I'm not sure how much progress either of us felt we made. The moment our session concluded I immediately excused myself to the restroom, exited the building, said goodbye to my husband and boarded the light rail to SeaTac, my portal to my bestie in San Francisco.
Three transit police squad cars were parked across the sidewalk entrance to the Pioneer Square south station entrance, quite unwelcoming. As I stepped onto the escalator down into the cavernous shaft, I caught an overhead speaker announcement for an airport bound train in two minutes. Thought to myself I had better get my ticket, fast. And so I did. As soon as I reached the platform, I first encountered a group of young men, somewhat delinquent looking, who were being addressed by a transit officer. Two of them were smoking, which may not have met with the officer's approval. The officer was also asking them to pick up a couple gummy worms they had apparently dropped on the ground.
A few moments later my train's headlights emerged from the tunnel and then off I went. At the very next stop a couple fare enforcement officers boarded. Each of them took a car (our trains are only two cars long), and they checked everyone's ticket or transit card. The Asian woman standing next to me reading her Kindle got the third degree. The officer asked to see her ID. It was clear, like nearly two thirds of the passengers onboard, she was heading to the airport for a flight. After she pulled out her transit card and passport, the officer pulled a digital camera from his pocket and took a photo of her ID page. I felt like this was really invasive, as if to make the statement that since you're a foreign national, you are not to expect any degree of privacy when conducting business (personal or otherwise) in our country. Welcome to America?
A couple stops later the fare enforcement officers exited, and then another stop later two more boarded. Same drill, this time there was no photo taken of my neighboring passenger's ID. Still, those of us who had been on the train since Downtown had to pull our wallets out twice to be questioned. I'm going to the airport, not Brazil or India.
This transit experience left me feeling uneasy and a bit like an outsider in my all too familiar hometown where I have spent 28.5 years of my middle age life. Honestly the last time I felt suspect just going about my everyday ordinary personal business was in 1989 at age 14 traveling into former East Germany by train before the Berlin Wall fell. Back then machine gun-wearing soldiers would board the trains, especially at boarder crossings, and verify passengers' documents. It was a rather intimidating process, and clear it was engineered that way. My Sound Transit experience was eerily similar.
The one highlight of the train ride was the silly luggage staring back at me from across the aisle. I knew immediately I had to share this image with my bestie via text:
I later regretted not taking a photo of the fare enforcement officer collecting my fellow passenger's passport image as well as not questioning their practice of this. Bestie's reply was simply: Omg
The flight down was mostly uneventful except for some mild turbulence and a highly annoying, obnoxiously loud young family behind me along with some seat kicking.
Such a beautiful flight in, sunny blue skies as we sailed over green, rolling hills. I do love California, and it was a sight for sore eyes (as well as a lot of other sore things).
Had a lovely dinner with bestie and her fiancé at their place. The next morning we were up bright and early to luxuriate for a very well earned spa day. We could not have asked for better weather nor a more beautiful place to relax, unwind and heal ...
I lovingly refer to this wonderful oasis as The Carnitas Inn. That's pretty close to the real name of this fabulous resort and spa in Napa. The 90 minute transition massage treatment was what I opted for, complete with a very cute and extraordinarily skilled therapist named Robert as well as some Diane Von Furstenberg designer essential oils created for those in physical or emotional transition. It was the perfect elixir, most definitely one of the single best treatments I have ever experienced in my life, and I've had many a massage I am pleased to admit. It's hard for me to recall a time I felt so well cared for. Every movement was so smooth, slow and precisely consistent. I could bore or possibly make you very envious with more details. I'll spare you. Bestie had a 90 minute Mellow Mama treatment designed for prenatal women. So perfect.
After our incredibly amazing treatments, we continued our ideal state of decompression outdoors next to that glamorous pool pictured above. What a special treat, and to be there with one of my most near dears. Also to have hours to relax and do as little as possible after a massage is an exceptionally rare experience for me. I'm extremely grateful for this coveted opportunity.
Honestly I cannot recall the last time I felt no tension or inflammation in my body. Maybe 2008? Far too fucking long is a reasonable estimate.
After an amazing day that sailed by and I wished would not end, we returned back to The City and reality. My husband shocked me back into it, starting with a text about how my ex brother-in-law, who we hired to install the flooring at my mom's place so they can move out of ours, was a no show. I called and spoke with our contractor, who informed me he had let my mom know he wasn't going to be able to make it. While my husband's text had me thinking he might have all out flaked, he at least communicated. I then called my husband, only to have him yell at and lambaste me over the phone in front of my bestie. She was shocked. I was just trying to de-escalate the matter. Despite being at odds with my husband about how things are occurring with the progress on my mom's place, we both have the same immediate goal rooted in our cores; get them out of our home as soon as possible. Following this conversation I'm also now aware I almost had one full day without stimulus of stress and tension for the first time in I can't recall how long.
That seems a horrible thing to think or write about one's mom. After four months of residing with us, my mom and her "partner" have done very little to assist us around the house. A few times Al has taken out the trash and recycling. Even so, often he dumps the excessive daily use of their bathroom paper products (typically one can full per day) into our garbage can, only to have scraps of tissue spill out onto the street weekly during collection. He has also on several occasions mindlessly put recycling into our compost bin. My mom once swept our stairs and on a few occasions cooked some ground beef for tacos (typically without seasoning the meat, even with salt). My mom does some dishes from time to time. Typically she'll do my morning dishes if I leave them in the sink in a rush to get to work. I don't want her to do those dishes. I want the freedom to let them sit for a spell until I am good and ready to do them. Then there's my mom's emptying of the dishwasher, which fills my counter space as she leaves anything she might have to bend down for out for me to put away. She is fully capable of bending down. It just occurs as being either really helpless, lazy or passive aggressive or a combination of the three. My husband and I have meal planned, shopped and cooked nice dinners for us for days and weeks. I only recently realized as I had a guest coming into town a few weeks ago my home had not been cleaned since the week before Thanksgiving. Shit. So I spent a day I didn't have to spare work-wise cleaning my house.
On the one hand I can certainly own my part in the state of my household cleanliness. At what point in time does family go from being guests to being roommates? We receive very little meaningful help from my mom and Al. Is that normal?
All our utilities have more than doubled. Even though we had one of the warmest and mildest winters on record, we still had big heating oil bills to keep our home temperate for my mom. At about 5'8" tall, my mom dropped down to 113 lbs. This was initially brought about by her cancer treatment, now mostly perpetuated by her nutritional choices. For example, if my husband and I are too wiped after working a full day and don't get home till close to 8:00 p.m. to prepare dinner, they will either not eat or they will fix cereal. Being so thin my mom constantly complains about being cold. Then again, growing up I recall she always ran cold and often remarked about it while shopping the refrigerated aisles at our local grocer. We kept our home at a constant 67 F from morning till night, which we lower to 63 F. It still doesn't satisfy her. Her complaints about our inside temperature are perpetual, despite seeing what our costs for heating our home are. What's lacking is a stitch of gratitude or even some additional personal responsibility for layering more clothing to keep herself warm. You know what's cold? A refrigerator box under a freeway overpass during a nighttime downpour. That's what I would love to jokingly say, and I'm sure it would be ill regarded.
I think back to the time my dearest Grandma came to live with us. She cleaned; she cooked; she washed, folded and ironed our laundry. She offered us an abundance of her love and nurturing. Grandma was always a welcome member of our household. My mom is the juxtaposition of this. It's as if she has just plain given up. Then she complains about not feeling like a mom anymore. A few times I have attempted conversing with my mom about how she is occurring for me. There is no reasoning with her. No matter how gently my delivery, she either gets defensive and tries to bend the conversation into unrelated topics or she just cries. There is no resolution. She makes little if any effort to change her behavior toward improving her situation. I've hit a wall.
The day following our amazing spa retreat, I had another luxurious day, which started with breakfast with bestie and her sweet fiancé. After they left for work I meditated. Then I got dressed and walked on the edge of Golden Gate Park to the Whole Foods on Stanyan and Haight to shop for lunch and dinner. Hopped an Uber back. Lunched, put dinner in the oven (pot roast with onion and carrots). Then I began writing this post in the lovely quiet of bestie's living room while sipping some delicious licorice tea.
It was a perfect day. Also I have to admit, even for life's seeming deep flaws, it's still pretty damn perfect. I feel like all the woes are preparing my husband and I for something great. One such thing I'm eagerly anticipating is the arrival of bestie's new bundle of joy; my Goddaughter!
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