It's Only Fair To Tell You About the Fare

Yesterday I got called in for a temp job. Why yes, I can be in the Financial District in a half hour. While I can walk there, taking the bus would save me time. So I poured out my glass jar of change onto my bed and sifted through to find $2 in coins. Scooping all the needed coins into my jacket pocket, I rushed out the door.

The bus came. I started putting my nickels and dimes and quarters into the fare machine. When I'd emptied my pocket, the machine said $1.90. The bus was already moving. Feeling around my pocket for the last dime, I came up empty. I don't carry change around. I'd specifically taken $2 in coins just for the bus, there was nothing else. I told the bus driver, "I'm sorry, it seems like I've lost a dime. Do you want me to get off at the next stop?"

He handed me the pass that lets you stay on the bus until two or so hours later. "Here." I took the pass, and took his word to mean he was letting that dime slide.

Today, since I knew I'd be working, I left the house early enough to walk.

Racist or Just An Abuse of Power? You Decide!

Last Friday I was talking to a friend's daughter about what it was like when I was seven years old, as she turns seven soon. I told her all about how seven was my best year, how I felt like I'd fully left behind babyhood and was 100% girl rather than baby, how seven became my favorite and lucky number and still is to this day, how second grade was my favorite grade, and everything about seven was just plum awesome. So, in honor of second grade, and Molly's upcoming seventh birthday, we're going to do this blog post (somewhat) current events style, like I used to do in Mrs. Firestone's class.

Who: the F Market Muni driver, and a black woman with three young children
Where: on Market Street
When: Sunday afternoon
What: the train was stopped at a stop, and the driver told the woman she had to fold up her stroller before bringing it on the train. The woman then asked the driver if he would let her on for free (cost is $2, kids under age 5 are free). The driver told her he'd let her on for $2. She said she didn't have money and asked again. He said again, she could get on the train for $2.

He then closed the doors and moved the train up a few feet. He then said into the microphone, "And she's still breeding." I was shocked. If you want to think things that's fine, but some things simply should not be said. Especially when you are wearing a uniform representing a company, you should not be stating your personal opinions about things. You should certainly not be broadcasting those opinions by using company equipment. The black woman heard what was said, and yelled at the driver. Much of that yelling involved curse words.

There was a lot of talk on the train about what happened. A handicapped woman was very vocal about how right the driver was. If we have to pay $2, everyone should have to pay $2. I thought her statement was stupid, since as a handicapped person she only pays .75 cents. She also felt that the black woman had an entitlement attitude and she needed to be taught a lesson.

The man sitting next to me, who loudly told everyone he was from New York, as if that gives him impressive credentials on such issues, decided the train driver's statement was borderline racist. A couple of other people said it wasn't racist, because the black woman was wrong to want to get on the train for free (which is a nonsensical argument). One woman thought the statement wasn't racist because the black woman is teaching her children to ask for and expect handouts and to be upset when they don't get them. Again, bad argument.

What are your thoughts? Was it a racist comment or inappropriate or was the driver right?

Not Even a High Five

All the MUNI drivers are friends. Well maybe not ALL, but many. They don't just smile or wave at each other when two buses pass each other, they sometimes come to a complete stop in the middle of the street and start talking to each other.

Today, on Market Street, I had just gotten off the 71 Haight bus and was waiting to cross the street when I saw another 71 Haight bus driving in the opposite direction of the one I'd just departed. The light was red so I stood there waiting, and watching the two bus drivers. They just drove right past each other! They didn't even give the nod or anything!

I wonder if there's a big MUNI driver drama going on and they're in a fight. I wonder if they used to be friends and now they're not. I wonder if there was some sort of bus battle.

How Corrupt Am I?

In general, I'm pretty black and white on where I stand on issues. Stealing is wrong. Saying please and thank you is right. But I know not every issue has a black or white answer. Safety comes before law in my opinion, which is why I felt no guilt over sliding through a stop sign, hand slammed on the horn to approaching cars, one winter afternoon while driving my mother somewhere. I did what would be safest for me, my mother, the car, and gambled that the other cars would watch out (we were fine).

As a kid I lied a lot. So my parents were very black and white on lying. It wasn't until I was a teenager that my mother explained the fine art of the white lie. "If a friend asks if you like their dress and you hate it, you can say 'That shade of pink is beautiful!'"

As an adult I lie very little, except for white lies, which I feel no guilt over, and at work, which also creates no guilt. One time, back when I worked with Cowboy and Nice Partner, Cowboy called from his car, demanding to speak with Nice Partner, who was on the phone with someone already. Nice Partner hated nothing more than to be interrupted (with stupidity a close second), so I told Cowboy that Nice Partner wasn't available due to being on the phone. Cowboy told me to interrupt.

I interrupted. Nice Partner gave me his Glare of Death. Told me to tell Cowboy he was on the other line. Cowboy told me to tell Nice Partner that he was holding for him. It was very awkward. Later, after Nice Partner was off the phone, I knocked on his door.

"I know you don't like to be interrupted and am sorry I did it, but I had Cowboy demanding that I interrupt you. How do you want me to handle it next time this comes up?" At that point Nice Partner's Glare of Death dissipated as he understood the position I'd been in. He thought about it for a second, and then told me, "Lie. Tell Cowboy I'm not here." I nodded, thanked him, and walked away. Legal secretaries tell people who call that the attorney is not there, when in fact s/he may very well be standing right at their desk. That kind of lie is just fine with me.

However. When I was a little girl I'd go food shopping with my grandma and she would take a grape from the produce section, or a jelly bean from the bulk section. I was taught this was stealing, and to this day, I hate seeing people do that. It's one thing when Whole Foods has clearly put out samples for people to taste, but other than that? Wrong.

It's hard to explain if you don't understand it without using the cliche that desperate times call for desperate measures, but since I've been out of work, my standards have ... become more flexible.

Last night I got a Safeway delivery, and the delivery guy accidentally left me with a package of Keebler cookies I hadn't ordered. Every once in a while something has been tossed into your delivery that's not yours. If I notice it before the Safeway guy has left my floor, I open the door and run after him. If I notice it after he's left, I call Safeway to let them know. Last night I called Safeway to tell them about the cookies I hadn't ordered. They told me to go ahead and keep them.

Thing is, I don't need any cookies. But I do need milk. And potatoes. In another lifetime, I would just bring the cookies to work so other people could enjoy them. But I don't have a "work" these days. So I am tempted to bring those cookies back to the supermarket and exchange them for foods I actually need. It's not something I would do if I were working and earning money. And it's not that I think that because I'm in an extreme situation it's okay to do, because I don't.

This afternoon I got a call from a temp agency. They need someone to do transcription tomorrow. I was told it will be the entire day. I want to take that as license to work as slowly as I can, to stretch the tapes out to last the full work day. Even if in reality it only takes me four or five hours. Again, totally wrong. And yet.

There's a bookstore in the Ferry Building here in San Francisco. Outside of their store they have a cart with books on it. There's a sign on the cart. Normally the type of sign you'd see would say something about shoplifters being prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. But not here, not in hippie dippie San Francisco. No, the sign here says not to steal because if you do, karma will get you.

I've gone through stretches of time where I am a really good person. And you know what? Good things don't come to me just because of that. I've had bad things happen when I've been good, and good things happen when I've been a bad person. So despite the fact that my mom used to tell me, "God'll get ya," when I search for reasons not to do things like exchange something I didn't pay for to get something I need, or to stretch out an assignment since they think that's how long it will take even if I can get it done sooner, I come up empty these days.

"Sent Home - Alcohol"

Have I ever told you about first grade and how much I hated it? I hated first grade. Not just because my teacher was a yeller. Not just because I got in a fight with the most popular girl in our grade and everyone sided with her. Not just because my crush liked her rather than me. Not just because my teacher would grab your arm and drag you into the hallway all while yelling. But mostly, when I think back on first grade, I think of all the dittos. That's what we did all day, every day. Dittos. Each morning the teacher would pass out seven or eight dittos and we were to complete them by the end of the day.

At least one or two of the day's dittos always involved cutting and pasting. I happen to (still) have terrible small motor skills, and I was never able to deal with the glue without making a big mess. I was one of those kids who didn't like having dirty, sticky hands. Even a gluestick was not enough help for me. Every day everyone else would be finished with their dittos and playing, except me. The cut and paste ditto got me every time.

Yesterday I got a call from a temp agency for a law firm that needed eight temps to go in and redact for them. We were all put in a conference room, four of us from one temp agency, four from another, and redacted all day long. Or until we had to leave, whichever came first.

Here's the scary thing: the eight of us were not all legal secretaries. There were two attorneys sitting at that conference table. There were two JDs (people who graduated from law school but did not yet pass the bar) as well. I know it's taboo to discuss money, but I'm going to do it anyway. I got paid $20 an hour for this job. Everyone there was getting right around the same thing. How much does it say about the economy in the Bay Area that two full-fledged lawyers were sitting there sticking redacting tape all over pieces of paper?

It was a two-day gig, and one of the attorneys didn't come back today. He didn't talk to anyone yesterday. People were speculating that he felt it was beneath him and couldn't bring himself to show up this morning. I have no opinion on this, as the particular guy sat at the opposite end of the conference table from me and I can't even picture him.

We were dealing with employee sign-in sheets. These employees didn't physically punch a clock, but they logged when they showed up for the beginning of their shift, when they left for and returned from lunch, and when they left at the end of their shift. The woman who was supervising us temps and this project was very flustered. Apparently these documents are for a mediation happening next week, and the docs were supposed to be delivered to opposing counsel by Tuesday. That's this past Tuesday. So she wanted us to rush, but also go slowly and be careful. Her directions were not clear at first. We all had a lot of questions.

On my fifth or sixth sign-in sheet, I saw something strange. An employee showed up for work, left for lunch four hours later, came back from lunch a half hour later, and left for the day two minutes after returning from lunch. My eyes flew all over the sheet trying to figure it out. Then I saw an asterisk with the notation "sent home - alcohol."

Well that explained it then. I asked the woman supervising if she wanted the notation redacted. She did, but everyone started laughing hysterically. One guy turned bright red in the face, and giggled about it intermittently throughout the rest of the day.

This is the guy who was taking pieces of paper and cutting them to paste over the names that needed to be redacted. The woman supervising saw what he was doing and praised him loudly for his idea. Inwardly I groaned, and hoped she wouldn't tell us to start using scissors and glue, because I knew I'd be sent home. I have not had glue in my home since moving out of my parent's house. Luckily someone brought in tape and the majority of us used post-its, tape and redacting tape.

The other thing I want to mention about this job is that there was such a time crunch that random people at the firm would drop by to help. We temps talked among ourselves, and often listened as the law firm employees talked to each other. We talked about things like the economy, places in the city to find cheap parking, how scared we are, how many things we need but aren't buying, etc.

What were the law firm employees talking about? Their jet lag that is a result of having just returned from a vacation in Costa Rica, the new steakhouse in the Omni Hotel, how they'll be taking time off next week for a few doctor's appointments they have lined up... There were a lot of unhappy faces at the side of the conference table where all the temps were sitting.

Gay Tunnels

(This post has nothing to do with asses, in case you were worried.)

When I was first visiting San Francisco, you know - two weeks before I moved here, my brother drove me through a tunnel on the way in the city that had a rainbow painted on it. I immediately started calling it The Gay Tunnel even though I came to find out it's actually called the Waldo Tunnel. In the five years that I've lived here, any time I've talked to anyone in the Bay Area about The Gay Tunnel, they have giggled and immediately known what I am talking about.

The gay, I mean the rainbow, is fading. Luckily, I was not the only person to realize this, and the rainbow is being re-painted. So far two whole feet of the tunnel have been re-painted. Turns out the reason the painting stopped is that the People in Charge consulted with a color consultant who deemed the new paint too bright. I can't wait to see the finished product.

What I'm Not Blogging About These Days

Story number one: Today I walked over to the bank. It's only a few blocks way, and I've been there several times previously. It was really sunny out and I was squinting as I walked up to the bank door. When I yanked on the door to open it, it remained closed. I tried the other door. Nothing. I squinted harder at the door to see what the hours were. Per the hours, the bank was opened. I was confused. I looked around and felt stupid. Looked at the door again. Then I noticed a sign on the one of the doors that said something about using a different entrance. I walked around the building, and found another entrance. Then I went into the bank. I wonder why they changed which doors are being used.

Story number two: I went to the CalTrain station to get a September fast pass. You can buy them at a bunch of different places, but the CalTrain station never runs out. When I got there an Asian man was already in line. It seemed like all the windows were closed and nobody was there. There was a sign saying someone would be back at 5:45pm. Very weird. CalTrain is always open. I mean, maybe not from like 2am to 5am or something, but pretty much always. The guy turned around and told me you couldn't buy a ticket from the machines with a credit card. I walked towards the machines and saw someone who worked for CalTrain standing around.

I asked the man if I could buy a Fast Pass from one of the machines. He shook his head. I asked if there was anyone available to sell me a Fast Pass. He told me to go to Safeway. So I did.

See? You're not missing much.

Fat Actress

Sometimes my friends and I have totally normal conversations. How are you? What's new? Did you see they closed Tower Records? Did you hear about the homeless guy who shoves flutes up his nose and plays them while also playing the buckets near Union Square?

You know, the usual.

But sometimes our conversations veer off to so many different tangents that all of a sudden we're talking about how great Mayim Bialik is and I have no clue how we got there.

That's what happened recently while I was talking to Barrett. Now, Mayim happens to be around my age, so I actually DID watch Blossom when it was on, but Barrett is four years older than me, and I'm almost positive she didn't. She may not even have seen Beaches. And I'd bet if she did, she didn't cry when Barbara Hershey was dying. Oops, spoiler on a movie from the 80's!

Anyway, so Barrett and I were talking about Mayim, and she asked if I'd seen the Kirstie Alley series Fat Actress. I hadn't. Barrett told me Mayim plays Kirstie Alley's neighbor in the show and she hates her. This intrigued me, because I knew that had to mean funny, and I'd recently seen Mayim on TLC's What Not to Wear and had just found out Mayim could be funny. Like, truly funny.

However. I was never really a Kirstie Alley fan. When I thought back to Cheers, she always seemed to be hyper and uptight and whiny. When I thought of Look Who's Talking she seemed uptight and hyper. Harried. I didn't really think I'd enjoy Fat Actress.

Peoples, sometimes you should really just trust your friends. I didn't particularly enjoy the first episode of Fat Actress. I found Kirstie Alley to be whiny and annoying. But I was watching through Netflix, so I soldiered on to the second episode. And it all clicked for me. Turns out Kirstie Alley (who both stars in and co-wrote the show) is really funny. There were a lot of guest stars and I totally got into the show.

Just like My So-Called Life, I am very sad Fat Actress was only on air for one season. [insert cool lean against row of lockers while staring up at the ceiling as if thinking deep thoughts all while wearing a one-piece gas station jumpsuit, a la Jordan Catalano who is the only character or person able to pull that look off]

All this to say, you too, should go watch the Fat Actress series. Then we can discuss it. Then we can keep talking, and five minutes later we'll probably be laughing so hard we're about to pee in our pants while talking about unicorns or spatulas or something equally obscure. Because that's how we roll.

To the Chris Brown Fans

Russell should be nominated for something big and impressive for this post. It's touching and sweet and right.

Oh, Well That's Okay

Today I'm temping at that place that pays less than unemployment. When I got the call yesterday asking if I would mind coming despite the pay, I said yes for a few reasons:

1. I am having trouble being a person lately. You know, getting dressed, leaving the house. So this was a good push.
2. The firm specifically requested me.
3. The recruiter who called me about this job has been the only one to call me about ANY work over the last four or so months, which means I'd like to keep him happy.
4. Never know what it could lead to. Maybe someone will retire or move away. Maybe the attorney here will have a lawyer-friend who is hiring.

So here I sit, in an empty penthouse in Union Square. So far the woman who works here (who I met last time I temped) called, and another woman called twice for the lawyer. I told her he was not in. She asked when he was expected. I paused, and then told her, "Actually, I'm a temp and nobody else has come in yet so I'm not sure. If you'd like, I can email him a message from you."

She replied, "No, I already left a message. Several messages. When do you think he'll come in?" I sighed. "Again ma'am, I'm a temp, from an agency. I'm the first to arrive at the office, and I don't see any notes about when he's expected in. So I'm not sure."

Her response? "Oh, well that's okay. I was a temp once too." Lady, I *know* it's okay. I don't feel badly that you can't reach someone. Perhaps if you'd told me your issue and I agreed it was as urgent as you think it is, I might offer to track down the attorney's cell phone and call him.

The chances of that being the case are pretty slim though. This guy doesn't do a type of law that has real emergencies (criminal, family, etc.) so when a client thinks something is an emergency more likely they're just dizzy with the power of having someone work for them and want hand-holding. I wonder how many more times she'll call back before the lawyer shows up. So far we're up to three.

People, a little tip from me to you. When you're desperately trying to reach someone and keep getting their gatekeeper, leave your NAME. This woman has called three times! Not once has she told me her name! Yes, I've asked. That means if the attorney calls in, I can't say, "Mary's called three times for you, she urgently wants to talk with you." All I could possibly say is, "Some lady called three times but won't leave a message." Attorneys don't want to hear that. They don't want their time wasted with useless information.

Fucking With You Through Facebook

In high school I was best friends with a girl named Lauryn who was devious, manipulative, and, I eventually realized, basically a sociopath who never tired of fucking with people, though I never saw her abuse any animals. Lauryn was also tons of fun, which was why I liked her.

Also in high school, I had a huge crush on a guy two grades ahead of me. He of course, had no interest in me at all. He was a huge player and hooked up with pretty much every girl in the school including Lauryn, except me and Gara, the girl who once had a temper tantrum so dramatic that she stepped inside a garbage pail of her own volition.

Even after I switched to a different high school towards the end of tenth grade, I still maintained my crush. I don't know where (or if) he went to college. I'd heard he knocked up a girl a few towns over. When I lived in Florida, at one point I reconnected with Lauryn, we got together two or three times, and one day she told me she'd bumped into my crush and he was married with a kid.

She asked if I'd talked with him and I said no, not since high school. Lauryn seemed a tiny bit triumphant that she'd had contact with him and I hadn't. I didn't like the person Lauryn had (not) grown up to be, and when I moved to San Francisco I didn't tell her and we haven't had contact since.

This afternoon I logged into Facebook and saw a friend request from Lauryn. I actually wasn't sure who she was at first, because I'd forgotten her married name. My usual M.O. is to accept a friend request from everyone I know, whether or not I want to be in touch with them, to be nice. If I don't really want to and am doing it anyway, I just block them from being able to see anything in my Facebook profile or wall, and let them think I'm simply not very involved in Facebook.

I was so surprised at seeing Lauryn's name that I didn't accept her friend request this afternoon. Tonight, I logged into Facebook again, and again, saw her name. I clicked on it to see who else she is friends with. Only one person. I'll give you one guess who. I almost wonder if she did that on purpose. Once again proving she can get what I couldn't. Weird.

My Hand Was Eaten By a Giant Snake and I Was Waiting For the Reattachment Surgery

What? That sounds like a hell of a better reason than "I can't think of anything good to sayyyyyyyyy." 

In a nutshell, my life still sucks, but I'm tired of bitching about it, thus leaving me little to talk about.

Did I tell you I went to Mexico for the wedding of Golden Boy and Crazy Girl at the end of April? No? Well. Hi, I went to Mex ... yeah. So anyway.  My mother knew I was some sort of special type of moron way back in elementary school, and she went through different phases regarding it.  Sometimes she tried to pretend I was just like all the other kids, but other times she admitted I couldn't run with the bulls and did things like fussing at the administration to make me foreign language exempt from middle school, on through high school.  

Now, I don't know if my lack of taking Spanish is why I am completely unable to say anything with a proper accent, but I doubt it, since all the French words I know courtesy of years of ballet also come out of my mouth without an accent.  

This means that gracias always sounded like grassy-ass when I said it.  The frustrating thing was that I'd hear it come out of my mouth that way, hear that it was wrong, and still not be able to say it with the correct pronunciation.  Thus, the little foreign language I know, I never used.  You would cringe to hear me say croissant.  Except that I never say it because I'm embarrassed at how it sounds coming out of my mouth. 

I was very worried that the Mexicans I would encounter would sneer at me and make me feel like shit for my shitty attempts at Spanish, and for reverting back to English after the greeting portion of conversations had been completed.  My brother reassured me numerous times that this would not happen.  That Puerto Vallarta is a resort area, that they want you to have fun and be comfortable.  That they all speak English, and if they don't, someone who does will always be close by (this was true also).  

The Golden Boy does not lie.  Everyone was so warm there.  Even the cab driver who fucked me over did it nicely (it was my mistake - I'd been warned to always ask a cab driver how much the ride would cost before getting in the cab, and I didn't think to do that, figuring it would cost the same amount to get back to the hotel as it had cost to get where I was leaving from).  

I pushed myself really hard to always speak in Spanish if I knew the words for what I was trying to say.  They must be used to that in a tourist town, and by the second day I had gotten pretty good at using a combination of Spanish, English and pantomime to get concepts across.  By the third day my grassy-ass had become a real gracias and all of a sudden the accent I could never wrap my tongue around had materialized.  

Which may account for why two weeks ago, when I found myself lost in the Mission and running late, I didn't hesitate to walk up to three men manning a garage sale, greet them and then ask where the street I needed was, all in Spanish.  They answered me in English, which to be honest, is good, since I would not have understood "You're very close, just two or three more blocks that way," in Spanish.  

As my friend and I walked on she said to me in amazement, "I didn't know you speak Spanish."  I smiled.  "I don't." 

Have They Always Been That Big?

The other day I was at someone's house and there were two pizza boxes on top of the stove. When asked for a slice from the bottom box I held one in each hand as I changed out the boxes, being careful not to knock over bottles of wine or wine glasses that were nearby on the counter.

Since moving out of New York, I haven't found good pizza. I won't even try pizza from places that sell other things, like subs, because some foods just don't belong together. Growing up we got pizza about once every two weeks or so. Often it was my job to take the pizza boxes out the the garage, stepping on them to fold them into quarters so they'd fit in the big garbage pails. Now I am just one person, so I never buy pizza pies. I don't really touch pizza boxes that often anymore. Maybe these were extra-large pizzas that came in extra-large pizza boxes. Or maybe the pizza boxes have always been that big.

What's Next?

Last week someone suggested I see August Rush, so that's what I did last night. The person who thought I'd like it was spot on. It was sappy and unrealistic but involved music and passion and although I would have preferred more Julliard stuff, it was a perfect movie to watch late on a Sunday night.

I will say however, it would have been nice if the director had done a better job of aging the main characters. Perhaps some Felicity hair for the pre-baby scenes to make the distinction that a decade had gone by, maybe?

My method with Netflix is to never check what's next in the queue. That way it will always be a fun surprise when the movie comes in the mail. Sounds lame, but it totally works.

Who Says You Need Words?

This definitely makes the list for Most Awesome Things Seen. There are no words.

(Watch past the point when you start to get bored.)