Matins

My mother was with me, in the chill of the morning kitchen. She often does cruise through, when my mind is lazily gathering itself to rearrange letters in the Jumble or to stop re-reading comics I haven't understood. Morning, dark and early, is when my mind feels like dozens of pointless helium balloons, bumping into one another, glancing off to bump again. This morning, her visit felt malevolent.

Usually, I'm sucker-punched by some painful memory of failing to understand her needs. I spent decades failing to understand her needs. In the end, we came a little closer - at least, we started to understand that everything was code or verbal shorthand. She needed us to know what she wanted because she didn't. Couldn't or wouldn't, it hardly matters. She wanted my sister and me to be the best daughters ever and we were only averagely okay.

Well, my sister was more than okay. My sister, living a mere 16 miles away from Mom, was driven to keep her entertained and involved with the world of the living.They went to concerts and plays, to dinner where the earlybird special was salmon, to elegant teas and shoe stores. Mom slowly, politely, drifted away, getting closer and closer to friends who had left the mortal coil as she got further and further from us.

A typical morning bit of mother-pain will be occasioned by something as stupid as Rush Limbaugh being quoted in the morning paper. My Mom Hated Rush Limbaugh. She - somehow - listened to him and absolutely despised him. I had never known her to take against anything (except cheese, which she loathed for awhile, as her hormones adjusted to aging, and then liked again more than almost any food) with such gleeful venom. So, alright, so stupid stuff (and I do count RL in that genre) makes me miss her. Makes me wish I'd understood better.

Why was this morning's visit tinged with malice? Why did the dog poop in the hall? Why did the cat drink from my water glass? Why is not the question. What does she want is closer. My best guess is she's warning me not to be unkind. Point taken.

Shifting the Paradigm

All day long, it's been fixin' to rain. Herringbone clouds chopping up what little blue sky peered through the fog. Fog with an icy edge in the middle of the day, followed by humidity and wind. Well, it is California at the end of October. Rain for Halloween is not unheard of. And none of this would matter as other than a weather observation if it wasn't the Second Night of the World Series, featuring our own peculiar cast of characters, recently dubbed "Knuckleheads". And still, peeling off another layer of onion, I would have very little contact with the Orange and Black were it not for the House Gent, a genuine, unabashed Fan of the SF Giants - a season ticket holder.

Last week he had a bout of flu. I knew he was really feeling weak when he gave away playoff tickets. Last night, first night of the 2010 Series, we had a small party with his dog walking pals. And the Giants won! Tonight, night of the lurking rainstorms, he has a ticket and will be in the stadium, in his father's raincoat, until nothing more is happening. Given that there are tsunamis roaming around the Pacific Ocean, I'm sending a little hopeful screed out into the universe, humbly requesting that nobody who braved the elements to attend this game fails to reach high ground, in the event of killer waves invading the SF Bay. Not to mention those folks floating around in their inflatables, picking up hard-hit baseballs from the gelid waters.

So, none of my women friends would characterize themselves as baseball fans. We're not baseball foes, either. If we happen to walk through the room where the TV lives and a baseball game is in progress, most of us will have a small civil interchange with the person lolling about in front of the TV and perhaps even spend a moment or two watching the pitcher go through his OCD tics, watching the catcher splay his fingers in interesting patterns across his crotch, even getting a little het up when the bat makes contact with the ball and the ball soars over everyone's head and out of the stadium. Nobody I know pouts because her loved one is more involved with the TV than with any other aspect of their share existence, during a baseball game.

But I know things that are really none of my business: which one smokes pot, which one wears thong underwear, which one is dyeing his newly-grown beard with shoe polish. And, for the moment, I care about these things. And so, mirabile dictu, do my women friends. Is it really bread and circuses?

Just Can't Take No Chance

My car has automatic stuff - windows, locks, alarm system. I can mostly work around them almost as well as if they weren't there, complicating my well-being. But then there was the morning, not long after I got the Subaru (used), when the car let me in, then locked all its doors and started screaming and I didn't know what to do - it was still early morning, barely light, people were sleeping in all the houses and apartments in the area and my car was having a tantrum. Something I tried worked, before my tiny mind exploded, but only just.

Possibly, I hit the lock and the unlock in too-quick succession, activating ALARM. Possibly, I had inadvertently set the alarm before exiting the vehicle (so to speak). Possibly the car was just telling me not to get cocky. I did get that message. When I think I can get a way with it, I don't lock the car, now. No one would want the radio or the old towels that the dogs sit on, so I'm managing. Sometimes I get into the car and leave the driver's side door open until I start the car (ding.ding.ding) and run the window down. In case I have to bail out, yeah? I haven't practiced yet, to see whether I could actually twist my resisting legs and torso through a window that size. This stuff is just mind clutter, I know it. Dealing with it is the trick.

And then there's the BART. Sounds of BART haunt my nightmares. Some of them shriek. Some of them gasp and fart. Some of them go so fast that the cars rock on their tracks and skid into the station, screaming. And puffing. And smelling bad and looking worse.
At the Glen Park station, pigeons have taken up residence high in the concrete surround. Sometimes grackles are there, too. There are strips of spiky filament all along the ledges. The birds are deterred by them for several minutes, at most. My private noise hell is a bird sanctuary. Go figure. Can't birds hear?

I'm (Not) Superstitious

It's one of those absolutes, I guess. Either you are or you aren't. No such thing as "a little superstitious". As in, "Oh, me superstitious? Not so's you'd notice it. I mean, doesn't everyone have some piece of clothing that must be worn in stress-provoking situations?" Maybe.

Maybe everyone keeps a jar of dried lavender on the second shelf beside the bed, with the cap on but not tight, in case you need to open it in the middle of the night without waking the other person in the bed.

Maybe everyone resolutely thinks positive thoughts going down the basement stairs, so there won't be a rat hanging out in the storage room. Positive thoughts like "Little children are learning to like vegetables by watching them grow in Berkeley." A known antidote to rodents. Or "Only 70 days until the end of the 2010 Holiday season!" Singing can help: "Onward Christian Soldiers" or "Joy To The World."

Really, though. I cringe every time I hear some blithe young parent waxing lyrical about an offspring's accomplishments. Too much risk. Sensible tribes speak of their small people with scorn and ridicule, to protect them from jealous spirits. Not giving a child his/her true name until he or she has grown into it also seems advisable.

Then there are spiders. Mostly, try not to kill them. The smallest consequence is rain. There's something about killing one in a theatre dressing room - dooms either the actor or the whole play, so just don't. And even though I wish that every spider ever born (and there are some obscenely egg-swollen specimens at the center of a multiplicity of webs in my garden at this moment) would pack up and leave town on a random wind, I have learned that nice trick with a water glass and a piece of paper called "Relocation". (We do have a lot to thank realtors for!)