A Tale of Utensils

I’ve had a lot going on lately.

For starters, I moved. Into my own place. My very first “own place.” Ever, in my entire 30 years.

That was a week ago. And then immediately after vomiting my belongings into my perfect little carriage house apartment on my sunny little Mission street, I went on vacation for six days. Back home, to Detroit. With my boyfriend. To introduce him to my family.

So, needless to say, I’ll be pontificating a lot in the coming days about home and family and whatnot. I’m getting there. But first, I have one profound thought about moving that I just have to get out. It can’t wait any longer…

It’s really, really amazing the way silverware distributes itself in this world.

As I was packing up my stuff in my pal Jeremy’s house on Bartlett Street, I came across one last stray knife on the coffee table that belonged to my set of silverware. Now, I LOVE that I own a complete set of silverware. That’s a rarity, it seems, for someone in my position in life. And I’d already packed that baby up. So I immediately grabbed that knife, washed it, opened up my kitchen box and was ready to throw it back in, when I realized…

Jeremy and Sandy need it more than me. Because every house in San Francisco needs silverware. It takes many, many roommates, passing through a house over years, leaving a piece behind here and there after many, many move-outs, to make for a complete “house set.” So I tossed it back on the coffee table where I found it (hey; at least it was clean now!).

And I went and took a look at what they had, just for kicks. There were pieces in the silverware drawer from at least eight different sets. Where did they all come from? Who did they all belong to originally? How long had they been in circulation?

I’d like to trace the provenance of the full set at 119A Bartlett – its utensil lineage – and determine how many hands had handled it all through the years. How many drawers each piece had resided in before coming to rest there in that musty old Victorian.

I can now say that at least one knife started out in Muskegon, Michigan, at the home of Robert and Jane Andersen, grandparents of my ex of ten years, Andrew Blair. It lived there for god knows how many years until the deaths of both, when it was packed up with the rest of its set by their daughter, Kathryn, and gifted to Andrew and I. It then moved with us to four different apartments in Detroit, Michigan. Andrew eventually reluctantly gifted the set to me in our pseudo-divorce, in exchange for some other household goods that he needed more. But the grandparents’ silverware was the one item that we actually fought about. The ONLY item. He said that silverware reminded him of eating dinner with his family when he was young. It had sentimental value.

I don’t think he’d like the fact that a piece of it is now left behind at 119A Bartlett with Jeremy and Sandy, but somehow, to me, it feels right…

Cruel Irony?

Ironic or not ironic; that is the question...

When I lived in the Midwest, where EVERYONE gets married, buys a house, and starts a family before 30, I never had any desire to do anything of the sort.

And I was CONSTANTLY badgered about it. By EVERYONE. My friends, my family, the friends and family of my very worthy partner of almost ten years (who I'm pretty sure ALSO wanted those things, but was too tolerant of my "principles" to push me).

I just didn't want them. I never felt the "urge," and I felt pretty strongly that unless you really felt you couldn't be happy without one -- a family, that is -- you shouldn't have one. I thought it was simple enough, but man -- no one else really got me.

Then, when I was 28, I moved to San Francisco. And I discovered that it's not a universal truth -- people everywhere don't get married before they're 30. All women don't instantly turn into baby factories at 25. Some people live life single into their 30s, focused on their careers, enjoying other pursuits like travel. I thought, "My God, I've found it -- I've found them. The sane ones. This is my paradise."

Boy, was I wrong.

I don't know what I've found, but I don't feel like I fit in here, either. Not all the time, at least. Because all of a sudden, as I neared 30, my f@#!ing biological clock starting ticking like a jackjammer on concrete.

Now these people seem crazy to me.

At least, I want to blame my biological clock. That it was just "off," and then it turned "on" because I'm getting older, closing out my prime baby-making years, and the timing was all just very inopportune with respect to the social climate of my surroundings. But this morning I looked through some old photo albums, and came across some very unnerving evidence...













And I think maybe I've been kidding myself all along. Maybe I just like to be different. Maybe I just like to argue, to play devil's advocate. I need to shut up and start looking for the real me.

The real me...

Who was raised in the Midwest.

By a stay-at-home mom.

Who taught kids piano for many years.

Who taught kids about art in museums and public schools.

Who leads childrens' tours at the aquarium.

And who has an awful lot of photos of her smooching her friends' babies.

Hrmph.

Street Weed

What does it mean when the universe pushes drugs on you?

For the second time in approximately one month, I stumbled on a large bag of very high-quality marijuana. While out in the world, just living my life, minding my own business.

No, I'm not kidding.

The first time this happened, Trent and I were walking down my street with our arms around each other, under an umbrella, trying to stay dry in the rain. We both stopped, right in time, a few paces short of my front porch. We both saw it. It looked like............

A piece of dog doo in a plastic baggy that someone had carelessly dropped on the sidewalk.

But we knew better. We picked it up, and YES! It was indeed a great big bud. All by its lonesome in the concrete sea.

Now, today, the exact same thing happened, only this time I spotted it in the grass (grass in the grass; I know, right?), walking up the hill into my office this morning.

Is the universe trying to tell me to chill out? Seriously -- what? I don't know anyone else who's found weed on the street ONCE, let alone twice...

I am either damn lucky, or I am damn well not getting the point.

Or perhaps it's just San Francisco. Perhaps there's just too much in circulation here, too much for people to keep track of. I mean, I've lived in some pretty weedy towns, but this one very well might take the cake.

In which case, I better go do my part to dispose of this surplus.

World's. Best. Commute.

My cousins, John and Gloria Minando, came to visit this week.



I drove them up Conzelman Road in the Marin Headlands to get "THE" view of the Golden Gate. They loved it, of course. But lucky me -- I get this view every day. This is the road to my office, in Fort Cronkhite, on Rodeo Beach, at the far tip of the Headlands.

Am I "over it" yet? Nope. Sometimes I feel as though I might be over it, after two years. But nah -- not really. How can you look at this and NOT be awed?



I mean, I'm obviously not over it, because I've taken a million different versions of that same photo now. But that was the first one (right up there, above), and I'm still just as excited every time I pull out the camera. It's still just as awesome.

I still get the tingles when I drive over the bridge in the morning, even when I'm on my way into what's sure to be a crappy day at the office. I still wish I could whip out the trusty Canon Powershot and capture this...



(But then I remind myself I'm lucky I didn't get in an accident the first time.)

And I don't HAVE to take everyone who comes to visit me up Conzelman Road. I don't HAVE to spend my free time there -- I spend my work days there.

But I do, anyway.

I'm just not quite sure where the boundary is between work and pleasure, in this life, out here...

My mother, summer 2006...



Andrew Blair, September 2006...



Becki and Masanori Tokumoto, September 2006...



Madeleine Winslow, October 2006...



John McMahon, July 2007...



Laurie Peluso, August 2007...

To build a home...

There is a house built out of stone

Wooden floors, walls and window sills



Tables and chairs worn by all of the dust



This is a place where I don't feel alone



This is a place where I feel at home...



Cause I built a home

For you...

For me...