Bubbe-maisehs

"If only there could be an invention," I said impulsively, "that bottled up a memory like scent. And it never faded, and it never got stale. And then when one wanted it, the bottle could be uncorked, and it would be like living the moment all over again."
-Daphne du Maurier
"Rebecca"

I was thinking the other day about the '25 Years Ago' segment of my blog. In hindsight I would like to explain that they are just tidbit excerpts of my life. There was much more going on and I only wish I would have made the time to write even more detail. The word "bubbe-maisehs" comes to mind.

Bubbe-maisehs (pronounced bub-eh-MY-seh) is a Yiddish (noun) term that implies nonsense rumors or an Old wive's tale/grandmother's story; a tall tale; something patently untrue.

My '25 Years Ago' is NOT a bunch of "bubbe-maisehs". It's real...from the heart. And at the time, it was very private. Please take heart and realize that my words are now being shared because time has passed and I feel it is time to 'let it go', 'release' and 're-live'.

I do not intend to harm anyone in anyway. If you are mentioned in the '25 Years Ago' segment, please realize that I thought of you...and there was much more to you than meets the eye. I took notice.

Twenty-five years ago today:

November 29, 1984
Thursday

Karyn and I ate at The El Faro Mexican place. It was “ugh”.

Tomorrow, my section is having a pot-luck party for Cindy. Her birthday is on Saturday. I have the honor of bringing drinks and paper cups.

David Vigil invited me to the Emporium Department Store but he had no idea I had a noon lunch hour now. Or maybe he just wanted to hang out with me because he liked my new parachute material black pants and blue denim shirt and wanted to “be” with me. That would make more sense as to why he’d ask. He normally never pays me any mind.

I asked Hank a business question but he was not altogether helpful. I asked Stephanie Bautista, my supervisor and she helped to clear it up beautifully. Thank heavens!

I visited two 24-hour teller machines after work. Neither one was open.

I went to mom’s house for a couple of burgers. Now I’m home.

I was thinking about Jim Padilla, the guy I see on the BART train from the office now and then. He is really kind of a creep. He has this know-it-all attitude. He’s a pompous ass.

I left another telephone message on Bob Umland’s recorder to verify dinner for Saturday night. Maybe he will call me.

I am thinking of taking a walk to mom’s house now and mail the Christmas cards I have completed at a nearby mailbox.

When I arrived at mom’s house she was sitting on the kitchen floor, wrapping gifts. She’s so sweet. I have to get her something other than the posh nightgown that I found for her in the SPIEGEL catalog.