Open Your Big Eyes, Take in the Sunrise

When I was a little girl, maybe 6…7, we would have Sunday night dinner at my Gram’s house. We would drive home at the end of the night, 2/5 of the car asleep, and we would suddenly fall above something I used to call Fairyland. Not sure if my parents or I coined the term, but it was at the top of the hill, where all the lights of Almaden would shine, and it was Fairyland. It was my favorite thing. I was reminded of it when I landed at SFO last week: Magic.

You see, lately, I feel very small. Not like I’m minuscule, or powerless, but as I’m always reminded, I’m just a piece in the puzzle we call life–a contributor.

I had several ups and downs this summer, from moments of helplessness, to feelings of being on top of the world. And I’m so happy to have experienced them both, along with the nuances in between.

It makes me human.

I’ve been thinking a lot about being human lately. Feeling very small. Friends have had babies, friends have dealt with loss. I was on a boat in the Chicago River in July with my mom, looking up at the great American Skyscraper, and I felt tiny. I was pulled inside the circus tent I bought my 2 year-old Goddaughter last week, and once again felt like a child. This summer, I experienced water balloons with 5-year-olds, a car break-in, and weeping like a child at the news that one of my students was finally in remission. I felt very small.

But not in a bad way.

When I was 22, wet behind the ears, fresh from college, I set out one morning to Clement street, a few blocks from where I lived, following rumors that I would run into Robin Williams, a “neighbor”. I was selling books back to Green Apple, one of the finest independent bookstores, which have always been close to my heart.

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Half of the Time We’re Gone, but we Don’t Know Where

Tags

15, end of the year, mean girls, teaching

When I was 15, I experienced Mean Girls. Ok, we know that’s not true–I definitely experienced Mean Girls way before I was 15, but they didn’t associate with me. They were usually the cool kids, and I wasn’t. But when I was 15, that changed. My circle of friends branched off, and the newly cooler half tormented the rest of us. Maybe they didn’t, maybe that’s just how it felt.

The closest thing I have felt to that since was a few years ago, when a grown up Mean Girl, a co-worker, belittled me frequently, often in front of her students. Behind closed doors, she told me that the reason my students (who were one of those groups that simply complained about everything, and never turned in any work) didn’t turn things in was because of me–that I was a bad teacher. I was back to 15 years old again, when someone–my peer, made me feel inferior. And I was so overwhelmed, and stressed, and baffled that I began to believe it. 

I Can’t Help But Reminisce

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Alzheimer's, chaos, family, Grandmothers, Les Mis, life, Music, musicals, theater

I have diagnosed myself with adult onset ADD. Perhaps I am its poster child. All I know is the overwhelming number of thoughts not directed towards work this week have surpassed those in every other facet of my life. Maybe I need a pill.

I truly, honest to God, think about this blog in my car, throughout the day, and whenever I am not thinking of anything else. However, my execution and writing lately has been near impossible. I could be sitting on my couch (um, like tonight) for several hours, and suddenly realize, Oh crap! I could be writing my blog! I should be writing my blog! But between thinking about what to make for dinner, the answers to Jeopardy!, and whether I remembered to leave tomorrow’s sub plans out on my desk, suddenly I look up and it’s ELEVEN O’CLOCK.

This week, for whatever reason, was filled with painful and wonderful and awkward memories of musical theater. From watching it, to trying out for it, to being rejected from it, to starring in it. And lo and behold, as the MWOAS Gods tend to provide, Les Mis is song numero dos on this list tonight. I unlike MOST of the world have not seen the movie that just came out. Perhaps this is emotional preservation (and I really can’t stand Anne Hathaway or Hugh Jackman). I had seen musicals before Les Mis, specifically with my Grandmother (who also, so it happens, has been frequently on my mind this week), but Les Mis changed my life.

When I was in middle school, my parents were fortunate enough to see Les Mis on Broadway, and brought my brothers and I back the cassette. When I tell you all three of us have every breath, pause, and scratch in that tape memorized, I don’t joke. Hearing

You’re In Need of Something You Can’t Find

Tags

charm bracelet, dreams, gift, Gram, Lenny Kravitz, lost things, mom, postaday, San Francisco Giants, searching, start again, World Series

I seem to have lost my sense of time in the past few weeks. I don’t know where it has gone. It’s kind of like I am in a hamster wheel. Perhaps it’s not the worst place to be, but this annoys me. To my credit, this fall has been intense. For starters, once again, the San Francisco Giants, the baseball team I grew up with, moves on to the World Series tomorrow night. I have been watching a lot of baseball, which is usually the case in the post-season, regardless of who’s still in. Well, with the exception of the Dodgers and the Yankees.

Since I was a teenager, I have had a reoccurring dream where I am searching everywhere for something I have lost. Sometimes it happens when I really have misplaced something I care about, other times when I am overly tired. I tend to lose everyday things for a few hours–a day or two tops–but for the most part, I am able to have reconnaissance missions to locate them. Except twice.

In high school, I lost a gold and sapphire birthstone ring I received in 3rd grade. It was for my birthday, and I had scoured the Best Catalogue over and over. With enough nagging and proving to my mom that I wouldn’t ever lose it, there it was on the fireplace hearth, ready for me to open after dinner and cake. I bent the hell out of the ring over the years, and had it straightened with my dad’s pliers, broke the shank in half, and even had to have it resized. This ring survived endless abuse, but it was loved. Until I lost it, and then it was adored and revered.

I was in high school, maybe college, and the ring went missing at some point. I didn’t wear it daily; it had a permanent resting place in my jewelry box. But then it didn’t. I stewed, and searched, and got teary. I mentioned it to my mom, who was as baffled as I was. It came up in conversation that Sunday when my Gram came to dinner. The next day, she called our house and asked to talk to me. She told me that she had a dream the night before about my ring, and I should check behind my nightstand, under my bed, anywhere near where I could have taken it off in my sleep. Low and behold, I found it underneath my nightstand. It was the last piece of jewelry I lost. Until 2007.

When I graduated from 8th grade, I received a 14 karat gold charm bracelet from my Gram, with a charm on it. It was a gold filigree cross. That same day, I received a shamrock from my parents, a “13” from the family I babysat, and I was slowly on my

Slide and Let the Silicone Embrace You as You Fall

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concerts, family, Friends, memories, Neil Young, past, Pearl Jam, perspective

When I was 17, nearly 18, I flew to Colorado without my parents to attend my college orientation. It was early summer and I raced back to attend a Pearl Jam concert that was supposed to change the world of ticket sales. Eddie Vedder et al chose to boycott Ticketmaster due to onerous fees. In the spring of 1995, I paid what I remember to be “a buttload of money” to attend the Pearl Jam concert in the Golden Gate Polo Fields. Three of us made our way to San Francisco, and were ready for the day. Well, sort of. Temperatures skyrocketed to high 90s. In the Sunset District, this is highly abnormal. People passed out right and left due to sunstroke. My friends chose to drink straight vodka and were eventually sicker than dogs. Neil Young, who was opening for Pearl Jam, kept singing and playing, playing and singing. I wasn’t a fan.

By the time Eddie Vedder and his band made their appearance on stage, he was stumbling. I was up close to the stage thanks to my drunk girlfriends. I didn’t dare to leave them because this whole scene was (and probably is, even still) very new to me.
But they played like hell for nearly 30 minutes which was fantastic, until it wasn’t. Eddie pawed at the mic, set off an exorbatant amount of feedback which caused everyone to clutch their ears, and mumbled an inaudable phrase. We as an audience received the occasional word and had to piece everything together. “Flu”, “sick”, “worst day of my life”, and then Eddie split. As the crowd realized what happened, the booing began. And we stopped once one of the band members spouted explatives as a result of our booing. Then Neil Young came out. He played, and played, played, and played. I waited patiently for my friends who insisted on waiting for Eddie to return. When it’s hotter than Hell and the guy you are listening to sounds like a broken record, mentioning moons and gold and being helpless, well–you tune out. I tuned out. I was pissed. We waited diligently with the hope that they would return. Actually we were promised more than several times that he would, but he didn’t. And I waited, hating every minute.

I’m not sure why I am thinking of this moment–perhaps because both Neil Young and Pearl Jam are present tonight. All six songs also have to do with waiting, oddly enough. But I wonder about the idea of perspective: I chose to boycott Pearl Jam for