Inexplicable, Implausible II

Several months ago I wrote about the mysterious disappearance of some clothing, a t-shirt and a sports bra, that happened to be of the same brand. The sports bra turned up soon after that - I think it had gotten tangled in my sheets while I had sorted the laundry and revealed itself when I was going to sleep that night. But the t-shirt remained missing and I had given up hope of ever seeing it again. A few days ago I was working on an essay for a workshop I'm taking and one of the items that popped into my writing was the process of putting on pantyhose. Since I rarely engage in this activity, I wanted to refresh my memory as to how the nylon feels. I went into my closet, found my shoebox filled with pantyhose and opened it up. Inside, nestled alongside my stocking collection, was the missing t-shirt. I am completely baffled and clueless as to why I put it there in the first place, but I'm delighted to have it back.

Intriguing, Intelligence

Over the years I've come to believe that there is an enormous intelligence operating in the universe that creates synchronicity, meaningful encounters and seemingly spontaneous connections. It's as if we're linked by a vast membrane, and if a person gently tugs or pokes that membrane then other people will sense it and respond, most likely at an unconscious level. When I was younger these events would feel quite magical to me, proof that there was more to the world than met the eye, that the hyper-rational outlook championed by my parents was insufficient to explain how life might actual work. My excitement at having sensed or experienced this invisible side to life was often met with an unimpressed, "That was just a coincidence."

Someone, or maybe a few people, must have been tugging pretty hard on the membrane yesterday because I overcome by a powerful urge to look up people I had met in Washington, D.C. while in graduate school for international relations many years ago. Over time, and as my life path took a different course, I had lost touch with them and for long stretches had not thought about my classmates at all, not even the person I dated while I was a student. In fact, I had forgotten many of their names. But with Google, Facebook and Flickr, it's not hard to find people. I typed in my ex's name and found some links, leading to images of him delivering a lecture in Europe last spring. He looked the same but seemed to have grown into his role as scholar, having dropped the playboy persona of his dissertation days. Suddenly I was back in time, remembering very specific details of my graduate school experience, including how another friend had a somewhat awkward body position when sitting on the grass in Dupont Circle. I thought most of these impressions, sights and sounds had been wiped out by the passage of time and by my willful focus on the "now". Instead, the longer I lingered in my memories of that time the more names my brain started to recall, as if all I had ever needed to do was prime the pump. After looking up a few more people I decided to go to sleep, thinking I might contact one or two of them today.

This morning, like most mornings, I logged into Google Analytics to quickly check the previous day's traffic on my website. The Analytics tools also allow me to see how people arrive at my site, either directly, by a referring website or by a key word search. And it turned out that yesterday someone had arrived at my website after entering my name AND the name of my graduate school in a search engine. While I don't know who had looked me up, I was glad to see that I was not the only person out there to feel and respond to the tug on the membrane.

Infuriating, Infantile

Getting parking tickets makes my blood boil. First the rage is directed inward for having failed to properly read the sign and/or sufficiently feed the meter, and then I feel pissed at the Universe for not exempting me from the parking officer's scrutiny. In Denver, I'm finding, I rarely escape this scrutiny. I have received three parking tickets in the nearly nine months I've lived here, an amount that is outrageously high in my experience.

In other cities, meter maids (and meter men) frequently do their inspections on foot. This slows them down, so that if you see them approaching and you can move faster than they can, you can quickly move your car before they get a chance to ticket it. It also means that each meter maid, or man, covers less territory in a given amount of time than if they were in a vehicle, which lessens the probability that you'll get a ticket.

In Denver, the parking police drive around in mini-jeeps whose steering wheel is on the right side, making it easy for them to pull up alongside parked cars, check meters, issue tickets and place them on the driver's door of the offending car without having to pound the pavement.

I received my first ticket in the fall when, running late for a yoga class, I pulled into a space near the studio. There was a landscaping crew parked just up ahead and I assumed the spot was legitimate. Two hours later I discovered via a yellow envelope and white ticket tucked into the door of my Subaru that, in fact, I had parked on a residential-only stretch of pavement. There had been a sign, but I had not bothered to read it. The penalty? $25. Ouch.

My second screw up took place in winter. A friend had an art opening downtown and I arrived around 7pm and quickly found a parking spot. Thinking that meters only ran until 6pm, I went to the opening to say a quick hello. Fifteen minutes later I returned to my ticketed car; just up ahead I could see the police jeep slowly making its way up the street, ticketing nearly every car in sight. Had I left five minutes earlier, I would not have been saddled with a $25 fine. The meter, it turned out, ran until 8pm.

Chastened by these experiences, I've been making an effort to read the meters and parking signs with great diligence. In Denver, depending on the neighborhood, some meters go until 6pm, others 8pm and still others 10pm. Some meters have an hour limit, others a two hour limit, others just 30 minutes. At some meters 25 cents will buy you a luxurious hour of time, whereas that same quarter will only get you 15 minutes in other parts of the city.

About a month ago I went to an event downtown and was careful to feed the meter and to set the alarm clock on my cellphone to remind myself when I'd have to refill it. At the appointed time I ducked out of the event and returned to my vehicle and carefully deposited my remaining nickels (3 minutes each) and dimes (6 minutes) each to extend my lease on that space. At the end of the evening, I headed to my car and was dismayed to see that now familiar yellow envelope sticking out of the door to my car.

My meter still had 22 minutes on it. What the f---?

Exasperated, I read the ticket. It cited me for parking in two spaces at once. Impossible, I thought - there was a car in front of me and a car behind me, so I was not actually occupying two spaces. However, I had to concede that the front of my car poked a few inches past the parking meter. For this small incursion into another space they were going to fine me $25?

Infuriated, I decided to contest it.

Ticket in hand, I went to the office of the Parking Magistrate. I was asked to take a number; there was no dispensing machine, just a roll of perforated numbered slips of paper lying on a desk. I tore one off and took a seat. Minutes later I was escorted by a uniformed officer to one of the hearing rooms. I had imagined that the person who would hear my case would be sitting behind a desk, and would offer me a chair, and our heads would be at the same level as we'd have a friendly conversation about this mistakenly issued ticket.

Instead, I found myself standing behind a counter that came up to my chin, peering up into the face of the Parking Magistrate who sat in a tall chair and loomed over me. Suddenly I felt that I was three years old.

"Could you explain this ticket to me?" I squeaked. In hindsight, this was a bad strategy. What I really wanted was to have her dismiss the ticket or lower the fine, not to educate me about the arcana of Denver's parking rules.

The Magistrate explained why the ticket was issued. I tried to protest.

"But I was not occupying two spaces," I said.

"Well, you asked me to explain the ticket," she repeated, reminding me of what I had actually asked, as opposed to what I wish I had asked.

"It says clearly on the meter," the Magistrate continued, "that the front bumper must be aligned with the meter. Otherwise, you're in violation."

"So, even though I was not depriving anyone of a space, I'm still being fined?" I was still squeaking, as if my adult self had left the room leaving a youngster to deal with this situation. A little voice in my head told me to shut up and get out of there before I shredded my dignity any further. I did not listen to it.

"But I've lived or visited dozens of cities and I've never seen such a thing before," I protested. Did I really think she was going to let me get out of this?

"Well, this is the law in Denver. You might not like it, but that's what it is."

"I don't like it," I said, feeling like a toddler as soon as the words exited my lips.

I went to the cashier's office and paid the $25 on my credit card, wishing I had simply mailed in a check and saved myself the aggravation and embarrassment.

Intercourse

I suppose it was only a matter of time before I'd write a post with this word. The time has come. Although I live in a fairly urban neigbhorhood - by Denver standards - my apartment is surprisingly quiet. Rarely do cars or motorcycles speed down the street. My neighbors are not prone to throwing wild parties, blaring the television or having loud arguments. Occasionally I hear the scraping of skateboards against the asphalt between my building and the neighboring one - in fact, as I write this, some young boarder is creating an annoying racket, going back and forth and back and forth, practicing jumps.

But lately the more persistent sounds have been generated by the couple in the apartment below mine; judging by the duration and volume of bed squeaks, grunts and moans, they seem to enjoy a healthy sex life. Good for them. I have never met them, and don't wish to, as I'd rather not picture their faces the next time their carnal exertions crescendo, keeping me awake in the process.

Inauspicious

This word came to mind as I was nuking some leftovers on a microwave-safe plate and, a few seconds before the timer went off, I heard a loud snap. The plate had cracked almost exactly in half, a very clean break. Holding the two pieces together so that my food would not fall through the chasm, I dumped my dinner on a different, microwave-safe plate and tossed the other one into the trash. I wondered what "microwave-safe" meant in this context.

Instant Joy

This afternoon I went to my local post office to mail some mosaics and some show applications and to pick up a gift a friend had sent me. I arrived to find a long line of sullen looking people and only three clerks on duty. I passed some of the time by reading a copy of the neighborhood newspaper that had been left on the counter. As the line inched along it continued to expand behind me; by the time it was my turn the queue was nearly to the door.

I'm sure the people behind me were not pleased by the fact that I had four packages to mail, each requiring slightly different treatment and therefore additional conversation. The process was further slowed by the fact that the clerk was hearing impaired - so said the sign at the counter - and my effort to speak clearly didn't always succeed. Finally, after some repetition and clarification, all the packages had been metered and affixed with delivery confirmation stickers.

Then I presented the clerk with my slip of paper so she could retrieve the item my friend had mailed. I knew what it was, as my friend had e-mailed me the tracking information. After checking my ID the clerk went to the back, found the item, and returned to the counter bearing a hoola hoop, wrapped in brown paper for its postal journey, and with a diameter of more than three feet.

As I turned to leave, hoop in hand, I noticed big smiles on the faces of the people waiting patiently in the line behind me. Even one of the clerks broke into a grin. Seeing their reactions dissolved my own blah mood, and for a moment I was walking on air.

Interstate: Impressions

Marketers and advertisers know that it takes a minimum of seven, if not more, impressions to convert someone into a customer. That potential customer will need to see or hear at least seven advertisements or product mentions before they will take action. The marketers in South Dakota are well acquainted with this fact, thus the Interstate is lined with billboards that announce restaurants and attractions that are hundreds of miles away.

For example, for hours before I arrived to Wall, SD, population 800 or so, I must have seen dozens of billboards with simple but tempting graphics and slogans for Wall Drug. In hindsight, I wished I had stopped to photograph each and every one of them, although that might have slowed me down quite a bit.

The theme was simple. Each billboard emphasized a different items available at Wall Drug. One sign focused on homemade donuts, and had an image of a chocolate frosted one. Another boasted 5 cent coffee. A third showed cowboy boots. A fourth had a picture of cherry pie. A fifth announced that T-Rex was at Wall Drug. A sixth said, "Only 50 miles to Wall Drug". And on and on, mile after mile, billboard after billboard, to the point that I got curious about what kind of place Wall Drug was. Yup, they totally snagged me with their clever ads.

After soaking up the Badlands I headed to Wall Drug. Leaving the park, sign after sign informed me that I was getting closer to the 5 cent coffee. I pulled up in front of what looked like an old western store front. Wall Drug is basically a small mall filled with cowboy boots, food, games, gimmicks and more. It is probably the largest employer of this tiny town, which counts on a steady stream of visitors from the national park.

If I had been less tired, I might have lingered at Wall Drug to fully absorb the kitsch, but I wanted to eat something before traveling one more hour in waning daylight to get to Rapid City, SD. I ditched over-the-top Wall Drug in favor of the unpretentious Badlands Bar, a local joint that seemed anachronistic. Both the bartender and a few of the cowboy hatted customers smoked cigarettes as ceiling fans whirred.

The man who took my order had longish gray hair, a handlebar moustache and a friendly demeanor.

I asked him if the buffalo burger came with anything on it.

"Nope, we don't have lettuce or tomato," he said, simply stating the facts without apology. This place was really about the meat and french fried potatoes.

"Could you some put onion on it?" I asked.

"Well, I can bring you some onion on the side," he replied. I hadn't yet noticed the sign on the wall that let customers know that this place was not Burger King....you don't have it your way.

He brought over a cardboard beer bottle tote filled with condiments: two squirt bottles, one with ketchup and one with mustard, and two recycled Corona bottles, one filled with pepper and another with salt. He placed a small plastic container with chopped white onions and a white plastic fork next to it.

The buffalo burger was a bit overcooked but I dumped a lot of onions and ketchup on it, washed it down with french fries and a coke, and in its own way was just fine. Just as, in its own way, even the mildly smoky air was refreshing.

Invasion, Industriousness, Indictment

Ants have invaded my apartment. These industrious insects have climbed up and clambered into my 3rd floor abode, making themselves a little too at home. At first I just noticed a handful of ants scampering about and I let them go about their business. They weren't harming me so why should I harm them? But then their numbers started to grow, as did my irritation, especially when I noticed several of them slumbering in my cat's food dish. Perhaps the ants had overindulged on tuna fish and were enjoying a siesta?

It was time to retaliate. I tossed the food, avec ants, now scrambling in a panic, into the trash. A few of them managed to extricate themselves from the metal garbage can before the lid banged shyt. Placing the now empty cat dish into the sink, I noticed a few ants checking out the scene. Were they an indictment of my less than immaculate housekeeping, a reminder to not leave any dirty dishes in the sink for even a moment?

Meanwhile, my cat roused herself from a nap and was suprised to find that her dish had disappeared. I put a small amount of tuna in a fresh bowl, hoping she'd finish it before the next wave of ants discovered it. She has licked it clean. If only she had an appetite for ants.

Impeccable Timing

I live near a small pond and make a point of walking by it when I can. More so than the trees along my street or the plants and bushes in people's yards, the pond and its environs seem to reflect the mood of each season, of each day. In winter, the pond goes quiet, its surface a frozen white mask. In early spring, the ice begins to thaw, the mask retreating from the edges and finally disappearing, leaving the water to gently lap the shores.

Animal life returns to the pond shortly thereafter. It was a few weeks ago when I noticed what I believed to be two families of Canadian geese, four adults and eight goslings, hanging around the pond's grassy edge. Despite my proximity, less than 20 feet away, the adult geese seemed unperplexed by my presence and didn't even look in my direction, so confident were they that I posed no threat. The fluffy yellow goslings teetered on their young legs as they pecked at the grass.

On subsequent walks I hoped to be able to catch sight of these young geese and watch their progress. Perhaps a week ago I strolled by at dusk. At precisely the moment I looked at the pond I saw the goslings scrambling from the water onto a small raft where their parents already perched for the evening. I waited until the last gosling had, with great effort, hoisted itself onto this floating hotel. Had I arrive a minute later I would not have witnessed their bedtime.

This afternoon, returning from a walk to an ice cream shop, I detoured by the pond. The geese families were crossing the street, heading towards the water. The goslings were probaby twice the size they had been when I first saw them. They were still yellow, and still a bit ungainly, but their necks were longer and they were starting to resemble geese rather than generic waterfowl chicks. The relaxed parents allowed their broods to cross the street casually, stopping every so often to peck at the pavement. I slowed down and approached them carefully, seeing how close I could get before the geese reacted. It wasn't until I was but a few feet away that one of the geese hissed at me, and not very unconvincingly.

The geese had reached a stone curb that was several inches, maybe even a foot, above the pond's grassy bank. Even the adults had a difficult time navigating this gap, which was not tall enough to justify flapping the wings and flying and not short enough to allow for a graceful step. The goslings, confronted with the fact that they had to get from the curb to the grass, took a leap of faith and jumped, fruitlessly flapping their winglets. Some landed on their feet, others stumbled and one tumbled, a variety of landings that reminded me of gymnasts dismounting from their beams and bars. I waited until they all had made it in the water before continuing my walk.

In Memoriam, My Father

It's been a long time since my last post. And the longer I go without writing, the harder it is to get back into it.

But tonight begins the observance of my father's yahrtzeit, the anniversary of his date of death according to the Jewish calendar, the 11th of Iyar. And Tuesday, May 13, was the fifth anniversary of his death according to our calendar. He passed away on a Tuesday, so this year marked a rare coincidence of date and day of week. And last Friday, at my synagogue, the rabbi read his name out loud as one of the many people for whom yahrtzeit would be observed in what was the week ahead. To help mark the occasion, I sponsored the kiddush after services and, to elicit his presence, also brought some extra food that my father loved and shared with us: chocolate babka and two large pastries filled with cocoa and poppyseeds, respectively. I would have purchased another poppyseed pastry - which wasn't nearly as moist and flavorful as the ones my father would bake himself - but I got the very last one. Maybe that was how it was supposed to be. Those purchases, plus the special memorial candle that I lit tonight, came to $19.67 exactly. That is the year I was born.

At synagogue last Friday the rabbi, with his eye on the clock, rushed through the mourner's kaddish, the normally meditative prayer we also recite during the yahrtzeit. The fast pace threw me off and left me feeling disoriented, disappointed and somewhat violated, as I hadn't had enough time to properly articulate each word. The moment in the kosher grocery store when the clerk said, "Your total is $19.67" had had more spiritual resonance.

On Tuesday, the American anniversary, I was fully immersed in creating mosaics and preparing for an upcoming art show when my cell phone rang. I saw it was from an old friend, who normally doesn't call.

"Is something the matter?" I asked her, wondering if she had phoned to share difficult news.

"No," she said, "I just remembered that today is the anniversary of your father's death."

"You're right," I said. I was surprised and appreciative that she remembered and surprised and relieved that I wasn't dwelling on it. I was glad to discover that I had been so engaged in what I was doing and in thinking about the future that I was not so focused on his passing, as I had been in previous years.

My father used to quote the passage from Deuteronomy 30: 15-19, "And you shall choose life." My brothers and I had it inscribed on his headstone.

And I honor him tonight, on his yahrtzeit, by again choosing to write.

Illuminated

Turning off the lights in my apartment, I glanced up to see a bright winter moon and a few fistfuls of stars scattered across the sky. An airplane moved across the heavens, leaving a white diagonal line in its wake. Winds lifted the line from below the moon to above it, where it dissolved into the darkness.