. It gets better and then worse and my hands hurt so much sometimes, it burns just getting water on them.
Him: You don’t have eczema.
Me: … [long pause] Is there anything I can do for it?
Him: You don’t have eczema.
Me: …

Me: I’ve also been having severe pain in my hands, so much so that it hurts when I type. It’s hard to pick up A. too. I’m wondering if there’s a possibility of arthritis or something similar?
Him: [picks up one arm, turns it over, looks at my inner wrist for five seconds, puts it down] It’s not arthritis. You’re doing something over and over again that’s causing it. You should stop doing that.
Me: Yes, well, I don’t know what that would be.
Him: You’re texting a lot.
Me: No I’m not.
Him: When I came in, you were on your computer. You’re getting carpal tunnel from typing too much.
Me: I have a one year old. I barely have any time to type at all.
Him: Well, you’re doing something that’s causing it, so you should stop doing that and it’ll go away.
Me: ….

Me: I’m having difficulty sleeping, even when A. sleeps and I have the time to sleep. This has happened before – I get out of synch and can get back-on track with a prescription for a few weeks. Can you prescribe something short-term?
Him: You’re up at night because you have running thoughts.
Me: No, I don’t.
Him: That’s why you’re up. You’re anxious and have running thoughts.
Me: I don’t have running thoughts, but yes, I guess I am anxious.
Him: What are you anxious about?
Me: Well, normal new parent stuff. But that’s not what’s keeping me up. But OK, lately I’ve been worried about A. sleeping on a different floor from us, in case there’s an emergency. Like a fire or an earthquake or something.
Him: Maybe next time you shouldn’t buy a house with her bedroom on a different floor.
Me: … That’s your suggestion to help with my sleep issues? Buy a different house? We just bought this one. We’re not buying another house.
Him: You might think about not buying a wooden house as well.
Me: …

In the end, he prescribes Ambien which I tell him won’t work because I’ve had it before and it doesn’t work. He tells me to call in a few days to report back.

It doesn’t work.

I call back and tell him it doesn’t work.

Him: Well it’s not the Ambien’s fault.

So that’s how well that went.

Now I have an awesome new doctor who is, coincidentally, a bad-ass. It turns out I do have postpartum eczema and there’s a diagnosis for the hand thing and I’m sleeping better – and I didn’t even have to buy a new house. Fancy that.