Coincidence

I'm trying new things these days. A person in one of my local fb groups suggested a meetup for people who do craft projects. I took up the needle and joined in, admitting that most of my handiwork is aspirational. I brought some of my projects. I even went to the yarn store prior to the meeting, in order to get some thread. And I showed up at our local bar.

I very much admire the work of the person who had suggested the meetup. She does visible mending and has amazing taste.

We ordered beers. I was judging her taste a bit, it seems.

The bartenders were playing some great music while we talked -- Os Mutantes, some reggae, Beatles songs that we both like that aren't overplayed. Then they played a song -- already forgot which one -- that I used to play in a band 800 years ago. I mentioned this fact, and she asked me what instrument I play.

"I played bass"

"I also play bass." Then she listed her basses, most of which I didn't know but she *did* play a Rick. Ooooh. I've always loved that bass for its sustain. It really feels special when you're playing it.

Then she said:

Her: "I played in a band called (very obscure band name)"

Me: "After (name of previous girl bass player) left? My husband is mrguy"

So she had recorded with my husband at his studio. Also I remember meeting her in the basement of a club in the City. Her band had opened for his the week we got married.

My mind was completely blown. She had replaced my former friend in that band, and my ex-friend had long-term unpleasant feelings about that band and its members back in the day. Like my former friend, this girl had a hard time in this band and felt separate from the other members. Well the first part of that last sentence is accurate and the second applies only to her. My ex-friend wasn't very open about her own experience in that band. Or perhaps I wasn't listening. There were many things you weren't allowed to ask that person about.

Anyway, we talked and talked. Had many common interests. And we sewed.

A Brush With Greatness

It was the summer before junior year of college. I was living with my parents and working as a security guard at the same electronics company where my high school boyfriend's mom worked the assembly line. It was dull, I did a lot of reading, and I spent a lot of time chatting with my best friend, who was working the phones (and a few of the partners) at her father's architectural firm. There were good things about that summer, but my relationship with my parents wasn't one of them.

I'd been in group therapy during the school year, but I was somewhat adrift that summer. A childhood friend had hooked me up with the security gig, and she did me a further solid by suggesting that I go with her to her group therapy session in the big city. It had helped her communication with her family, she said. It helped her be more...actualized, whatever that was. Well when I looked it up, it was certainly something that she didn't need. Her parents were quite brash. When I was the reluctant host of a diet restaurant in my senior year of high school, my friend's parents, Phyllis and Albert would swan past me at the host station, stand in the middle of the place and say loudly "Where's my table?" These were people who said what they wanted and got what they wanted. What did they need with therapy?

I'll never know the answer, but on one bright summer day I went with my friend to her therapy session. It was held in an anonymous looking building on the edge of Chinatown. We took an elevator, I believe, to a floor that had a reception area of some sort and an open space behind it, with rows of chairs set up as a classroom. A green rolling chalkboard stood in front of us, and between it and us were some perky folks who were there to impart wisdom. One guy wore a peach colored Izod shirt. I could tell that things were about to get smarmy.

The only therapy I could compare this to was my therapist at school. I'd see him once every few weeks in a converted 1920s bungalow that was one of the original buildings on campus. And I went to his group session, all of us seemed to share the blight of being liberal arts misfits attending an agricultural college. We sat in a circle, in a dimly lit room and took turns sharing. I believe that there are studies about the optimal physical orientation for sharing intimate details in a group. Circles work, and being seated in rows facing Ken and Barbie orients you for a different kind of learning.

They welcomed the group and asked the people who brought guests to introduce them and say why they had brought them today. What each of them, in turn, meant to say was "As we all know this is a cult with a splash of multilevel marketing thrown in, and if I bring a friend who might convert you'll give me an extra goodie like the ones you've gotten me hooked on." But the way it came out of each of them is "This is my friend Fifi and I brought her here because I love her." 

Then they invited the guests into the large room next door, without our hosts. We were too polite to say no. Because our person loved us and wanted us to be happy. 

Our person was a motherfucker.

For an hour, people told us about the miraculous lifting of life's misery by way of the things we'd learn in a simple one weekend seminar. Man I love a good testimonial. A before and after. I was completely in love with those Ayds diet ads in the back of Ladies Home Journal where the person lost a billion pounds and you could see their ribs again. So I was an easy mark. I wanted to be more powerful and persuasive (still do. still am not). I saw these people's stories as the future me who would finally have direction and be motivated and completely unlike myself. And at the end of the hour I had written a check for $350, which I had because of my job, and I vowed to lie to my family about my whereabouts for a weekend and somehow get to the location of the seminar and, as they say these days, do the damned thing.

I was so proud of myself. I was going to do something and change my life and I was completely converted in no more than an hour. I wanted to be a better and less miserable person. This was the answer.

So when I got home and told my sister, who was home visiting, that I was going to do EST, she was livid. "Everybody who does EST is an asshole, and you are not going to do it. You are going to call the bank and cancel that check and then you are going to tell me what is wrong and I will help you. But you are NOT doing EST."

She did talk to my parents, who lightened up. I never did EST. I ended my friendship. I was ashamed that the folks at EST had managed to con me, even when there were so many signals that something was wrong. I have always counted this brush with a cult to be a blessing in disguise. I saw a cult up close without being swallowed up.

Please Release Me

I have never ended a relationship in non-anger, but I did that last week with miss wartz, a very dear friend of 40 years. She doesn't read mrsguy. 

I love her so much, and we've gone through long periods of time without speaking, which has always been kinda ok. I have a hard time sustaining the feels for this friendship, but when we reunite we can talk about things that we can't talk about with anyone else.

During the pandemic we spoke weekly, mainly initiated and sustained by me for over a year. And then as things eased up a bit and she went back to work in person it was over. It took me about three times asking and her saying maybe next week that I actually got the hint. Oh! This is a thing! I felt like I not only couldn't talk to her but I couldn't talk with her about why she didn't want to talk.

So I waited. 

Then a few months later I reached out about something awkward that I needed closure on if we weren't going to talk any more. I'm sure that this did not make it better. And then I waited until now. Almost a year. But the waiting was stressful and sad. So I wrote to her.

I told her that if there were reasons for the silence I am sorry. But I can't wait and hold that part of my heart open for her until she's ready to be in touch again.

And now I can *not* wait and that feels so very much better.

Clams

It's July, and the Nagoya basho begins this weekend.

Since last year's Kyushu basho, I have acquired a new sumo friend who is passionate about the sport and, like the person who introduced me to sumo, is a woman and Swedish and into genealogy and Japan. Super odd that way.

Our sumo friendship started one day when I posted a photo of my tattoo in honor of Akebono. It was a wink at my artist friends who were all posting photos for Inktober. I'd just gotten new ink, so I joined them. A few minutes later I took a power walk and went past a friend's house. He asked me if I could step into his kitchen and let his wife know that I know about sumo. So I did, and she really wanted to know everything and we started watching together.

In classic sharing-info-with-a-friend-about-something style, I feel like she knows much more about sumo than I now. She's an avid reader of Tachiai, and listens to their podcast. She walked into Baskin Robbins one day (here in Little Hill City) wearing her Tachiai tshirt and caught the attention of a guy who is one of the NHK English language broadcasters. Now they email back and forth. Again, go figure.

Part of any sumo viewing situation (usually a couple times a basho) is the mountain of food and beverages. She goes shopping, I go shopping, and for some reason I've gotten really into making clam dip. I don't know why. And apparently everybody else is making clam dip right now, also, because I went to many places and found empty spots where the dip should be. I even looked at the gas station, liquor stores, the pharmacy where the clientele look like zombies (which has never failed me before). I hate going to the big grocery store, but I did check at our little marked down the hill, and I could buy some clams in jars from Italy for $8 and that is something I am not going to do.

This is what our spread looked like for the March basho

This is what our spread looked like the other day. We got together to view some vintage 1997 sumo, recorded off TIVO by mrguy. It only took us 12 years to finally watch it! Such festivity. So much food that we didn't even break into the black currant Pocky or the mountain of other snacks we'd stockpiled. And what you're not seeing in this photo is the Japanese beer served in the ruby cut glass tumblers I was given in Chiba. But I think my favorite thing is the sake. Many years ago some Japanese friends gave me cedar cups that smell amazing. Drinking cold sake from those cups is a heavenly sensory experience. OK, and that our friend doesn't mind my surrounding us with sumo reference. She has her own sumo reference, now, as well. Notice, under the potato chips, the magazine that I refer to as "our hymnal", the english language program from the 1998 LA jungyo that started it all for me.

 

I don't get together with friends much at all these days. I miss entertaining. And this sumo watching is something that happens in a low-stress fashion that works for both of us. I really appreciate this new friendship. And mrguy is our AV tech, and he can come enjoy or not as he pleases. It's good.

Shows

What I should have said in my Adventures in Podiatry post is that I'm jealous that my 60+ year old friend whose shoes I photographed is in The Ramones and I'm not.

By which I mean that about four years ago mrguy south said something that has become a catch phrase in our home. We were walking a trail that starts about six houses down from our house. I was wearing Converse and slipping around on the hill and mrguy and mrguy south were wearing sensible walking shoes and having no problem with their stability. mrguy south turned to me and said "mrsguy, we're not in The Ramones any more." Like "get some sensible shoes!" I can't tell you how many times we reference this when talking about various aspects of getting older. But here we were, middle aged rockers at a show, and guys older than me were wearing their fashionable shoes, and I was eating fenugreek tablets, wearing WIDE SKETCHERS and orthotics and a silicone toe separator. I've got a whole rig going in my shoe just to walk these days.

But I heard that "Dad Shoes" are in right now, so maybe I'll ride that fashion wave. Thank you, Balenciaga!

So me and my dad shoes have been to several shows in the last few weeks, all featuring mrguy:

First the show at the club with the sparkly ceiling, where mrguy played bass with a friend from college. 

and then last Saturday our band played at a neighborhood chili cookoff. Near this adorable sign.

It was a first time for me with my new amp. So cool. I'm now self-contained. I drilled my Kanilea, and have separate controls for both mic and uke, and it is HEAVEN. The gig itself was a bit of a s**** show, with hordes of shrieking children riding scooters all around us. But then you never know where the bits of magic will happen. Of course it's a treat to play music with the 'ohana. And then... a guy came up to us in between songs and thanked us for our playing, telling us that he was a descendant of João Fernandes, one of the three men from Madeira who brought the ukulele to Hawaii. He disappeared into the crowd, and we didn't see him after that. Also magical: afterparty with pizza and beers. Later in the week we had our traditional post-gig pub trivia, where we came in first by one point. We're pretty sure that the one point came from the time that the ladies wanted him to write Rashida Jones, but mrguy heard us say Mindy Kaling and wrote that down instead.

Back to shows. After chili cookoff night was another mrguy show with his regular band. The show was fantastic. Everybody was there. Even some former friends. During the course of the evening, we achieved new milestones in the sport of ex-friendship, including proximity without speaking, full frontal proximity without acknowledging and spouse engagement. By the time the last thing happened and they came to pay respects to mrguy I a) went to use the restroom and b) had a long conversation with someone about his cancer battle. Super fascinating. Do you know that if there is a donor liver that is sort-of itself expiring they'll still put it in you? They start dialing around to see who is able to receive an organ when it is fresh, but if enough time passes and nobody at the top of the list is able to get to it in time (or it to them) they will give the liver, in somewhat of a compromised state, to someone local and farther down the list. He has to do some pretty awful stuff every month in order to be walking among us, but he's hanging in there with his funky liver.

And so ends the week and a half of shows. By this time next month, mrguy will have played shows with four different bands.