Understand Corrosion to Prevent It

T is done with finals, so tonight we went out to dinner (at Chevy's, for some strange reason) and to see the movie Juno.

Unless you've been living on Mars, you know that Juno is a well-reviewed film about a teenage girl who gets pregnant and chooses adoptive parents for her child. It really was as good as all that--every scene between Ellen Page and Michael Cera brought a well-earned lump to my throat.

I was kind of hoping that the movie would bring me some sort of magical healing vis a vis adoption, but that was probably expecting too much. I think it would have helped if the adoptive mother in the movie (Vanessa, played by Jennifer Garner) was a little more like Juno--since I could see some of myself in Juno, but not much of myself in Vanessa.

On the way to the movie, T and I were talking about Christmas presents. The other day, I asked my dad what he wanted for Christmas. He requested a book called Understand Corrosion to Prevent It, by a Canadian professor. My dad is a retired engineer, and he enjoys conducting experiments in the backyard.

I had to send a check to an address in Montreal to get it. Here is a brief description of the book:

Corrosion failures produce accidents, environmental damage and large financial losses to companies, which could be prevented or mitigated by the application of known technology. This 50-page booklet is a simple, concise, and practical introduction to corrosion problems written for engineers, technologists and administrators in industry, as well as for students. Its aim is to make the reader aware of corrosion failures, costs and prevention methods and to avoid costly blunders.

When I mentioned this to T, he remarked: "I bet that Understand Corrosion to Prevent It has never been given as a Christmas gift in the history of the world."

True. But isn't preventing corrosion something we could all do a little more of?

Thanks to Polandeze for the flickr commons photo.

Unsilent Night

I don't usually think in year-long increments, but it occurred to me tonight while I was out Christmas shopping that this hasn't been a very good year.

There was our failed adoption, which keeps casting a gloomy shadow. The experience made it clear that, when it comes to child-getting, we're just not very lucky (not yet, anyway.) We also don't have much control over what comes next. We just have to wait, and trust, which is not easy right now.

My mom was also in the hospital three times this year, each time because problems with her medication caused her to lose her grip on reality. A long time ago, I realized that I had to raise myself, because my parents hadn't really done it all the way. I wish it could have been otherwise, but to make it, I had to put up a protective wall between my mom and myself. I don't think moms and daughters can ever be truly separated, though. So I've felt the sadness of my mom, who has suffered a lot in her mind, pulling at me across the country this year.

The holidays tend to dredge up that same sadness in me, and this afternoon, shopping downtown, I felt like a stereotypically anomie-laden American consumer. I was headed home, feeling hungry and tired, when I collided with a huge and quiet stream of people at 18th and Church. At the same time, I heard bells.

It only took me a minute to realized that this was Unsilent Night, a musical happening that T told me about. People with boomboxes, each playing a different set of bell-like sounds, were scattered throughout the crowd. It felt just right to join the crowd pouring into Dolores Park, which formed a circle, and listen to the wash of bell tones. I didn't see anyone I knew there, but I didn't feel alone. And all the sudden I felt part of everything, and grateful just to have the chance to be alive right now.

Retreat from San Francisco

Wow. I just got back from a three day retreat, for a work-related fellowship.

I feel lucky. It was three days of nature, wonderful people, heartfelt conversations, and good food. The best part is that this is just the beginning.

Here are some pictures from the grounds of the beautiful Marconi Center in Marin, where the retreat took place.

This was our view of Tomales Bay.



This was a mysterious, unused mansion on the grounds.


There were green, blooming things everywhere, even in December.

O Christmas Tree

I am an atheist. I always say this to a general audience with some trepidation, not because I'm not comfortable with that choice (I am) but because I picture the dismay of good-hearted religious people like my parents, who just don't understand.

Nonetheless, I enjoy many of the material trappings of the holiday season, and I'm especially enjoying my silver tinsel tree. T put his foot down. He didn't want any more live trees. So this is our tree from now on. Though maybe next year I'll get another one, and decorate that one with all green ornaments. Hmmm...

Keyword Analysis

Okay, maybe this is unbearably self-referential. But I have to share with you selections from a recent list of keywords that people searched for, causing them to land on this blog.

Yes, apparently I have a lot of time on my hands, because I do look at statcounter every now and then to check out the activity level here and on our adoption website.

I thought this list was bizarrely poetic. Here they are:

My gay encounter
Country song waiting for a train
anti-wedding
gay encounters on the train
crocker park is gay
life is like waiting for a train
jim thorpe lip cancer
they feel like a couple waiting for a train
why is jim thorpe town named jim thorpe
roberto bolano david mitchell haruki murakami

Portland, Oregon

For Thanksgiving, T and I took a trip to Portland. T's dad and his wife just moved there. An ever-growing number of friends from many walks of life have also moved there. It seems that all roads are leading to Portland.

We had Thanksgiving with the family.

Then we visited our friends John and Anna in their cool house.

We hung out with Brendt, Nina, Dennis and Julian.


T, Wendy, Clay and I viewed the ghostly paintings at the Kennedy School.
Mick and I have been playing Scrabble for almost twenty years now. He won this time.



While I was there, I had the distinct sensation that I had to move there, whether I wanted to or not, because everything was just so danged perfect. Here is a brief and in no way complete list of perfect things I encountered there.

1. Incredibly short lines in the airport, during a usually-insane holiday time.
2. Unbearably delicious meals in adorable surroundings at Lovely Hula Hands, Mother's, and The Screen Door. If you ever go to Lovely Hula Hands, be sure to try a cocktail called Talulah's Bathwater.
   
3. Evidence everywhere of superb urban planning and environmental awareness, with all kinds of amazing parking, bicycling and traffic calming innovations.
4. Attractive, affordable houses everywhere.

However, the fact that most buildings were one, and at most, two stories high kind of bugged me, urbanite that I am. I remember someone (I think it may have been my friend Allan) saying disparagingly of Portland: "It's nothing but a bunch of houses." Well, kind of, yeah, but a bunch of houses doesn't look too bad to a real-estate starved Bay Area resident like me.

Still The Same

There are so many things I could write about. One is my recent obsession with Bob Seger. Another is something I feel I should write about, because people keep asking me about it: how I'm feeling after our recent failed adoption.

I have a rather strange, yet comforting mental quirk. Songs run through my head alot; many times a day. The song of the moment tends to be suggested by some event or emotion. The songs themselves veer wildly through all genres, from advertising jingles to indie rock, with stops in between for jazz standards, country music, hip hop, and classic rock. The songs must have words, and the words must be in English.

Some might feel sorry for me, thinking that this must be annoying. But it rarely is. As a child, I turned to music for comfort in a bad situation. And I think music became, for me, a way to become organized, mentally. Even though I don't sing well or play any instruments, music is deeply enmeshed with who I am.

Last week, the songs in my head started to trend quite decidedly towards the music of my childhood. At the top of my mental playlist was a song called Still the Same, by Bob Seger.

Here is a sweet digital-storytelling type treatment of Still the Same I found on YouTube (an analysis of the maker's intent could probably fill a whole blog post itself).


The more I revisited this song, the more I became convinced that Bob Seger is fucking brilliant! One of the most interesting things about Bob was that he would often portray himself as a lonely outsider--waking up to find his girl gone, peering in the window of the bar, "trying to lose those awkward teenage blues." I remembered how his more ballad-like hits, like Still the Same, Mainstreet, and Night Moves painted nuanced, bittersweet portraits using very few words. His arrangements, especially the piano and female backup singers, heightened the poignancy. It was all a great soundtrack for an out of place, midwestern adolescent of the late '70s and early '80s like me.

But, you may ask, what about the adoption-related content you seemed to promise earlier?

Well, I don't think I'm being at all glib when I say that the reiteration of Still the Same in my head seems to be telling me just that. We are still the same, even though we're feeling kind of battered and bruised. We still know we are going to be parents, even if it's a little hard to imagine right now. And like Bob Seger, we're feeling a sadness around the edges, and a sense of still being on the outside looking in. But there's still a lot of sweetness in our lives, and we can't help but appreciate that every day.

Our friends and family have carried us through, and here we are. The counselors at our adoption agency, because they feel sorry for us, have offered to let us join something called the Last Minute Hospital List before our time, which will increase our odds. We are moving forward because that's what we have to do, and there's no telling how we will feel when our next match rolls around.

Dennis the Menace

Earlier this week T sent me an article from Salon, entitled Stop Lying to Yourself. You Love Dennis Kucinich.

I, in fact, am not lying to myself at all. I voted for Dennis Kucinich in the last Democratic primary, knowing, of course, that the former boy mayor had no chance in hell. That has never mattered to me at all. Presidential politics bore me to tears. The whole election cycle seems like a spectacularly dull and crooked show, and I am positive that no one I really like could ever win.* Anyone I would like would be way too threatening to the rich. I could get a lot more excited about a good school board election.

But yes, just as the article says, Dennis and I pretty much agree on the issues. And not only that.

When I was a child growing up in the eastern suburbs of Cleveland, Dennis (or Dennis the Menace, as he was often called) was Cleveland's mayor. Then, as now, Cleveland was half-ruined, and going further downhill from there, and Dennis was seen as the young fool who drove the city into even more ruin.

I remember Dennis exuding a strange fascination for me, just by being such a strikingly weird personality in a pretty boring place and time. Only later did I learn that much of the controversy around his mayoralty was about public power. Dennis refused to privatize the municipal power company, and the local bank, who stood to gain, retaliated by cutting off the city's credit.

It turned out that resisting privatization was--surprise--a bright move, which saved the city an estimated $195 million over ten years. And it also turned out that, after Dennis spent the eighties making, like, $38 a year and living with his friend Shirley MacLaine, Clevelanders realized that, and elected him to Congress, and continue to elect him over and over again, though he is way more progressive and vegan granola-ish than 99% of the people I have ever met in Cleveland.

I may be making it seem like Dennis is my hero. It's not that, really. Dennis is a pretty silly, new-agey guy, and politics of a congressional nature just isn't my game. But I still delight in the anomaly of him, just like I did as a kid. I believe that most people holding high office in this country are reveling in the status quo; in the potential to shovel money towards associates, in their own power, in their own place in an unquestioned game. Dennis got into the same game, and has made it a platform not only for veganism, universal health care, and a Department of Peace, but for his own exaltedly goofy ideas about life's meaning.

And yes, I am planning to vote for him in the next primary.

*Though I think Hillary Clinton would be a much lesser evil than you-know-who.

I've Got It!

On Thursday night T got Hugh and I free tickets to see Yo La Tengo and Jonathan Richman at the Palace of Fine Arts. Being old, I love to sit down when I see live music, and I was relieved to see that the over 35 portion of the indie rock crowd is following right along with me.

Jonathan Richman has played a major role in my life. He's kind of a philosopher, and helped me when I was a confused youth who was enraged at the world and drank way too much beer. An example of his brilliance:

Now I've watched you walk around here.
I've watched you meet these
boyfriends, I know, and you tell me how they're deep.
Look but, if these guys, if they're really so great,
tell me, why can't they at least take this place
and take it straight? Why always stoned,
like hippie Johnny is?
I'm straight and I want to take his place.
Oh I'm certainly not stoned, like hippie Johnny is.
I'm straight and I want to take his place.
I said, I'm straight
I said, I'm straight
I'm
I'm straight and I want to take his place

It struck me while watching Jonathan that he is a Romantic Poet for our day--you know "the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings" and all that stuff. The first time I ever saw him was when I lived in Columbus, at the defunct Stache's. I remember that a friend of mine began to cry when he played, I believe, Hospital, and Jonathan patted him on the back and said, "there, there, fella." Jonathan lives in San Francisco. I remember seeing him in Trader Joe's once and feeling very excited.



I got hooked on Yo La Tengo while I was going to grad school in Iowa City. How many hundreds of times have I listened to the album Fakebook? It has given me a lot of solace. At the Palace, the band played a couple of songs, then answered questions from the audience, which Ira used mainly as a springboard for comedy. They sang lots of quiet songs (Madeline and Did I Tell You? were standouts), some obscurities from their endless store of same, and a couple of loud YLT specialties. It was kind of the ideal Yo La Tengo show, as far as I'm concerned.

The End

Some of the readers of this blog may have already heard, but our adoption has fallen through. We went to Sacramento and were present for the birth of the baby, a beautiful girl. Things seemed to be going very well, and E seemed very set on the plan. But E's family members had a change of heart and decided that the family should parent the baby. Things changed very quickly. E was conflicted but went with the wishes of her family.

We spent a day and a half with the baby and the whole thing is very sad for us. It's one of those really bad adoption outcomes that happen to some people, but we hoped we wouldn't be one of them. Like I mentioned in another post, this happens about 10% of the time to people who are clients of our adoption agency. So we hope we'll be in the lucky 90% the next time we get to this point.

The silver lining to this cloud is that we have so many supportive people in our lives. I know that will help us get through to the adoption that does work.

We will wait until we are feeling a bit better, and then go back into the pool of waiting families. We have both agreed that we learned a lot from the experience, from preparing for parenthood to taking care of the baby. We will be much more ready when it really does happen. But does that mean it doesn't suck? I think you know the answer to that.

Today, we're going to drown our sorrows in a movie or a walk in the park, and I guess tomorrow we'll get back into life.

Before the Storm

So E's due date was Friday, and it's Monday now. That means we are waiting, and we could get a phone call any minute. We have rented a car (we don't own one). We have a suitcase packed, with a change of clothes and some diapers, formula, bottles, blankets and clothes in it. We have gathered all of the paperwork we need. We have a carseat. A coworker is holding a bassinet for us, which she will bring over when we get home. And the brownies are in the freezer.

As of Saturday, the last time we talked, E didn't feel at all close to going into labor. She'd rather let the baby come on her own time than inducing labor, which I respect. We've been talking to E frequently this week, and she's full of frustration, and also funny, irreverent comments. We are lucky--E. is someone we click with. In fact, we find her delightful.

We have a lot of moments of truth in front of us. There is the moment of truth of being the witness and companion to someone who is giving birth, if we get there in time. Then there is the moment of truth for E, after she gives birth; it's a time that the adoption decision is made all over again, or in 10-15% of cases, unmade.

Have we had any indication that she might change her mind? None whatsoever. Quite the opposite, in fact. When she talks to us, she frames the situation thusly: She's chosen us, the parents. She is carrying the baby for us. And she is very eager to hear that we are excited.

Adoptive parents have to walk a fine line. We need to show the woman we match with that we are really excited, and reassure her that we care enormously about her baby. But we (at least I) still have to protect a corner of our hearts, and be cautious. I think it's way easier to throw yourself headlong into something exciting than to maintain this strange emotional vertigo.

We'll be talking to E today, and finding out more. She visits the doctor today, so we'll see what is said about induction.

Photo: daedalicious

Footloose and Fancy Free

This week the Mr. and I did something we don't usually do. We went out three times. We wanted to experience life without a child just a little more. If our adoption really happens, it could be the end of our carefree existence of doing what we want, when we want to, etc. At least for a while. A long while.

On Tuesday we went to Farmerbrown. Farmerbrown is a southern/soulfood restaurant located in the Hotel Metropolis at Mason and Market. The restaurant was decorated, and arguably slightly overdecorated, in a charming folk-art meets industrial style. The food is sustainable, focused on benefiting local and african-american farmers. The service was friendly and down to earth. The highlights were the cheesy grits, and the pecan pie, both of which were possibly the best versions I had had.

Last night, we grabbed sushi at Sushi Time, tucked away under Books Inc. in the Castro. Wow! I ate there when it was Castro Sushi Underground, and I think it's even better now. The Barbie Roll, which had an extremely thin slice of lemon on top, was to die for, as was the seared white tuna nigiri with ponzu sauce. Really, really good, fresh sushi at reasonable prices. While we were there, we realized that this is not a place you can bring a baby at all. It's just too darn small.

After sushi, we repaired to the Swedish American Hall, where, it just so happens, we got married, to see The Mekons. Here is a brief description of The Mekons, from the Wikipedia:

The Mekons are a British rock band. They are one of the longest-running and most prolific of the first-wave British punk rock bands (rivaled in both categories only by The Fall).

But that's so dry! I love them because they are full of joy, imperfect, clearly love each other, have excellent politics, and, in their 40s and 50s, are full of playfulness and improvisation. The show last night was a joy to behold.

Tonight, we met friends at Emmy's Spaghetti Shack. Always liked the place, haven't been there in a few years. Great meal (I had a pasta dish and we shared some fantastic pesto/feta green beans and a mushroom risotto). Kinda loud. Kinda fun! We saw a kid get the tallest wedge of chocolate birthday cake ever. It was a veritable tower.

Speaking of baked goods, E. asked me to make some brownies and bring them to her in the hospital. She's due October 12, which means any day now. So that's on my to do list for tomorrow. I know I could use a mix, but this occasion, I think, calls for doing it by hand.

Chance Encounters

I love living in San Francisco, one of the more densely populated neighborhoods in one of the more densely populated cities in the country. One of the best things about it is all of the random encounters I have with people. I've lived here a long time, so I have a lot. I thought I'd share the random encounters I've had in the last week or so.

On the 33 Stanyan. I had a cold and was feeling kind of discombobulated, but there was something sort of familiar about the lady sitting a couple rows in front of me, talking to friends and holding some shopping bags. As I was getting off, we made eye contact, and I realized it was Mrs. M, who lives at the housing complex where I used to be a social worker. I told her it was great to see her, and asked about her family. Her answer was very careful: "Your, my family is very good."

A long time ago, I had a crazy coworker at the housing complex who was very threatened by me (and many other people). Mrs. M's son's car was hit by someone in the garage, and my coworker accused me of doing it. She demanded that I back up my car in order to prove I couldn't have hit his car. I refused. For years after that I was mortified to think that the family thought I might hit their car and lie about it. The coworker was eventually fired after she asked another staff member to withhold my paycheck from me.

Downtown. I had just been to the dentist, was incredibly hungry, and was also struggling with the aforementioned cold. While considering which restaurant to go into, I ran into N, who I've known for more than ten years but only run into every three years or so. N was (maybe still is) a friend of an ex-boyfriend, and I attended his wedding, which was held at the Castro Theatre. At that time, the man I would eventually marry was working at the Castro, and helped said ex to hook N up with the wedding venue. I, however, didn't know my now-husband at all. Within a couple of years of his wedding, N got divorced, which saddened and surprised me.

The next night, I went to a party, and N was there. It turned out that he was in the same Burning Man camp as the host. He wrote me an email after that and said that my husband seemed like a "solid bloke."

On the K Line. I saw another resident from my former job in housing. She is a manicurist in a salon next to the Castro Theatre, and I run into her every few months. She is always delighted to see me--once, a few months ago, she said, "I love you, Linda," when we saw each other in the Castro. I jumped up and sat down next to her.

She asked me if I had a baby yet. That told me that she understood our last conversation, in which I told her that my husband and I were adopting. I wasn't totally sure. I told her that we might have a baby soon, maybe in October. I wondered what the other passengers were thinking, and changed the subject to her three kids. She told me that they are all in graduate school now, only she didn't say that, she called it "more school after college." I kind of got a shiver of joy. She and her husband emigrated from Vietnam, worked in very low-paying jobs, had so little in the way of resources, and their three kids are all in graduate school!

On Guerrero Street. I ran into my friend Steven, who was shopping at a garage sale. He said he was out perusing garage sales and getting coffee. I felt like I got a glimpse into his weekend routine. He asked me where I was striding to so purposefully. In fact, I was going to pick up my City CarShare car, to go grocery shopping, and I was running a bit late. He asked where I was going, and I named Costco as one of my stops. He told me that his dentist had advised him to get a certain kind of electric toothbrush, and asked me to see if it was in stock at Costco. I programmed his number into my cell phone, which I had just gotten the day before. Later, I called him from Costco to say they didn't have it.

Thanks to Jamison for the Muni image.

Taking a Ride

Whoah.

So, it turns out that our match isn't off after all.

E went on vacation, was really busy when she came back, started procrastinating, stood us up at the hospital, felt really guilty...

I think you know the rest.

Our counselor called today and said she'd reached her, and that she'd told her that all of us weren't quite sure whether she wanted to go on with her adoption plan. She said that nothing had changed. She'd been to the doctor, who said that all was well, and that if she went into labor anytime now, it would be fine.

Well, at least we've taken a tour of the hospital, so we know what to expect, kind of.

Seriously, I am just happy. Not mad, not even annoyed.

A Major Twist

Well, our adoption journey has taken a turn off the straight and narrow path it was on.

Last week, we were to meet E. to tour the hospital where she will be giving birth. She sent us directions the week before, and we emailed her the day before to tell her how to reach us if anything came up.

We got there, found the faceless classroom in mazelike halls in the basement, seated ourselves among a bunch of pregnant women and their support people, and began listening to a rather listless presentation about giving birth at the hospital. The leftist and the educator in me were both getting quite angry, because the women there seemed to be mostly working class, and the presenter had such very low expectations of them. After 45 minutes went by, I was sure that E, who has never been on time to any of our meetings, was not coming.

We continued the tour, feeling pretty out of place, and went home. (On the way home, my temporary crown, which had been put on the day before, fell out, making me feel even sorrier for myself).

The next day, we told our counselor what happened, and she urged us not to embrace the worst case scenario. After all, E is no model of organization or timeliness. She suggested we call and email E. That's what we did, and that's what our counselor did too. No answer.

A few days have gone by now, and I'm feeling reasonably sure that E has changed her mind, or at the very least that a large drama has erupted causing her to have second thoughts. The wild cards our counselor warned us about involved her 5 year old daughter, who hadn't been told about her pregnancy, and her ex, who wants to get back together (he's not the father of the current baby). But all in all, our counselor felt that this adoption was probably more likely to work out than most, so we were cautiously optimistic. Now we are not optimistic at all, and I for one am just starting to assume that we'll be moving on to a new period of waiting, matching, etc.

I imagine if it really happens, I'll be quite sad, because I really like E, and have felt like it's a good fit. On the other hand, liking E might make it easier in some respects, because I think I would find it hard to be truly mad at her (as things stand now, anyway). Also, I do think telling myself hundreds of times a day that the match could fall through may have been a wise policy after all, because I'm finding myself not all that shocked.

One thing I can say is that my faith that we'll adopt has not been shaken. In fact, it's been kind of strengthened by our experience so far. It's not terribly uncommon to match more than once before adopting, though it's not terribly lucky, either.

However, if we really do unmatch, I would not mind distracting amusements or extra-kind treatment at all. I may need some help getting back on the path.

Photo by Jenya, courtesy of Flickr creative commons.

Labor

I have certainly felt like a laborer lately. It feels like my life is conspiring to prepare me for parenthood by parading before me an endless array of challenges that feel just a little bit out of my comfort zone. Today I didn't do much of anything, and that was good.

I remember my first real job, as a 16 year old clerk at a now-defunct department store called The May Company, on the East Side of Cleveland. (The store, shown above, is now a Macy's). My parents were pretty terrified of the world, and unsure of its limits, and I too was terrified of doing something wrong on the job and getting fired. I never did get fired, but I witnessed a lot of things I remember, and that convinced me of the idiocy of working for any kind of for-profit business. The funny thing about that was that I wasn't really aware of what one could do besides work at a for-profit business, so I just filed it under my general conviction that the world was a stupid and hypocritical place.

I'll share a few May Company stories, in honor of those who still labor in retail today:

Racism on the Sales Floor
We were trained by a middle aged woman who had an unpleasant schoolteacherish air; in fact, I think she had once been a teacher. During the training, one of the other trainees asked what to do if a customer acted racist towards an employee. Well, the trainer said, it's just not worth dealing with a person like that, so just give the sale to someone else!

An Unfortunate Fainting Spell
One day, while working in ladies blouse department on the first floor (I was putting little size markers on hangers), I fainted, and threw up simultaneously. When I came to, I was sitting at the employee exit on the second floor. They had called my dad, and he was on his way to get me. As I sat there, it came to me that they had carried me upstairs so I could leave via the employee exit. As my father arrived, the owlish HR clerk rushed out with my schedule, saying "It's a good thing you don't have to work tomorrow!"

Grooming on the Job
For the last few months I worked there, I was a stock assistant in the ladies' shoes department. The shoe salespeople were the most exalted line staff in the store, because they got commission, and probably made a salary of something like $35,000 per year in today's dollar. One of them was a young man named James, who loved heavy metal. He was rather sallow, gaunt, had a long ponytail, and was a very successful salesperson. At some point, the powers that be decided that long hair was not permitted. Rather than give up the job, James began wearing a wig to work, which made him look like a cancer patient.

My department store experience, coupled with my father's leftist tendencies and hatred of his job, drove me toward a happy future of nonprofit work. But it also left me with another strange trait: an affinity for department stores. I have a Macy's credit card, and I find myself drawn to the downtown Macy's at least once a month, even though I like very little of the merchandise in the store. In fact, I went there today, and bought a little baby outfit. The staff at Macy's San Francisco is one of the few at any department store in the U.S. who are unionized.

I've Been Tagged, Dagnabbit.

So Britt of Have Fun Do Good tagged me for a meme, 8 random facts about me. Matirose tagged me for the same meme a week or so ago, and I never got around to posting.

Here are the rules:
1) Post these rules before you give your facts
2) List 8 random facts about yourself
3) At the end of your post, choose (tag) 8 people and list their names, linking to them
4) Leave a comment on their blog, letting them know they've been tagged

Okay, but I don't know eight bloggers. Just warning you.

8 Random Facts about Me
1) When I was a kid, I hated vegetables and fruit. Now, vegetables are always the first thing I taste on my plate, but I'm still icked out by citrus fruits, raisins, and tomatoes.

2) I was raised in a very devoutly Christian household in which drinking only occurred on major holidays like Christmas and Thanksgiving, in the form of one glass of wine. Now, it kind of doesn't occur to me to have a drink about 90% of the time, even when I'm surrounded by drunken revelry. I'm glad about this.

3) The best movie I've seen so far this year is The Lives of Others.

4) One of the best hair products I've ever discovered is called Lustrasilk Olive Oil Cholesterol. I gather that it's primarily an african-american hair product, and it makes my dry hair look smooth and non-crunchy. Best of all, an enormous tub of the stuff costs about two dollars! It's true.


5) I have always hated my name, but I've learned to live with it.

6) Hearing the Velvet Underground changed my life irrevocably.

7) Thinking about Spain or Argentina fills me with longing, and I wonder when I'll visit a foreign country again.

8) I would rather live in an apartment building on a crowded city block than a house, anywhere.

I'm tagging Kim, Monica, Chris, Margaret, Hugh, Mark, and Sarah.

Wedded

We just got back from Mati and Hugh's wedding at Wellspring Renewal Center. It was a beautiful weekend, with a lot of generous-hearted people, from the friends and family of the bride and groom to the staff of the center. I had been helping Hugh and Mati to plan the wedding, but the reality of it was so full of colors, flowers, happy volunteers and handmade objects that the abstract lists and spreadsheets that had gone before seemed almost unrelated. I think Mati and Hugh gave us all a gift--a chance to be part of a community. There really is nothing better in life than that. I came away from the weekend thinking about how I can be a better partner in my own marriage.

There were also lots of kids there--urban kids who wore pirate costumes, sang Moon River to the crowd, played highly imaginative games, and wore nary a logo. T and I were taking it all in, trying to learn a few things.

The Sad Clown, who appeared at our own wedding, also occupied a photo booth at the wedding. The Sad Clown was found on the street by our friend Tom, who, at his girlfriend Monica's urging, gave him to us. We hide him behind the couch, and occasionally bring him out and try to cheer him up. It hasn't worked so far, but we will keep trying.

Here are Beth and Steven with the poor guy at our wedding, and below, Patrick, Petrina and Ann (one of the officiants) at Hugh and Mati's.





Lastly, here we are, relaxing on the deck with Brian, who coordinated the wedding.



On the way home, we took the coastal route. We stopped at Hog Island Oyster Company to fulfill one of my greatest wishes--to eat large quantities of oysters. It wasn't a month with R in it, and they only had extra smalls left, so it wasn't a peak oyster experience, but it was still great to get out our oyster knives and horseradish when we got home.

Thanks to Petrina for the hot-off-the-presses photos.

Becoming a Man

No, the title doesn't say Becoming a Mom, though our adoption prospects continue to occupy much of my mind, like a program always running in the background.

Last night, I attended a bachelor party for Hugh (that's him and man-Mati at the top). I suspect it could be the only bachelor party I ever attend, and to squeeze under the definition, all the women involved were asked to don man-drag.

I hadn't been thinking much during my insanely busy week about dressing up as a man, though I had formulated a plan of emulating Hugh by wearing a vintage shirt he gave me along with his default outfit of black jeans, black lace-ups and a hat. Before leaving the house, I wrapped my chest, and then before the boys arrived, joined the girls in applying facial hair and lots of heavy eyebrows, sideburns, etc.

What surprised me is how much I really enjoyed dressing up as a man. It felt as if some part of me that is dormant was very ready to carry myself as a man. I also felt younger as a man of forty than I do as a woman of forty, which I can probably attribute to social programming. It was freeing to lose my daily drag in favor of another kind. I'm the guy in plaid, by the way.



It makes sense that I enjoyed myself so much, though. I guess I've always steered away from overly feminine behavior. I've always gravitated toward men as friends and conversation partners, probably more than the average woman. I still wonder about a negative review I got at work long ago, and whether a man would have been been reviewed the same way. So I guess you could say my male side is already somewhat developed.

One thing is for certain: I want to be Tom Waits for Halloween.

You can view a picture of me and the man of the hour here, along with some other fantastic shots.

Match Part 2

So a couple of days ago we had the last half of our match meeting. E and her mother were late. They were late the last time too. Both times, it was for the same reason--they had to get E's disabled brother ready to go out. E and her mom have a lot of hard work in their lives.

This time, our meeting went well too--it felt a little rushed, because E wasn't feeling too well, but we still had some good conversation. Our impression that E has a hilariously dark sense of humor deepened. She has had her strugles, but anyone can tell she's a complicated and whip smart lady.

We went away feeling that E (and her mother) are pretty set on this adoption plan, and have their reasons, which are good ones. They are also up for a more open relationship, including visits, than we had first thought. There are reasons to feel hopeful that we'll be parents soon, but that very hope provides me with an incentive to repeat to myself over and over: "40% of matches fall through." I have an intense drive towards self-protection.

So I'm living in a strange adoptive parent-to-be limbo, in which I'm reading 90 books about parenting at once, but refuse to bring a stitch of baby clothing into our house. I feel like someone who has been told that they may be taking an extremely long and exotic trip--no, that they will be taking this trip, and that the trip will probably happen in a couple of months, but then again it may happen at some other, unspecified time in the future.

A Match

So. Most of the people who will be reading this blog know that we are planning to adopt. Some of you have been in our betting pool, and some have been asking us how things are going.

We have our biggest news so far. We have matched!

A potential birthmother, who I will call E, chose our profile from a stack of letters, along with a couple of others. It turned out that the other two couples she chose had just matched with someone else. Our adoption agency told us that E would call us, but she never did. At that point, I was pretty sure she would never call (probably a desire for closure on my part). A week or two later, our adoption agency called and said that E didn't want to talk on the phone, she just wanted to meet us and match with us. So we set up a meeting, which happened yesterday. At that point, our agency declared us matched, and we had to make yet another payment to them.

Before the meeting, we didn't know what to think. We had a lot of unanswered questions, and we had never even met her. We definitely didn't walk into the room (a rather blank room, at a faceless business center in downtown Sacramento) totally sure of matching.

In the first few minutes that E and MK, her mom, walked into the room, we really liked them ALOT. We both had images of them in our minds, and those images were completely wrong. They were warm and funny and irreverent and just sort of unique. We had questions about some issues, like the birthfather and the degree of contact we'd have with their family if we adopted, and they were answered in a way that felt okay to us. So we knew, after less than an hour, that it would be a fit. E and MK said they had a good feeling too, so we agreed to go ahead with the plans for the adoption.

E is due in October. She lives in the Sacramento area, and she already has a beautiful five year old daughter. The baby she is carrying is a girl.

One caveat. Just because we have matched, doesn't mean we will be adopting. Before the birth, 25-30% of matches fall through. At the hospital, about 10% do. And 4% even fall through after the adoptive parents take the baby home and before the relinquishment is signed. E could change her mind, and in order for this to be fair, we have to be willing for that to happen.

So basically, we are a lot closer to becoming parents than we were a week ago. But it still seems kind of unreal!

Camping and a Recipe

This weekend, T and I went on a camping trip to Sanborn Skyline County Park in Santa Clara County. It's part of a chain of lovely parks that run along Skyline Boulevard, and get lots of play from cyclists and bikers alike.

If you ever go camping there, you should know that the park has great summer weather (cool but summery in the wooded campsites, sunny and warm on the picnic lawns). You should also know that all the sites are walk-in, and you climb a rather steep (though paved) hill to get to them. We knew, but it was still painful, yet calorie-burning. Next time, we'll reserve earlier, and closer to the bottom.

While we were relaxing amongst the trees, I finished the new Harry Potter book, which caused me to exclaim aloud multiple times. T was reading River of Shadows, by Rebecca Solnit, which is about Eadweard Muybridge, who could be said to be the guy who created the first timeline with photographs, paving the way for film.



I have a camping recipe to share. I think it was one of the most delicious over-the-fire creations I've ever made.

Potatoes with Leeks in Foil
Makes two servings

Ingredients
15-25 small and medium sized redskin potatoes, cut into quarters or eighths
One medium sized leek
1/4 cup Chopped Fresh Herbs (I used Rosemary, Sage and Thyme). You could also use dried herbs.
One large clove garlic, minced
Two tablespoons butter
1/2 teaspoon Salt

Divide the cut potatoes onto two large pieces of foil. Sprinkle the leeks, herbs and garlic among the potatoes. Cut the butter into four pieces and put two on each half of the potatoes, along with 1/4 teaspoon of salt.

Fold each packet, making sure that the potatoes are in a single layer, and place over the fire or on the grill. Cook packets until the biggest pieces of potato are tender. Your time will vary. We cooked ours using charcoal, over a fire pit, and it took 20-30 minutes.

The Books of 2007, Part 1

Last year I started keeping a list of all the books I've read, inspired by a former coworker. This year has been an especially book-heavy year for me, for some reason, though I have been remiss in reading nonfiction. I think I get my nonfiction from magazines and the internet.

Here's the list for the first half of 2007, with some commentary. The bold ones are the ones that really wowed me.

Best Short Stories 2006

The Ladies of Grace Adieu, Susannah Clarke. A collection of short stories that is the followup to Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, and expands on the magical yet very English world depicted in the book.

Cloud Atlas, David Mitchell. The struggles of six outcasts linked through time. The author invents new worlds and reimagines old ones, while writing in six different styles, all of them riveting. One of the best books I have ever read.

How Much Is Enough?, Clarke, Dawson, Bredehoft. A very good parenting book about how indulging kids harms them, and how to raise self-reliant kids.

Number 9 Dream, David Mitchell

All She Was Worth, Miyuki Miyabe. A curious Japanese noir novel about what credit cards can do to a person.

The Inheritance of Loss, Kiran Desai. This book was very well written, but sort of left me cold in the end.

Jesusland, Julia Scheeres. Page-turning memoir about a girl whose oblivious Christian parents adopt two African-American children, and how they all grow up, not too happily in rural Indiana.

Best Short Stories 2004



Last Evenings on Earth, Roberto Bolano. The author was a Chilean who wandered the earth, and lived out a noveau-bohemian stereotype of the chain-smoking, hard-living writer (there he is above, smoking away) before dying in his 50s. This is a book of short stories that is deceptively simple, and a fresh new look into the Spanish-speaking world without a single incident of magical realism.

Soar With Your Strengths, Donald Clifton and Paula Nelson. An annoying business book I had to read for a training. I hate business books.

Mothering Without a Map, Kathryn Black. A parenting book for mothers (or mothers to be, like me) who had absent, abusive or neglectful mothers. This book was a necessary read for me, and it made me really sad.

Serious Girls, Maxine Swann

The Zahir: A Novel of Obsession, Paulo Coelho. This is one of the worst, most half-baked books I've ever read.

The Mistress' Daughter, A.M. Homes. Another adoption memoir, about the novelist Homes' less than idyllic reunion with her birthparents.

Drown, Junot Diaz. Fantastic book of short stories about Dominicans in New York and the D.R. Tough-minded but really kind, too.

Eat The Document, Dana Spiotta. The story of 60s radicals who go underground after a bombing goes wrong. It has a lot to say about the leftist politics of the 60s and today.

Noone Belongs Here More Than You, Miranda July. Yeah, I know that Miranda July is a cool lady, but this book had a few good Lorrie Moore-esque stories and some that just weren't very good.

Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami. A surprisingly linear Murakami that was a lot of fun to read. I think I've read all of his novels now, except for his new one.

Suite Francaise, Irene Nemirovsky. Three linked novellas that tell the story of the German occupation of France and the ways the rich, poor and middle class adapted or resisted. This author, a Russian emigre to France, died at Auschwitz, and the novel was discovered only recently.

The Road, Cormac McCarthy. This dystopian novel about a father and his son looking for safety in a destroyed world was impossible to put down and has haunted me ever since I read it.

Now I'm on to the second half of the year. I've been wanting to read a book called The Emperor's Children, by Claire Messud, and have come close to shelling out $15 for it a couple of times. While walking through Noe Valley yesterday, I found a hardback of it lying on the ground, with someone's airline ticket stub and pictures of a mother and child inside.

Living in Sin

At work, I've been asked to reflect on my past a lot lately. We are using a fundraising model that asks you to put yourself into describing why you do your work, not intellectually but emotionally, so you can ask other people to care too. It's cheesy in a way, but also really powerful, and it's what I need right now personally, I think.

So I've been thinking a lot about reading, and how it really saved me from my parents' madness as a kid, and how it was my parents that gave me the tools to escape from their madness. Books helped me spin my bohemian dreams, and I think I've been pretty faithful to them, in my own practical way. I still remember in high school when we were discussing the Adrienne Rich poem below. I just looked it up, googling Adrienne Rich and "shawl"--hadn't read it since then and didn't remember the title. It means even more to me now.

In high school (see photo above), the teacher asked the class to say where the poem was taking place. Reflexively, I raised my hand and said "Greenwich Village." Right, said the teacher. All of my suburban Cleveland classmates were totally freaked out--how did I know that? I felt, gladly, different.

Living in Sin

She had thought the studio would keep itself;
no dust upon the furniture of love.
Half heresy, to wish the taps less vocal,
the panes relieved of grime. A plate of pears,
a piano with a Persian shawl, a cat
stalking the picturesque amusing mouse
had risen at his urging.
Not that at five each separate stair would writhe
under the milkman's tramp; that morning light
so coldly would delineate the scraps
of last night's cheese and three sepulchral bottles;
that on the kitchen shelf among the saucers
a pair of beetle-eyes would fix her own---
envoy from some village in the moldings . . .
Meanwhile, he, with a yawn,
sounded a dozen notes upon the keyboard,
declared it out of tune, shrugged at the mirror,
rubbed at his beard, went out for cigarettes;
while she, jeered by the minor demons,
pulled back the sheets and made the bed and found
a towel to dust the table-top,
and let the coffee-pot boil over on the stove.
By evening she was back in love again,
though not so wholly but throughout the night
she woke sometimes to feel the daylight coming
like a relentless milkman up the stairs.

Summer Fun

Last week our friend Christie came to visit from New York, which was almost as good as going on vacation. Christie and I have been friends since the early 90s, when we were both going to school at the University of Iowa. We have been to countless thrift shops together and shared numberless indie rock and alt country listening sessions.

On the 4th, Christie, T and I went to Point Pinole, a very cool piece of land that juts into San Pablo Bay. It's on the site of a former dynamite factory, and you can see overgrown industrial ruins as you hike. You can also see tons of Richmond industrial ugliness across the bay from certain parts of the shoreline, while other places look lovely and wild. The mix is intriguing.

On the pier, we saw a man catch a little shark, which scared me, but I felt I had to look because I eat a lot of fish. Christie took this lovely portrait of T and me.



We also went to the St. Francis Fountain with Hugh and Mati. I have long been aware of the existence of the Fountain, which I think is SF's oldest ice cream spot, but I had never been there or tried their affordable and abundant breakfasts until recently. Which was very foolish of me. Don't make the same mistake I did.

"I'm so gay it hurts," or My Gay Pride Weekend

Gay Pride Weekend is a meaningful milestone for me, given the fact that it's the anniversary of my move to San Francisco. Last weekend marked 15 years for me here in SF, which I think is as long as I lived in beautiful South Euclid, Ohio with my parents.

Guess which 15 years I enjoyed more.

Anyway, I haven't actually gone to the parade for a number of years, even though it's very inspiring and campy. I don't really have to, when the Dyke March roars right past my building. Unfortunately, I stayed in the bathtub for way too long this year, and I missed the whole thing (though I did get to enjoy the milling about afterwards).



After the march passed me by, I headed out to meet T at the Kabuki to see Ocean's Thirteen, which I found enjoyably silly and T found way too silly. Afterwards, we hopped on the 22 Fillmore, which was packed to the gills.

A man on the bus met up with a compatriot, who seemed like someone he'd gotten to know in jail or a treatment facility. He told him a very long story, which I cannot do justice, for the whole ride. I was on the edge of my seat.

The fellow had been on probation and parole, when he was crossing the street and was hit by a taxi. He began an altercation with the taxi driver about this, which led to him smashing the window of the taxi with his skateboard (an act he said the taxi driver had deliberately driven him to commit.)

The police came and arrested him, and beat him up so badly that his jaw was messed up. He said he had pictures. Because he was on parole and probation, it seemed very likely that he would be going to jail for seven years, especially since the police had neglected to mention that he had been hit by the taxi in their report.

But he found a witness, and persuaded the man, who didn't really want to get involved, to explain what he had seen (he didn't even end up paying him, though he offered to). On top of that, the hearing was scheduled for the late afternoon, and everyone wanted to go home very badly. As a result, our hero lucked out, and was assigned to many months of anger management counseling and a couple of years at Walden House.

Something had happened which led to the protagonist not staying at Walden House anymore, and he was on his way to visit "a little girl who's dying to see me" in Crocker Park. At this, the man's friend laughed in disbelief, thinking the girl was actually living in the park, but no.

The final phase of the story concerned a lawsuit the man planned to file against the City because the police beat him up. He said that he was going to see Heather Fong, San Francisco's police chief, to talk to her about it. And, he said that he'd even claim to be gay when he did it. "I'm gay as fuck," he said. "I'm so gay it hurts. I'll wrap myself in that fucking rainbow flag."

His friend laughed and called him crazy, while the gay men next to him shrunk away.

His friend was squeezed in right next to me, and he was a very large, soft man. He was also an exceptionally kind and patient listener, and gave the story his full, but quiet attention. I was quite tired, and I had a strong urge to lay my head on his shoulder and close my eyes.

Weekend at the Russian River

I've been wanting to write a post about Ed Jew and the trouble he's gotten himself into. However, I've been rather busy with work and the story has been raging without me, so I'll write about my fun weekend at the Russian River instead.



T and I and a bunch of other folks rented two houses by the river and spent a long weekend eating, swimming off our dock, boating with small craft through very shallow water, and soaking in the hot tub. When you live in a one bedroom apartment, pretending (for a weekend) to live in two houses is really fun. Many things happened, including lots of margaritas, various mental breakdowns, talented musicians playing, and three sizes of dogs. Most of us also said goodbye to Adrienne and Fahr, which was sad.

I think I'll focus on just one story, though. T and I were canoeing down the river, our friends Sonya and Eric a ways behind us. In the middle of the river was standing a fully clothed teenage boy with a dirty blonde pageboy haircut. Because of the low water levels, he was about up to his waist. He was holding a piece of metal, and as we drew near, he said to us "Look at this. It's a car antenna. I found it in the water." He gestured towards the shore, where a large piece of metal sat. "And look at that," he said. "It's a (here I'm forgetting what he said, perhaps car chassis?) I dragged it out of the river myself." Then he gestured to his left: "And there's a washing machine down there. It's white." He appeared to be delivering this speech to every one of the considerable number of canoes that was passing by. I would have photographed him, but our camera had fallen into the river a few miles back.



Since we passed him by, I have been wondering why he did it. Was it out of concern for the environment? (I didn't otherwise notice a lot of debris along the river, but maybe I wasn't looking hard enough). Pride in his scavenging skills? A desire to share his acquaintance with this stretch of river? I guess I'll never know. T said it seemed like something out of Deliverance.

And for those who were there, and those who weren't, a truly excellent gazpacho recipe I had some requests for. I felt especially decadent just throwing away the sprig of thyme.

Linda Goes to Vegas

I'm here in Las Vegas for a work-related conference. It really is as overstimulating, phony and craven as I imagined. The potential for fun is an inch thick and a mile wide, in general.

However, I did do two amazingly fun things. One was hang out with Matt, Keith Matthew, and their cohort from New Orleans. We took a couple of very cool teens to an event called First Fridays, which is a gallery walk. It kind of reminded me of living in Columbus, where there wasn't a whole lot going on, and as a result, everyone came out for everything. One of the teens, Roque, has written a fantasy novel, and was very excited about discussing all of his favorite books, from Harry Potter to the Chronicles of Narnia to the Golden Compass.



Before the gallery event, we ate at the mall food court. Did you know that Hot Dog on a Stick sells tofu corndogs? Matt is eating one. Keith is not happy with the food selection.





The next day, I went on a bus tour called Vintage Las Vegas sponsored by our huge conference. Our tour guide, who works for the city, seemed to think it was cute that the mayor is a former mob lawyer and that the city is trying to build a stadium encroaching on one of the city's only culturally active neighborhoods. The heroes of the tour were the folks at the Neon Museum, which is currently a neon "boneyard"--cast off neon signs collected in a couple of lots in a somewhat sad-looking neighborhood. They're raising money to build an indoor/outdoor museum. Below are a few of the many photos I took. I was in heaven. (I also met Larry Harvey of Burning Man fame--he was on the tour too).