New Goodies

Once again, I'm at a new desk. Sometimes it's the same desk for the week, but sometimes it's a different one each day. This week it's a different one each day. This means if you want to get together with me this week, do it in the early part of the week, because by the end of the week my nerves are going to be frazzled.

Anyway. This woman whose desk I'm sitting at? A fan of the Cutesy. She has a .... thing, I don't even know what to call it, of six pigs. They're attached, and it's four piggies and two big pigs - a mom and a dad - that are all supposed to be cozy in a bed together. This Cutesy Thing is the length of a keyboard, and has been lovingly placed across the top of the keyboard. I wish I could take a picture of this for you. There are bows, lace, pom poms, light pink, jaunty little caps (one with lace, one with a pom pom), the works. It's a little insane. Don't even get me started on the leis or the rubber duckies or oh my god the collection of Precious Moments figurines taking over one full shelf.

For our testing pleasure, there is Bath & Body Works White Cherry Blssom Body Cream. The smell is a bit too heavy for me - too flowery and too much flowers. I tend to like the fruitier ones. Did I ever tell you I was a product tester for Bath & Body Works? No? Yeah, I was, when I lived in Florida. Good times.

May I recommend the cucumber melon instead? Ooh! Or the black raspberry vanilla! Even better.

How To Make Me Happy:

Include polka dots.

Things Bothering Me Now

1. I realized today on the way home that nobody has called me since Sunday.
2. 9am mis-pronounced my last name.
3. Accidentally burnt popcorn and now the house smells bad.
4. Next week for two days I do not have a desk to sit at.
5. My yoga ends at the end of the month.
6. Tomorrow I am working for the partner who asked me to fetch her coffee last time we worked together.

Your Turn

I'm going to vote Republican so I am forced to drive many states away if I ever need an abortion. And you?

It's Supposed To Make Us Happy

And yet, every single time, I cry. I believe wholeheartedly in mourning and that the mourning process should take however long it takes for each person who goes through it.

It was thirteen years ago that I re-learned to walk. And it was the next year, 1996, when I ran for the first time, with my physical therapist's blessing. I didn't run far, my sprint was less than an eighth of a mile - just enough to reassure myself it was possible. A year after I'd been collapsing in a heap on the floor, I was walking into the local Y to sign up for a dance class. To make sure I still had it.

It was a slow realization. Dance classes are lead by dance teachers. I had no trouble following along. I thought I had it. My body had come back to me. My physical therapist had done a great job. Except when it was time to freestyle. And I froze.

What do I do? Dance! I don't know how. How can you not know how to move when the music inspires movement? That can't be possible. And yet, that's where I still am.

Is it still being in mourning, 12 years after that realization, if I cry when dancing comes up? I have watched this video numerous times over the last couple of years. Every time, the same reaction. Tears.

All those people dancing with him. They do it wrong. They don't do his stupid bullshit jig correctly. And yet they don't care. They just dance. They are happy.

People who can't dance, dance, and they are happy. I can dance better than they can, but I can't freestyle, and I freeze. I am jealous of people who can't dance, because they can dance and I can't.

Where is Stephanie B, because she could put another kid through college therapizing this one.

Lost: One Cold, Dark Heart

Two weeks ago I filled in for a secretary who I found out had a husband in a hospice. I took phone messages that said things like, "Heather called to ask how you're holding up. Call her if you need anything. She'll call you tonight," and "Jay called - he will drive over immediately after his last final and wanted to know if he could bring you anything."

The partner I was working with ran me crazy. At one point I almost cried from the stress. But the feedback I got was that she liked me. Thought I did a good job. And I moved on to the next desk...

Today I got an e-mail saying that partner needed help - was I very busy? Why yes, I was very busy. Updating my Twitter status and playing on Facebook. So I went over to the desk of the secretary who works for that partner. I had never met her before.

She was on the phone, so I wandered over to file cabinets nearby to wait for her to finish. She mumbled, "Oh, hi Green." How did she know it was me?

When she hung up the phone I walked over to her. She looked awful. Really, awful. We chatted. I noticed she didn't answer when I asked "How are you?" Turns out her husband just died. That week she was out? She was spending with him.

Now she was having muscle spasms, horrible muscle spasms in her back. Needed to go home. I was standing over him, and I felt like I had to stay that way. From Sunday night to Friday night at 10. Even though it hurt. That it was so important that I stay like that. She seemed like she needed to talk, so I stood there. And listened. Of course she needed to stay like that, however that was. That way, he was alive.

I told her I've had back problems, so when I say I understand the pain she's in, I'm not just saying it. Asked what needed to be done. Her eyes flitted from pile to pile as her hands floated over papers.

This was a woman who was overwhelmed. I shook my head. Never mind. What are you trying to do right now? Her hand rested on the papers to the left of her keyboard, and I glanced at them. Let me do the timesheets for you. Go home. Really.

She apologized to me. For not being able to communicate her thoughts. Was she kidding me? Her husband just died! I couldn't believe she was even at work.

Still talking, she says ice seems to help more than heat, that OTC drugs don't even touch the pain. She switches back and forth between talking about the pain in her back and her recently deceased husband.

I went back to my desk, sat down, and made sure I wasn't going to cry. She won't be back for the rest of the week. At her desk there is a paper with all the hospice contact information. I wonder how long it will take her to to throw it out.

Just wanted to add that the woman in mourning did not manage to leave until well after 4pm. The partner she works for - the one who asked me to fetch her a double espresso the first morning I covered for her - asked her to fetch her a late lunch. Balls of steel some people have. Balls. Of. STEEL.

Blogger's Support Group: GAME ON!

One of the things I like about blogging is that it's allowed me to find other people (who also blog). Sometimes we develop blog crushes, where even though that person is in our Bloglines, we still check their blog twice a day. What if something new happened?! Maybe they had an interesting thought while they blew their nose about how life is like snot!

I like reading about people and their lives. Those blogs about technology or news do nothing for me. I don't only read blogs about people who are single in San Francisco like I am. Sometimes I read blogs written by people who are single in San Diego. Or even Austin. Or even people who aren't single at all. What makes me read? For the most part I don't know, specifically. But I can tell you why I started reading Eleanor's Trousers.

It's because the name of her blog is called Eleanor's Trousers. It hooked me right away. That should be the title of a book, don't you think? Here, I'll write the first couple of sentences.

As the gay salesboy watched, Eleanor turned in the mirror to see if she had ITC. She dug her hands into the tiny pockets, and decided that while these jeans passed the inner thigh clearance test, they most definitely did not pass the back pocket test.

Ehh, that doesn't really hook people into reading more. I should do better. I can do better. Eleanor's Trousers deserve better. Okay.

"Where did my trousers go?" Eleanor mumbled, as she blindly groped over the crumpled pile of clothes on the floor. Trevor fell over laughing, and the sheet slid down. "Who calls them 'trousers'? Nobody! That's as absurd as a grown man saying 'Whoopsie-daisy'!"

Or it could be like that Buffalo Springfield song For What It's Worth - the title appears nowhere in lyrics.

Clutching the gun deep in the pocket of her newly stolen LL Bean jacket, Jasmine raced across the esplanade, glancing back as casually as Carrie Bradshaw did when running to Miranda's house on New Year's Eve.

Anyway. Please go visit Eleanor to give her your support. If you're too unmotivated to go without good reason, here it is: Eleanor's fiance told another woman he thinks he's falling in love with her, so Eleanor is calling off her wedding. To which I say, "Good for you, Eleanor! You deserve better! You will find better!" But until then, my bloggy hand is reaching out to hold your bloggy hand.

Finally, I've Crossed Over

No, not to the dark side (I've been there since I was but a wee 5th grader wearing all black). No, I've crossed over into being a city person.

People ask me if I like living in San Francisco, and I do. But I sometimes qualify that answer by saying this is the first city I've ever lived in, so it's not quite fair to compare it to when I lived in New York or Florida. I've liked San Francisco since the day after I got here, and even the time I got attacked by a homeless person, I didn't hate it here. Nor did I hate it the night I got very lost in a bad area trying to go to a friend's house and wound up calling another friend crying, to help me.

The one thing that's consistently made it hard to adjust to city life is not having a car, and thus, using mass transit. For months after moving here, I never took public transportation by myself, and then finally graduated to only taking the N Judah, and only for two stops. To get to the supermarket and back. I am not one of those people who is ever late, but here in San Francisco, home of people who think nothing of flaking, I am sometimes late due to getting on the wrong train (or the right train going in the wrong direction).

This weekend I had houseguests who are from the country; two of the three were not at all familiar with mass transit. On Saturday we took a bus up to Market Street to catch the F Market because naturally we were going to Fisherman's Wharf. As M saw me yank on the string that runs along both sides of the bus, she shook her head, saying she didn't understand how it all worked. How did I know which bus to get on? How did I know where it was going? How did I know where to get off the bus?

And so I started talking. I pointed. I explained. I spun her around by the shoulders to see bus numbers. I showed her bus signs posted on the street. Possibly most importantly, I told her that after four years, I still sometimes get lost. I talked until my throat hurt, and then I talked a little more.

Sometimes she nodded, sometimes she stared in shock, but at the end of the night, I think she was a little less intimidated by the idea of one day doing this on her own. I hope she does it. I'll let her know she can call me crying when she's lost in a bad area at night.

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

No? Yeah, I understand.

How Hot Is It?

So hot that I only got three hours of sleep and awoke with a headache. Which is a very, very bad sign of things to come. It's supposed to hit 91 today, and I'm hoping my weekend guests wake up soon so we can get out and run around before it's too hot. Perhaps they'd like to go see a movie later? Or hang in Borders - I know they are air-conditioned.

Going Nicole-Style

I'm not feeling very bloggerrific this week, so I've decided to kick it Nicole-style and do interviews.

Here are the rules:

I rule.

This means I reserve all rights to answer or not answer any and all questions as I see fit. I reserve the right to ask questions your questions may bring up for me, right back at you. I reserve the right to scrap the whole project and run away to Tahiti. I reserve all rights not expressly set forth herein.

Bring it.

There Are No Little Birdies

When the Golden Boy and I were kids, we'd try to get away with having not done something by claiming we did not know. Ignorance is no excuse for breaking the law, and that was true in the Yogurt household as well. To this day I can still see my father standing over my brother in the kitchen yelling, "No little birdie is going to come and tap you on the shoulder..."

I think our parents wanted us to be assertive. Not with them of course, because that was not allowed. But out in the world. With other people. In other situations.

This evening 9am and I were standing in the kitchen eating blueberries as he told me the following story. He is deferring law school loan payments for a while, and to do that he needed to fill out forms through the financial aid office at his school. While he was waiting for his appointment he flipped through a brochure that's meant for prospective law students.

9am says the brochure boasts that 59% of all students receive scholarships. The minimum scholarship given out was $12k for each year (3) of school. 9am also says that his LSAT score was in the 80th% for his year. He worked as a paid associate the summer he was a 1L, and worked "for the god damn United Nations" the summer he was a 2L. Thus, he believes, he should have gotten some scholarships.

I inquired, "Did you apply for any?" The answer I received?

"Well no. But enough of my professors knew of my accomplishments that they could have recommended me..."

Dude. Are you fucking kidding me?! THERE'S NO LITTLE BIRDIE! I don't dispute that it's impressive to work for the UN. I don't dispute that there are very few 1L's who get associate positions in law firms. However.

Being in the 80th percentile for LSAT grades at a school that's like third or lower tier is really not all that impressive. It's certainly not impressive enough that a scholarship birdie is going to personally come crap money on your shoulder.

In a way, this kind of reminds me of those people who are out of work and say, "Because I believe, God is going to provide." I listen to them and think, "God *DID* provide, you idiot! God provided you with the ability to use your brain, which you're supposed to utilize in order to create a resume. God provided you with the gift of communication, which you're supposed to use to talk to prospective employers. God provided the tools, not the results the tools can provide."

Why did 9am not apply for any scholarships? He has no reason. In that case, I do not think he deserved one. You might say, "Don't be so harsh. Maybe he's the first in his family to go to grad school. Maybe he just didn't know." To which I say, "Maybe, except maybe not. Both his parents have PhDs, and are professors, he has as many doctors in his family as most jewish people do, and he himself already has a masters degree."

When my parents gave their birdie speech, the way they delivered it always made me think everyone else knew already the birdie didn't exist. I guess no little birdie tapped 9am on the shoulder to let him know there are no little birdies.

So, to anyone reading this blog who is about to attend college or grad school: there are many scholarships out there. You must apply for them in order to be considered. The scholarships will not come to you.

Do You Ever Wonder WHY I Live in San Francisco?

You may think it's the weather, or how nice the people are here, or that I like being around food snobs. But no. I live here because SHIT LIKE THIS GOES DOWN. And as mind-blowingly awesome as it is that it goes down in Union Square, a place I actually frequent, it's not that unusual for something like this to happen here. And that's what I love. Because nothing says "Happy Green" like performance art.

Dear Public Displays of Musical Affection,

If you're ever getting ready to rehearse 1-2-3-4, please contact me. I've already started practicing. Naturally, I already have a green t-shirt, so as you can see, I'm really serious about this.

Thanks
Green

I Never See My Mom

Many days when walking through the streets, I'll think I see my father. Even though the reality is, there's no way he'd come here without telling us ahead of time, I can't help but look at the Dad-Impostor, until I've figured out what makes this man not my dad.

Oh, well my dad wouldn't read the newspaper while standing around outside a building.
or
Huh? My dad doesn't smoke.
or
Of course my dad wouldn't ever wear that.
or
Hey, why is my dad kissing that guy?!

As a Term of Endearment

I got called Slut-pie tonight. That's all.

In Which I Spread the Word About Jenny

That year of 1995, when I was having physical therapy three times a week? I hadn't been diagnosed yet. We didn't know why I couldn't walk, why the muscles in my calves had gone from being rock hard to being complete mush, why I was in excruciating pain.

Ultimately I got diagnosed, and over time I got better. Not perfect, but significantly better. Not knowing what's wrong with you is very difficult. Doctors not knowing what's wrong with you is very difficult. Doctors generally have big egos, so if they can't figure out what's wrong, they like to say it's all in your head. Psychosomatic.

Bullshit. Sure, there are some people who are depressed and feel physically unwell. At the time less than six months before I'd gotten sick, I'd failed out of college and my grandma, my biggest cheerleader in life, had died unexpectedly. It would have made sense if I had been depressed. I might have been. But my pain and weakness were separate from that.

Am I going to die? When will I get better? Should I give up this summer? This year? Being 18? If I will get better, will it come back?

These are all questions I asked that I needed answers to. When I finally got answers, I couldn't believe them, due to the way they were delivered. My belief then, and now, is that the doctors gave me the answers they hoped would be true.

It sucks to not have answers. There's a new Little Green, but her name is Jenny, and she needs answers. Please read about her, and after you're finished reading, please do what you feel right doing with the information you will then have.

I am a bitch. I hate swiftly and easily. And I would not wish what I went through in 1995 on anybody, not even if I hated them.

Things I Have An Opinion About Even Though I Don't Need One

I like 9am. He's a genuinely nice guy, and I don't just say that because he brought me flowers on Valentine's Day. A friend was recently telling me something about one of her friends, who we'll call Toast. I've never met Toast, but from listening to my friend talk about her, it seems Toast has alienated many of her friends. My friend likes her anyway. "She's a good person," my friend insists. In what way, I want to ask her. Since she reads this, I guess I am now. Hey, at least I know I'm friends with a loyal friend.

9am worked at the United Nations at one point. Last night when I got home from work he told me he'd thought everyone he worked with had hated him. I didn't have to ask why. He's quiet, introverted, takes a while to get comfortable with people, and has a strong work ethic. Surely you can see how that combination could work against a person. 9am explained that the other people he worked with would take an hour for lunch at the UN's cafeteria (which he insists is both inexpensive and has very good food), but then go take a half hour to sit around in the lounge. At 3:30 they would also go take another break. 9am wasn't down with that and never hung out with those people, so yesterday when he got a ping from a fellow Uner, he was surprised.

I was listening to all this while 9am was unpacking a banker's lamp that had come in the mail for him. He made unhappy faces as he balled up the yards of plastic packed into the box. He mumbled about landfills and the future. "Does this mean when you have a kid you aren't going to use disposable diapers?" I inquired. 9am looked up at me and waved his hands around. "That's really going to fall under the Mrs.'s territory," he replied. A thought popped into my head, and immediately out of my mouth. "Are you going to change your kid's diapers?" asked she with no censoring abilities whatsoever.

9am got flustered and could not answer me. And it wasn't because I'd been so forward to ask that. He didn't have the balls to say no, he does not plan to change his own kid's diapers, but did not want to say yes, and commit to having to do it.

In the past I think it's been mentioned that 9am is a bit old fashioned. He likes the values of yesteryear and all that shit. Now, I'm all for that old-school set up of being that woman who lets her husband bring home the bacon, while I clean the dish said bacon will be served upon. But there is no way in hell I would EVER marry any man who would not change his own kid's diapers. NO FREAKING WAY.

I've never been in a relationship serious enough that marriage was discussed, so I don't know what issues are appropriate to have as dealbreakers. But I've never done things the traditional way and I suppose there's no reason to start with marriage, so you'd better believe if you want to marry me, you will be changing the diapers of any kids you contribute to producing (or raising, because there's nothing wrong with adoption).

9am has told me he wants to get married and have kids and all that traditional stuff. Somebody should tell him he'd better not tell the woman his plan to avoid diapers. I am tempted to put his name up on one of those sites that warns other women about bad men. Except … he's not a bad guy, deep down. For all I know, 9am is banging away on his own keyboard about how ridiculous I am to think any guy would be that involved in the details of his offspring. I wonder what he calls me on his blog...

All I Wanna Do

I failed out of college. I failed hard, and it's interesting simply because it's not for any of the following reasons:

1. A boy
2. Partying too much
3. Mono

Those are three most common reasons freshman fail out of college. Not me though. No, I failed out for a more unique reason. Not a good reason, but better one than one of those three.

So I went crawling home, and not so promptly got a job, which I promptly got fired from (the mountain - if only I'd made it through college, perhaps I wouldn't end so many sentences with these damn prepositions).

Then I screwed around doing nothing and being sick. That took up the bulk of 1995. You were partying. I was taking steroids and having a physical therapist come to my house three times each week to help me re-learn how to walk. Good times.

Eventually I started easing back into life, and in 1996 I decided to start slow with an English course. It was a composition class at the local community college, and this kid Andy from high school was in it. We hadn't been friends in school, but we got along and talked sometimes during class breaks. One day Andy came to class and told me he'd just found out he had a tumor in his mouth, and then he never came back after that. This is the point in my blogging when I normally go Google someone, but I can't remember Andy's last name. It wasn't Rubin or Goldstein or Levy, the main last names of everyone in the jewish towns on Long Island. I think it started with a P, and ended with a "ski" or "sky" but I can't be sure.

My English teacher's name was Eugene, and we all laughed when he told us that. Something else he told us is that the first sentence has to grab people, has to make them want to keep reading. Go on - I know you're all scrolling up to re-read my first sentence. I'll wait. Hi. Yeah I know - it's not great, but it's not awful.

Sometimes on the walk to work I write first sentences in my mind. Sometimes even entire first paragraphs. Every so often I go crazy and create the first 30 seconds to two minutes of a movie, complete with set design, main characters, wardrobe, and soundtrack. Why yes, I *am* that fucking awesome. And then I go sit at a desk for seven and a half hours and do mundane tasks like arranging someone's itinerary for a flight from Oakland to Denver or entering two weeks worth of time.

Those first sentences? Some of them are really good. So are some of those first 30 seconds of movies. I wish I could give those to someone else, someone who can write and direct and produce. I'd hand them over as if I were cupping a faberge egg, and in my mind, it's always winter, snow is on the ground and steadily falling, we're outside, and when we breathe we can see it in the exhale.

Oh, Jesus!

So I posted about Melissa Scott a couple of days ago and today when looking at my stats, checked what sites are leading people to my blog.

I saw a couple of sites I didn't recognize, so I clicked on them. And I think this guy is trying to start a little rumble here. He's accused me of having PMS. I mean, of writing what I did because of PMS. In not one, but TWO places! But. I did a little further investigating, and it turns out that this guy is not very imaginative. He seems to accuse others of having PMS.

Hi Fredrick [last name removed so I do not prevent you from getting jobs*], how's the weather in Amsterdam these days? I see you work in the legal industry too; hope they don't have the ego issues there many attorneys here are accused of having.

Perhaps you did not read a post I wrote a while back, about how I feel when someone assumes any emotion by a woman should be attributed to PMS? In case you missed it, it offends me. But I'm not going to waste my time getting into it with you, as you seem like the type to not actually argue your point, but to make fun of someone's outfit or something equally immature.

Fredrick, sorry your plan to get people all riled up about what I wrote doesn't seem to have worked. Maybe next time. Hey, while we're talking .... nah, never mind - you're not worth the time.

*Due to a couple of comments, Fredrick's last name has been removed from this post.

*********************************************
So You Think You Can Dance is on everybody! Tonight they're announcing the top twenty dancers and I'll start writing all about it in the coming days/weeks. If somebody knows, please tell me what happened to Nigel's hand or wrist. Thank you. Oh and by the way, Britain's got talent too.

Meme Time

Your favorite nurse and mine, Nurse Jack, has tagged me for a meme. Yes, Nurse.

1. What were you doing 10 years ago?
Ten years ago I was 21, living at my parent's house, working for a 26 year-old lawyer as her very first secretary, at my first job as a secretary. Oh, and going to school at night. Oh, and working at a tennis club at night and on the weekends. I was a bit busy. I had no friends. I had no life.

2. What are the five things at the top of your "to-do" list:
A. Get job stability.
A and a half. Get health insurance.
B. Eat healthily.
C. Go to yoga.
D. Write often, and write well.
E. Once I have health insurance, really use it, and go to doctors. Take care of the medical issues I do not deal with.

3. What are five snacks you enjoy?
A. Plums/pluots
B. Chandler bing cherries
C. Raw almonds
D. Slightly frozen banana slices
E. Ice pops

4. Name some things you would do if you were a millionnaire. (I am assuming this means I have more than just one million dollars.)
BANK THE MONEY!!!!
Pay off my debt.
Go to Florida for my grandpa's 90th birthday.
Hire someone to teach me how to buy and cook certain foods that I'd eat if only I knew those things.
Buy a place to live after my lease ends.
Pay off Golden Boy's debt.
Open a private school.

5. Name some places you have lived.
Upstate New York, my brother's black leather couch, a hotel on Long Island, a senior citizen condo (that's right, I illegally lived at my grandpa's place for a while).

6. Name some bad habits you have.
Clenching my jaw, cracking my knuckles, trying to copy other people's writing styles that I like instead of trying to develop my own, not being open to salads that do not include lettuce.

7. Name some jobs you have had.
-Supermarket cashier (who remembers Foodtown, and the cashiers yelling out, 'I need a price!'?)
-During high school, an outlet shoestore (no, I did not have to touch feet).
- Worked at a men's clothing store in the mall. I can look at any man and know their jeans size now, even though I got fired from that job.
- Camp counselor at a free camp run by the town I grew up in.

Everyone who knows they need to update their blog but can't think of anything to write, consider yourselves tagged. And these two New York bitches should consider themselves tagged too.

Tuesday Farmer's Market

Have I ever mentioned that I love the Farmer's Market at this time of year? Because I do. Very much. Plums, pluots, white peaches, cherries, blueberries ... all so good. So, so very good. (Look at me! I could practically be a food snob with how much I love it all!)

This past Saturday, I went to the Farmer's Market as I almost always do (hello, Stalker), and they were having a cherry tasting for free. Normally you can taste anything at any stand for free, but last weekend they had one table that had cherries from each of the different farms that were at the Farmer's Market.

I totally tasted from each farm. The winner? K&J Orchards, hands down. Their cherries were big and plump and not damanged at all. I went over to their stall and picked up some chandler bing cherries. Asked the boy manning the stall if he'd be back on Tuesday for the weekday farmer's market. "Well, I won't, but my dad will." Good enough for me!

Totally loading up for the week (that last trip was just to get me through the weekend) on all the great fruit in season now. If I were all fancy-like I'd artfully arrange the fruit I bought and place it just so in dishes I bought specifically for plums and bowls I searched high and low for to house cherries, and take pictures of them for you, complete with perfect lighting. But I'm not.

So instead, you get pictures other people have taken. If you got my pictures, you'd see a plain silver bowl with some paper towel and the blueberries washed and plopped in there. That is, if you could see them in the darkness that is my kitchen. Oh well. The important thing is that they taste good, right? Right.

X Equals Y! Hallelujah!

When I was in middle and high school, there was a tv show on some obscure channel, where some guy would do math problems for the camera. You could call in with a homework problem, and they'd do it on tv. This guy had a whiteboard and everything. I used to watch it sometimes. You know, like when my mom was about to walk in and I didn't want to get busted watching MTV.

It probably still exists now, or some version of it at least. Recently I thought I caught it out here in SF. But then I noticed the teacher was a woman who is a pastor. With the while collar and everything. She uses whiteboards too. Nothing good was on recently, and I stopped at the preacher's math channel to see what was being taught to the young folks these days.

Except ... the whiteboards were covered with more words than numbers. And some of the words didn't seem to be in English. I kept watching. Eventually the light bulb went off in my head.

This pastor woman is teaching the bible! That's why her math book is black! I looked into this further (so you don't have to; you're welcome) and Pastor Melissa Scott is slightly interesting.

Seems she was married to the original Pastor Scott - some old guy who used to do what she does, but then he croaked. So she took over. What interests me most is that the site claims she speaks 20 languages. When I listen to her speak, I hear so many different accents. Deep South, Midwest, Middle East, etc. Her speech is all over the map.

Within her world she's quite popular. The church she's in is HUGE! I'm not quite sure why there's a 1-800 number on the screen at all times since she doesn't seem to take bible questions from viewers. I kept the show on for over a half hour. Not one phone call. Maybe Phil Donahue could teach her a thing or two? Also, why does she seem so angry? And, if she's in LA, why hasn't she found someone better to wax her eyebrows? Can I get an Amen?!

I couldn't help but notice that if you want to write in to the show, there's a P.O. Box in Los Angeles. She's got P.O. Box 1. I bet that's because she's in tight with Jesus.

By the time her show is winding down the whiteboards are covered in words and colors. It looks like football plays, algebra, and jesus stuff, all mixed into one.

Oooh - this just in! 9am watches her when he's working out! Okay I can't stand this anymore. Good night. And god bless.

Think. Budget. Price Things.

Recently I was watching this TLC show called Moving Up where three homes are looked at as new people move into each one. On a recent episode a couple won over $600k and was using it on a new home, both buying it and renovating it.

Let's forget for a moment that I live in San Francisco, where nobody could ever buy a house for less than one million dollars, okay? Okay. This specific episode was filmed in PA, so you can get a fancy house for a decent price. This lottery couple sold their old (smaller) house, and then not only bought a bigger one, but made huge changes. Like ripping up part of their backyard to put in a ginormous pool. Like completely redoing the kitchen.

Of course more than halfway through the show the couple starts freaking out, saying they didn't realize that spending $25,000 on a pool would cut into their winnings, and that the changes to the kitchen would cost so much...

How do these things happen? I've never bought nor renovated a home, so I have no idea how people actually do it. But I'm thinking my first question about each change I wanted to make would be, "How much would it cost?" No? Wouldn't you want to price everything out, make sure you can afford it before starting?

Write out each thing you want to do, rank them in order of what's most important to you, write out how much each would cost.

Lastly, I get why people think investing in real estate is a good idea, but how do you win over half a million dollars and not think any of it should be banked? Please educate me since I've never bought real estate nor won the lottery.