Giant love

Personal photo taken at the train station in the morning, Nov. 2
after the Giants won the World Series on Nov. 1

Let me start by saying I am not a big baseball fan. Until quite recently, I did not even know who the Giants were. I am marrying a Dodger fan. But, Giant fever bit me this year.

At work, everyone was in a tizzy the last month over the Giants. During a very important dinner with some very important diplomats, most of the dinner guests spent the entire time checking their phones every two minutes to see the score of the Giants game they were "forced" to miss. On Halloween, little kids dressed up as Giants players. Everywhere you went in the area, Giants memorabilia lined storefronts, train stations, offices. Orange and black became representative of the baseball fury instead of Halloween. Target dedicated an entire isle to Giants (and Sharks) jerseys, hats, bats, balls, toys, etc. Co-workers left work at 1:30 to either attend games or make sure they were home in time to watch them on TV. Dedication at its finest.

This reminds me so much of being 18, living in Southern California, and the Lakers winning the championship for the second year in a row. Everywhere you went, Lakers. Everyone you talked to, Lakers. Everyone from Philadelphia was a sworn enemy. Anyone not sticking Lakers flags on their car was a traitor. This was a world or excitement, of anticipation, pride, innocence. It was June in 2001, and just a couple of months later, the world would change for ever. I would leave home to start college. While in Europe, I would watch the TV as New York bled and smoked. L.A. pride turned into American pride. Lakers flags were replaced with U.S. flags. The Lakers would go on to three-peat and win the championship again at the end of the season, but by that time it was getting harder for me to find the time to watch the games, harder to get as excited. Sports mania had somehow passed me by. It's never come back in full glory, but this year I witnessed it as a disinterested onlooker instead of manic fan, and I have to say, it warmed my heart to know so many people are being so fulfilled by "their" team's win.

It is wonderful to again be living in a place that gets to celebrate a victory like this. It makes me take pride in the place I live, as if by having a celebrated sports team, my choice of where I live is somehow validated. Also, seeing the faces of Giants fans lit up with pride reminds me why sports are so important in this world -- they bring folks together, give people something to hope and live for. Two nights before the midterm elections, the Giants gave everyone what they had been waiting for for so long -- a win in the world series! The morning after the elections, the Giants parade again gave the city and the fans something to either take their mind off the election results, or perhaps a reason to get out on the street and celebrate a two-fold win. Regardless of politics, the thousands of people who crowded the trains, the freeways, the parking lots, and the fast food restaurants today were excited, celebrating a victory that they'd had no part in. They were, simply put, happy. Nothing is bringing these folks down.

The power of vicarious happiness is pretty incredible. We may not be athletes ourselves, but when "our" team wins, we feel victorious. We may have best friends from all over the world, but in the final rounds, we protect "our" territory as if a conquering tyrant is threatening to take it over. We may not have ever met a pitcher, a quarterback, or a point guard, but we call these people by their first names, sometimes even by intimate nicknames, we have mental conversations with them, we scream at them from our peanut gallery seats or our couch, we project onto them heroics of Homeric stature, and somehow, mysteriously, we become better people in our own eyes when "our" team, "our" athlete, takes the win.

So, Go Giants! I am going to revel in the fact that I live in a place where people walking down the street have been smiling to themselves, saying hello to each other, laughing with strangers on the train, all because they are under the euphoria of a home team victory. Their happiness lets me forgive the belligerence on the train this morning when thousands of Giants fans crowded the commuter trains on the way to San Francisco for the Giants victory parade. Their happiness makes me happy.

In the spirit of sportsmanship, no matter what team you root for, the following sentiment expressed by a Giants fan and AT&T park usher who participated in the parade today sums up the glory of a hometown win:

"This is Christmas, New Year's, and your first-born all rolled into one. I'm on cloud nine."

Gourmand ambitions

Something very exciting has been happening lately -- amidst a subtle and ongoing midlife crisis, I have discovered that I really enjoy cooking and baking; this is probably a felicitous discovery considering how much I like eating!

Since domesticity has never been among my strong suits, at first I was surprised by my own epicuriosity. I blame three people for this new interest: my mother, M, and Sharone. While my parents visited, my mother cooked almost daily, reminding me of how much I love her food. At first, I didn't understand why she wanted to spend so much time slaving away cooking, especially with some of the more time-consuming dishes she made. But then, I started realizing that cooking wasn't just meant to be a means of feeding us, but rather an expression of her creativity, ability, usefulness... in short, identity. When you cook something, you put yourself into that food, and it becomes a signal to those eating the meal that you took the time and effort and pleasure to create this food for them. You are nourishing them in a very particular way - your way, and at the same time telling them that they are important enough for you to cook for them, and that you are important enough to be trusted with this responsibility. I guess I am realizing that when not done out of sheer necessity, cooking can become an outlet for one's personality much like creative writing, painting, playing an instrument can. But unlike all these other outlets, it yields tasty, delicious food!

The second person I blame for my newly discovered passion is M. If he wasn't so supportive of all my whacky ideas, and didn't encourage me to do whatever it is that makes me happy, and didn't like to eat as much as I do, I may have been prevented from obsessively creating Amazon wish lists of all my new "must-have" cooking and baking needs! Our apartment would not suddenly feel too small because it cannot house all the hundreds of spice jars, dozens of baking molds, etc etc etc that I suddenly want to spend half my paychecks on.

Thirdly, reading Sharone's blog encourages me to take chances on things I never previously wanted to make. Her amazing ability to squeeze in time to create Margarita Cupcakes and gorgeous fluffy clouds of deliciousness while juggling wedding showers, work, grad school, and life has convinced me that there is always time for a tasty treat!

I think this cooking thing is part of a bigger picture. Lately, I've been overwhelmed by new hobbies that I want to pursue, from camping and backpacking, to spin classes and running, to cooking and becoming the next finance guru (okay, that's a bit far-fetched. But I do have this fantasy of creating a super-duper portfolio that is chock full of diverse investments, and participating in conversations in which I confidently command the usage of words like "maturity," "municipal bonds," and "hedge fund.")

Wherefore these interests? Wherefore now? I blame the clock. The clock that in a voice akin to Chinese water torture tells me each day, "You are getting older." And, without magical ear plugs to shut out this evil clock, I somehow along the way decided that "older" will not mean "boring," will not mean "settled," will not mean "slow" or "fat" or "dowdy." I have decided that if fate must be left to her devices and pull me into adulthood and all the things that come with it, I will do it on my own terms.

So, for now, I spin, I run, I ache. I eat, I cook, I bake. (I couldn't help myself!)

A Lot of Things Different

There is nothing better (or worse) for nostalgia than being up in the middle of the night and listening to Kenny Chesney's ballads. I was originally going to put up "Old Blue Chair" but this one is even worse (or better).

I'd spend a lot more time in the pouring rain without an umbrella
Covering my head
And I'd stood up to that bully when he pushed and called me names
But I was too afraid
And I'd a gone on and saw Elvis that night he came to town
But mama said I couldn't
And I'd a went skinny dipping with Jenny Carson that time she dared me to
But I didn't

Oh I, I'd done a lot of things different

I wished I'd a spent more time with my dad when he was alive
Now I don't have the chance
I wish I had told my brother how much I loved him before he went off to war
But I just shook his hand
And I wish I had gone to church on Sunday morning when my grandma begged me too
But I was afraid of God
And I wish I would've listened when they said Boy, you're gonna wish you hadn't
But I wouldn't

Oh I, I'd done a lot of things different

People say they wouldn't change a thing, even if they could
Oh but I would

There was this red dress she wanted one time so bad she could taste it
And I should've bought it, but I didn't
She wanted to paint our bedroom yellow and trim it blues and greens
But I wouldn't let her, wouldn't a hurt nuthin
She loved to be held and kissed and touched but I didn't do it
Not nearly enough
And if I'd a known that dance was going to be our last dance
I'd a asked that band to play on and on on and on

Oh I, I'd done a lot of things different

People say they wouldn't change a thing, even if they could
Oh but I would
Oh whoa Oh I, I'd done a lot of things different
Oh I, I'd done a lot of things
I think we've all do a lot of things different

****************

I don't know how this is productive for my Keats paper; but it definitely got me into a big ol' ball of emotional. Which, I suppose, is good when studying the romantics.

Nostalgia on the 57S

The hills to my left are covered in tall yellow wildflowers; the gloom and wind and yellow hills are free of worry, unlike the small and big and giant cars that trudge along that curve in the freeway every day. The cars look tired, like over-worked horses that day after day climb those hills. The people inside them could be young or old, but they are all looking forward and you can't really tell; but every now and then someone has a driver's side window rolled down, and you see a pink or brown or ensleeved elbow resting in the sun. At noon traffic is heavier than in the morning, a non-nonsensical equation waiting to be solved by traffic math geeks sitting in a cube. In the carpool lane, a white van with black windows drives slower than I wish to go, but I don't exit to pass because I like being in the far left where more and more you see the yellow stickers on the hippy cars. In the right line, small cars zoom from on ramps and proceed to cut off the slow giants in the second lane. The semis, the 18-wheelers, the flatbeds carrying tractors and pipes and crates let the small cars jump in front of them, like elephants indulging wild hares jumping around the their heavy feet. It is a cement jungle today on the 57S, and the daily migration is in full swing.

The people drive with their eyes forward. They make me sad. They make me want to think of happy things, and random memories pop up like fizz bubbles in mineral water, out of nowhere, out of inside.

I remember choreographing roller blading routines with Melissa when we were in 5th and 6th grades; we wanted to be the ice skating girls from the TV, and we got real good.

I remember college and Clockwork Orange on Friday nights even after we turned 21, and being able to dance in heels for hours but when we'd walk to the car my feet felt like they'd fall off.

I remember that first spring break with Marcello when I brought with me all my little skirts and platform shoes and it was too cold to wear any of it, but one night we listened to Sinatra for hours so it didn't matter anyway.

I remember when Nadine turned in "Malcolm in the Middle" and how giddy we were at her witty title, and how I made it through junior and senior year by using her laptop for all my all-nighters.

I remember driving to Santa Monica to my internship and going to lunch on the Promenade and thinking, this is the life.

I remember going to Romania and spending the hot summers driving around the country and singing along to silly pop songs with the windows down because he didn't have air conditioning.

I remember junior year and talking on my cell phone while sitting in the empty bathtub and the world felt so small and Nadine would come home and she would understand why I was sitting in that tiny tub with my jeans on and the cell phone running out of battery.

I remember thinking that life was going to be so much better when we graduated and life began and I can't remember why.

I remember moving to Hollywood and trying so hard to hold on to something because I couldn't face failing at one more thing that year.

I remember when in senior in high school a friend told me no one ever "feels" like an adult and how I didn't believe him until this year.

I think of the people on the 57S and wonder where they are all going and what some of them are thinking about, what memories bubble to the surface while they drive behind a Sentra with a smashed tail-light and an Oregon license plate. I wonder how many notice the yellow wildflowers that cover the hills. The wind makes waves among them, and the hill is a rolling yellow and green sea to the left and the right of the black cement scar that runs through it. In front of my I see the San Bernardino mountains, and one lone peak still shows a trace of white. I must exit the carpool to remain on the 57 and soon the 10 divides away; I am almost at school, and Brad Paisley is singing and brings me back to the moment at hand. The nostalgia is over and an aching for the near future takes over.

Like Billy Pilgrim, I have become unstuck in time today, as the past and the future bounce against one another and I don't know if when I get out of the car and put my feet on the ground I will be in the present. But I am, because parking was a pain and I hope I don't get a ticket parking in the staff lot, and I think that book was supposed to come today. I don't know where the past went and I don't have time to think about the future just now.