I had a moment yesterday when my entire really-loud-concert-going past evaporated into a cloud of decaf latte steam. We (meaning, Christopher, Aemon, Roane and I) were all sitting in traffic on Park Street trying to get off the island for a bit, but the bridge was up. Some background before I go on:
One: for they record, I don’t drink decaf lattes, or any lattes (other than soy chai – but that’s just when I’m feeling fancy). Drip coffee with a hearty splash of half and half, thank you.
Two: people who live in Alameda call it “the Island”. Like you call San Francisco “the City” if you live there. Or Oakland “O-town”, “the Town”, “South Berkeley, really” or whatever if you live there.
Three: we have drawbridges in Alameda, and whenever a sailboat has to pass at high tide, some poor sap has to crank up the bridges. Everyone trying to get on or off the island has to wait. It’s pretty unique.
Anyway, right next to us there was a guy in a silver Honda Civic with his sunglasses hanging down under his nose (no idea who thinks that looks cool. In my day, we wore ours on the top of our head and that suited us just fine.) He was blasting some pretty innocuous punk music, and I rolled the windows up. Right out of some “glad you don’t have kids and live in the suburbs, aren’t you?” Scion commercial.
I know, you want to hear more about the kids. But you’ll have to wait.
This morning, I had an ultrasound done on one one of my breasts. Too much information? Too icky? No pictures of cute babies for you! T’aint nuthin’ for free in this world!
For the past week and a half, I’ve had this lump that won’t go away like usual breastfeeding breast lumps. Resigned depression set in. I’m a true worst-case-scenario health problem person, so of course I’m planning the letters I’m going to start writing to my children so they can know their mother after I’m gone. My best case had me getting the implants I’ve always secretly sort of maybe wanted, but with my moral superiority intact.
My OB/GYN, Ms. “Hm, that’s strange, we can usually hear the heartbeat by now” bedside manner, sent me to the Alta Bates breast health center (which, I have to say, is quite spa like. Recordings of soothing water sounds and chirping birds, inspiring quotes by Maya Angelou in tasteful metallic relief the walls, blown glass sculptures, fluffy white robes, etc. etc.). It took a grey-haired radiologist telling me he didn’t see any masses to assuage my churning fear. I’m just lumpy. I can now breathe easy — or can I? Was that a wheeze? (They have a pill for this, don’t they?)
One: for they record, I don’t drink decaf lattes, or any lattes (other than soy chai – but that’s just when I’m feeling fancy). Drip coffee with a hearty splash of half and half, thank you.
Two: people who live in Alameda call it “the Island”. Like you call San Francisco “the City” if you live there. Or Oakland “O-town”, “the Town”, “South Berkeley, really” or whatever if you live there.
Three: we have drawbridges in Alameda, and whenever a sailboat has to pass at high tide, some poor sap has to crank up the bridges. Everyone trying to get on or off the island has to wait. It’s pretty unique.
Anyway, right next to us there was a guy in a silver Honda Civic with his sunglasses hanging down under his nose (no idea who thinks that looks cool. In my day, we wore ours on the top of our head and that suited us just fine.) He was blasting some pretty innocuous punk music, and I rolled the windows up. Right out of some “glad you don’t have kids and live in the suburbs, aren’t you?” Scion commercial.
I know, you want to hear more about the kids. But you’ll have to wait.
This morning, I had an ultrasound done on one one of my breasts. Too much information? Too icky? No pictures of cute babies for you! T’aint nuthin’ for free in this world!
For the past week and a half, I’ve had this lump that won’t go away like usual breastfeeding breast lumps. Resigned depression set in. I’m a true worst-case-scenario health problem person, so of course I’m planning the letters I’m going to start writing to my children so they can know their mother after I’m gone. My best case had me getting the implants I’ve always secretly sort of maybe wanted, but with my moral superiority intact.
My OB/GYN, Ms. “Hm, that’s strange, we can usually hear the heartbeat by now” bedside manner, sent me to the Alta Bates breast health center (which, I have to say, is quite spa like. Recordings of soothing water sounds and chirping birds, inspiring quotes by Maya Angelou in tasteful metallic relief the walls, blown glass sculptures, fluffy white robes, etc. etc.). It took a grey-haired radiologist telling me he didn’t see any masses to assuage my churning fear. I’m just lumpy. I can now breathe easy — or can I? Was that a wheeze? (They have a pill for this, don’t they?)
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