Tiny Pleasures

Do you have a personal elevator pitch? My name is ________, my job is _________, I do ________ for fun.

I used to. We all used to. Maybe it was just our daily routines, neighborhood pride, or fond weekend memories, but we were able to plug and play certain specific details into standard water cooler talk or general human interaction.

Current events have turned me (and maybe our nation) from nuanced and upbeat chipmunks with restaurant recommendations and quirky coffee shop anecdotes into homogenized zombie mole people whose primary differentiations revolve around that titular heat map graph that answers the question “How infected is your area?”

It’s groundhog day, again..

No, wait. It’s demon crusty ratpig in the scary hellhole day.

You accept it. We accept, adapt and make the necessary adjustments to protect one another and slow a precipitous decline.

You can’t, however, play dead. We cannot go full stop, that hasn’t been working either.

So you gingerly baby step to the next evolution of self. Masks on the outside, resolve on the inside. Mountainous grocery runs and bootstrapped finances. Donations and painful, fruitful reading. Mail in ballots and internet petitions.

I am trying to find footing in this new normal. (I really want to put an accent on the a. Shouldn’t it sound different? New nor-Mowl. Kicky!) Actually, not even footing. I am trying to understand when happens when you put one foot in front of the other. Do you take a step forward today, or does a mutant sidewalk squid emerge from a gutter and wrap a toxic tendril around your ankle and sever it from your leg?

I am afraid of taking action because of these monsters.

The Rona Monsters.

I don’t want anyone to get hurt.

However, night still turns into morning. We still plan for next quarter. My sister will turn 30 in November. August will shift to September. The lines around my eyes are still there from smiling, so things are still happening! Whether I am afraid or brave. Maybe now the events seem smaller, but I don’t think their size makes them less impactful. And sometimes there is joy. The joy feels different also, but not less. New, like healed skin: pink, awkward and shiny.

The waiter for my tiny outdoor table at D’angelos. I feel like their stray cat. He calls me “my sweetheart” and always brings out the Tapatio hot sauce because it’s from his home town.

Natalie’s daughter’s laugh and baby hump dance to Good Vibrations. How she kicks her feet when sitting in Nat’s lap, pointing her toes with bunny might.

The alleyway behind my house. I don’t know, I just love it. Jacaranda trees, banana leaves, craftsman roofs with red trim. Power lines like party streamers. Lollipop palm trees and hummingbirds.

The built-in shelf in my shower, perfect for a shower beer after the beach.

Ben’s salsa garden. Ben’s salsa! Ben having mezcal cocktails in the harbor.

Three pale pink Naked Ladies, in a shell, around a candle.

My neighbor’s pale pink roller skates.

My yellow parking permit sticker.

The black fox dog that belongs to the yellow and white house on the corner.

Talking about how people are actually doing personally the first five minutes of every virtual meeting call. Even if I am a little uncomfortable.

Listening to Natalie make a very serious fitness trainer laugh.

Disco queen story on poster board.

Rounding the corner of Butterfly lane, smelling jasmine, and clocking giant agave outlined by the Pacific.

Sitting on Butterfly beach, getting tar butt, and looking like you shit your pants on the run home.

Patiently waiting on the wine bar on the corner of Cota to complete their outdoor patio construction and getting a rush of pleasure when you think about going there.

Tiny pleasures are happening everyday. I am listening for them.