I remember going to the memorial service of a family friend at the beginning of the decade. She was a longtime friend of my mom's, and I was not quite to the adult age where you stop noticing adults' ages. I was slightly uncomfortable going, because I had not been to many memorial services, and because she had died of cancer, and because she had children my age and younger. I dressed in dark, somber and appropriate clothing and I sat next to my younger sister, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. It felt very surreal, and of course it was sad, so I withdrew.
When I got to the library this morning, there was a soaking wet, moppy dog tied up at the front door. He was pacing in his short space, waiting for his owner, but he stopped when he saw me. He grinned and wagged his tail and sidled over to me. He wiggled and leaned and even though he had salty, wet fur, I let him. This touched me.
On November 10th, 1955, Ottolyn Kay Stablein was born to Otto and Betty Stablein. My Grandpa wanted a child named after him, so they christened her Ottolyn. Of course, shortly thereafter my Grandma Betty gave birth to a son, and they named him Marty. I wonder what they would have named my mom if Marty had come first. Although, the name on her birth certificate doesn't really matter, since they almost immediately started calling her "Treeny". I have tried to ascertain the origin of this nickname, to no avail.
I heard somewhere that dentists have the highest suicide rate of any profession. I wonder why that is? Is it just so mundane, sticking your gloved fingers in and out of different mouths all day? Maybe it's the slow, smooth background music. Or maybe some dentists sit and think about being a doctor that doesn't save lives, just teeth.
Today I found myself sitting in the lobby of the Tom Waddell Free Clinic down on Lechwalesa Street near the Civic Center. Lobby spurs visions of comfy couches, a small table strewn with People magazines, and a small, but colorful fish tank. In real life, that is what most lobbies look like, so maybe I should have used the words “waiting room”, but even that gives off an inaccurate impression of my surroundings. Even a waiting room is generally more inviting than the cell I stewed in for 2 hours.
Yep, 2 hours.
Last Saturday night I went with a crew of friends to see Bajofondo perform at Bimbo's. They rocked the house and my world. We saw them perform for the first time last summer at Stern Grove, and then again in spring at Bimbo's. You can't help but move your body and your head to the rhythms and the beats and if you bump into the person next to you, a stranger or a friend, even better.
On Saturday the 12th, my dear friend Rachael married my dear friend Tim and I stood up there with them, tears in my eyes and a bouquet in hand. There was nothing special about the location, but there was something so special about all of the love emanating from every corner and every bench. The wedding was in soCal and they had guests from all over the country fly in to celebrate, including a slew of NYC buddies they have made over the past year of living there. At the reception, the dance floor was teeming with friends and family who could barely contain their smiles on their faces.
Soul mate. Soulmate. A mate for life. I wait.
Hold my hand, and listen to me, and I will talk to you for the rest of my existence.
Your existence. When we graduate to the next plain, I will be there, as well.
Spread all five fingers of your left hand and touch the tips to the tips of the fingers on my right hand. Power. Touch. Love.
Walk with me and we will succeed. Continue.
Find me by the light of my smile.