Category: youse

a few connections away. youse knows whose youse ares

Blocking

colourful plastic blocks for a baby

The baby was fully concentrating. Her brow was furrowed as she rotated the red box. She was very impressed with herself. She picked up the box, and she also manipulated it. FTW!

She lifted it a bit more quickly than she calculated and knocked herself in the head. She was quite surprised by the velocity she created. She actually forgot that she was responsible for the collision. She didn’t cry. She just looked at the box in a confused way.

Not to be defeated, the baby shook it. More activity that caused something. She was reminded that there were contents in the box. She dropped the box the three inches to the carpet.

She dipped her hand in the box. It emerged attached to a green block. This was unexpected, but delightful. She raised the block to her mouth so she could steady it as well as taste it.  She pushed the block more solidly into her hand with her chin.

She pulled the block away from her face and looked at it anew. Because everything for her was new.

Posted on by docthink 0

I Swear

An F-bomb

My favorite video from the past few weeks was former Presidente de Mexico, Vicente Fox, dropping the F-bomb on Fox Business News in relation to a proposed construction project.

He was responding to a question by the reporter and did not intend to be misunderstood. He spoke clearly and deliberately. He began by pausing dramatically before hissing out the “f”-sound. He emphasized the harsh middle K sound and then punctuated the ending of the word with a guttural G from the back of his throat.  [He used the gerund form of the F-word.] His enunciation was excellent.

Language fascinates me. I can barely speak my native tongue, and to hear others glibly communicate in more than one language puts me in awe. I notice this especially when non-native English speakers use colloquialisms, and, especially, when they curse.

Now I learned to curse, as my children after me, from my mother. One day, when The Big Guy was seven, he was standing with her on the back deck as they observed the dog taking a crap. She casually remarked to him, “Boy, that dog sure does shit a lot.” I think she was impressed with that specific movement’s volume. The Big Guy knew that “shit” was a word not used by or around his other grandmother and most nice old people–especially old people at school. My mother followed with, “I guess all that shit is good for the lawn.” [We never had a dog growing up, so she didn’t have a good reference. She was just a city girl making farmer conversation.] I’m not sure if The Big Guy was more shocked or more impressed.

I didn’t, however, learn the F-word from her. I really didn’t have much exposure to it until I got to college. I was a quick learner, though, and immediately incorporated it into my cursing repertoire. I may have been a bit too facile in my adoption, but so be it.

It’s impressive to hear different accents and different English proficiencies deliver the F-bomb. A friend from a Spanish-speaking Caribbean island brilliantly described the potential of having her folks and her in-laws in town together at Christmas using FML, not the acronym but the words. Perfection.

A colleague with only a hint of her first twenty years in Moscow frequently asks about the meaning of English slang, but she definitely knows when something is Eff’d-up. I know this because she expresses it with the perfect lowering of her voice a half-octave because she means it.

Maybe it doesn’t really count when Irish friends use it. You’ll hear more feck than the short-U sound, but the longer they live in the States, the less feck you hear. I always delight in hearing a well delivered F-U from the Irish.

When I hear French or French Canadian use of the American F-word, mon Dieu! So bon! [Yes, I did that on purpose.] There is a speed or an acceleration of this short short word that isn’t heard with other non-US speakers. I have heard it usually as an insult, or accompanied by a frustrated throw of something to the ground.

I must say that I have never, and I mean never ever, heard the F-word misused by anyone. Ever. Not everyone uses it, but if they do, they do it right.

Maybe you just can’t get it wrong.

Posted on by docthink 1

Half-full

A sandwich wrapped in paper.

She stood balancing with one foot in the street with her other, mostly sensible, pump on the curb. The door on her silver Honda was swung wide, but she wasn’t in a hurry.

She was pulling the two halves of a sandwich apart. The sandwich maker clearly didn’t cut it clean through. It was wrapped well, and the paper was protecting the meal from the cold wind.

It’s the second day of Spring, but Winter is not quite ready to let go.

The man was there in his usual spot on the bench. He was in the neon orange snow pants and neon orange jacket. He doesn’t wear this gear every day and the pants only on especially cold days. Usually he just wears a hat, but today his cragged face–one of a not old man but a man who has lived old–was framed by the orange wimple of the hood pulled tight, framing around his face.

He looked up at the woman fighting with the sandwich, his head slightly tilted back with a beatific smile. It’s unusual for him to engage like this. Sometimes he interacts with people imagined, sometimes real. It’s not unlikely that his language is punctuated with hard words spoken sharply. Not today, though. Today he’s wearing a smile of a sweet child happy with his people.

Maybe the woman is his daughter, or his sister or a friend from before. Maybe she is just a kind stranger, and he is reflecting that kindness. Perhaps she was splitting that sandwich and they were going to eat together.

Posted on by docthink 0

Blighted Bud

earbuds

Open office spaces are very au courant. They are all about collaboration and breaking down hierarchies, but they end up being insulating. Because headphones.

You walk up and start “collaborating” to a colleague with their face in a computer screen. No response. You say their name. No response. You say their name louder. No response. You tentatively tap their shoulder, like some creeper. The colleague jumps out of their chair while pulling at the string around their neck to pull the bud out of their ear. Then they profusely apologize as you interrupt with your own set of “sorries.”

Meanwhile the person in close quarters NOT wearing headphones is totally disturbed and now reaches in their desk for something to plug into their speakerboxx thereby closing themselves off from the collaboration.

It’s worse than that.

I’m walking The Dog. It’s stunningly beautiful–sunny and warm. We stop frequently and at length so he can smell the hell out of every last blade of grass and dandelion to be. I spy a guy with a dog a block down. Those of you who are not dogwalkers may not realize that you must be ever vigilant for other creatures–squirrels, cats, birds, skateboards, baby carriages and dogs–just in case someone decides to bolt. You work to get the attention of The Dog as you choke up on the leash preparing for a burst of muscle that taxes your own.

As the guy approaches, The Dog notices the other. I’m prepped. The guy gets closer and asks me, “Is this your dog?”

Odd, but I’m like, “Well, yeah, I’m walking him.” I’m thinking he’s wondering if The Dog is friendly. We are close to the physical rendezvous, and he leans away a little as his dog with his waggy tail tries to make contact.

Guy is looking straight at me, and I start to tell him that The Dog is friendly. He abruptly waves me aside while telling me, “I’m on the phone.” I hear him say something about being “right in front of your house. I thought he got away. Where should I go?” He hadn’t been talking to me at all. He was asking somebody else about a dog. I didn’t see the telltale cord, but, as I dragged The Dog past, I saw his earbuds. I hope he reunited the other dog with his family.

He was disconnected from our false encounter while making a connection somewhere else.

There’s a great outside service window at the local watering hole, restaurant and grill. I perched on a stool at the smoothed concrete bar because the billowing smoker beckoned me to beer and BBQ.

A woman asked me if the seat next to me was available and settled in. She left the menu alone and began flipping through on her phone. I turned to the friendly people on my right who were downright hysterical pontificating on the different styles of sauce, bracket deadlines and other trivial matters.

The bartender approached the phone clutching patron for her order. The woman was unresponsive. Bartender looks at me to make sure that she was in fact making sounds when she was speaking. I indicated that she indeed was. We shared the moment of realization that you couldn’t hear if you were wearing headphones. Again, the headphones. Self-isolation from the surrounding conviviality.

The woman looked at the bartender and pulled out the bud. She ordered a house white. Then she put the earpiece back in and went back into herself. A few minutes later I heard her emotionally asking her phone, “Is that how you are treating me?” She was talking to someone who wasn’t there.

I didn’t want to eavesdrop on her pain. The conversation must have ended because she stopped talking. She kept flipping. I wish she took out the noise-cancelling and secluding earphones. I wish that she could have joined in the moment that was around her. Mostly, I wish she’s going to be okay since I somehow connected with her even though she doesn’t know.

Posted on by docthink 0

March Madness

Like ten tubas sitting all lonely on the grass.

I watched as a tuba walked out of the Starbucks on the side of the hotel. It was accompanied by a guy with a funny light blue and white flat cap. It shot out lasers from the sun reflected on its shiny brass face as the funny-hatted guy twisted it 270 degrees back and 270 degrees forth. Trying to get his bearings.

The tuba was closely followed by some brass cousins–trombones and trumpets–as well as a twin tuba sib. There was a clarinet and a saxophone, too, as the band spilled out the door.

Drum line! Well at least a few percussionists. Hey! The instruments weren’t packed away. These folks were ready to play. I stopped. I’m crazy for the sound of a marching band. I stood listening for the staccato roll of the snare.

There were some cheerleaders with bows in their hair and that careful warpaint with an intertwined N and C that first looked like an N and a D. Even though I know the warpaint is actually little stickers, I imagine that thick oil-based makeup was carefully stroked and patted on with skinny little brushes on smooth, unlined cheeks.

There were also some jumping people. I don’t know what their official names are, but they were wearing blue jumpsuits in that same blue hue, so I bet they jumped. Maybe they are the hype men.

The instruments and their holders amassed on the plaza behind the subway escalator where people sometimes eat their lunch and near the fountain that hasn’t been filled up yet and where some people spend their entire day speaking very loudly to themselves or to someone that I can’t quite see. The instruments and their performers roiled around in that space like foaming bubbles. Moving but not really going anywhere.

The big man was the last of them to come from the coffee shop at the side of the hotel. He had a clipboard for his instrument. He circled around them on outside and, as he was moving, he lifted his right arm over his head and pointed away from the hotel to the other end of the block. The instruments and the people who played them moved as one. Away. Likely toward the Verizon Center.

And there I was. Left alone, wishing for at least SOME cowbell. It wasn’t to be.

 

Posted on by docthink 1

Dear Tourists, Let Me Help

weinermobile in front of the Capitol. I took this one.

Tourist season has befallen my fair city. As the hoards fill up our streets, hostels, chain restaurants and The Mall (we don’t shop there, by the way), I thought I’d offer some advice to smooth the stay.

Dear Washington, D.C. Tourists,
Welcome! I am super glad to host you in our fair city. A few things to help us get along better.

  • First, Washington D.C., is actually a real city. We vote for a mayor and a city council. We have schools where children study. People here have jobs and go to church and buy groceries and sit around dinner tables where we eat food just like YOU. Unlike you, though, we don’t have a vote in Congress. So don’t complain about your Congressman. We’d love to have one (and two Senators) to deride. But we don’t. And we’re U.S. citizens, too.
  • Second, D.C., is not Main Street, U.S.A. at Disney World. You can’t just walk into the streets and criss cross like it’s an amusement park. It’s not. There are traffic rules that you should follow.
  • Third, I know you don’t walk as a mode of transportation when you’re at home. You might walk on the treadmill at the gym or around your cul de sac with a neighbor for your New Year’s resolution. But here, we walk to get to work or to shop, and to grab a coffee or a beer.
  • Please please please, don’t start walking when you’re on the corner and you’re talking to your friends and not looking. Cars here are like your cars at home–made of metal and will hurt if they hit you.  We won’t mow you down because we’re mean but because you randomly walked in front of us without looking. Don’t jaywalk unless you learned this skill in Manhattan. Then you own it.
  • Key takeaways: Look for the traffic signals. If the light is RED do not walk. If the light is GREEN, go ahead. There are also signals that are RED with a hand that means, DON’T WALK. Really, nobody wants to run you over. Okay, to be honest, sometimes we do, but we wouldn’t. Not on purpose.
  • Fourth, I love it when you use our subway. We call it the Metro. It stops you from driving the wrong way on our one-way streets. It also stops you from running our red lights because you don’t see the traffic signals on the sides of the roads. We know you look for them hanging in the middle of the street. I don’t know why we don’t do that. But we don’t. Be careful.
  • Fifth, speaking of the Metro, if you’re not sure where you need to go, just ask anyone. People are happy to help you get to your destination. Seriously. They are. The thing we don’t like is your confusion at the turnstiles that blocks us from getting to the train. This is super-especially true during rush hour. An idea, please don’t use the subway during our rush hour. You are really screwing with us natives.
  • Also, this is weird, I know, but when you’re on an escalator in D.C. don’t stand next to your friend. Stand on the right and walk on the left. Leave the left side of the stairs open so people can walk. We are in a hurry because we have to go to work. We’re not on a vacation. We are glad that you are, though.
  • Sixth, this brings me to the costs of stuff in D.C. SHUT UP. You don’t have to pay a penny to go to the zoo and gawk at baby pandas; see the capsule that landed on the moon, the Wright Brothers’ plane and the real space shuttle up close; gape at the Hope Diamond and a stuffed woolly mamouth;  visit the East Room and watch the Secret Service watch you at the White House; and be in awe at pretty much everything–seriously look up, down and all around–at the Library of Congress. Also, there is crazy amazing art and culture–like Monet and ruby slippers and the lunch counter from the Greensboro Woolworths–at the Smithsonian. The Capitol Grounds, near the Supreme Court, have beautiful fountains, a botanical garden and lots of steps. Not to diminish the Lincoln, Jefferson, and Washington memorials, the homage to those who served and sacrificed in wars and the newer monuments recognizing Dr. King and FDR.
  • Back to the costs of things. Please don’t complain about prices for sandwiches or cokes. This is what we pay, too. We just live here. Also, speaking of prices, when you do eat out, please don’t be cheap. People waiting your tables and serving your drinks do this for a living. Tip. Really. You can tip.

My brain is awash with so many more things to help you with, but I know you’re already overwhelmed. Please, though, know this well. This is your city, because you are an American and this is our nation’s capital. And it is our city, because every day we drive and walk and bike past and work in and near the amazing landmarks you came to visit. We feel lucky to live here. You feel lucky to visit here.

We can do this together. We survived the Pope, we can work with you. Have fun!
Doc Think

Posted on by docthink 0

No Place

paper lanterns floating away.

We walked out to snow covered trees, grass, hedges, porches and cars. The sidewalks were snow-free and even dry. It wasn’t crisp, but not humid either. It was pretty in that snow-silence way and without real cold.

The snow was losing its grip on the branches and parachuted down to the ground in a zillion formations of white. It was the inverse of white paper lanterns that use candle power to float up into the air.

It was a business walk, but we weren’t in a hurry. There’s an apartment building at the end of the block. It’s only three stories. I’m not sure how long it’s been there. It’s not like one of the sexy new buildings with marble counters and artisan wood floors with a big common lobby with a fireplace for the hipsters to hang. It’s a simple rectangular building made of red brick, maybe from the sixties. It’s not ugly enough to be from the seventies.

The building is on the corner and as we squared it I saw an old mattress and boxspring on the curb. It looked like a sheet cake frosted with snow. There was a chair just beyond the matress, also next to the curb. It was one of those chairs made out of that heavy wood composite. A super cheap chair that is super sturdy, except it’s prone to splinter or rock. The seat had snow on it and some snow clung along the edge of the chairback. There was another one. My eyes followed the space between the sidewalk and the street. Next to the tree there was a pile which included a backpack, a smashed purse, some towels, a folder with papers, a cushion and a blender.

An eviction.

There was the grey box that was a 27″ tube TV. A broken three-shelf bookcase made out of the same composite wood stuff. The dog sniffed in another pile of homegoods and I pulled him. I didn’t like him sifting through somebody’s stuff.

An eviction always makes me sad. It’s someone’s worldly possessions tossed out on the street. Cruelly exposed. A person or a family’s dinner dishes, shower curtains, socks, CDs and books. Pieces of their lives broadcast next to the street.

I feel like a voyeur peeping in a stranger’s window. I turn my head out of respect for these people who I don’t know but who I now know about from their belongings.

It isn’t the worst eviction I’ve seen. I look at the piles again and don’t see anything that says “kids.” No colorful toys, little shoes, kids books or school supplies. I sigh in relief. And, actually, it looks like the remains represented an abandoned apartment, so nobody was put out. At least not in this transaction.

There was a cardboard box at the end of the eviction train. The dog poked his nose in the quarter-filled box. More papers, a small round vase with a fluted top, a coffee mug and, on the top of the pile a big black book. BIBLE.

I jangled the leash and told the dog let’s go and mumbled a nonspecific petition to the morning sky.

Posted on by docthink 0

Run On Stories

bunch of sneakered feet running

Driving along the parkway I’m imagining the backstories of the runners I pass. There’s a lot of them and I’m driving 35 mph, so I don’t have time to get too deep.

First up a runner I call Twinkle Toes. He’s wearing a matched true blue jacket and sleek shiny running pants with a true blue cap. As he’s running he pushes through to the tips of his toes from the pavement. It doesn’t look wrong, but it makes him look light. That and the sleek pants. In his head he’s repeating Portuguese vocabulary and grammar because he’s heading there for a gig in a few weeks. His personal Rosetta Stone practice is interrupted by Thursday’s meeting that failed. He pushes that away and starts to say the foreign words out loud as he runs.

There were big puddles, almost lakes, on the trail near the Zoo. Runner #2 did a back and forth hoppity hop to avoid drowning in one. Her boo is likely finishing off a second mimosa during brunch. She prefers to run alone but ends up feeling a little lonely when they hook up later, one tipsy and one sweaty. Maybe she’ll cut her run short and join Boo.

The next runner I’ll call Cletus. Definitely was an athlete in school, but more in it for the social side. He’s lumbering along in baggy shorts and bare legs and sneakers that have definitely been used. He has a filthy Giants hat pulled down almost over his eyes. Some untamed ends of dark curls poke out underneath the sides near his ears and above his neck. He forces himself to run at least two times a month. Usually concurrent with a hangover. He shakes the marbles around in his skull and feels like if he just keeps going he won’t throw up. It works. For a while.

Then came along the unrelated dogwalkers. 

The first man I’m naming Thomas is wearing a red, yellow and green tam. His lanky frame is topped by a silver puffer jacket. He’s accompanied by his lanky Doberman, Diesel. They’re stopped on the trail, facing each other having a terrifically animated conversation. They’re laughing about the joggers that didn’t want to run past them but didn’t have an alternative on the narrow path. One guy ended up detouring from the path by trying to run up the slick hill. He slipped and skidded right to Diesel’s feet. Diesel wasn’t impressed and was unmoved. He turned head to the side–as if to provide embarrassment space– as the guy tried to crabwalk backwards up the hill. Thomas gave the guy a hand up, brushed the leaves from the guy’s shoulder and cheerily waved goodbye. Now man and dog are chuckling at the unnecessary circumnavigation.

Next there was a couple with two dogs. I saw them just after the bridge, and I don’t know how they went around the bridge. I guess the path swung underneath it somewhere. The man handled both leashes. One for the big dog and one for the little dog, a common dog configuration. The big dog was hers. When they moved in together, the BigDog started having anxiety issues. It wasn’t just the pooping in the man’s shoe, but it was that, too. Since she loved the dog before she loved the man, they got a little yappy companion for BigDog. Now both dogs crap in the man’s shoe. But he loves her.

It was a cold day, but I spied a grouping of men in short sleeves running towards the boathouse in the shadow of the Watergate. They had military do’s. They stripped down, not even wearing caps, to show off their strength and fortitude to each other. The one called his mom later and complained about his overly macho colleagues. She listened and said nothing. Turns out that she’s distracted by the dark spot on his Dad’s lung x-ray. She doesn’t want to burden her son with the looming unknowns. Not just yet. She tells her boy to wear his hat next time and not to be worried about the others. They wanted to wear hats, too.  I agree with her.

The parkway split away from the path, and so the fuel for my tales ran out, too.

Posted on by docthink 2

Just Desserts

Homemande ginger ice cream with a raspberry sauce on top of Charyl's pizzelle. Mmmm.

Nobody likes a cheater.

But sometimes it’s just skirting of rules. Is that a cheat?

I always objected to that skim. The boys knew it was not going to fly. The times someone tries to get away on an absolute narrow reading of the ruling–nope. Not happening.

I always say that we do the spirit of the law, not the letter of the law in our house. People know right from wrong. Parsing means you’re trying to get away with something.

People, we know better.

Posted on by docthink 0

Bag O’ Ash

Three almost painfully earnest–think Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt–women greeted people alighting from Metro Center this morning. They were wearing big and friendly smiles.

They said “hello,” and then offered up ashes.

I looked again, sideways and not slowing down as to look like I might be a taker of their wares.

It was sunny and cold. All three women had dirt on their foreheads. I did a quick calendar calculation. Yesterday I was drinking whiskey. It was Fat Tuesday. So today would be Wednesday. Ash Wednesday. The beginning of Lent. Today.

I spied a reusable grocery bag to the left of the lay providers of holy ashes. It was like one of those brightly colored plastic totes you could buy at Trader Joe’s with tropical flower colors if not actual outlines of flowers. Were the ashes in there? In that bag? How much did they carry with them? How did they transport them? And why were they so jovial? Is this a celebration of fasting and penitence?

I’m wondering if these cheery women took this task upon themselves? Were they assigned ash distribution for those on the go from their church?

Who did they think would be interested? People who forgot about getting their ashes? Those who couldn’t make it to church?

This is definitely not for Catholics. There wasn’t a street Mass. So maybe for other Christians who do Lent? Or for a casual Lenten observer? Or maybe Lent is #trending for fashionable religious and secular alike? Like ashes from H&M?

Frankly, it’s a weird kind of proselytizing. Usually disciples give out pamphlets not ashes. Maybe the ashes were old pamphlets that they were recycling.

Pope Francis described Lent as a good time “to train ourselves to be more sensitive and merciful.” In that spirit, I am going to stop judging the happy women with the ashes in their shopping bag peddling contrition with a side of penance

Amen.

Posted on by docthink 0