So I got a new haircut, and it's short and different, and I like it a lot, but that's not why I'm jazzed.
It's because I tried Uber and lived to tell the tale.
You see, in my childhood household, there were three cardinal rules our parents drilled into my sister and me on an almost daily basis:
- Don't run with scissors
- Always bring a sweater or you'll catch your death of cold (not just a cold, mind you, but "death")
- Never, ever get into a car with a stranger
So you might understand why the whole Uber and Lyft ride-sharing phenomena escapes me. You mean, purposely GET in a car with a stranger? Heck, why don't I just slash my own throat and be done with it? I'd no sooner engage in this fatal act of folly than I would swallow chewing gum, which, I was warned, would never digest and sit in my stomach for all eternity.
But here is where vanity overruled safety. I had made an appointment with a hairdresser who specializes in dry cuts for curly hair, plus he works Sundays! However, his salon is--according to this East Bay gal-- in the outer boondocks of San Francisco and not near any public transportation. After taking BART, how would I get to the salon?
As the appointment date drew near, I started stressing. Hey, I'm a walker, maybe I should just walk! But City friends discouraged me, saying it was too far and uphill at that. I could take Muni, but was told I'd have to switch here, then switch there, and make sure you get on the southbound bus and not the northbound one or then you'll really be lost. I could take a cab, but they're more expensive, and then I remembered that news story years back about the driver who raped and killed his 24-year old passenger, then ditched her body in a shallow grave.
See?
Maybe my current hairdresser wasn't so bad after all. I touched my frizzy hair and remembered my childhood nickname, "Cousin Itt" from the 1960s series, The Addams Family.
I decided to keep the appointment.
So I downloaded the Uber app and trusted my friend Omar, who himself is an Uber driver. He assured me that the company does rigorous background checks and I'd have nothing to worry about. Yeah, right, mention that at my memorial.
On the dreaded morning, I arrived at Civic Station and, with trembling fingers, ordered a car. Within seconds I got my text confirmation: I would be picked up by Evan in a Honda Civic. Evan, Evan. I tried reading warning signs into the name...Evan the City Strangler, Evan Son of Sam, Evan wanted by police in five different counties. Then my cell rang and it was the Evan telling me he was parked a few yards from the corner. I turned around and saw an arm waving out the window of a Honda Civic.
It was...(queue warning music from "Jaws")...Evan. Gulp.
Before even getting in the car, the first thing I did was check the inside door panel. Okay, good. There was a working handle in case, you know, Evan lunged at my throat and I needed to jump. Then I looked at the man who held my life in his hands. Evan.
He appeared to be in his late 60s, a well-dressed African American in a snappy vest and bow tie that suggested he might have just come from Glide Memorial Church. He greeted me with a warm smile and spoke with the slightest trace of a southern drawl. During our ten-minute drive he told me he had just started driving for Uber last week and was really enjoying it because he was meeting so many nice people, "...like you," he said. I was charmed.
And I was just as charmed by my return driver, a pretty young girl named Oubah. She was from Somalia and studying conflict resolution at Berkeley City College. "My country is so war-torn," she explained. "I want to return home and make a difference."
The day ended not only with a chic new cut, but also with a sense of euphoria. I wondered, when did the girl who once hitchhiked in Ecuador, hiked through Ireland, and traveled solo in England become such a 'fraidy cat? Today I had stepped outside my comfort zone, met two really nice people, and in the process reclaimed the girl I once was. Even if it was just a couple Uber rides.
Who knows where this might lead? Tomorrow I may leave the house without a sweater.
Ever since losing my mother in 2009, I've been haunted by one question regarding her death. Not why she died, but rather, why she died of cancer.
Now I know that every day millions of people die of cancer, so why should my mom be an exception? Sure, it's possible that, like the aforementioned millions, she just drew the short end of the stick. As her oncologist explained to me during Mom's three-week battle with Ovarian cancer, everybody has potential cancer cells lurking in their body, but for reasons unknown, in some people something, somewhere, somehow, flips the "on" switch. The switch certainly never flipped for that 124-year old Brazilian, a chain-smoking childless bachelor who was tagged in 2014 as the world's oldest living human being.
Seems that dodging cancer is a crap shoot at best.
Still, I've been convinced that Mom's cancer wasn't genetic, but environmental. She came from a long line of relatives notorious for living up to triple-digit numbers and without a single known case of cancer. A few heart attacks maybe, a stroke here and there, but no word of the Big C.
Mom had a really poor diet. She loved junk food and lived off canned and frozen meals; the more mysterious ingredients and preservatives, the better! And she guzzled bottled water like crazy, two, three bottles a day. When I learned that she stored the plastic containers in her warm garage, I warned her about the dangers of toxins leaching in the water and suggested she keep her water supply in a cool spot. But every time I went to visit, I'd find a six-pack baking in their usual corner of the garage.
Then there's the notable fact that every single family on my childhood block has experienced multiple cancer deaths. Our 1968 neighborhood was built upon a former walnut orchard...were pesticides to blame? Or was it the 1980 spraying of malathion used to stop the medfly infestation? Perhaps it was the asbestos in our popcorn ceiling or the saccharin we used to sweeten our coffee. Hell, maybe it was the red M&Ms.
The list goes on.
So you may understand why I've had my doubts about Mom's cancer gene just "suddenly" igniting. Now, I've added yet another contender to my many suspects and it has shot to the top of the list:
Baby powder.
That's right. The delicious scent that conjures up images of gurgling, cuddly, chub-a-lub newborns. As far back as I could remember, every single day after showering, Mom would sprinkle baby powder in the crotch of her underpants for a clean, "fresh" feeling. When my sister and I entered puberty, we followed Mom's lead because Mother Knows Best, right? However, I always seemed to get that darned white powder all over my blue jeans, and my sister didn't like the feel of it, so we soon quit using it. Well into adulthood though, whenever I'd visit Mom, I'd always see the familiar white container of baby powder in her bathroom, right next to the Jean Nate, and would smile at her lifelong habit.
But I wasn't smiling when I saw a recent magazine headline stating a link between talcum powder and Ovarian cancer. When I Googled "talcum powder and cancer" my search engine exploded with articles from around the world, followed with lawsuits and ads from ambulance chasers.
Is there a link? The answer appears to be inconclusive, although there's enough concern to motivate the American Cancer Society to address the issue and advise that "research in this area continues." Regardless of what future studies may reveal, I'm glad my sister and I tossed the talcum.
Knowing the answer won't bring back Mom, I realize that. Perhaps it's just human nature to want to assign blame, point fingers, assign a culprit, and say in a loud, sanctimonious voice, "Yeah, YOU, you're the fault!"
And the incongruous baby powder is as good a suspect as any. At least for this rueful daughter.
I used to be a nice person. Really.
But commuting up to four hours a day on congested Bay Area roads has turned me into an unearthly abomination not unlike the Creature From the Black Lagoon. Thinking of moving to California? Consider Idaho, please. Or Utah. Both are lovely this time of year, plus they have plenty of water to boot. Flush all you want!
Because crammed California roads don't have room for even one more Prius or Google Bus. And years of navigating an auto maze of millions has morphed me from that friendly neighborhood lady who walks her greyhound and pats children on the head into a growling, snarling she-beast with the patience of a Tasmanian Devil about to devour her young. I've stopped counting the number of expletives I mutter to myself during my 90-minute drive every morning. Who knew I had such a potty mouth?
My fellow road warriors are responsible for this frightening transformation. And you know who you are.
A typical day starts with the dude in the Ford pickup who tailgates me with his brights on because I'm not going fast enough to please this self-proclaimed King of the Road. Never mind that we're on a winding, single lane with no shoulder, it's 6:00 in the morning, still pitch black, and so foggy that visibility is just a couple yards beyond my headlights. I'm already going 65 in a 45mph zone, but apparently Mario Andretti wants me to go fasterfasterfaster. He lets me know of his need for speed by riding my bumper and blinding me with the glare of his halogen lights in my rear-view mirror.
Expletive #1.
Then there's the Fast and the Furious wannabe who weaves in and out of traffic, left-right-left-right, in-out-in-out, never using a signal, mind you. Let the others maintain the rate of speed, thinks this Vin Diesel dolt who usually leaves a string of fender-benders in his wake. Unlike the rest of us, he's got places to go, people to see. We're crawling at a snail's pace because, well, it's just so gosh darn relaxing. Plus, I can't hear enough of those sincere, "We'll give you ten thousand dollars right now because we trust you!" radio commercials.
Expletive #2.
But I haven't experienced my true auto-aneurysm until I reach that one dreaded light on the corner of Jackson and Mission: You know the kind I'm talking about; the light that stays green for seven seconds and red for seven minutes. I'm waiting, waiting, waiting, and then glory be! The light turns green and I praise God and Allah and Buddha and every other heavenly superhero I can think of, and prepare to take my foot off the brake except....
The driver in front of me has her head down in a position that can only mean one of two things: either she's dozed off during the long red or --and I'm taking a wild guess here--she's texting a really important message to her BFF such as, "OMG, and ever since she pierced it she has to tinkle in two...."
HOOOOOONK! I lay on the horn and she looks up with a surprised jolt that says, "OMG, I'm in a car!" and toodles through the light, which is now yellow. And I'm stuck at the red.
Expletive #3, #4, #5 and #6. And it's only 7am.
But the plus side of commuting is that it leaves me plenty of time to think. And I hear that Idaho and Utah are lovely this time of year.
