“Tran” – spotting

My enabler-buddy,

 

 

Inspired by our various and sundry travels, “Tran-spotting” will focus on those interesting individuals that we run across in our travels.  Take, for instance, the fierce and ferocious drag-queen that she ran across in the airport during her last business trip.  Admittedly, she does travel up to San Francisco quite a bit on business (GODS, I wish I had her job!), but still, it is always interesting to wind up in a public area surrounded by a random sampling of America.  People watching can be a very entertaining game, particularly since our melting pot consists of so many weird blends of herbs and spices.  Sometimes, the soup of people resembles little more than a bland blancmange of the population.  But every now and then, you run across a grain of paradise.

 

Take, for instance, twinky girl-boy.  While waiting around in the Phoenix airport yesterday, I saw a site that made me have to suppress a very public giggle.  Behind me in the line to Starbucks (Hey, I needed my fix!), stood a liminy-snickets of tragic proportion.  Tall and thin, this girl from Ypanema anxiously needed his… I mean her coffee.  Dressed in flip-flops and vivid tourquoise coulottes, his pretty alabaster face showed no trace of getting his proverbial ass kicked at recess for being a total girly-boy.  Then again, his long and thin legs demonstrated his ostrich-like ability to quickly kick and run.  His very long Italian curly hair would have looked nice had it been cut a bit shorter.  But instead, he pulled his long locks back in an unfortunate ponytail, which sprayed out in the back of his head not unlike a formal bouquet.  Again, on a “Jacki,” or a “Brandi,” or a “Jodi” or any other cheerleader whose name is changed to end in an “i,” this ensemble coulda-woulda worked.  But not on this kid.  I don’t care who it is, or what he looks like.  NOBODY who has a hangy-downy-thing should dress like this.

 

When I looked at him again, and noticed that he had been looking in my general direction, I couldn’t help but smile.  Not a “come hither” smile, but hopefully one that effectively communicated, “Oh honey… no.  You aren’t even an amuse-bouche in my world.”  I can’t help but wonder what would happen if he were suddenly dropped in the middle of the Faultline.  It brings to mind images of the iddy-biddy-widdle bunny wabbit dropped in the cage with a Burmese python.  A mere EEP! might be uttered right before that final GULP!

 

Oh… the people we see.

kdmorinand I came up with a FABulous idea that will, I’m sure, fund our retirement.  We will write a coffee table book called “Tran-spotting”.  And what is this intriguing new concept, you may be wondering? 

A second-look at similarity

“You’re just like your mother,” people would so frequently say to me while I was growing up.  And truth be told, I always resented it – not because I had any issues with my mom, but because it seemed like people were unwilling to give me any credit for having a personality of my own.  I pride myself (perhaps a little too much), in being my own person with my own tastes and my own decision-making abilities, rest of the world be damned.  Having spent time with my mom over this past extended weekend, now I’m not so sure.

 

The purpose of this visit was really a mix of things.  Obviously, it was a nice reunion, as I only get to the East coast every couple of years nowadays.  But beyond that, the visit was to take care of some very necessary (although dreaded), organization – what to do after mom dies.  Is her will updated?  Where are the important papers?  What does she want done with what?  Etc., etc., etc.  Having seen what Paul went through with his mom and his family, and coaxed on by my mother’s second heart-surgery, the fates were clearly screaming at the top of their furious voices, “It is time to get this overwith, bonehead!”  Much to my surprise, my mother was thrilled to no end to dive into this endeavor.  I had not expected it to be a relief to my mother to know that such things would be taken care of – especially since they are issues that she, herself, won’t have to deal with since the key factor of this transition will, of course, be her demise.  “But Joe,” my dear husband reminded me.  “You aren’t content unless you have every last thing planned to the microsecond – even the things that are beyond your control.  I can only assume that you inherited that from your mother.”  “HOGWASH!”  I thought to myself.  “POPPYCOCK, Even!”  There clearly must be some other explanation.

 

Upon arrival at my mom’s condo, I walked in to find a familiar scene – everything very neat, very orderly and very organized.  Nothing appeared too cluttered – there were just enough things in just enough places – just like it should be…. Just like I would have it.  Very early into the visit, we began to dive into the list of things needing to be taken care of.  But as I booted up the laptop to begin asking questions, my mother took over.  She pointed out exactly WHERE to go for WHICH item, identifying HOW to access WHICH combination or WHAT key.  It was almost surreal.  Had she rehearsed this?  Everything was stashed away in a very smart place.  Everything was organized to the T.  By the time she finished showing me where everything was, and providing information, I had nothing left on my list to ask.  She had it all organized.  What I figured would take days had taken an afternoon.  So organized… so carefully planned-out… so anal-retentive… so… so… so… ACK!  So ME!

 

Throughout the visit, I would notice certain patterns of behavior that, again, were very me.  “Where are my keys?” my mom asked.  I didn’t know.  “I don’t remember where I put them,” she said.  “Check the hook in the kitchen.  I probably just walked in there and put them there on autopilot.”  Sure enough, there they were.  Driven by muscle-memory, my mother can predict what she probably did based on a pattern.  Again… SOOOOO me!

 

Throughout the rest of the visit, we chatted and compared notes – about family, about life, about perspectives.  More and more, I would hear her say things that make sense, and probably ONLY make sense to me.  “I like living by myself,” she would say.  “I like the occasional visit, but ultimately… I really like my space and don’t really like being around people.”  OY, did THAT sound familiar.  I think the clincher had to be about advice.  My mother commented at one point about having NO tolerance when people try to give her advice when she didn’t ask for it.  That actually stopped me in my tracks.  “What?” I asked her.  As she continued with her example of feeling patronized by people who assume she doesn’t know how to solve a problem, I realized it was undeniable.  I really AM my mother’s son.  And I DO come by it naturally. 

 

Perhaps I should have taken advantage of our wedding name-change to legally become, “Joe Anal-Retentive.”  OK, perhaps not.  But it really would make sense.

Doing the right thing… SUCKS

Just as I cannot deny that I really am my mother’s son, I have to wonder about my dad.  My father and I really could not have been more unalike if we had tried.  Even the things that I wish I had in common with my dad simply will never be.  One thing about my dad – he was clever and had an unbreakable poker face.  Me?  Never!  While my dad could probably have convinced an Eskimo to buy a deep freezer, I was never a successful liar or swindler in any fashion.  As a kid, if I accidentally did something wrong, there was no point in even trying to lie, as I just didn’t know how.  I would be the kid to say, “I didn’t knock over the vase.  Somebody broke into the house and knocked it over!” If not a clumsy burglar, aliens may have been involved.  It never even OCCURRED to me to come up with a plausible lie.  Since a lie, by its very nature, is something untrue, my brain could not process the concept that one false-story could possibly sound more plausible than another.  I must not have been a particular challenge to my parents.  If they asked me, “who spilled the milk?” and I answered, “my sister did it,” they knew I was speaking the truth.  After all… it wasn’t a particularly far-fetched answer.  But if I answered, “a ghost did it!  Honest!!!” or “there was an earthquake… in just the kitchen” they would have to suppress the urge to roll their eyes at my pathetic failure at covering my ass.

 

Then, there was my dad – the ultimate salesman/swindler.  My mom reminded me about the time that he managed to acquire a 2 ½ dollar gold piece from his aunt.  He gave her 2 ½ dollars for it after convincing her that that was its worth.  ACK!  HOW?!  He managed to purchase antiques and expensive items from patrons of his bar regularly by downplaying the value, and throwing in how someone in the family enjoyed such little trinkets.  ACK!  HOW?!!!

 

While strolling through the antique section of Tarpon Springs on Sunday, I was reminded once again about my utter failure at the fine art of the swindle.  As many of you know, I am a Hummel collector, and have been since my early teens.  (Hey Joel Derfner… if you are out there somewhere thinking that you were born to be the gayest gay who ever gayed, I will see your knitting and steps aerobics, and raise you Hummel collection and yoga!)  By the time I was 13, I could tell you most of the figurines by name, description, and catalog number.  (A wee-bit obsessed?)  One of my mother’s card-playing friends was a regular flea-marketer.  Somewhere in her travels, she managed to pick up a particular Hummel figuring, Signs of Spring.  Signs of Spring portrays a little girl standing behind a wooden fence.   Yet, there was something unique about this figurine.  Early in the production, they modified the design slightly.  Originally, the little girl stood with both feet on the ground.  Yet, at some point, the Goebel designers changed the design so that the later figure showed the girl with one shoe kicked off, implying that she was either kicking the fence, or going to climb the fence.  Most people would did not know the difference, or to even look for a difference.  But I did.  Going back home to double-check it in one of my guide books (yes, I had several), I was able to verify that back then in the early 80’s, the one-shoe figurine was priced at about $50.00.  The rare two-shoe figurine was valued at $500.00  So in my excitement, what did I do?  I called her up to give her the good news that her figuring was rare, and worth much more than she thought.  Later on, I learned that she would probably have given or sold the figurine off to me… but not now that she knew of its value.

 

DAMNIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

Of all of the times in my life that I really WISH I were more like my dad, that was one of them.  Now, fast forward to yesterday.  I walked into an antique store, and noticed in the back of the store a case full of Hummels.  As always, I look for Signs of Spring.  Low and behold, for the first time since I was a child, I found one with two shoes!!!!  And then looking underneath, I found the information, “Rare two shoe production.  $975.00”. 

 

DAMNIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

Sure, it was the “right thing to do” to tell her what the figuring was worth.  But, but, but… this SUCKS!  That statue should be MINE!  She wouldn’t even have KNOWN about the value had it not been for me! 

 

I can handle the fact that “nice guys finish last.”  But nobody ever told me that “nice guys lose out on valuable porcelain statuettes.”  And the worst part?  I can’t even steal it.  I’d get busted.  And then what would I say?  I didn’t take it – the aliens did?

 

Le sigh.

Observations at the airport

The plane touched down with an uncommon smoothness, as if the Gods above had answered my particular request for a smooth ride.  In the past few days that I have visited with my mom, her absolutely horrible and vengeful spare-room bed has taken its toll on my temperpedic-pampered back, leaving me in near-screaming agony as my sacrum has locked up with such intensity as to render me unwilling to hold onto any military secrets, if I indeed had any.  What’s worse, the ironic powers that be seem to have replaced every form of drug and pain-killer with mentos.  Whether it be extra-strength over-the-counter stuff, or the prescription-pain-pads that they gave to my mother following her surgery, absolutely nothing worked.  No relief from pain… no temporary restoration of function… Perhaps this is my mother’s evil plan to guarantee that she will NOT have visitors very often or for very long.  Hmmmm…

 

How pathetic it must have looked when I took my 81 year old mother, just out of her second heart surgery, out for her birthday dinner.  She looked great, and moved around well, while I struggled to get out of the car, and could not manage to stand up straight.  Even after taking FULL advantage of happy hour, I could not manage to become the erectus part of my homo.  (Wait… that just sounds wrong).

 

In any case, having landed now in Phoenix, after having been fairly immobile for the past few hours, I now find myself sitting on the ground, with my back propped up against a column, because a number of people in the waiting lounge cannot seam to understand common courtesy.  Indeed, looking over at one row of benches, a lady in her fifties lays sprawled out over no less than 4 seats, while other people lean against the wall, or sit on the floor.  Oh… to be given the authority to hand out citations for rudeness or blatant inconsideration!  How WUDE!

 

While waiting at TIA, however, I caught a rare glimpse of what I consider to be unusually thoughtful behavior.  Sitting across from me, a woman chatted on her cellphone.  Not meaning to eavesdrop, I could not help but glean that she was an attorney, caught in an awkward position of representing both sides, in what she perceived as a conflict of interest.  She worked hard to try to line up someone else for one side of the other.  Near the end of her phonecall, she thanked the person on the receiving end, stating specifically, “Thank you for the generosity of your time in calling me back.”  Thank you for the GENEROSITY of your TIME!  Yes!  She gets it!  Time is, after all, a gift.  Of the items and objects that come and go, many existed before us, and many will exist after us.  How many possessions are truly OURS?  In fact, what really does BELONG to each and every one of us?  Our money?  No.  Our possessions?  No.  Ultimately, what we DO have and can call our own is our time – our decisions – our choices.  After all, the consequences follow us, right?  What a noble gift is time.  To give someone your time is, in so many ways, the ultimate in selflessness.  And how wonderful it was for this woman to not only recognize that, but to thank the person on the other end.

 

If I ever need to line up an attorney, I hope it is her or someone like her who recognizes the value of time, the value of a simple thank you, and the value in each and every one of us.