Spreading the Power

So there's this girl Brandy. In Canada. She's funny. She's a teacher. She tweets. She does this awesome Secret Project thing. And she has a boyfriend. A really nice one, from the sound (read?) of it. And, well ... here's the rest, in her words.

My name is brandy. And I have a blog.

And a plea.

I use my blog to showcase the crazy I meet everyday, share the stories of the kids I teach and document my love for tequila, dairy products and the abdominal muscles of Ryan Reynolds. Rarely do I talk about personal issues on my blog- as personal as the dude that I adore (who I actually met through my blog- single ladies, let that be a very good reason to blog, the possibility of meeting someone as wonderful as my man), but I need your help. And it involves my dude.

He’s a guy who made math comics for my class, so they would love learning about addition. He’s the kinda guy who sends my friends gift cards when they are having hard times, who remembers every story I ever told him, who was the first person I celebrated with when I got a teaching job. He’s the guy who sent flowers to me at school- dozens of my favourite pink roses just because he loves me. He’s a guy who has spent a year patiently explaining (and re-explaining) everything there is to know about football during the important games when silence is preferred. He’s made me word puzzles and comics and stayed up late playing Scrabble with me (even though I beat him almost every time). He’s listened to me cry about school and family and jobs. He is everything I never knew I needed and everything I always knew I wanted.

The holidays have hit us hard. He’s recently been told he may have something called multiple myeloma- an incurable cancer, that gives a person an average of five years of continued life. Though this news has came as a shock, he continues to be exactly who has always been- spending his time worrying about me, rather than worrying about himself. He’s the most selfless individual I know- (he stayed late on Christmas Eve to work, so his co-workers could leave early) and a post like this would never be something that he would promote or encourage but when I’m overwhelmed and feeling helpless, the blogging community has always given me tremendous support and comfort, two things I desperately need at this time.

As I write this, the future is uncertain and we aren’t sure what’s happening. He’ll need to see an oncologist soon, to verify what’s going on in his body. My hope is that everyone who reads this think positive thoughts and if you are a person who prays, could you add him to your list? (You can refer to him as ‘brandy’s hot awesome dude’). If you don’t pray, please keep him in your heart.This cancer is only a possibility and I believe that the prayers and positive thoughts of people can make sure it never becomes a reality.

I want to give a big thank you to the blog owner who scrapped their original blog plans and graciously put this up. My goal is to get as many people as possible to see and read this post. If you are reading this and want to help, copy and paste my plea into your blog or send a link through twitter, so more people can keep him in their thoughts. I would be so very grateful (even more grateful than I am to my friend who first showed me the picture of Ryan Reynolds on the cover of Entertainment Weekly. If you haven’t seen it, Google it. You. Are. Welcome).

I realize this all sounds dramatic, a Lifetime movie in the making- but this is life. Right now. And I’m throwing away any hint of ego and am humbly asking for you to pray or think kind thoughts. If you are able to pass this on, thank you and if you know anything regarding MM- please email me (my email is on my blog). This isn’t a call for sympathy or a plea for pity. It’s just one girl hoping you can think positive thoughts for the person she adores. If my current heartache provides you with anything, let it be with the reminder that life is short, love is unbending and no one knows what could happen next. Maybe it is silly, but I really do believe that positive thoughts can make a huge difference. Thank you for reading this and if you haven’t already? Please tell someone you love them today.

I did.

9,968 Easy Steps to Temping

Temping is weird for a plethora of reasons, one of which being nobody gets to know you well enough to know you like to use words learned in your 1993 SAT prep class in everyday conversation. Especially when you're out of work, it's nice to use big words to remind yourself that you know things.

Another reason temping's weird is because random jobs come about in all sorts of ways. Sometimes a law firm wants to review my resume, meet with me, test me, then have me back a second time to meet with the specific attorneys I'd be temping for, and then think about it for a while. It can be a two-week process. Other times I'll get a call at 4:48 p.m. on a Tuesday asking if I can be at a firm at 9 a.m. the next morning. Even worse are the calls that come at 8:56 a.m. asking how soon I can get to the Financial District.

Living this way means it's hard to make plans. All plans have to be prefaced with the reminder that you may ditch your friends last minute if a job comes through. Which always feels terrible to say, no matter how kind and understanding your friends are about it. You feel like a bad person when you start hoping your phone won't ring because you're really looking forward to meeting friends from out of town for breakfast. You feel like a shitty babysitter when you tell your friend you'll watch their kid two days from now, but contact a back-up sitter just in case.

You can't just say no to a temp agency when they call you. If you have a great relationship with an agency maybe you can get away with it once, but if they call and you're unavailable, they'll simply stop calling.

I've given up being able to tell how things are going in an interview. Too many times of thinking it's gone well only to find out the firm went with someone else. Too many times of walking out sure they hated me only to have someone run after me at the elevator bank. I've lost perspective on what the deciding factor is also.

Last Friday I got a call about a temp assignment that is to start tomorrow. I was told the firm would want to test my skill level in a few different areas, then based on test scores meet with me (or not), and then they'd make a decision. Today, after several technical snafus (none of which were my fault), I was told to just go to the interview and they'd test me at the firm.

Normally I don't believe in signs. I always wonder if I should though, and when something might be one. As I stood in the lobby I looked at the Christmas tree that didn't have enough ceiling and wondered if that was a bad sign. When the HR guy came to reception to greet me after less than three minutes, I wondered if that was a good sign. We talked about my experience working at an accounting firm and he had my resume pretty much memorized. Good sign? One awkward silence. Bad?

Now, I'm no fancy pants, so this was less than ideal. Having to sit around in my 10 year old Interview Dress while taking test after test? No thanks. That's exactly what I wound up doing though, sitting in a tiny, windowless office taking four timed tests after meeting with an HR guy in a different tiny, windowless office and agreeing with or laughing politely at, every single thing he said.

I went to do the testing, and the mouse pad was the type that's screwed into the side of the keyboard, where you can't just move it if you happen to be (me) a lefty. There were four tests, and I left certain I bombed two. On the way out I spoke with the HR guy again, and he asked if I got test anxiety. I don't, but sure I did poorly, lied and said yes, hoping that would explain away my low scores.

After walking out, I sat on a bench and first called my contact at the temp agency and then a friend, telling them how it went. I told my friend there was no way they could hire me after that. Arriving home I hung my Interview Dress back up and had barely pulled on my jeans when the temp agency called me. When she said she had good news I initially thought I was going to hear about a different temp gig. It took a few minutes to sink in when she told me the firm wanted me to start tomorrow.

Gotta go iron my First Day at a Temp Job outfit now.

Look at Your Hand

You would be right to say it doesn't take a rocket scientist to work retail, but there are little things to know. How to properly bag food. How to count back change. How to talk with a customer while still ringing them up. For some people these things are surprisingly difficult. In San Francisco, when giving a customer change it seems to be popular to hand them the dollar bills, then the receipt with the coins on top. As if the receipt is a little tray. I hate this passionately.

Today while shopping an older woman was the cashier, and she very politely called me out when I made a face as she did it. I apologized, and she then apologized back, saying she doesn't know why she does it, but she hates when others do it to her. Then she said, I just figure when they do that to me it's because they don't want to touch my skin.

Oh. My. God. Is this not 2009 in San Francisco? I want to meet the assholes who would make this sweet old black lady think they wouldn't want to touch her skin so I can beat them up. And yet.

Yet I remember how I used to meet my grandpa every Tuesday at Wendy's for him to take me to lunch. That time when I was standing next to him at the counter as he paid the black, teenage cashier. I watched as he held his hand out to give her coins, and dropped them towards her hand. Make whatever excuse you want - believe me, I want to make them - but I am sure he meant to avoid touching her hand.

I am not even sure he realized he was doing it - it may have been instinct for him. This is a man who for decades, worked as a teacher in New York City, with children of all races. But I realized, and my jaw dropped. The cashier noticed, and she looked at me to see if I did also. There were people behind us - it was the lunch rush in a fast food restaurant. The cashier seemed embarrassed, when really it was my grandpa who should have felt that emotion.

I mouthed I'm so sorry to the cashier, and she nodded to me. I refuse to excuse my grandpa's actions, no matter that he's dead, no matter how much I loved him. I spent years working on him - getting him to refer to adult women as women rather than "the girl", and even with all that effort he still sometimes forgot.

Not really sure where I'm going with this. Not sure what makes me feel more sad today - that some random black lady thought people might not want to touch her skin. Or the fact that I know she's right.

Just a Nickel and a Smile

I never carry change with me. I keep a glass on my windowsill that my mother sent from Red Envelope one year for Hanukah, and any time I wind up with change, as soon as I get home it goes into that glass. When the glass gets full, I roll all the coins and bring them to the bank.

At the top of the Embarcadero BART station, right where Market and Spear Streets intersect, there are often homeless people. It's a good spot for them. The people commuting, the tourists nearby due to the Hyatt, all the people going to the Ferry Building, and all the other people going to the Financial District for work.

There's one black guy who used to stand right in the middle of everything and in a booming voice, say, "Just a nickel and a smile, will last a lonnnnng while. Help the homeless with a nickel!" In general, I never give homeless people money. Leftover food, yes, but money, no. (As an aside, I am reading a book and today read a sentence in it that had seven commas. I was so shocked that I read the sentence three times before mentally editing the commas down to a slightly more reasonable five.)

He always dressed in a way that showed he knew what was going on in the world. During Gay Pride he'll wear rainbows, during the elections he wore an Obama hat, etc. When it would rain he'd have a different saying that I can't think of now, but there was something about hearing his voice every day that made me smile inside.
Not that I was happy he is homeless of course, but there was just something about the guy. I'm not sure what it was.

Today I was downtown running errands. I walked past the entrance to Embacadero BART and heard a homeless guy speaking to someone. He was sitting on the divider between the stairs and escalator. I walked to my nearby bus stop and checked to see how many minutes it would be until my bus came. Then I realized the homeless man's voice had sounded familiar.

I haven't spent much time in this area lately since I'm not working. But I thought it might be that nickel and smile guy. I stood waiting for my bus.

I have change.
It might not be him.
Who am I kidding, it's him?
I can't afford to be giving away money now.
Do I even have change?
It's just thirty cents.
Stop, I really can't afford to open this door.
I'll never miss this money.
I know me - if I start giving him money I'm going to have a hard time not giving everyone all my money.
I have no idea how much is in my change jar. I'll never miss it.
I'm going to miss my bus if I go over.
I will NEVER miss this money.

I walked over and looked at him, all of a sudden feeling a little shy. He looked at me and waited. "Are you the nickel and smile guy?" His face lit up as he said it. "Just a nickel and a smile lasts a lonnnng while. Help the homeless with a nickel!"

I never engage in conversations with homeless people. Not long after I moved to San Francisco, I got attacked by a homeless guy just outside my apartment building. Right before I was about to kick the guy off me I happened to look into his eyes, and he into mine. I realized he wasn't seeing me at the same time he realized I wasn't who he was seeing in his mind, and he let go of me.

Sometimes I say, "No, sorry," as I walk by and they ask me for money. Sometimes I say "Want this?" as I hold out a bag of leftovers. But in general, I don't make conversation.

I told the guy I remembered him from over two years ago, when I used to work nearby. He told me he still says it, but usually during rush hour. I checked my watch. "Two more hours." He pointed behind me. I looked, and saw the clock on the Ferry Building. Down on the street, I saw my bus only a block away. I couldn't figure out what to say to the guy.

"Well, I'm sorry you're still doing this, but it's nice to see you again," I finally settled on, and dropped a nickel and a quarter into his cup. "You too," he told me. "Have a nice day."

I didn't miss my bus. And I won't miss that thirty cents either.

Failed Dinners

I was reading the Slack Mistress's blog post about last night's dinner, and it reminded me of something from long ago. In the olden days, we Yogurts used to host one of the two Passover seders each spring. My mother would start cooking at least a week before Passover started, freezing cooked dishes in the basement freezer.

Back in my high school years, one night I passed through the kitchen to say good night to my mother before heading to bed. She'd been cooking all day, and would be cooking long into the evening. When I arrived in the kitchen my mother was just about to put two apple-maztah kugels in the oven before going to pee. These kugels are so good that we always had two - one to put on the table for the seder, and one for our immediate family to enjoy throughout Passover.

As my mom went to slide one tin into the oven, she somehow dropped it, and it flipped upside-down before landing all over the floor. We looked at each other in horrified shock. My poor mother burst into tears at the stress of having to clean up a huge mess so late at night while also having to desperately pee.

I decided to postpone bed and told my mom I'd start cleaning up and she should go to the bathroom. When she came back, she thanked me. As my mother handed me more wet paper towels to clean the floor she said to me, "We just won't put a kugel on the table this year."

This was so unlike my mother - to save the remaining one for us, but speaks to how much we all loved that kugel. I still usually make it at least once a year.

Please, join me by sharing your biggest dinner disaster in the comments.

Don't Tease Me, Bro!

Pretty much everyone I know from the East Coast loves Dunkin Donuts coffee better than any other chain's coffee. I don't drink coffee, but I do love hot chocolate, and have found that the hot chocolate taste test aligns quite nicely with the coffee test. There is not one Dunkin Donuts in California. (By the way, I've found that Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf & Names of Coffee Shops That Are Too Long has hot chocolate most like Dunkin Donuts, so their coffee may also be most similar.)

Anyway. There's been a grassroots effort to bring Dunkin Donuts to California. Ben Affleck even started a Facebook page all about it. It hasn't happened yet, which makes me sad. However. Dunkin Donuts is now selling their packaged coffee in West Coast supermarkets. Of course this does not help me, the hot chocolate drinker, but I'm still supportive of the overall cause.

Lately, because of this supermarket thing I suppose, when watching tv Dunkin Donuts commercials appear. Since I don't drink coffee I forget all about the coffee-in-supermarkets thing, and stupidly get all excited, thinking surely Dunkin Donuts wouldn't advertise here if they weren't here! Then I remember about the coffee-in-supermarkets thing and my heart sinks. I hate being teased. I don't even like to window shop unless I can afford to pop into the store to buy whatever catches my eye.

So Dunkin Donuts, please come to CA. You could start small - set up shop at LAX and SFO to see how it goes (it'll go great, I assure you!) before branching out to shops all around town. It would be great on multiple levels. Fabulous, inexpensive coffee and hot chocolate, but also, we'd always know where to find a cop when we needed one! You'd be providing a community service, when you think about it. Okay then, so I'll look forward to seeing you soon. Glad we had this little talk.