Back To Work

After six long (sometimes fun/sometimes stressful) months, I am finally officially working again. Today was my first day back in a law firm. At the start of the day it felt weird. Like when you go to Florida after not having visited since you were eight. Familiar, but not quite. Until you get to that one spot that triggers memories and everything comes flooding back and you realize you DO remember more than you thought you did.

I'm working with two partners who both seem nice, though one is much more friendly than the other. He is the one who told me I must come up with a Western name for myself like the other employees have. Ummm... yeah. I don't do Western. Except that this guy is my boss so I do. Any ideas, you two?

Props to Starbucks

Let's take a moment to applaud Starbucks today (let's even take a break from calling them 'Starfucks' as I usually do). Why? Because this afternoon I went in to have a hot chocolate and read my book and just get the hell out of my house, and their music was too loud for my comfort.

I am very sensitive to noise. It's why I have little to no interest in ever going to concerts; I know it will be too loud and I will have to leave or risk a nervous breakdown. If concert music was a tangible object, it would be crowding me and causing me actual claustrophobia.

But I know this is my problem, and not the rest of the world's problem. So I generally move away from loud noises, or deal with them. Today I wanted to keep reading my book. In my comfy chair. I did not want to leave. So I went up to the counter and asked if there was any way they could lower the music.

The countergirl smiled and said of course they could, and within 10 seconds of settling back into my comfy chair with my book the music was lowered. I stayed another hour. Next time I'm there, I'll tip extra because of this.

Go Starbucks!

Cagney - The Final Visit

Today Cagney (the previous roommate) came over. We had agreed she would bring me a new vacuum to replace the one she broke, I would give her my old, broken vacuum (don't ask - I don't know why), and her security deposit minus the cost of what I bought to fix my table that she keyed (again, don't ask).

It was less awkward than it might have been, considering she was absolutely horrified when I told her as she was moving out that I planned to deduct damages from her security deposit. I must be getting better at this whole dealing with people thing.

My new vacuum is not a Dyson, but I like it anyway. And now I'll never have to see Cagney ever again. The End.

Who Died?

My father called me from New York at 7:30 am (PST) today. Just to chat. See what's going on. Let me know he responded to an e-mail I sent him. Nothing big going on. SO WHY THE FUCK DOES THAT CALL HAVE TO HAPPEN AT SEVEN FUCKING THIRTY IN THE MORNING ON A SATURDAY?! I was even rude enough to ask my father why he was calling so early and he said he thought I'd said it was okay (why would I say that's okay?!). Plus, there have been times I've called him that early so he figured it was okay. Yeah, I did that twice. I told him it's really a bit too early for my taste. He was cool about it, and he asked when a better time would be for me, and I said any time after 9am is just fine.

Even with his explanations, I still don't understand what would possess a person to call someone so early unless it was an emergency. It is not unusual for my parents or grandfather to call me so early, despite the fact that I have never told them to do so. I have told them they've woken me up when they have. I've ever gone so far as to tell my grandpa "Call me after you finish lunch - by then, I'm awake" because I know he's old and gets a little confused with the time difference. Really, even if I'm awake before 9am (which I almost always am) or after 11pm (which I usually am) sometimes it's nice to not talk. From now on, if you call me before 9am or after 11pm, I want to hear that someone's DIED. That's right. Someone better be fucking DEAD for you to call me outside of that 14 hour range. I want to hear that someone's leg got sawed off by a weedwacker, your hair got stuck in a ceiling fan and you've been twirling around for six hours, a hand got sucked down the garbage disposal... it better be big, and it better be good.

*You may ask why I don't just let the calls go to voice mail. It's because I'd rather not have to call them back. If I call back, they assume I've called at a time when I've got nothing better to do than talk, and my mother will keep me on the phone for ages, even asking me to hold on while she gets in screaming fights with my father, goes to the bathroom (who am I kidding, she forces me to talk to her during that), cuts veggies for her lunch, ties her shoes, etc. Plus, if the call is going to voice mai, the ring has already woken me up. You may ask why I don't just turn off my phone so I won't hear the ringing, and it's because we seem to have quite a number of real emergencies, and everyone knows I'm the person to go to during them, since it's my specialty.

My First Time

Not that, ya pervert; get your mind out of the gutter! Yesterday was my first time that I went with someone to get a tattoo. I had lots of fun! I'm so glad I went! In all honesty, I thought I'd get bored, wish I'd brought a book, ask to borrow my friend's IPod, need to wander around the block going in and out of other shops in the area to amuse myself... but no. I sat, happily entertained, and watched and chatted and tried not to lean too close the whole time. It turns out tattoo artists are really just regular people who also have families and feelings and like celebrity gossip and are articulate. Who knew?! Not I, said the super-conservative "nice, Jewish girl from Long Island."

I went here and the artist who did the tattooing is this chick. Every single person who worked there was friendly and smiled and was open to all my many questions (and for those of you who know me, you know I always have a LOT of questions). The bathroom was very clean (my mother would be SHOCKED at that one; I will only admit to being pleasantly surprised at the fanciness of it). When sterilization of tattooing needles came up, the tattoo artist said when couples have told her they didn't mind if she used the same needles on both people, she refuses.

While my friend was getting her tattoo, an English guy was also getting a tattoo. When his tattoo was complete, the guy went to the mirror to check out his brand new tattoo. He looked SOOO happy, and what was super-cute was that his tattoo artist ALSO looked really happy and pleased with herself.

This was not my friend's first tattoo, but apparently you get nervous/pumped up for each one. At least, she did. I consider her to be a professional tattoo-getter. She chugged water beforehand, exfoliated, took no aspirin, etc. She had an endorphin-high/adrenaline rush thing going afterwards, and I honestly believe she could have beaten up Oscar De La Hoya as easily as lifting a random car or running a short marathon.

All my previous knowledge of tattoos comes from what my mother had told me, and the impressions she had of them. They're dirty. If you get one, you'll get AIDS or hepatitis. Nobody will ever hire you for a job. You will not be buried in a Jewish cemetary (ok, that one may actually be true). Everyone will think less of you. People who get tattoos are stupid. You will be considered a lowlife scumball. There's no need to make an appointment to get a tattoo, since so few people would ever want one that tattoo artists are never "booked." Whatever you do, DON'T use their bathroom - it's probably just a bucket further back in the alley anyway!

My mother is so wrong. My friend who got a tattoo has a Master's in Fine Arts from one of the best art schools in the country. I am inspired to look up what I previously did not know because of things she says. She runs her own business. Basically, she ain't no schmucky lowlife scumball with diseases. She just likes tattoos. And now, so do I. Though not enough to get one. After all, I'm still the nice, Jewish girl from Long Island. Now I'm just a nice, Jewish girl from Long Island who can appreciate tattoos.

I'm totally sending my mother a pic of my friend's tattoo and telling her it's mine; they offered to give me one for free so I accepted and here it is, don't ya love it?! Yeah, I'm evil that way.

Do What I Say, Not What I Do

I am issuing a formal complaint with all who read this: The writers of my favorite blogs are not updating their blogs often enough for my entertainment.

True, I *AM* sick and therefore spending more time home and in bed, and perhaps that is why I have nothing better to do than read blogs. They are a great way to pass the time when I don't quite have the energy or concentration for reading books.

But seriously people, help me out here! You know who you are, because I've either e-mailed you directly or commented on your blogs. So give me a new entry already. Thank you, greatly appreciated.

My Birthday Is In October

For the presents you'll get me, I'd like these.

Thank you!

A Very Short Post

Hello, my name is Princess of the Obvious.

I broke a promise to myself and I'm not pleased. That's all.

Finding Home

No matter where I am, I always consider home to be New York. I'm such a good New Yorker; that I really DO love New York, I really DO have hometown pride. I even have a Yankees jersey (in my under the bed box) to prove it.

When I moved to Florida five years ago from New York, people asked me if I was homesick. I didn't think I was, so I said no. While I was still trying to find a good radio station, I stumbled upon the Howard Stern show one morning. Listening to that New York accent made me feel sad, yet good. It was comforting to hear someone who was familiar, and during my four years of living in Florida when I was frustrated with what seemed to me like backwards thinking, I'd listen to the Howard Stern show and feel a tiny bit better. I'm from Long Island, Howard Stern is from Long Island. I'm Jewish, Howard Stern is Jewish. A friend of mine from high school babysat for his kids. When he entered the political arena, because politicians have to make their home address public and he wanted to protect his family, he rented a house in the town I lived in, gave out that address, and was often seen around town running errands. After 9/11 the first time I laughed was listening to his show, when he said people should prioritize, and his first priority was calling to make sure all the strippers from Scores were alright.

Last year I moved to San Francisco and it didn't occur to me to find something that would make me feel a little closer to home. My brother lived in the city - so close that we could walk to each other's apartments - and so home felt close by. My brother moved to LA a couple of months ago, but by then I'd already built a life for myself here, and had made friends and found favorite places to go.

My favorite magazine in the world is Newsweek. Better than Cosmo and better than Glamour. I've read Newsweek religiously since I was in middle school. The majority of politics I've ever learned has come from Newsweek and Kurt Loder. Through my move to Florida and now to San Francisco, I've continued to stay religious. And through the power of Newsweek on their Blog Watch page, I found this blog.

As I devoured each blog entry (and I read them all, even the archives), I thought once more about just how much I love and miss New York. This bouncer is my new Howard Stern. Read it. I think you'll be entertained even if you're not a New Yorker.

There's a BIRD In My Apartment!

Do you remember that episode of Friends where a pigeon flew into the kitchen and Rachel captured it in a pot? Yesterday, I thought I was going to have to become Rachel Green. While in my bedroom with the door closed I heard what sounded like a bird squawking. I was sure some poor bird had tried to fly into the living room and gotten tangled in the blinds and was squawking for help.

Let's just talk about the layout of my apartment for a quick minute (hell, why don't I just tell you where all the valuables are hidden too?) so you can picture this correctly in your head. There are two bedrooms that are separated by the kitchen and living room. And that's the whole apartment.

The Steamroller was in her bedroom with the door closed, and I was in my bedroom with my door closed. When I heard the bird squawking, I realized that in order to become Rachel Green I would have to walk RIGHT PAST the bird in order to get the pot to capture it in. I considered calling The Steamroller on her cell phone from mine to enlist her help. I opened my bedroom door a tiny crack and looked towards the window. The blinds were not askew. There was no bird.

You might be wondering what that squawking noise was, since it wasn't a bird. It turns out it was The Steamroller, SCREAMING in some other language to whoever was unlucky enough to be on the other end of her cell phone.

Hours later, she tried to tell me what had upset her so much, but she was still so upset that she wasn't quite coherent and all I know is that somebody screwed her over in relation to her old apartment. Whatever, as long as I didn't have to capture a bird. I'm no Rachel Green.

Roommate Update: The Steamroller

Today my new roommate moved in. Her name is The Steamroller. Why? Because she is one. Not in size - she's tiny - but in personality. She just may be the pushiest person I've ever met. She even inspired me to get pushy with her. She wanted to move in today at a time when I wouldn't be here, and have me leave a key for her at the front desk. All before she'd given me a security deposit. It wasn't gonna happen. Here is what I know about her:

She is almost 23, an investment banker, an only child born and raised in Hong Kong, went to an Ivy League college, then to an impressive grad school, and she does not like meat but is not a vegetarian. She is moving her stuff in today, though will not sleep here until Wednesday or Thursday when her bed arrives. She seems to have a lot of Winnie the Pooh and Hello Kitty stuff.

I have been meaning to go read a book about the culture in Hong Kong, since I know nothing at all about it, and I'd hate to accidentally offend her, but haven't done it yet. Ummm.... gotten the book OR offended her. I think. I hope.

Damn, I better go find a fucking book tomorrow.