Time Smacker: February 2008

Thursday, February 21, 2008

My computer is so old (2001)....

....it squeaks like a squeaky toy!

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Morning Peace

I have in recent years recalled and longed for the feeling I got on quiet Saturday mornings as a youth sitting across the kitchen table from my grandfather at my grandparents house. It was usually dark and cold outside. My siblings and cousins were still zonked on the living room floor while my grandmother made hot cocoa and my grandfather put jelly on endless stacks of buttered toast. It was 5:30 a.m. and we were readying ourselves for the seven or eight mile drive into Central Valley where I would soon be folding and distributing Saturday morning in my grandfather's Chevy pick up.

My mornings have become much like that now, and I wonder if we're really made to work for anyone else at all. To be expected to "be here at 9:00 a.m." or earlier. To have to meet increasing demands with less staff, less recognition, and for some, less income.

At least for me, that life is not where I thrive. It stresses me out. It makes me feel non-human.

Today, I awaken with the sun, pad over to my desk to fire up my laptop, zip into the kitchen to start some water to boil, grab a piece of fruit and take my medication and turn on the radio. It's all very civilized and deliberate. I sit down to write with piping hot tea by my side, bundled in my robe, hair amassed and sticking in all directions. I might stay that way until 3:00 p.m.

But for now, I look down at Sutter Street and all the people insanely passing by. And I feel gratefully cocooned in my toasty apartment with my husband snoozing his final hours away before he has to get up and join the rat race.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

A Little Celebration

Yesterday, I spent the day searching San Francisco for a store I found in October 2007, where I found the perfect desk for the space allocated for my new desk.

It's February 19, and I've just returned from my fabulous little purchase. And here are some photos for out-of-town family and friends who wonder what it's like to live on the sixth floor of an apartment building.

Here's a photo I took last night (god, I love my iPhone), looking up at the apartment and imagining myself in my new work space window. (We're the second LIT unit from the top of the building in the forefront. With the curtain swooping to the left in the very left-hand window. Of course. Swooping.)

Today it came true! It's a happy day, even though it's rainy. A little personal celebration for creating my own income and loving my life after such a challenging end to 2007.

I'm a little buzzed from my favorite beer, Duvel. Oh well. I can work again in a few hours.

Monday, February 18, 2008

Love Life

After my difficult wrap up to 2007, I have begun to celebrate every day of 2008. Despite my ankle mishap a few weeks ago that seems to be taking forever to heal, and in spite of the crazy cold I'm nursing at the moment, I am thankful every day for what I do. I write and I teach. I write and I teach. And I'm making a living.

I have bigger plans for the future based on both areas. I have put those out to the universe and I'm making baby steps every day toward achieving those plans.

2008 is well on its way to being the year I predicted. Hurray, hurray!

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Cabbies and Crutches

I'm usually not passed over by cabs. I'm not African American, as my husband always says. He shoves me out front and has me pull my shirt sleeve up to display my neon-white arms at night. I'm not old yet, so slowness and smelliness aren't an issue (usually). I'm don't look like I'm from the wrong side of the tracks. Although, once I did and five empty cabs passed me by. I promptly kicked on of the cabs as it passed me by, then when it turned the corner and parked I went over and yelled my head off at the driver.

Alas, cabbies apparently don't like people on crutches because I am yet again flailing wildly whilst empty cabs speed by me shaking their heads "sorry" with that fake grimace like, "Wish I could help, but...." They must be on their way to some pre-arranged pick up. Yeah. That's it.

Someone also needs to tell cabbies not to pull away from you, when you're on crutches, until your feet are sufficiently away from the car. Lest one get two broken feet. I have quickly learned that it is my responsibility to get away from the cab before closing the door, which is the universal sound for "go" to a cabbie.

P.S. Also hold on when boarding the train and finding your seat. They don't wait for you.

P.S.S. I found this photo when I Googled "taxi." First photo. Guess what. In all the world, THAT was the corner I came barreling around and kicked the cab after being passed up by five cabs when I hadn't showered and was in my nasty morning clothes. That last car was the position where the cab parked, and I stood out in the street yelling my bloody head off at him. (See the Disney Store sign? Our apartment is just up the street and over.) What a life!

Tuesday, February 05, 2008

Not Broken

Last night, I wrapped up a lesson at a student's home in a better part of town, slung on my backpack, and headed down their front steps. I'm not sure what was wrong with me, but somehow I failed to negotiate the variance between their level step and the 45 degree (or so) angle of the sidewalk.

I soon returned to their doorstep with my ankle looking like it had an apple sticking out of it. It was difficult going since I didn't have use of my left foot. As luck would have it, there was a doctor in the house.

I went to his office this morning and after x-rays happily learned that my ankle isn't broken, just badly sprained. Hallelujah! But I'm going to hate being on crutches for the next three weeks.

My first three thoughts after I fell:

1. Oh, no. That did not really just happen.
2. Shoot, now I can't go have drinks.
3. Damn, I'm not gonna be able to work out tomorrow.

I'm wearing this not-so-pretty contraption now called an air cast, in black. Unfortunately, I don't look quite as sporty as the photo. I'm grateful it's not broken.

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