The Baristas' Charge

Yesterday, I left Denver, entrusting my father to the care of baristas:

    the pretty, wide-eyed, brown-haired girl whose father called her Gertrude, his humor apparently garnering equal eye-rolls--or, in her case, sass.

    the blonde one-- "daughters stick together," she laughs to him as she swipes my drink on his card, too.

    the sleepless lawyer who sings Korean hymns on Sundays and pots his piano with bud vases.

    the seminary student reading Frankenstein in his off time.

    the smiley one with shiny eyes and dimple, who tells my father to turn right back around when he comes in.

    the hey yous, the "guy"s and the "lady"s.

He will show up before you even open--that customer who means you wake up at 4am.

He will tease you and shower you with puns.

He will grin like he hasn't seen you since last Thanksgiving and this year you brought pie!

He probably won't remember your name--but he'll tell me about you.  Your aspirations.  Your family.

His name is David.

He's my dad.

Take good care of him.

Time to Say Goodbyes

 

 

Even, or especially, Cookie Monster is sad to see me go.

Half a suitcase packed.  Laundry still to do.

I'll make it.

I've said goodbye to the writer/teachers who encouraged me through the Denver Writing Project's summer institute, to my Spanish tutor, to my beautiful cousins, my mom, my dance friends, my yoga studio...

 

It will be hard to leave behind my bed.  And my Dad.  And even that skinny black cat that thinks my stomach is a good place to take a nap.

Once Every 10 Years

Reader Warning:  the following is a blog post about colonoscopies.  I have not decided to only write about medical procedures involving the most private areas of our bodies, but have unexpectedly come upon these occasions in very close proximity in time.  So.  Here goes.

Imagine this--

you enter the fifth floor, the gastroenterology ward.  The nurse takes your father, and hands you a restaurant pager, set to blink red lights at you when they have successfully excavated his colon.  You set up your computer at the table in the corner since they told you to plan on two hours, and people around you watch, complain about not having eaten all day, tell their husbands to talk quieter, and make pooper jokes.  That man's ham and cheese melt smells amazing, and he looks around guiltily as he takes another bite.  An hour later, the pager buzzes its UFO lights at you, and you are escorted to the back, where an assortment of cordoned off patients lay farting in recovery.  The doctor gives a read-aloud version of the procedure, complete with pictures.  All is well, shake your hand.  When you get home, you have to recount all of it to your father because those drugs work pretty good, and he doesn't remember a stinking thing.

Thankfully, you only have to do this once every 10 years.  

You too, Phil.

To-Do List, Pre-Colombia

Travel Itinerary:  Friday mid-day leave for Colombia...via Chicago.  Spend the days between appointment with consulate and receipt of visa dancing salsa and touring Chicago.

Itinerario de Viaje: el viernes, mediodía, salga para Colombia...vía Chicago.  Pasaré los días entre la cita con el consulado y el recibido de mi visa bailando salsa y pasando por la ciudad de Chicago.

(Those of you who know Chicago, I am collecting must do/see/eats in the comment section below.)




To-Dos:
Buy first dress suit of my life.
Dance.
Clean ungodly mess of a room and a little red car.
Dance.
Print contracts, letters of rec, all official documents.
Dance.
Launder every soakable cloth in my possession.
Yoga.
Pack dance and yoga clothes.  (God bless uniforms.)
Hide things around Dad's apartment for kicks.
...
Say goodbye.



Que Haceres:
Comprar primer sastre de mi vida.
Bailar. 
Limpiar el quilombo en mi cuarto y carro.
Bailar.
Imprimir contratos, cartas de recommendación, todos los documentos oficiales.
Bailar.
Lavar cada tela lavable en mi posesión.
Hacer yoga.
Empacar ropa de baile y de yoga.  (Me encanta el concepto de los uniformes.)
Esconder cositas por el apartamento de mi papá, para divertirme.
...
Despedirme.