Cleaning lady

Mercedes is here. I’m in the back yard under the pergola, covered in twisting vines of passion fruit and jasmine. The air is clean-ish today. Pretty good for LA considering all the fires. My neighbors chopped down the giant messy tree in their back yard so now I can see the mountains from my perch. Whenever Mercedes comes to clean the house I hang out in the yard with the dog — 0r if the weather sucks I go to my office. She usually spends 7 hours cleaning — my house is not giant, 1500 square feet actually, so small ish. But she’s very deliberate in her work. She came her from El Salvador on a TPS visa — the kind Trump revoked last year. She has to return to El Salvador in 8 months — Everytime I see her I feel sick and helpless. My Spanish is too weak for me to have a real conversation with her about what this fucking monster has done to her, folks like her, the country and world at large. I’ve not hated anyone quite as much as I hate him.

We’re going to a Friendsgiving tomorrow. They’re great. However, children. Lots and lots of them. Plus D loves a party. First to arrive, last to leave. I hate parties. Mostly because I hate small talk. I can turn a conversation to a crisis in Darfur in two sentences — at which point I watch a curtain of dismay descend on the face of my fellow small talker. This is followed by me standing alone, resisting all urges to look at my phone. I could go talk to the animals — but in this case they have cats and I’m a bit allergic. I’m fine as long as I don’t touch them. Cat’s won’t let me talk to them without coming up to me and weaving between my calves. Within an hour I’ll be congested, teary-eyed and uncomfortable. Oh kitty, you’re so gorgeous — over there. One party solution is to just ask questions. I interview my subjects, a technique I am told makes people like you. At some point though, they tire of the questions and even then I’ll ask something about their past they don’t want to get into. Like a South African colleague who I grilled about the Truth and Reconcilliation committee she once worked for. Or when I ask Chinese guests about Xi’s increasing grip on power and slide toward dictatorial rule. I mean, I’m asking them about their country — but they might think I’m a spy or a weirdo. Anyhow, they don’t want to talk about it. So movies and the weather? My feeling is that life is too fleeting for me to waste my interactions on the superficial. But maybe I’m grasping at the wrong end of this. There are a few artists my husband knows who share this perspective. Jennifer Steinkamp and George Stoll Are two friends of his who I can count on to engage in meaningful conversation when I see them. But they hate parties as much as I do so I rarely see them. However, when I do run into them at openings and events, we cling to each other while everyone else skims happily along the surface. I don’t mean to sound conceited— I’m not a better person because I hate small talk. In fact I’m probably more of a malcontent, lacking in gratitude for the amazing life I live.

Soon it will be Christmas. What have I done to deserve this?