Bad Mood

Dear Blog,

Nothing of importance can be blogged about, and there is nothing of interest TO blog about. Thus, no blogging of late.

To top it all off, I'm in a bad mood. It's one of those moods where you push everyone around you away, and then want to cry that nobody's talking to you. It's like I want to be left alone, but I want to know that lots of people are REALLY upset that I can't come out to play.

I'm in a bad mood even though:

I bought cherries for $1.99 per pound at Safeway last night
I did a good job at work this week
I did some work for one of the managing partners this week and didn't screw up
I am in the middle of a good book
I had a lovely lunch with a new friend today
I have worn new socks almost every day this week
I remembered to bring in a contribution for Bagel Day yesterday
I have four days off from work starting NOW
I figured out something other than a t-shirt, jeans and sneakers to wear to an event that deserves more than a t-shirt, jeans and sneakers
I discovered a blog that I like so much that I'm reading the archives
In two more months I will have been at my job for an entire year and I don't think I'm about to get fired at all

Hopefully this mood will pass soon. Very soon. Meanwhile I'm going to sulk and read. I figured I should post SOMETHING - that it was unfair of me to silently curse out my favorite bloggers for not blogging when I'm not blogging. So I have now blogged. Your turn.

P.S. I have done as all of you have suggested, and have closed my heart off to Friend # 2. At the beginning of the week I was not very smooth about it, and basically avoided her. Every time she tried to chat with me I visualized big metal gates clanging closed and locking (thanks Steve), and I kept things very impersonal. By the end of the week I was much smoother in my casualness and today we chatted and it was fine. Thank you.

Back On the Scene, Crispy and Clean

Today I went back to the Farmer's Market for the first Saturday since the crepe stand went out of business and killed my desire to go there.

As far as fruit is concerned, this is the best Farmer's Market season. I almost worked up to trying a new stand for breakfast that sells eggs and french toast, but it was crowded and hot and my bags were heavy, so I didn't. Maybe next week.

I love that everybody and their mother brings their dogs to Farmer's Market. There are signs posted saying no pets are allowed, but it seems like that's more of a guideline or suggestion, than some actual law. That's what laws feel like in San Francisco - suggestions. You shouldn't steal because of karma, not because it's against the law.

Speaking of stealing, my friend called my cell phone just as I wandered up to the first fruit stand. I moved to a stand selling oils to get out of the sun and under a shade, and proceeded to chat with her for almost an hour, saying, "No, sorry" to everyone who thought I worked there and asked me questions about oil. While we were on the phone, I saw a man pull out a huge wad of cash to pay for the fattest blueberries known to man, and then put the money down on the blueberry table and turn away from it. On one hand I think, "Wow, what an idiot, to turn away from his money that way" and on the other, I think, "Isn't it great that people can do that here?" This does not mean that I would ever do that. Never mind that I don't carry huge amounts of cash around with me.

Speaking of fat blueberries, I bought 3 packages of them, and they are chilling in the fridge as I write this. I love good blueberries. I have eaten blueberries for dinner. Anyone who has ever considered being a fan of blueberries should rush right out and buy them NOW - this is their season.

Let's talk about bing cherries (no Chandler Bing jokes today, sorry). I freaking LOVE the bing cherries, even though I don't love their name very much. Sadly, that depressing month of rain we had did the cherries no favors. Although there were a lot of cherry stands, all the cherries were just Eh. I will not pay $7 a pound for just Eh. I will go to the supermarket and pay $2.49 a pound for them though. Oh, and to the old man who whispered to me that there were cherries "around front" being sold for $3? Fuck you, no there weren't. I looked at Every. Single. Stand. The lowest price I found was $6 for a pound, but those cherries were way too mushy for anyone to buy.

Plums are coming into season and only going to get better. I remembered that last year there was a Cute Plum Boy, so I went to find him today. Still there, still cute. I make him pick out my plums for me, because although I'm okay at it, he's better. Cute Plum Boy told me which plums to eat on which days, and then tossed in an extra one for free, telling me to eat it today. So I will. With my blueberries. For dinner tonight.

White peaches are also in season. A friend of mine loves them, and since she's sad this weekend and I'll see her tomorrow, I thought I'd buy one for her. I asked the girl at the stand to pick one out for me, and she asked which kind. I repeated that I wanted a white peach. Apparently they sell three different kinds of white peaches. Who knew? So I got one of each. I don't care much for peaches, but I tasted a sample today of what I think was one, and it was damn good. So maybe I do like them.

I walked past a guy who had a crate of strawberries that smelled fabulously, and I wanted to buy some so badly that I asked him where he bought his. He told me, and I started off, only to stop and recall that the last time I bought strawberries (the first time I went to the Farmer's Market) when I got them home I found a spider on them. I did not buy any strawberries today.

Friend # 2 from work goes to the other Farmer's Market in the city, and she and I have discussed our respective Farmer's Markets. She does not like mine; she said it's full of snobby, mostly white people. I don't find the people to be snobby at all; I find them to be quite nice. I think what she meant was that a lot of the people who go to my Market dress up for the occasion, and that makes her uncomfortable. I wear the same thing to go there that I wear anyplace that's not work: sneakers, jeans, t-shirt, and sweatshirt or jacket if needed. I wear sunscreen, not makeup. My understanding is that a lot of homeless people go to her Market. I'm thinking about the racial make-up of my Market now. I'm white. I think that yes, at least 50% of the people there are white also. Friend # 2 is white. I don't understand her feelings. Once I tried to ask her about it, but she couldn't/wouldn't articulate her thoughts. Work is not a good place for some conversations.

I have no ending for this post. So, I will end it the same way I ended every book report* I had to write in second grade:

If you want to learn more about the Farmer's Market, go visit it!

*One time in second grade, my teacher had assigned something like four book reports/projects for one month. I think for two weeks I was home from school being sick, the next week we were away on vacation, and the next weekend I had a birthday party to go to. I remember coming home from the party and my dad was finishing up a mobile for me to bring to school, and my book reports were all drafted for me - all I had to do was rewrite them in my own handwriting. It was one of the coolest things my parents ever did for me.

This Is Out Of Control

Once was cute. Twice was mildly funny. But this ...

From: Grandma, Diva
To: Grandma, Surly; Grandma, Fighting; #2, Friend; Yogurt, Green; Lady, Cat; Earlobe-Lady, Loose; Grandma, Random; Grandma, Receptionist; Grandma, Angry
Subject: Monday

Ladies, wear black color top on Monday. Have a nice weekend!

**In an interesting turn of events yesterday, Nice Partner was wearing a burgundy
"color top" though I truly think it was just coincidence.

Ignoring the Memo

"Ladies,
Let's wear burgundy top and beige khaki colored pants tomorrow."

I just heard Catlady complaining that:
1. She doesn't have a burgundy top
2. She's wearing khaki pants today
3. Tomorrow is jeans day.

I Have No Friends

At work, that is. Outside of work, I have friends. Which is great. But I spend 40+ hours at work, and would like to have some friends there. It's hard though - there is a solid double yellow line between attorneys and secretaries. So while I have a very lovely working relationship with all of my attorneys and the ones who sit near me, we aren't really friends. And although most of the Grandmas are quite lovely (to me, we'll ignore the fact that they scream at each other), I can only have so many conversations about dried apricots, prunes, cats, weather, and arthritic joints, before I just want someone to talk with about Promiscuities and LC on The Hills.

At one point, I had two friends at work. Then there was a horrible misunderstanding with Friend #1, and we stopped being friends. Basically, she was under stress, interpretted several things I did in an effort to help her in the worst possible way and decided she wanted nothing to do with me, and I decided she wasn't a true friend, because true friends try to see the best in their friends, not the worst. I would like to go back to being friends with her, but although she complimented me on my hair last week, I just don't think it's going to happen. Moving on.

Friend # 2 is ... just not nice. I was talking to a non-work friend about this last night. There are times when she (non-work friend) will tease me, or tell me something I said is ridiculous. But I am confident that when she teases, she still loves me anyway. It's gentle teasing, and if I ever told her I couldn't handle teasing about something, I'm sure she'd tell me I should work on that in therapy, but would never tease me about it again. But Friend # 2 does not tease this way. She just says flat-out mean things. Several times I have walked away from a conversation with her thinking, "Wow. That really hurt my feelings."

Why do I keep talking to her? Because she's pretty much the only person (aside from attorneys) who is within a decade of my age, who also likes to read. She's funny and smart. She's a good person to vent to when LEL is about to make my head explode. But I think I've gotten to the point where I can't overlook the mean things she says anymore.

I grew up being told I was weird, among other negative things. So I'm really sensitive to being told I'm weird. Friend # 2 told me that planning to move to a place where I'll need a roommate in order to pay rent, is weird. Everyone she knows lives by themselves, and I should sell all my extra stuff, so I can live in a smaller place. What extra stuff? I don't have extra stuff. I mean, okay, I have a lot of socks and pajamas, but not THAT many. And, I don't want to live in the Tenderloin where she does. It's like the East New York of San Francisco. Okay, maybe not quite that bad, but still. TONS of people have roommates.

Yesterday, Friend # 2 suggested going to a wannabe Jamba Juice for lunch, since it's close to the office. The place is dirty, they don't do boosts, and I hate their smoothies. So I told her I didn't like their smoothies, and she told me I'm weird. I started to walk away, and then went back. Resisting the urge to be immature and say, "Fuck you; your face is weird" I told her I saw nothing weird about having tried a place, not liking it, and therefore not wanting to go there anymore.

The other day, when we were discussing books, she told me she was going to read Gone With the Wind, because it's a classic.

GY: Just because it's a classic, or because you're interested in the storyline or time period or something?
# 2: It's a classic, don't you read the classics?
GY: If I'm interested. Not just for the sake of them being classics.
# 2: That's weird.

No it's NOT. Just because I'm jewish am I supposed to want to go to Israel? Am I a traitor of NY because I don't watch the Sopranos? Am I weird for being a girl who doesn't like manicures and pedicures?

My friend Brandi tells me everything I could ever want to know about every place in SF that I'm interested in, and will go do touristy things with me, even if she's not all that interested in them. If I were going to buy a laptop, she'd jump at the opportunity to help me buy a Mac.
My friend Beth One makes me laugh, gives good advice, and once brought me a really cool bar of soap.
My friend Dana makes me laugh and think.
My friend Patti answers all my stupid questions in ways that never make me feel more stupid and is great for deep conversations.
My friend Jennifer makes me feel loved, leaves me funny voicemails and has taught me a lot about how to be a good friend, all by example.

Friend # 2? I can't really think of anything like the above, for her. She just makes me feel badly about myself, and defensive. So clearly, I should stop being friends with her, right? Except that ... then I'll have no friends at work, and that will make me feel badly too. But at least I'll have myself respect back, right? Right?

On the Library Wall

For reasons not understood by me, some of the books I wanted to take out yesterday are kept behind a desk at the library. While I was waiting for someone to get a book for me, I saw writing on the wall. Literally. It looks like the paper cards that are in card catalogs, but on newspaper, and then smudged. Below all the regular information, it looks like someone handwrote the descriptions. The whole wall, from ceiling to floor was covered this way.

One description struck me as particularly funny, so I wrote it down.

Her accomplishment, she kept spraying it and playing it, never bothering to wash it again. Bugs behan to live in her hair. After about six months, they ate through her brain an[sic] killed her.

Moral: Wash your hair or die.

Okay, See You Later, I Love You, Bye-Bye!

I love reading. I was the child who got sent to my room and didn't mind too much because I'd just read a book up there. I was the child who hid books in my desk and read during classes. I am the adult who will find an empty office to read in during my lunch hour. I love to read.

Yesterday was supposed to be hot. I don't do heat. So I made indoor, air-conditioned plans. They included going to the bookstore or the library. The library won. Now I have seven books, and two or three requested at the library. In the last month or so, for reasons unknown to me, people have been suggesting different books to me nonstop. Every time, I have written down their recommendation on my little blue Post-It that lives on my night table. Yesterday I brought that with me to the library and spent more time than I would have liked looking up books.

The library I go to is huge. There are five levels. The library I went to for twenty years in New York was small and cozy. I loved it. It's how I think all libraries should be. When I first moved to Florida, my local library was small and cozy. They were building a new library closer to my home. After it opened and I went to visit, I was disappointed. It was huge. Every time I walked into the lobby (tons of empty square footage) all I could think about was how many more books they could have fit in there if they'd just designed their space better, and how maybe they could have had longer library hours for a few years if they hadn't tried to make things look so impressive.

The library I went to yesterday is also huge, but it's excused from my small and cozy rule because it's in a major city. Plus, the SF librarians are very helpful.

Currently, I am in the middle (or beginning or end) of reading the following:

Promiscuities, by Naomi Wolf - I've been reading this for a while now, and purposely reading it slowly. It's blowing my mind so much that I rather read a little and let it roll around my head than rush through it. It should be required reading for everyone.

What Your Doctor Won't (Or Can't) Tell You, by Evan S. Levine, MD - lots of good info, plus the doctor who wrote it is affiliated with a hospital in the Bronx that I know and like. When the book is boring me I'm still amused by the good doctor's huge ego.

Money, A Memoir, by Liz Perle - recommended by a friend, slightly boring but important to think about, so I'll read on.

The last two Newsweeks, and July Glamour.

Books in my house as of yesterday, waiting to be read:

The Quiet American, by Graham Greene
Random Family, by Adrian Nicole LeBlanc
The Unthinkable Thoughts of Jacob Green. by Joshua Braff
The Sand Pebbles, by Richard McKenna
All the Pretty Horses, by Cormac McCarthy

It will take a lot of self control to not call in sick to work so I can go sit at the beach and read all day long, pausing only to look at the surfers. If I don't answer my phone, now you'll know why.

Go Back To Jersey, Ya Moron

In general, I like helping people when I can. I like teaching. I like knowing shit. I don't mind sharing shit I know.

However. If you are standing on the street, map clutched in your hand, camera around your neck, from now on I will be trying to avoid you. Why? Because you, tourists of San Francisco, are mostly rude when you ask me things.

You interrupt me. You do not say "excuse me please" or even just "excuse me." When I oh so graciously take the time to actually help you, you do not thank me. You have an attitude like I OWE you the answers you seek. Last week when someone asked me how close we were to the Embarcadero, and I was tempted to say five miles instead of the truth (two blocks), I realized I was close to snapping. I do not work for you. My bosses can ask me anything and I will drop everything to get them an answer. But they pay me a lot of money to do that. Plus, they're almost always really nice to me. They always say thank you when I help them.

But if you're at a bus stop reading while you wait for the bus, do you want to be interrupted with "Does this bus go to Bart?" by someone standing too close, and wearing an "I Love San Francisco" t-shirt? I don't. If you're going to interrupt me, at least do it nicely. I'm all for representing the people of San Francisco as nice, helpful people. But don't you want to represent wherever you're coming from as a place that grows nice people also?

It made me realize I like helping people who act like they appreciate the help. Clearly I should never become a teacher.

So instead of doing the immature thing and lying to rude tourists by giving them wrong directions, I'm going to do the different immature thing from now on and tell them I don't know. I don't know how often the bus comes, I don't know if it stops at California, I don't know if you can transfer to Geary, my watch is broken, I've never heard of that place, I don't know how close we are to the Wharf, I don't know, I don't know, I don't know.

Open Mouth, Insert Foot. Lather, Rinse, Repeat

Not me (for once). Oh no. This time the honor belongs to our favorite loose earlobed lady. Who is not much of a lady.

Nice Partner's wife and kids came to visit at the office. They just had some new kids about a month ago. The babies (yes, twins) were born early, had some health problems, but as of last week have been home for almost three weeks, and are doing quite well. I saw them. They looked like brand new babies. They looked perfect. They looked healthy (albeit a little on the small side).

And what does dumb LEL say to Nice Wife? "Wow, they look so norm.... I mean BIG!" What a fucking idiot. Nice Wife has a lot of class, so she just blinked hard, smiled harder, and moved on.
Later, they were all leaving for lunch and starting to walk down the hall. LEL decided to pick up Nice Three Year Old and encourage her to hit a mini punching bag on a counter she was walking past.

Poor little toddler was scared out of her mind, and started to cry. So LEL punched the bag for her, to show her how much fun it could be, while maintaining her death grip around the kid's waist. I think the toddler was scared the bag would hit her in the face, since she was at eye-level with it. She cried a little harder.

To LEL I said, "I think she's scared." Nice Wife heard me and plucked her daughter from LEL and hugged her. Way to go, LEL. Scare the offspring of the person who writes your check.

I'd Rather Be Dancing

Where I grew up, soccer was the popular sport. Everyone played soccer. Everyone. I wanted to be part of everyone, so I wanted to play soccer. So my parents signed me up for soccer when I was about five or six. They bought me bright red shin guards, and a little soccer ball that had red and blue where regular soccer balls usually have black. We went to the field, and I got a shirt with a number on the back saying who the sponsor was and everything. I think my number was three. A bitch named Jill made fun of my shirt, for having a lower number than hers did.

Then we did drills. Soccer was outside. I've never been a very crunchy person. Soccer was not what I thought it'd be. There was no playing actual soccer. There were just ... boring drills. Soccer sucked! It was so boring.

At the end of soccer I got into the car to go home and told my mother, "I'd rather be dancing." At the time, I didn't know that was a bumper sticker; it was just how I truly felt. Dancing made me happy. Dancing made me happy for almost two decades, until I couldn't walk and somehow forgot how to dance when I relearned to walk.

I spent most of my childhood depressed and frustrated and angry and generally unhappy. Dancing was pretty much the only thing that made me forget that. I did badly in school, both academically and socially. When I danced, I was happy. I could do well. I could FEEL myself doing well.

So to put into words how miserable I was when my shrink told my parents to use dance classes as leverage to get me to do homework would be impossible. Some child psychologist she was!

I can't help but think even less of her when I see this article.

Never mind all the reasoning the article mentions. What I care about is this:

I was miserable.
Dancing made me happy.
When I was happy, I was a more pleasant person for my family to be around.
I should have not had the only thing that made me happy taken away from me.
The end.

Two Years Later, (Wiggily) Welcome to California

Despite not having lived in New York for six years, apparently I'm still very much the jaded New Yorker. At some point last night, there was an earthquake. At what time?* Don't ask me, I was busy sleeping. Normally I'm such a light sleeper that if somebody coughs in Portland, I wake up. The very first thing I always do when I wake up is look to see what time it is. Every. Single. Time.
Last night when the earthquake woke me up, this was my entire thought process:

earthquake...

And I quickly fell back asleep. Never mind that it was my very first earthquake. Never mind that I've been looking forward to this since I moved here.

Oh well. I'm sure more will come.

*I now know the earthquake was at 5:24 a.m.

Will You Be My (Sugar) Daddy?

Today on my lunch hour, I sat outside reading (Promiscuities, by Naomi Wolf) and people watching. It's rare that there's good people watching at the spot I'd chosen, mostly because the majority of people are just like me - taking a break from work, very possibly from the same building I work in.

Nearby there was a family also lunching. It was clear the dad works in the area, and the wife, complete with kid and grandparents, had come to visit him for lunch. The parents were letting the little boy run around chasing pigeons while they ate and talked.

A man walked by me, and stopped near the family. He took out a thick wad of cash and started counting. The little boy's eyes lit up, and he ran to the man, grabbed his knees, and hugged with all his might. The parents were at first horrified, until they saw that the man just hugged the kid back and patted his head, and then they couldn't stop laughing. The man tried to disengage from the kid. He shoved his money in his pocket and gently peeled the boy's arms away from him. The boy shrugged his shoulders, said "None for me" to his family, and went back to chasing pigeons.

Better luck next time.

Step Away From the Scalpel, Ashlee!

Yes, you're reading the Green Yogurt blog. Yes, I'm really writing about celebrity shit. Why? Because I can't stop thinking about it.

Last week when I was in my funk, I caved in and bought US Weekly. Sarah Michelle Gellar is on the cover in the top left corner. Oh, wait. No she isn't. That's just Ashlee Simpson, post plastic surgery.

When you have stopped looking like yourself, and now look like a totally different person, I think we can all admit, you've gone too far with the surgeries. Sarah Michelle Gellar is not doing anything these days. I mean, she's not dead, but she's not doing anything worthy of being mentioned in US Weekly. So I'm fairly certain that's not Sarah Michelle.

I am not against plastic surgery at all, for myself or others. but there is no reason to head down the road towards Cat Woman of the 80's. Is Ashlee running from the Mob? Is that why she got such drastic surgery? No, because then why would she flaunt herself in such a way to land the cover of US Weekly? You don't see Katie and Suri running around on magazine covers, so we know it's possibly to avoid the press.

Really, Ashlee. Enough is enough. You don't even look like yourself anymore. Never mind whether you look better now than you used to.

Things Sure Have Changed Since I Moved

I just ended a phone conversation with a friend by telling her to go change her panties. Yeah, I'll wait while you run off with that one.

Back now? Good. Sorry, we weren't having phone sex - she's just pregnant and she coughed.

Why am I blogging someone else's TMI? Not to embarrass her. If I wanted to embarrass her I'd say who it was, which I won't, of course. I'm talking about it because ... well, because I'm amazed that we (she and I, not me and all nine of you) talked about it.

When I lived in Florida, I was friends with about five people over four years. Three of them got pregnant and had babies while I lived there. One of them nursed her baby, and asked if I minded if she did that in front of me (naturally I said no, but I was uncomfortable).

I cannot imagine ANY of the three of them telling me if they'd peed when they coughed, let alone us being able to laugh about it. Never mind my teasing them about it! And yet, that's what just happened.

Despite still being friends with three of the friends I made in Florida, tonight's phone call made me realize that the friendships I've made in San Francisco are on a whole different level. I'm not sure if they are deeper friendships, but they are certainly on a very different level. Less polite. No, "less polite' isn't quite it. Less formal? Less ... caring what other people think, maybe.

I did not have a good day today. I was exhausted, as if I was dealing with a week of Mondays, rather than just one Monday. I was dragging all day and so tired that I thought about telling my bosses I was sick and needed to go home early (I didn't). When I came home, I could barely change out of my work clothes. My plan was to read and go to bed by 8 p.m., without eating dinner. Then my friend called. We talked, we laughed, we cursed, we shared some deep thoughts, she did the cough/pee thing, we joked around. We got off the phone. All of a sudden I wasn't quite so tired anymore. That never happened with my Florida friends.

Stop the Presses!

Steamroller bought paper towel! It's like Christmas over here!

"First Words of the Day Are Hard, Huh?"

There are rules. There's no crying in baseball. Say please and thank you. Don't drop doors on people behind you. No letting your toes hang over the sides of your shoes (that one's for you, J!). No elbows on the table. Return things you've borrowed. No talking in the mornings. What's that? That's not a rule? Well it should be. It is in my world.

Despite the fact that I usually wake up between 4 and 8 a.m., I still consider myself to not be a morning person. Why? Because I can't really speak to people for about an hour to an hour and a half after I wake up. I can walk around, go shopping, run errands, all that. But actually speaking out loud? Not so much.

I don't know why exactly it is, but I'm just not ready to be interacting with people in the early mornings. My brain is racing, but speaking is out of the question. This is why I try to not speak in the mornings. This is why if you call me early in the morning and ask if you woke me up, if you did, I WILL say yes. This is why I try to get up for work at 7:30, so that by the time I'm strolling down Grandma Lane, I'm ready to be bright and chipper. This is why, if I do go out about the town in the mornings, I discourage people from talking to me by avoiding making eye contact. My system works pretty well. Most of the time.

My across-the-hall neighbor is crazy. When I first moved in here, my brother helped, and I think she thought he was moving in also. So when my actual (female) roommate moved in, Crazy Neighbor was confused. My roommate told me she got a dirty look from CN. The first time CN talked to me, she asked what I did. I answered, and asked what she did. Yoga teacher and tarot card reader. I resisted the urge to say, "Wow, how very hippy-dippy of you."

CN is haughty. I don't know what exactly makes her think she has the right to be haughty, but she actually DOES tilt her chin up so that she can look down her nose at people. When she asks people to hold the elevator for her, she never rushes like most people do. She continues with her casual stroll and regal smile, as if riding in the elevator with her will be a huge thrill for all who have the golden opportunity.

When CN and I are the only ones in the elevator, even if I'm standing closer to the opening, she will push past me so she can get out of the elevator first. Once I was talking with the property manager and somehow the subject of people getting locked out came up. She told me that CN locked herself out so many times ($50 for Security to come unlock your door for you) that now she almost always leaves her door unlocked.

I think CN is one of those people who feels better about herself when she has made other people feel badly about themselves. It's for this reason that I refuse to engage with her at all. I do a lot of smiling vaguely and murmuring pleasantries and pretending I didn't hear her when we run into each other.

Yesterday morning I was standing at the elevator waiting to leave my apartment to go to work. The elevator opened and CN was coming back up to our floor. I stepped back to let her walk by, and she stepped into my dance space (this is my dance space. this is your dance space. I don't go into yours, you don't go into mine). I stepped to the side, in the direction AWAY from where she would go to get to her apartment. She stepped with me. It was morning, I do not interact well with people in the morning. I still assumed it was a mistake, and again, stepped away. Again, she stepped in the direction I'd just gone in. I glared at her, and stopped moving so she could just move around me. CN seemed to think this was funny. To me, pretty much nothing that involves interacting with people is funny in the morning.

She stepped even closer towards me, and I snapped. I put my hands up, palms out and mumbled something - I think it was "Okay!" and again, took a step away from her. She got the message because she walked away. So glad I'm moving in a few months.

ANOTHER Granny Fight!

What is wrong with these women? My friend claims it's menopause. Another friend says the full moon is throwing everyone off.

Whatever it is, I can't believe I missed the granny fight this afternoon. For once, I was actually so busy that I had to bring some of my work to the Word Processing Department, and that's why I wasn't there for all the excitement.

By the time I got back to my desk, all was quiet, though I'd seen one of the grandmas in the HR office. LEL, apparently my new best friend, came running over to me, ears flapping furiously, to gossip about the fight. I actually like both women involved in the fight and have no interest in either getting involved or taking sides. LEL seemed disappointed when I told her I had to work on what had been left on my desk for me. Maybe she saw this as a bonding opportunity.

I don't know if someone will ultimately get moved, or fired, or what. I just hope it doesn't affect me at all. In movies and on tv, when a new shift of police officers are about to head out into the streets, the cop in charge often says "Stay safe out there." Do you think some grandpa is kissing his wife goodbye as she heads out to work and saying "Stay safe in there"?

P.S. There was talk of today's color being yellow. However, not only didn't anyone in the row actually wear yellow, but the receptionist, who does not receive the memo WAS decked out in yellow.

Sometimes I Wish It Was 1993

Not because I had so much fun in high school. To be clear, all of my school years were pure and total hell.

But at my private high school, it was okay, hell it was encouraged, to be confrontational. Somebody pissed you off? Go yell at them. Throwing the wooden chairs was not allowed, but screaming at someone because they did something mean or hurtful? Perfectly okay.

Sometimes I'd really like to walk up to someone at work and say, "What the fuck is your problem?" Not because it'd be fun (okay maybe it'd be a tiny bit fun), but because I'd like to clear things up. For example, why, if you told me you didn't want to be friends, did you tell me my hair looks good (embraced the curl, for those wondering)? Why did you then thank me for helping LEL with her stupid Proof of Service? Why did you try to make small talk with me? (Most importantly, am I feeling autistic for not knowing the answers to these questions only because I just finished reading The Curious Incident With the Dog In the Night-Time?)

Maybe New Yorkers do things differently than the West Coasters (gee, ya think?), but where I come from, "I like your bangs" is a total kiss-ass comment. Or, at least it was in 1992.

I just don't get it, and I'd like some clarification. Are you trying to mend the bridge you tore down? Are you just trying to create a pleasant working environment? Or, have you just forgotten we weren't friends anymore?

Whatever the case, I'd like some clarification.

Duck

For some reason everyone seemed to be having a bad day today. My goal was to avoid any badness myself.

A coworker arrived at work a half hour late, with her nine year old son in tow. Was he too sick to go to school? Has school ended and his summer program hasn't started? No. Apparently he needed a mental health day. That explained why he looked like he'd been crying or having an allergy attack.

The morning continued with a granny fight. This isn't two old ladies hitting each other with their canes at Dan's, fighting over the last box of prunes. Nothing like it. I was in the file room when I heard screaming. SCREAMING. "Don't yell at me! Who do you think you are to yell at me like that? Do you want me to yell at you?! Who the fuck do you think you are? I don't yell at you so don't yell at me! This is BULLSHIT!"

The file clerk and I turned to each other with wide eyes. I hoped there were no clients in the hallway to hear that. So unprofessional. When I walked out of the file room, the hallway was silent. All the grandmas were primly sitting at their desks. All the attorneys had their doors closed. It was a long walk down the hall to my desk.

I had been in the file room getting old pleadings. Nice Partner had given me unclear directions on what to do with them, but I knew they were needed. Basically, he inadvertently gave me the directions twice, and the first time he told me to do B, while the second time he told me to do A. I thought it made the most sense to do C, a combination of both. When I went to ask, Nice Partner was a bit snappish and told me he'd told me to do C. I showed him the e-mail he'd sent me saying to do B, he backed down, and we moved forward.

When I'd started working on that project, Nice Partner had come over to my desk and told me to continue with what I was currently doing, but to later do Project B, which he handed me. I put it on my desk, finished Project A, then went to get what I needed to do Project B.

Project B had grown legs and walked off my desk. Did somebody steal it? No, apparently Nice Partner had taken it off my desk to do himself. That pissed me off.

Loose Earlobe Lady started making noise about needing to file and serve a pleading for one of the baby attorneys she works for. She asked if I would help her prepare a Proof of Service. This is possibly the simplest document in the entire legal world to prepare. It's a document that basically says "I, Green Yogurt, am over 18 years of age, reside (or work) in San Francisco, CA and served a Request for Interrogatories upon Joe Schmoe, Esquire by putting the document in the mail/faxing it/FedExing it." Then you sign it at the bottom. Every law firm I have ever worked for has a standard form employees can use. Fill in the blanks, save it, print it, sign it, slap it on the back of the pleading, the end. Months ago I showed LEL how to do this. She asked questions, took notes, repeated things back to me, acted like the best student in the world.

If there's one thing I know how to do, it's teach. LEL is the Student From Hell. I won't bore you with the details, but I drew upon patience like I rarely have to do. She got all confused. She got so confused she managed to confuse the baby attorney and I had to straighten him out by going through who we were serving as if he hadn't been the one who'd told me that initially.

After lunch, the coworker with the son discovered she'd lost her ATM card. I lent her $20.

When I got back to my desk, LEL came over to me and told me she'd told HR about the fight that happened in the morning. "If they don't like the way you sneeze, they'll tell on you, so it was only fair." I didn't know what to say. I shrugged and gave my best "I'm not involved" smile. At this point, I was just trying to get through the rest of the day without getting sucked in to any dramas.

At 5:31 I was in the elevator. By 6:01 I was heading towards Fisherman's Wharf for a walk. I hope to hell tomorrow is a better day. For everyone.

Slap a Dress & Bonnet On Me, and Call Me Amish

I may as well be Amish for how technologically advanced I am. Dial-up. The Most Basic Cable You Can Have While Still Having MTV. Never used Netflix. What's Tivo? My friend's three-year-old knows how to use a DVD player, and I don't (maybe she'll teach me someday?). iPod? What's the big deal about the Apple store, anyway? I've had a cell phone since about the end of October, 2001. I didn't fire it up until the beginning of 2002. Just Two Weeks Ago I figured out how to store phone numbers (press the button under the word 'Store') and attach people's names to them. I can finally call Beth One!

Yesterday the Cowboy's college-age son started working with us. And by us, I mean Loose Earlobe Lady. 'Lobes a-flappin, she bustled around all day acting very important and busy. She was so busy bossing Cowpoke around, she only had time to piss off four people today (me, Nice Partner, a Grandma, and one associate). But that's another post.

So Cowpoke is walking past my desk, and he's got .... this little thing open, and he's pressing buttons. I may not know how to use technology myself, but I've seen a lot of it on tv. So I knew he was text messaging someone. But here's the cool thing. When he was finished, he flipped the little thing closed, and you know what it was? His cell phone! How cute is that?!

Now, I always look at these things, like iPods and digital cameras (there's a real reason there are never any photos on this blog) and think "I want that!" But then I think about it a little more, and realize that if I had an iPod, I'd have to get music onto it somehow. Putting aside the whole illegal downloading issue for a moment, let's all think about just how long it would take to download ONE SONG on a computer that has dial-up. Let's consider how I rejected being a paralegal even though they earn more money than legal secretaries because I HATE research with a passion. My brother was actually all set to buy me a digital camera last year for my birthday. Then I realized I'd have to download and upload the pictures. I realized he wouldn't be here to teach me how to use the camera.

Time out for the people reading who are thinking "But it's so easy!" To you, I say FUCK YOU. YOU don't have learning disabilities to the extent that I do. And until you do, don't tell me how easy something is, because you have NO CONCEPT of how hard or easy things are for me. This is my pet peeve. Do not ever tell me anything is "so easy" unless you're trying to make me give you the Look of Death. Things that you think would be way too hard for me I may find outrageously easy. Things you think are common sense will bring me to tears with how complex my brain finds them. Do not even begin to decide for me whether or not something is difficult or easy for me. I will decide for myself. ::delicately steps off soapbox without falling, lest I am forced to blog about my own fall::

So I called my brother and told him thanks but never mind on that camera thing. So I don't really do high-tech stuff, even when it seems super cool. I leave it for other people to use, and talk to me about, and hopefully feel good about explaining to me.

Hey there Whippersnapper, whatcha got there?
Oh, it's just my phone.
You can text message on your phone?
Yeah.
Wow. That looks kind of complicated. How long did it take you to learn?
Well, I've been text messaging since eighth grade, so ...

Since eighth grade??? Shit, I think we still had our Commodore 64 when I was in eighth grade! I still hadn't mastered our VCR except for watching the Dirty Dancing movie. It made me feel very old. I am a decade older than the Cowpoke.

Then I pulled my walker out from under my desk, shoved my stash of prunes and tissues up my sleeve, and my orthopedic shoes and I shuffled off into the sunset, to go to the early-bird special.