Walk This Way

My friend is getting her kid a bike. My friend and I are from New York, during a time when nobody who had a bike wore a helmet, even if their parents forced them to have one. I often saw kids riding their bikes through the streets of Long Island, with their helmets dangling from the handlebars.

You don't have to comment with the story of how you went over the handlebars and landed on your head and would have died had it not been for your dorky-yet-life-saving helmet. I know. Really. I get it - helmets save lives. That doesn't mean they don't look dorky. Because they do. All of them. And yes, I know - wouldn't you rather look dorky than be dead.

So I asked my friend if she's getting her kid a helmet, and she said something that surprised me. That she has to. Apparently it's a law. And that offends me.

Never mind for a minute that I find helmets to be dorky. I will be honest with you. If I had a kid, and there were no helmet law, and my kid were riding their bike with training wheels on flat sidewalks in a suburb, no, I would not make my kid wear a helmet. Riding in the street, riding down hills, all that - yeah, I'd probably force the helmet.

What offends me is the idea that this is a law. That decision-making is being taken away from people law by law. There's something wrong with this. With people not having to take any personal responsibility outside of what the law tells them to do. Can it really be healthy to not have to think for yourself?

I don't think so. Not only do I find it insulting to people who are then forced to follow the law, it strikes me as unhealthy. Where will it end? It recently became a law in San Francisco that supermarkets are no longer allowed to bag groceries in plastic bags. They have to provide paper bags. Supermarkets are not happy about this - paper bags cost them more money than plastic bags. Jennie wants you to see this. So see it.

Is this going to become the norm all over the country? Will a law be passed that prohibits plastic garbage bags soon? Ziplocs? Where does it end? Should it end by force?

There's this theory in therapy that you can't say to a patient, "The reason you own 86 jackets is because as a child you were forced to wear a hand-me-down jacket for four years in a row." They have to figure it out themself, because it will mean more that way. Is it more important that plastic is yanked from the shelves next week, or that people get interested in being green and saving the earth and come up with ways to conserve on their own?

Here's another law I disagree with - that whole being illegal to let a kid sit in a car unattended thing. That's ridiculous and pathetic. It's also ineffective since at least once a year we hear of a child dying because they overheated in a car. There were many times growing up that I stayed in the car while my mother went shopping - much more fun for me to sit there reading my book than have to follow my mother around the supermarket, drugstore, or stationery store. And if I got bored (or hot, or cold, or felt like a stranger looked at me the wrong way) I could just get out, lock the doors, and go inside the store to find my mom.

However, my mother is not a fucking moron. She didn't let me sit in a car by myself when I was a baby. Or even a very little kid. She let me stay in the car in places she felt were safe. Places I was comfortable. If I got warm , I cranked open a window for some air (because in those days it wouldn't set off an alarm, plus we had manual windows, not electric ones).

Living in Florida, I called the police several times when I saw dogs panting in cars. It's *really* hot there. So hot that when you turn off the air conditioning in your car, it immediately gets hot and stuffy. How people thought it was okay to leave an animal in that environment baffles me.

Are people really so stupid and lazy that they can't stop to think "gee, I have a two year old and it's 90 degrees out, so even though it'll be a pain in the ass, I should NOT leave the kid in the car while I run in to pick up a prescription"? Yes, apparently they are. They don't think ahead enough to realize they might get stuck in a line full of geriatric people who move slowly, or might have a problem with their insurance, and what they think will be two minutes could be stretched to more than 20.

So you say the laws are for them. Fine. That's why people should be able to opt out of laws that take away the thinking. Isn't there a road in Europe that has no speed limit? I wonder how many car accidents happen there. Am I supposed to assume there's a death every day because it can't possibly be safe to drive as fast as you want? I don't. I assume people who drive there appreciate the freedom and handle it responsibly, so the freedom won't be taken away from them.

San Francisco is a bit unique when it comes to laws - they're more suggestions and guidelines, rather than laws. There is construction going on where I work - so much so that a cop is stationed there, to help coordinate street traffic with construction workers with pedestrians. Every day I cross the street in the middle of the block, rather than at the corner. Cop never even blinks. Jaywalking schmaywalking.

This is how it should be. I am an adult. I am capable of deciding when it is safe to cross a one-way street. If it were not safe, I would not cross where I do. I know that in another state, I would not be able to get away with this.

Now, I know that there are a LOT of dumb people out there. And maybe it's for those people that laws are invented. But if that's the case, shouldn't we be able to "test out" of having to follow certain laws?

I'm just worried this nation is headed in a direction that does not involve having to think and make good decisions, but rather follow laws.

And Then My Head Exploded. Excellent!

I am way behind on many things blog-related, and none of my excuses are good ones. However, if anyone can help me with providing some sort of format that's generally used for writing screenplays, please e-mail me. Wait, not that I was going to blog a screenplay. My point is, my creativity can only go in so many different directions before it shuts down, and that's what happened, and I'm blaming the screenplay. Why? Because I can.

Moving along. It's funny how people categorize. When I was growing up, everyone around me was middle-class, white, jewish, and decked out in a Champion sweatshirt, leggings, and baggy socks. When I moved to Florida, it was too hot for Champion sweatshirts, and ankle socks were in style. So I had to change what I gravitated towards, and found new similarities to bond over. I had a roommate named Anne from France and we spent many hours discussing the differences between our countries (Anne and I were roommates during the lame freedom fries period, when the U.S. was hating France) and popular tv shows we liked.

When I moved to San Francisco, there were significantly fewer jewish people around to befriend, and now it's only popular to wear a Champion sweatshirt if you bought it at Buffalo Exchange or somewhere. Actually that's probably wrong - Champion is too current to be cool by hipster standards.

People bond over similarities, and when they meet, search for them. When I lived in New York, had I met someone from Dallas I would have felt that we had nothing in common. I'd have befriended them for their accent maybe. Living here in SF, I don't seek out people who are New York jews. I seek out people who are smart, nice, funny, and interesting, pretty much in that order.

I imagine that if I left the country, what I would seek out would change again. All this makes me wonder what people are seeking when they want to befriend me. Which criteria of theirs am I fitting into? In what order do they list it?

Touched does not begin to describe my feelings upon being informed, by someone IN EUROPE (shit, please hold while I go run to consult my shower curtain to confirm that yes, Europe is the right place) that I fit into whatever her criteria is. In fact, she said I'm excellent. Okay, actually, I think she said my blog is excellent. (But my blog is kind of all about me, so...)

The awesome thing about this is I think Jennie's excellent too (and I have really high standards - I don't go around just thinking everyone is excellent). She writes about all sorts of cool shit, even though some of it hurts my head. What I find interesting is that if we knew each other under different circumstances, we might think we had nothing in common and go about our lives ignoring each other. I love that there is this medium that connects people who otherwise might not take the opportunity to be connected.

Again With the Awesomeness

In the end, he was talking to her when nobody else was around (so he thought). And in the end, he was playing fetch and petting her. (*"I realized that I took more than I gave; I was loved more than I loved." Name that movie!) Because that's how great she is - you will simply come to want to love her, because she makes it plain how much your life will be enhanced by interactions with her. I fell in love with her the second I met her, when Crazy Girl brought her to pick me up at a bus station in LA. So I should not have been surprised at the ability of Le Pooch to win him over.

In turn he has won me over. Tonight he asked me how I clean the kitchen, so that he can do it. Then he asked if he can borrow my vacuum. Then he emptied the filter. Not the cannister, but the filter. And then, he vacuumed again, to get up all the dust that came out while cleaning the filter.

No joke, none of my girl roommates EVER vacuumed.

Pardon me, I must go swoon now.

How the Love Affair Ended

*This morning's post brought to you by the letter "C" and Tracy Chapman's Fast Car, which is what was on my iPod during most of the walk to work while I mentally wrote this.

*Alternate Title:
I Found My Deal-Breaker

As of last night, I am dog-sitting. This fills me with a joy only capable of being measured by small children dreaming of fields and meadows of candy and dogs hoping everything in the world will be coated in peanut butter and wrapped in bacon.

I grew up with a dog who was loved more than I was by everyone in the family (including myself). My day can be made by getting to pet a dog. I have made friends with cat people, but only because although we do not love the same animal, we completely understand each other's love for our respective animals.

When I initially met with 9am (like with all prospective roommates), I told him that sometimes I dog-sit for a small and loveable dog (Le Pooch), and would he be okay with that? And if not, it's okay to say, because I could just go to my brother's house to dog-sit, rather than have LP here. 9am told me he's allergic to cats, but doesn't know about dogs and is willing to try. I told him if it turned out he was allergic, I'd buy him some Benadryl, and take Le Pooch back to her house to watch her. So I figured it'd be fine.

A couple of weekends ago, my brother invited me over for dinner. I asked if I could bring 9am, as I wanted Golden Boy to get to meet him. He said yes he'd love to, and we set off into the city that evening. When we arrived, Le Pooch ran down the stairs to greet us, and I felt 9am stand behind me as I pet and talked with her.

I'm going to stop here, to tell you something about 9am. He was a chemistry major. He says it's because of that, that he's a germ freak. Even more than I am. He does not sit down on public transportation, choosing instead to stand. He does not touch the poles to keep his balance. He does not touch stair bannisters. He will not go in the hot tub (neither will I, but it's about body issues for me). He washes his hands upon arriving at home. Wait, so do I. But you see what I'm saying. Ignorance really is bliss.

During the entire ... almost four hours we were at my brother's house, I can't recall seeing 9am ever touch Le Pooch, though he did throw one of her toys for her to fetch. During dinner, another dog, at some neighboring house, barked. It was a distant noise, but Golden Boy, Crazy Girl, and I all heard it. So we were not surprised when LP went tearing through the house, barking at the very top of her doggie lungs. 9am jumped every time. (As a slight aside, I am a very jumpy person, and even I barely blinked at LP's barking.) I felt bad, but 9am was as cool as one can be about getting scared three times in a row during dinner. Hey, it happens. Dogs bark. 9am was less rattled by it than I would have been if something had continually startled me.

We got home, and I asked 9am if it was a germ issue. He said it partially was, and smiled at me. "You probably look at a dog kind of like another member of the family, right?" "Naturally." "Yeah. I look at a dog as a dog." I see. Except, I can't quite see, to be honest.

And now Le Pooch is here. On Monday, I spoke with 9am about her arrival, to explain how to go about living with a dog, or, living with this specific dog. We do not feed her people food at all, ever. Le Pooch will not dash out through the front door when you open it, so you don't have to worry about her running away. She's not allowed on furniture. When you eat she will beg for food and sometimes put her front paws on your leg - just say "No" and put her back on the floor. I told 9am that I'd give him one of LP's treats to feed her, so she'd like him.

Last night, 9am told me he was going out, and left around 10pm. When I went to bed, I left my door open a tiny bit, so that when 9am came home, LP would be able to run to greet him, as she likes to do when anybody arrives. 9am arrived home around midnight, and true to form Le Pooch jumped off my bed and ran out to say hello to him. My bedroom is right near the front door. I know 9am was standing there, taking off his shoes, and I did not hear him say anything to LP. Maybe he was just trying to be considerate of me, by being quiet. He is a very considerate guy that way. But I would have felt better if I'd heard him greet her.

But on Wednesdays 9am doesn't have to leave the house until around noon, and I'm a little uncomfortable being at work right now. Le Pooch doesn't like the rain, and is a little under the weather (no pun intended). I almost called into work sick, to stay home with her. Luckily, at this job I can walk to and from work, so I'm going to rush home on my lunch hour to check on LP and make sure she is okay. Normally I'm not like this - but Trixie loved Le Pooch. Not as much as I do, but a fine and good amount. Enough that I was comfortable leaving them alone together. I don't think 9am can imagine feeling love for a dog.

I am unsettled.

(And this is reason 938,284 why I should not have children. The stress of worrying all the time would surely kill me, leaving my child motherless.)

UPDATE (per Silliyak's orders):
It was not raining mid-day and when I arrived home all the doors I'd left open were still open, and Le Pooch was fine - she'd been snoozing in my bedroom. This evening when 9am came home, he appreciated being greeted at the door by LP and did pet her for a while. I feel much better.

9am - Not Just a Time of Day

My new roommate's name is 9am, simply because on the day I met him, it was at that time. I also met other prospective roommates - one at 8am and another at 10am. His background is Iranian, though he was born and raised in Chicago. He's a law student here, and so far, a great roommate.

And I'm not just saying that because he bought me flowers for Valentine's Day. (Please note they are not red roses. Thank you.)

A friend of mine told me having boy roommates are great. She used this example:

When you say to a boy roommate, "Hey, can you please not leave butter in the shower," they hear, "Don't leave butter in the shower." Whereas when you ask a girl roommate the same thing they hear, "Can you stop giving my cat bitchy looks, you skanky whore?"

9am is very direct, and very old-school gentlemanly. He opens doors for me, steps back so I can walk places first, offers to carry things (not even just heavy things, but anything), and often asks if I'm comfortable with things that are not my place to have any issues with. Like he offered to clean up his room if the mess bothers me. If I don't empty the garbage tonight, I am fully confident that he'll do it tomorrow. Is this what being married is like? If so, I need to tie the knot right quick.

I find living with 9am to be quite easy. One of the prospective roommates I met with a couple of weeks ago was a girl who, on paper, you'd think would have made a perfect roommate for me. She's a city planner - I've worked with lawyers who do Land Use. I grew up in NY, then moved to South Florida. So did she.

But there was an energy about her that I knew would not be good for me to live with - there would be serious power struggles. Not to mention her reason for wanting to move and get a roommate. She was looking to move out of a studio because she hoped that having a roommate would inspire her to be neater and cleaner. Even those of you who've never met me know that's not a good match with the neat freak I aspire to be.

9am and I do not have power struggles, or anything close to it. When one of us is going food shopping, we ask the other if they need anything. We both always say no, but it's nice to ask. And we don't get along only because we both eat peanut butter and jelly.

Today Was a Bad Day & I Didn't Have My AK

Jeepers is gone. I'm not upset that she's gone, but that we don't know why. Nobody's talking, but I'm pretty sure the butler did it with the rolling pin in the cellar. I have been listing on Craigslist and trotting to the post office on my lunch hours to get rid of stuff lately.

One of my biggest learning disabilities is my terrible memory, and lately it's been more terrible than usual. I am blanking on everything, which is bad to do when you're talking to attorneys. The people I work with bill out at over $500 an hour - time really IS money, and they don't want to stand around while you search your brain for a word.

This law firm doesn't have the notepads I like to use, which sounds like a small thing, but seriously, if you were a kindergarten teacher and had no red pen, or a doctor who had the wrong brand stethoscope, or a cook with bad pots and pans, you'd understand. I am tempted to bring in my own from home.

In all fairness, since moving here, I have been pretty lucky about getting nice attorneys. In Florida I worked for guys who scratched their balls daily and spit food when they talked, called me by their wives names, and screamed and threw things. All in one day. It was not unusual to find me crying in my car during my lunch hour then.

And I can't forget working for Remy, who got in a huge fight with his girlfriend, and how he put me in the middle, having me lie for him when she'd call. Oh, and when he had porn mailed to him at work, and I had to open his mail. That was fun too.

But Tuna and Nice Partner? They were mostly great. Which is why yesterday when I got an attitude from a partner I wasn't prepared.

This woman had three different attorneys (two of whom are partners) helping her get a filing ready. An attorney I work for came to me and asked me to edit one pleading and send the other one to Word Processing for them to work on. I did. Then Bitch On Wheels (hereafter referred to as "BOW") comes over to my desk later, and without introducing herself (we've never met), she demands to know what I'm doing. I had not been told the filing was yesterday. I did not know there were more than the two pleadings I was working on. And, I am having my ridiculous memory problems, so intense that I can look at a pleading that says, "Verified Answer" but by the time I look up at BOW my brain is empty and all I can do is gesture at what's in my hand.

BOW: Why are you working on this?!
GY: Because Lesbian Senior Counsel told me to.
BOW: Well where's [other pleading]?
GY: LSC told me to send it to Word Processing, so I did.
BOW: There are like, two changes (more like 50, all formatting, which are more difficult to make than straight edits). You make these changes. Give me that - I'll have [my secretary] do these. Call Word Processing and tell them to stop immediately.

All of this was yelled at me. Now. Logically, I *know* with all my heart and soul that this woman truly is a bitch. And every single person who heard I had to deal with BOW confirmed it. But emotionally? I was not prepared to be spoken to so harshly, and had to resist the urge to cry. I was proud of myself that I didn't - that I got angry. But still. If I had my way, I'd never deal with her again.

Even though this happened yesterday, all the bad feelings about it carried over into today. The secretary who sits next to me is secretly pregnant - she is clearly with child, yet does not talk about it to me, or anyone. I am slightly amused, and wonder if in 20 weeks, she'll be sitting there breathing funny, yet still not saying anything. She seems to want to be left alone to do her own thing, so I don't want to bother her with my questions.

I needed various supplies throughout the day, and I came to find out that there is no ONE place where all supplies are kept. Redwelds are kept in one place, reams of paper in another, envelopes somewhere else, and post-its in yet another. This is ridiculous. The firm has the entire floor. Empty out ONE office, and turn it into a supply room. Put the file cabinets that house exhibit tabs outside of that office, and call it a day. I should not have to do a lap around the entire floor to get three office supplies.

I am not being given all the information I need to do my job. When I ask my attorneys questions, they are tossing issues back at me saying things like, "Yeah, you're going to have to look into that." Okay, hello? I don't look into things like that. I'm not one of those "that's not my job" people, except when not only isn't it my job, but it's also not something I'm capable of doing. It's not my job to look up court procedures to find out if when e-filing a document you still need to include a proof of service even though you don't have to serve the opposing side (I think you don't).

And really, they should not trust me to do that. Improper service is an easy way to get something thrown out. They should be giving me a pleading and telling me who gets served. They should not be telling me to make changes to a document and then send it to Alex. Who the fuck is Alex? I'm NEW! If the name Alex is not on the firm directory, don't expect I'll get it done - you didn't give me enough information.

I know all this shit is just learning curve crap. But my ability to learn is so very fucked up, and I have absolutely no patience for it, since I have no concept of how long it SHOULD take me to learn things. My worry over how long it DOES take overrides any and all realistic expectations others may have for me.

You know when you're just in a raging bad mood? That's me now.

How To Turn My Day Around In One Easy Step

Remember in Ferris Bueller when Ferris was racing through backyards to get home before Jeannie got there and busted him? And as he was running through a back yard with two girls laying out he came back to say hi to them?

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Growing up, we had an awesome dog. She was outrageously well-trained. You could say to her, "What do you want?" and if she wanted to go for a walk, she'd lead you to the coat closet where her leash was hung. If she wanted to go out, she'd lead you to the back door. If she wanted more water, she'd pull her water dish out a couple of inches with her paw.

Our dog never jumped on anybody. Ever. Except for one guy. This guy my dad's been friends with since high school - she'd jump on him, and only him. I don't know what it was about him. I mean sure, he's a very nice guy (great cook), but the pooch must have sensed something about him that wasn't on human radar. Maybe she knew it was because he loved her so much that he went out and got the same breed of dog.
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There's a Blind Guy who lives in my building. He's really nice. I met him in the elevator; his dog jumped on me. She's a big dog - a golden labrador. Blind Guy and I run into each other at least twice a week, so his dog has gotten to know me. A couple of weeks ago - during the crazy rain - the guy seemed to be having a hard time. I came upon him and he had one arm in a sling, and wasn't holding his dog's harness.

Of course once she saw me the dog ran over, leaving him standing by himself. Good thing I was only about ten feet away. Walking towards the guy I said hello to him, and he smiled as we talked about the awful weather. The dog followed me, and eventually was back at Blind Guy's side where she belonged. He told me she never runs away like that, and also never jumps on anyone else. I assured him I didn't mind the jumping and asked if he was okay. He said he was, despite the arm-in-sling, so I just hung around until he got the dog leashed up, in case she'd follow me if I walked away. Maybe she can sense in me whatever my dog was able to sense in my dad's friend.

Lately I've been waking at 4 a.m. That's dangerous for me, because what happens is that I fall back asleep at some point between 7 and 7:30 a.m., right before my alarm goes off, and then I sleep through it. I hate being late for work, and hate rushing around to get ready. It sets the whole tone for the day, and I hate it. Yet the other morning, that's what I found myself doing when I'd overslept.

Cranky as all hell as I ran down to the street, I tried to guess if it'd be faster to wait for the next bus or walk to work. Walking won, and I zipped across the street in four seconds, dodging slow-moving people, silently cursing them out for being so fucking slow. Can't they see how much of a rush I'm in? Would it kill them to move a little faster?

Blind man's dog was at the corner, and her tail thumped in happiness when she saw me. For the first time since I'd woken up I smiled as I rushed past, not stopping to say hi to Blind Guy in my hurry to get to work.

Screw it. Like Ferris, I turned around and went back. Also like Ferris, I made it on time. And with a smile. Life moves pretty fast sometimes. If you don't look around once in a while, you could miss it.

Pass the Passport, Maybe (Thanks J)

My new boyroommate has done a lot of traveling. Mostly within Central Europe. He was shocked to find out I've never left the country. I'm always shocked to hear that other people have. Guess I have no sense of wanderlust, because a part of me is absolutely baffled at what would inspire someone to go someplace where they won't understand things. Of course, I come from a different place than most, since I want to understand much more than I'm able, whereas I suppose most people find a way to understand anything they want.

Yet a tiny part of me is curious. I think it's from living in San Francisco, a major city. In South Florida, nobody travels. I mean it - you honeymoon in Disney and then take all your vacations in Key West. If you have relatives there, you go to New York once every few years, but you hate how busy and crowded and dirty it is. But in major cities, people go places. Like to other major cities.

I'm tempted. My friend told me to start out slow - go someplace where they speak English, at least. Like London. I might be able to do London. I read British Glamour. I like the song Here Comes the Sun. I ate a scone once. I even know "chips" are really french fries.

Except, remember on The Real World, London how hard it was to figure out the front door of their apartment? And what if I got lost trying to take the Tube somewhere, and the people there were like the kids I went to high school with, and gave me wrong directions? Plus, I don't really like fish all that much.

Okay, not London. What about Paris? Every girl is supposed to want to go to Paris, right? I could be like Sabrina, and come back beautiful. I could acquire a cute, French accent. Supposedly they teach English in the schools there. So what if there are no anti-smoking laws?

Well, here's what I imagine.

1. I would arrive.

2. Day one - would not leave hotel due to not being able to figure out fancy lock on hotel door. Convince myself that's okay, because I can "adjust to time difference" and finish reading airplane book and magazines.

3. Day two - would figure out lock and venture around lobby of hotel. Spend at least four hours people-watching in lobby before going back to room, depressed that I can not understand what anyone is saying. Before going inside room, cry in hallway for half hour at not being able to figure out lock on door from outside. Console myself with thoughts that the people walking by who give me strange looks will never see me again, so it does not matter that I cried in front of them.

4. Days three and four - stay in hotel room, scarred from last time I left. Call my brother and cry about how hard it is to be somewhere I don't understand what's going on around me and how much I hate myself for not being able to learn new languages and learning disabilities really suck.

5. Day five - embarrassed that I'll be leaving soon and will have to face Americans who will ask what I did in foreign country and don't want to have to admit "nothing," force myself to leave hotel. After writing out on two pieces of hotel stationery diagram of door lock, complete with step by step instructions.

6. Walk three blocks to left of hotel. Find cafe. Say, in my best, yet awful and improper French, "I'm sorry, I do not speak French; do you speak English please?" only to have people laugh at me and ignore my request for water. Cry.

7. Try to walk three blocks to my right to get back to hotel, only to find myself in very seedy area, sun has set, and now I am hopelessly lost. Pull out diagram of door lock to see if stationery has hotel phone number, only to realize I can not figure out how to use pay phone. Spend night sitting in a curb. Pigeons poop on my head multiple times. When I get back to my hotel, find I've lost my precious diagram and spend 20 minutes outside door trying to unlock it.

8. Finally get inside and to to take shower to wash off bird poop, which has congealed into my hair overnight. Can't figure out complicated shower, wash hair in sink. Lay on bed and cry myself to sleep.

9. Arrive back in the States after being fleeced by a cab in Paris to take me to airport, where I am most proud that I got it down to a solid ten minutes to work the lock on my hotel door. Frantically run to Borders to write down sightseeing places in Paris to lie about to people when they ask where I went while abroad.

It might not be as bad as that, but keep in mind that I don't drink wine or coffee, and don't like cheese. You can survive on Evian for a few days straight, right? And they'll let pb&j sandwiches through customs, right?

The Non-Post

I am too tired to do a real post. So all you'll get is this fake one. See? It's not even really here. Figment of your imagination.

However, I know that sucks. I know some people wake up very early in their houses when everyone else is asleep and just like in the commercials, they get a cup of coffee and sit down to read. I'm so sorry I'm disappointing you. This does not mean that I'm going to do a real post for you. Because I'm not. But I will give you this: I've made notes for the two ideas I had rolling around in my head this morning. And one of those posts is roommate-related, though not in the way you're thinking.

I'll try to bang something out this weekend, and get one of the two going on Monday.

So for now I leave you with these random tidbits:

1. I saw Cat Lady today. She was late for work. She looks exactly the same.
2. One of the partners I work for had me type up three notepads worth of notes he made during three different depositions. This sounds easy, but really, it's tedious as all get out and lawyers write almost as badly as doctors. The partner e-mailed me a thank you for the good job I did, and cc'd the HR chick.
3. I ran into said HR chick on the bus going home today, and it was not at all awkward.
4. Tomorrow is jeans day!
5. This whole idea of having blog-friends is really weird and really nice, all at the same time.
6. I was e-mailing with someone a couple of weeks ago and banged out a mildly funny scenario to her. It was some damn fine writing, if I do say so myself. But I feel like it's cheating to take that and make it into a blog post. Tempting as hell.
7. Thanks, and... sorry Jimmy, we're out of time.

I Found Your Camera

Golden Boy (and I think Crazy Girl, though I can't remember) gave me the digital camera I have. I love it, and would cry if I lost it.

I did lose a camera once - in sixth grade, on a field trip to Philly. It was the Kodak Disk. I loved it, because it was small and so easy to use. Okay, and also because I loved the commercial. To this day, I still remember the jingle.



Anyway, there's a blog now for people who've lost their cameras. Or, people who've found someone else's camera. Which I think is great, which is why I'm blogging about it.

The End.

This morning I walked to the bus stop behind a couple - an Asian girl and a white boy, who held hands as they walked.

He was barely taller than she was, and they talked quietly to each other. They each had a messenger bag; hers was yellow and faded, with a white design - maybe it was small flowers or polka-dots or something. His was green, my shade of green, equally as faded as hers, with chinese* writing on it.

When we got to the corner they leaned close to each other, and as the light changed they kissed, and she walked West while he walked North.

*To my Asian readers, what is the right way of saying that? I know there are tons of dialects, but I can't look at writing and know if it's Mandarin or Cantonese. Am I supposed to guess because since you weren't there, you won't know if I'm wrong when I say the writing was Mandarin, or am I supposed to leave it at Chinese, because at least you'll know exactly what I mean and will picture the right thing in your head?

Jeepers

Jeepers is the name of another secretary here who's also temping. She's a grandma, from Chicago, and a huge fan of saying jeepers. Oh, and touching people. Like me. In the last two days she's touched me three times, and we don't even sit near each other or have any reason to interact. Today she was wearing a pin-striped jacket with a polka-dot blouse. If you know me, you know I do love me some polka-dots, but this does not look good. And it's not the old, "No mixing two different patterns" rule, because we all know Stacey and Clinton would say that's fine. It's more like she took a fashion risk, and just ... missed. I see where she was trying to go, but she got off the fashion highway one dressing room too early.

Please do not think me petty - I don't dislike her just because she spit white rice onto my desk while talking at me and eating leftover sushi at the same time. It's not because she's outgoing. Trixie is outgoing, and we got along just fine (we run into each other about once a week, and chat pleasantly). No, I dislike her because despite the positive attitude, her words are negative. You can't fool me with your smiles and upbeat demeanor. You're eating sushi rolls the firm brought in, spitting rice at me, and complaining that it tastes bad while laughing? Jeepers, it's three days old! I don't eat sushi but I'm thinking three day-old sushi is not going to taste good.

One of my favorite movies is The Last Boy Scout. There are two lines in that movie that stand out above the others. One is, "I want to meet the bitch who fucked you up." The other one, the one that applies in this situation of rice-spitting and bitching is, "Shut the fuck up and get back in your monkey cage," or something like that.

I always have the urge (always since last week when I met Jeepers) to tell Jeepers to get back in her monkey cage. Everyone where I work is so damn nice that I don't even have it in me to sic her on someone else. "Hey Jeepers, I think Amelia was looking for you a while ago," I could say, if only I hated Amelia. But no, Amelia says hi to me every day and is quiet but sweet.

Jeepers doesn't seem to like it here much. It's not the people, but the work - I think she's dealing with a boring kind of law. Or at least, a type of law she finds boring. Jeepers told me she interviewed at a big law firm last week, but she wasn't impressed. She sits right near one of the attorneys I work for, and in the same breath that she said he's nice, also complained that he doesn't talk to her very much. This is a guy who bills at over $500 per hour. Perhaps he's a bit busy?

I think, like me, he doesn't want to get into a conversation with her, because he's worried about being able to extract himself from it. Jeepers works for one attorney who does a lot of her own work and spends a lot of time out of the office. So she's often roaming the halls, looking to see what other people are doing. I hope she finds something good down there by the supply room. I hear a lot of fun stuff goes on there. Not.

*Exciting new development (that fills me with dread)! Jeepers just sent me an e-mail asking if I'd care to do lunch sometime. Actually, no I wouldn't. Great. Now I have to avoid her until I figure out how to very nicely say that.

It Could Be Like a Dad-Off. Or Something

Dooce was the first blog I ever read, and for the life of me, I can't remember how I found it. I don't read a lot of "mommy blogs." I can't read about the cutesy stuff all the time. Especially about people I don't know. The few I read are written by people who are good writers, and happen to have kids. I know them. Well, most of them.

I really like the two dad-blogs that I read. These guys are freaking hysterical.

Simon Metz, anyone? And no, I don't just like him because he's a member of the tribe and a homie from LI. He's actually really, REALLY funny. (Even if he doesn't blog often enough. Let's go, Metz go.* Anyone remember that song besides Golden Boy?)

Steve, who I think of as, "The Sneeze Guy" is the other dad-blog I now read (it's a new find). It's not often that you can tell someone not to drink anything while reading, lest they snort liquid up their nose. But this is actually a blog that I put down my drink to read.

Both of these guys are in LA - they should be friends!

*Yes, I know that this is Superbowl Sunday and it's football, not baseball. But holy shit, watching that video seriously put tears in my eyes - shit like that makes me miss New York desperately.

Wellie ... No

About a year ago I noticed Wellies, and thought they looked like so much fun to have, that I wanted a pair. Or Two. Or Four. I kept looking around at stores that sold them, trying to figure out which ones to buy. Which ones would make me happiest, yet also go with the majority of my clothes.

Every time I was in a shoestore, I'd go look at their Wellies. Every time it rained, and my no-brand black boots that I've had since I was 17 kept my feet dry, I'd look down at them and think, "Who keeps shoes for a dozen years? These aren't even Docs or anything. It's time I upgrade."

Yet I just kept looking. And looking. And out on the street, when I'd see someone walk by in their Wellies, I'd eye them wistfully. I resisted the urge to stop them and ask. Where did you find those? Are you happy with your choice? Did you buy more than one pair to go with all different outfits?

Then I started paying attention to more than just the Wellies themselves. I noticed how rubbery they are. And how they looked with people's outfits. I realized something. They looked kind of awful. Basically, they only look good with either jeans that are rolled up a little bit (and even that is iffy), or with leggings. I suppose they look alright with skinny jeans tucked in, but how many people actually look good in skinny jeans? Right, like six. And two of them live in New York, three live in Europe, and the last is Ashley Olson.

The main reason I want Wellies is for going to and from work. My work clothes will NOT look right with Wellies. Not even with plain black ones. It's not like I muck stalls. Or go camping. Or fishing. Or spend time in commercials for Irish Spring. I don't even spend time tromping through the English countryside with my dogs on the weekends. In fact, I can only wear jeans on Fridays, and I don't own any leggings. I used to, but then I finished sixth grade.

For the last few weeks it's been raining almost every day. Maybe Mother Nature thought I missed living in Florida (I don't). Anyway, the Wellies are all around me (just like signs*). The other day I realized something. I'm not going to buy Wellies. Not just because I'm in debt up to my eyeballs, but because I'm perfectly content admiring them in stores and on other people's feet, without actually owning any myself.

Think of me next time it's raining, and put on your funky Wellies. If I had a car, I'd honk and wave, but I don't, so I'll just smile quietly instead. You know, as opposed to smiling loudly.

*First person to tell me what that's from wins a prize (not Wellies)!

Three Choices

It seems like people are only allowed to talk about three things these days. Lost, the Superbowl, or politics.

I am no Pat Stack, but want to talk about politics anyway. So here we go. Green style.

Hey guys, did you know Alec Baldwin is from Long Island? Oh my god, me too! Okay, but you guys, did you know he writes for the Huffington Post, made famous to me by Opinionistas?

Well, but did you know he can actually write? I mean, he makes interesting and intelligent points and everything. No really, he does. For example?

Okay, for example, this guy wrote this bitchy piece out in the Hamptons about Barack. Then, there was such an uproar, that the paper pulled the article, and issued an apology. So Alec, who I think we all know, has a bit of a temper (selfish pig, anyone) put the article into his column so anyone who'd missed it would see it again. Not only that, but he explains why people should see it.

It makes me like Alec Baldwin, to be honest. I had no feelings either way about him until I read this. I respect intelligence. I agree that people should see it. Not because it's funny, which is it, though the humor is dilluted by the cruelness of it for me. But they should see what that writer wrote. This is a guy who writes for a living. If he wrote that Obama had one child instead of two, he should be allowed to apologize and pull that information and change it. But if you're an asshole, and you're an adult, you should not be allowed to wipe that away. Adults don't get to make such huge "mistakes." Well they do apparently, but it seems Alec and I agree that shouldn't be allowed.