One day, on a school bus, the bus driver was driving a load of kids to school. They were at an intersection when the bus driver made a right turn on red. A kindergartner who just so happened to be sitting in the front said, “Hey! You can’t make a right turn on red!”
The bus driver then turned around, not focusing on the road, yelled, “I CAN MAKE A RIGHT TURN ON RED!”
So since he wasn’t looking, a city bus came speeding and hit the school bus. Everybody died. The end.
I’ve been thinking about the way I eat (for various reasons) and how/why my eating habits are so bad, why I fall back on banal comfort food, why I’m not adventurous in the least.
As I was writing Paso Doble, I kept finding myself associating my characters’ meals at tapas bars with romance. Small bites in small dishes. Tasting. A meal of hors d’oeuvres, eaten slowly, from a lover’s hand. I wanted to be able to do that.
As Victoria (from Paso Doble) told Giselle (from The Proviso):
Eating with a man, especially if you let him feed you, let him watch you savor the flavors, is like making love in public. I seduced my husband that way. Feed him. Let him feed you. In, out. It’s a promise more binding than kissing. Sex makes life. Food sustains life. You can see them as chores or you can find joy in them. That’s the choice you make.
I wanted to be able to do that. Except … I don’t like food. I don’t find joy in it. I’ve never found there to be anything about food to find joy in. No, it’s not something I can do, or at least, not right now. I find a food I like and I will eat it for days. Variety is not a requirement for me; efficiency is. Food is the thorn in my paw. It is a chore. It’s the enemy.
And then, for our 14th wedding anniversary, Dude surprised me by taking me to a tapas bar, La Bodega on Southwest Boulevard. We were both nervous. He’s only a little more adventurous than I am and we didn’t want to waste money on food we weren’t sure we were going to like. But tapas are a huge part of my universe’s mythos, so Dude wanted to honor that and, fingers crossed, it might turn out okay.
It was one of the most profound visceral experiences I have ever had, as significant as my rollercoaster enlightenment. The waiter came by to ask me how it was and as I was telling him, I teared up.
For the first time in my life, I found joy in food. Profound joy.
I don’t want to go there too often, though. Joy needs to be parceled out so as not to make it banal. But I’ve found that sort of profound joy twice this year (which is pretty much twice more than most other years), and both of them were because Dude gave me something new to try.
Rollercoaster and appetizers. Sometimes it’s the oddest things.
La Bodega 703 SW Boulevard KCMO 64108 816.472.8272
My 10-year-old XY TD can’t wait to see Pitch. He wants to watch it because it’s something that’s never been done before, a woman pitching in MLB.1 He doesn’t see a girl. He sees himself. In her. The underdog2,3 misunderstood, not wanted or liked, basically alone with too few allies, too different to have as smooth a ride through malehood as his peers.
Or, as Dude pointed out to me last night because we’re both kind of fascinated with XY’s reaction to the series (whereas 13-year-old XX is so not) (she already knows she’s a badass), a 17-year-old girl struck out both Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig in an exhibition game and a woman hasn’t been in the MLB since. ↩
“A girl will never be able to throw hard enough to compete with boys. It’s biology and we can’t change that.” My dad told me a girl would never be able to throw a curve ball because their elbows are constructed differently from a boy’s. I don’t know if that’s true. I’m not interested enough to find out. But I was kind of shocked to hear it from someone else. ↩
I introduced him to Rocky last year. He’s now a devoted disciple of underdog movies. He gets it from his mom. ↩
that compels people to reflect and grants epiphanies like a fairy godmother?
Thirty years ago, I was at the KC Royals parade after they won the World Series. You know, George Brett. Bret Saberhagen. Those guys.
I didn’t care about baseball much before or after that, not that I was ever anything but a fan-in-name-only because I didn’t understand the game. A childhood watching Little League and trying to figure out radio announcers’ jargon tends to blunt one’s enthusiasm.
And then there was college and life and the strikes and the juicing and the Congressional hearings and who wants to get into baseball when they threw a big temper tantrum for a game that’s all fake anyway? You want more money for your steroid injections? Fuck you.
Somewhere in the last decade I was vaguely aware it had cleaned itself up. Or, at least, I knew everybody was playing and that the Royals were a losing team. All. The. Time.
Last night, I was talking to Dude, who taught me more about baseball during the ALCS last year than I have ever known or suspected could be. I wasn’t interested in learning anything about it until the Royals won the ALCS last year.
This year … Well.
As the season has gone by and I saw them winning, I could start to see why they were winning. Little things. Doing what they did in 1985. The correlation of strategy is spooky. Being nice guys (the Royals recruit for nice guys, you know; not one bad boy amongst ’em). Good to their women, good to their kids, nice to their fans.
But not pushovers. The Royals started the season being the Bad Boys of Baseball. Why? Because everybody else came into the season with a hateboner for them, and they will clear a bench as fast as George Brett and pine tar.
So everybody settled down and played ball. They don’t depend on home runs. They take every possibly viable opportunity no matter the consequences. They shoot through the target, not at it. “Hacking” at the ball. Stealing bases. Having lots of good pitchers. Hitting the wall, even if it tears your ACL. Baby steps. Or, as I found out last night, “Playing the game 90 feet at a time.” They have fun.
As I watched, listened, and read, the Royals managed to give me something I’ve been needing my whole life.
.366 is the best batting average ever.
Run for the grass line past first base.
It’s okay to hit the wall and tear your ACL.
Hack at the ball.
It’s okay to play 90 feet at a time.
Hit the fast balls.
Change up the pitcher. And the pitches.
Home runs are rare and special.
Have a deep bullpen.
So I was telling Dude, who is/was a Dodgers fan, by the way, about the parade I went to in 1985 and I started to tear up. I don’t know why.
But I was there 30 years ago and if they win this year, I’m going to be there and take my kids. And I’m going to tear up. And I won’t know why. And my kids will have that memory like I have mine. And maybe they’ll get to take their kids.
Yesterday I threw out karate belts I earned between the ages of 18 and 20. They were musty. Hidden away, like all the stuff I haven’t found places to display yet. I like space. I value space. Open, empty space and shelves that say, “We don’t need to be filled to feel important.” What they need to be filled with is essentials for survival, but that’s another story.
A friend on Facebook asked me how I could bear to throw them away because I earned them. I see her point; they are a trophy and I did earn them. All these years I have not wanted to throw them out (if I thought about it), but something’s been changing in me for a while now, about carrying baggage and grudges.
I carry a lot of grudges that I’m shedding slowly. The one I may never be able to shed, the one I need to shed most, the one I have to consciously shed every day, is the one against myself.
My 7-year-old self for an embarrassing moment.
My 12-year-old self for an embarrassing moment and hurting someone’s feelings.
My 15-year-old self for something that should have gotten me arrested for assault (that’s the one that’s killing me right now).
My 18-year-old self for being starry-eyed, stupid, and too immature to be let loose on the world with no guidance.
My 25-year-old self for …
And all the years before and in between up until yesterday. I’m sure today I will do something today that I will find beyond the pale after I’ve committed the offense.
What prompted this? I don’t know, but I think it was when I had to cut off a dear friend I’d had for years. The relationship had gotten toxic years ago, but since we were separated by distance, it wasn’t an issue. Then I got on Facebook and that changed everything. I tried to resurrect it, but that’s always a bad idea.
I hate that. I’m one to let friendships fade and it’s only in the past few years they’ve flamed out and left me grieving for a while. Those you can never patch up.
Being married has taught me the value of talking things through instead of letting things flame out. It’s difficult for me, and I have had to evaluate each to figure out if it was worth it. In two very recent cases (one yesterday, as a matter of fact), it was more than worth it. Their friendship means far more to me than walking away feeling righteous and hurt and angry and guilty. People are more understanding (of relationships, of my toxicity) than I ever gave them credit for. I faded away so as to not poison the relationship myself because, in the words of Jack Burton, “Sooner or later I rub everybody the wrong way.”
I realized I was making very slow progress on letting things go when a Twitter friend I’d had for years cut me off in a blaze of fury for … nothing important. That was the second time he’s done it. I grieved the first time. Deeply. It took nine months for him to cool off. This time … I didn’t care. It was time for that relationship to go bye-bye.
Anyway, in thinking about my friend’s question about trashing my karate belts, trying to explain it, I realized that what I got from my time in karate were life lessons and examples to follow (or not). I’m still operating on the principles two men (both my teachers) taught me.
Those two men could not be more different:
Number One was a charismatic lawyer, a salesman if you will. I am (was) susceptible to charismatic people, but I learned my lesson about that. Really well. Occasionally, bits and pieces of him come out in my characters. The bad ones. But. He said something to me one time that I have struggled with ever since and really sort of defined me. At the time it horrified me, because somewhere in my entrepreneurial soul, I knew he was right.
He said, “You paid for your training in sweat, money, tears, and sometimes blood. Why are you giving it away?” I was horrified. I said, “Knowledge should be free!” It’s based on the way I was reared. He just shook his head and walked away. But it spoke to me.
Number Two was a taciturn law student, really mature for his age, quiet, observant, discerning. Unapproachable. Nobody and nothing amused him. Except me. Suffice it to say, I was the teacher’s pet. I wasn’t very good, but I was funny. But then, as I do, I crossed a line and then I wasn’t funny anymore.
These two guys hated each other. I could never figure that out, but I was 18 and stupid. Number One owned the place. Number Two was a subordinate teacher fifteen years younger. There was no question who was the alpha.
Number One was making me crazy, but I didn’t realize it because I was 18 and stupid. I thought something was wrong with me. My time in martial arts faded, but I never let it go.
Anyway, these two guys ended up battling it out in a courtroom some years later. It’s a tale straight out of a lawyer novel (no, I didn’t write it, hint at it, or use it for the basis of anything). It involved knowledge. Who had a monetary right to it and who didn’t, which is where the “You paid for your training in sweat, money, tears, and sometimes blood. Why are you giving it away?” comes in.
Some years later, I was still carrying Number One’s crazymaking and Number Two’s disapproval—heavily—and I worked up the courage to call Number Three, somebody I didn’t know, but who could maybe let me vent and then talk me down out of the trees. It was a huge gamble. It paid off. And I got back in for a while, but first, training was logistically impossible by that time; second, I didn’t have the fire in my belly and I never did. So I let it go.
Almost thirty years later, I’m hanging with my Tax Deductions in the storage room of my house pitching and tossing. It’s past bedtime for a school night, but they’ve both got messed-up Circadian rhythms and I’m a night owl. My 12-year-old XX TD is tossing out sly innuendos at me, making me aware she knows what she’s saying, and, like the bad mother I am, instead of chastising her, I’m snickering along with her. XY is reading and offering his opinions on everything, as per usual. Dude is in his office busy supporting us like the awesome Dude he is.
I open the box (my dad’s wooden Scout ditty box, which is far older than I am) with my belts, nunchakus, bag gloves, and jump rope. It’s musty in there. “Eeww.” I pick up a belt, sniff it, and tell XX, “Those go.”
I start singing “Let it Go” just to annoy her and it works. Natch.