The Golden Gate = one large golden smile

Some people make vows for the new year; eat well, be more kind, quit smoking, drink less coffee, smile. I am considering that 2009 won't be a year of broken promises made to myself with little hope of being a reality. Take for example back in 2005 when I felt pressured to give up jaywalking, an activity I find convenient, thrilling and necessary. But who was I to cross the street when I wasn't supposed? The guilt was too heavy so I tried and for a solid week or two, I was attaining my new year goal. My constant need to cut corners overcame though, and I fell back to my old ways. I just couldn't quit it.

However, in light of making positive affirmations in the year to come, I have vaguely decided to create structure in my personal 2009.  A fresh calendar, a hopeful and inspiring new administration has also brought to me a new state of residence. I have made the move from Hawaii/Utah/Illinois/New York all the way to the west banks of sunny California. I am San Francisco's' newest addition. Only 7 days under my belt and I have fallen head over heals in love with the place. So, unpacking my bags and hanging the hat for a while is tickling my fancy. I may have just found a perfect match...for now.

My new job is off to a wonderful start. Mills-Peninsula is a community based Hospital situated just south of the San Bruno Mountains just outside San Francisco city limits. I was shocked to find floor-to-ceiling windows line the nurse station at the Family Birthing Center. Natural sunlight and un-stagnant air for hard working health care workers? Indeed. They even turn the blaring fluorescent lights off to soak in the happy sunlight. The volume is much lower than most hospitals topping 160 bambinos monthly...a mere four days worth at Northwestern. You will find the nurses gray streaked and wise wearing funky reading glasses and half-moon earrings. If it weren't for the general 'sterility' code that all hospitals follow, I am certain they would be dressed in flowing beaded skirts and lighting patchouli scented incense scones in the hallways. They are radical and I sense that my love for earth tones and granola will fit in just fine. 

I wish I could say my commute brings equal delight but that would be a false statement. In order to make the 7 Am shift change, I rise before the sun even considers it. A quick 7 minute bike ride takes me to the BART where I board and chug along for 30 minutes. It makes for long days but only three times weekly. The beauty of a nurses' schedule.

The new digs are situated on the border of Japantown and lower pacific heights. There may just be more sushi restaurants on my block than all of Tokyo and once my bank account returns from an agonizing trip into the red, I will take a little break from my 3 x daily serving of instant oatmeal and visit each one to jump in on the deliciousness. I have rearranged the hotel-like furniture in just a way, that there seems to be a twinge of homieness to it. I am far too poor to purchase push tacs, groceries or laundry detergent so for the moment it is views of white paint while eating bagged popcorn in dirty clothes. Strangely, I wouldn't change it for the world. 

All four cardinal directions make for easy walks to amazing sights. The other day, I accidentally landed on the Golden Gate Bridge, just a skip, hop and jump down the steepest hill known to mankind. As you can guess, it is not the friendliest biking city as my calf muscles are already feeling the strain of the grade increase. I feel crazy and like a professional athlete as the exact same time as I try to pump my way up streets I wouldn't even be able to walk up, quite impressed that I haven't barreled over yet. But, today I saw a man stroll himself up in his WHEELCHAIR...and my self-esteem balloon popped.

There are parks everywhere and the best thing involves the Eucalyptus trees that grow in swarms throughout. The scent is peaceful and therapeutic...I find myself breathing more quickly through my nostrils just to smell it again and again. Aromatherapy...free in abundance.

I have been making friends left and right; on the BART, at the bike shop, on the beach. I have already been asked to 'coffee', asked to 'get together' and invited to a house party by two Frenchmen and it has only been a week. (Facebook numbers increasing!) Just as quickly though, I am making some enemies. Last night after leaving the hospital, I was pulled over by a cop on my bike...flashing lights included. I knew what I had done but I couldn't believe I was actually pulled over for it.  He couldn't decide whether I should be given a ticket for running the red light, not wearing a helmet or biking without a flasher. 

"Maybe I will just give you one for all three!" he yelled. 

"Officer Bryson, I truly see that I have made a hazardous mistake, but don't you feel as though the lights in this very busy intersection change too quickly? I am just lucky I wasn't met with oncoming traffic."

I some how tried to turn the blame on him and San Mateo county for the lack of slower traffic lights but my sassy attitude was getting me nowhere.

"I haven't written a biking ticket in nearly 15 years," he said.

"Can officers really do that?" I was questioning his authority and his bald shiny forehead wrinkled with displeasure. 

"EXCUSE ME!" Tension was mounting.

"I am sorry. It was completely careless and a foolish idea on my part. I should be wearing a helmet. I should have stopped at the red light. I should have the headlamp that I have tied to my handlebars as a makeshift light in the ON position. I will never make this mistake again."

He let me go with a warning...the closest call I have had since I was caught speeding down the kid littered streets of Murray. I couldn't believe he had nothing better to do than threaten me with a moving violation. By no means would the crime fighters on the streets of Chicago bother with such petulant problems. They would simply turn the other cheek like most crooked Chicago lawmakers. That is what makes it such a prosperous place.

It is bizarre transitioning into new political and social happenings. I was reading the San Francisco Chronicle and there, on the front page, was an article about California's very own Governor, Arnold Shwarzenegger. It donned on me. I am now governed by kindergarten cop, by the Twin that stole all the good genes from Danny DeVito, by Junior, by the Terminator himself. It didn't, and still doesn't, feel right but I like his views and policies on greening regardless of his affiliation to the Republican Party. He is so posh...that last action hero. What does feel right is that plastic grocery bags have been eliminated as options at local stores. The environmental push for cleanliness is vibrating all around town. I am digging it.

Today, an unseasonably 70 degrees sprinkled my new town and again I was caught exploring the territory. I spent hours on Ocean Beach watching hunks of men, head-to-toe in wetsuits, hit the surf. One guy told me the water temperature is around 50 degrees but I guessed that it was colder than that by the shade of blue that colored his lips. I thought that was pretty badass but was even more blown away by the badassness of it when I saw one guy biking, up hill, with his surfboard mounted to the frame. Incredible.

Needless to say, things are settling in quite nicely. I have been picking at the idea of going back to school for some type of Masters degree and UCSF conveniently has some great ones. I hardly want to pack my human-sized back pack again so I think I will try to plant a seed or two and watch it flourish. Maybe I will foster the development of some relationships. Perhaps I need to get a boyfriend? I have been so selfish with myself...I think it is high time I share me with others. (come get 'er fellas...)

Ahh, there I go again...making golden promises. Fiiiine, what's another year of resolutions? 

Gram and her Schmeagles...

Bundled to visit Dr. Locher...whom she loooooves.

The date is January 12th...

Just half a day ago, I watched Waimea recede into the distance as I inched my unwilling self towards the airport. My arms reached out the window, trying to grasp the last essence of green beauty of the place I called home for this past month. I felt like a child being dragged from the playgrounds, just too stubborn to leave. Painful.

Now, I am sitting in Palace Lexington, the rehabilitation center where my grandmother lays in hope that her broken right hip will mend quicker then it will take 31 days in January to elapse. The smell of Hawaiian Jasmine has been replaced by the wafting scents of microwavable carrots and the powder used to displace smelly diapers. The balmy tropical weather that I was getting so used to has been pummeled and replaced with temperatures that cause my boogers to freeze as soon as I step outside. Painful.

She is doing great though, my grandma. For being cooped up all day, her youthful 86-year old self glides cheerfully in her wheelchair down the hallway, making random grunts about the mass-produced artwork. When she passes her male counterparts, she sticks her good hand out to reach for theirs and the weathered fingers bend and form into one solid handshake. Her way of flirting? I have no doubt. Her negativity is as vibrant as ever as seen when she refuses to listen to her Physical therapist. Gram claims she is rude but I saw her mood shift when she saw the ladies charm bracelet had Hebrew written on it. 

The stroke she suffered 25 years ago left her a paralyzed right side and without the use of speech (save for four simple phrases...'Ahhh shit', 'I love you', 'money, money, money' and dadooo!'). So in order to communicate, she sky writes with her left hand each trailing thought...letter by letter. If you fail to read it on the first attempt, she throws out a look that says "you have just been omitted from my will". It is impressive really, that she is still alive and that all lab work constantly comes back unremarkable. Her diet is made primarily up of Werthers candies, Pepsi and an occasional chocolate shake. She only sips water when it is time for her medications and if you linked all the cigarettes that she has smoked together, I am sure they would circle the globe numerous times. She is amazing. Built with pure brawn and simply amazing.

What is not amazing though is the condition of her feet. Years of neglect have left them dry, brittle and in serious need of attention. Years ago, during one of my visits, I noted that her skin needed a good lather in lotion. As I rubbed Jergens into her the dry scales of her legs, my attention was taken to her toes. "Gram! When was the last time you cut your toenails?!"

Her good arm flew up and her shoulders shrugged. The baffle in her eyes suggested a lifetime. My guess was a few decades ago.

She bent her knee and lifted her foot to the level of my eye. I crouched down to examine. Each movement her foot made, speckles of skin fluttered about. I was afraid to inhale, nervous that each breath would mean a lung full of Grams foot flakes. She looks at me "Daddoooo, ahh shit."

A pair of nail clippers never sat far from her chair...I knew what had to be done. 

"Gram, (guuuulp) do you want me to trim your toenails?"

"Ahhh, good, dadooo!" She smiles and I muster all my strength. I have seen some gross things in my day; the miracle of life, dead bodies in morgues, blood spurting like a volcano. But this? This goes down in the ultimate books of disgusting endeavors.

If you have seen Dumb and Dumber then you can imagine the scene that followed. Dead, thick nails catapulting into the sky while my head swung dodging them in slow motion. I should have put on safety goggles because one of those bad boys to the eye could have left me blind. But I persevered knowing (hoping) that when the day came that I couldn't reach my toes, or pluck the stray hairs from my chin, that my granddaughter would sit at my feet and do the same. She giggled when I topped it off with a foot and ankle massage. This had to feel like gold to her.

But, once you taste the nectar of the gods, it is hard to go back to plain, and boring juice. Each visit after that, almost immediately upon my arrival, her fingers would point to her white Velcro Reebok's with high expectations. And each time I patiently debrided her frail pedal digits. They were compounding and each time her little feet looked even littler. 

The expectations hadn't changed with the move to Lexington. My mom, unwilling to step foot into the treacherous territory, allowed Gram and I to spend some quality time alone while I sawed down the stems. As she laid like a fragile branch in her electronic bed, I littered her fleece blanket with trimmings and wondered if this meant that I was getting her wedding ring when she passed. I could see that no one had stepped in during my year absence so surely I was rightful and deserving. The big toe on her right foot, always the biggest, most yellow and hardest to tame took nearly an hour alone to manage. I now wasn't only nervous about breathing in her expired epidermis but was curious as to what conditions my own skin would suffer. Gram was loving every bit of it. She was thrilled, beaming, delighted and every other synonym for the word happy! So in the midst of the disgustingness, the smile I shot back was heartfelt and real. I no longer minded the task I was doing.

When all is said and done, she snuggles in and I perch in the upholstered chair to her right to read her the love letters that my Grandpa sent her while he was in the war. Hundreds of handwritten messages scribing his wistful determination to make it home to kiss her once again. Some began with "Dear Sugar..." and "My Dearest Virginia..." Her eyes sparkle and I see her mind recount each time she opened them, ecstatic with the touch of love, knowing that her soldier was physically oceans away, but emotionally tangled in a web of passion, in her heart. 

And then she would make a drinking motion with her hand...reminding me that he was a raging alcoholic.

So then I tell her, while she is in a good mood, that I am moving to San Francisco.

Her stink eye grows scary and I try to calm her by saying that no matter what, Chicago is still my favorite place on earth. She then motions her finger across her neck, side to side. "DEAD!" she gasps. This means 'don't go...not until I die'.

But, is seems evident that she will outlive us all and if I heed her advice, I will never make it to the Golden Gate Bridge nor see the gigantic Redwood trees stand gigantically above me. Her amazing eating habits and her addiction to tobacco clearly overpower the raw snacks we try to enforce. She will have none of it. 

They just don't make grandmas like they used to...