Bone Marrow and Stem Cell Donations

Today I went back to the dentist. After about 18 or 19 years of not going, I went last month. I had one cavity. So today it got fixed. I love my dentist. Despite having not been to one in almost two decades, every single person in his office who I met (four people) were simply friendly, reassuring, and expressed happiness that I'd simply gotten there.

He owns his own practice, and while I was confirming my next appointment six months out, I saw a piece of paper on the ledge. It was sandwiched between two photographs - one of two kids, and one of two adults. One of those adults was my dentist, but with hair. He looks better bald.

The piece of paper, it turns out, was something my dentist wrote about his sister, who was the girl/woman in the two pictures. Apparently she has leukemia, and is dying of it. She has two little boys. The only chance of her living is to get either a bone marrow transplant or stem cell transplant. My dentist is asking if anyone would be willing to get tested to see if they might be a match.

Here's the thing. If you're reading here, you're someone who's been reading here for years. So to a certain extent you know me. While I give homeless people backpacks, I also laugh at people who trip and fall down. What I'm saying is, I'm sort of middle of the road when you average me out.

It would be a nice thing to see if I'm a match for the dentist's sister. My only hesitation is, if I actually am (and I understand it's a long shot) then I'd kind of have to then donate either stem cells or bone marrow. Otherwise I'd be a total asshole, and more than cancel out the niceness of getting tested. It'd basically be cruel.

The truth is I went through a lot of physical pain when I was 18. Actually, I'm in pain right this very second, though it's from the cavity filling (I hope). So I'm not really sure I'm down for a painful medical procedure. Getting bone marrow extracted, while done under general anesthesia, is still really painful. The stem cell harvest requires that prior to donating blood, you get injections of a medication that like, plumps up the blood (I'm a little vague on the reasoning) and one of the side effects is that it makes your joints stiff. I already have arthritis, so ... Granted, the stiffness goes away after a few weeks.

I would absolutely never, ever consider this if I didn't have health insurance. Which I do. Part of my hesitation is about the physical - how much will it hurt? But another reason I'm hesitating is because I don't want to be that person. What if the dentist thanked me? What if he wanted me to meet his sister and she like, introduced me to people and told them? I don't want to deal with that. I hate concentrated attention. You can extract bone marrow, but can't extract introversion.

Also, I don't want people saying things to me that are stupid. Like if I bitch that something hurts, and someone says, "Think about what a wonderful thing you're doing to distract yourself from the pain"? If that happened, I'd be thinking about how stupid that is to say because it doesn't at ALL distract me from pain, and I'm not even distracted from pain by thinking about how stupid you are.

I really like my dentist. He's a great dentist, but he's also a great guy. So if there were a way to help out someone he cares about who he can't help himself, I want to say I'd do it. But what if I'm not a match for his sister, but I am a match for like, some totally random person? I don't want to do this for a stranger who has no Kevin Bacon connection, you know? But then that's terrible. Who am I to decide that one person is deserving of living and another isn't?

Can I just be tested to help the dentist's sister? Without going on some national database? Because I might be interested in being helpful, but only to like, one person. Clearly calling me a bitch is not a strong enough word for what I am.

Everything I've read about this talks about what a great thing it is. I don't care about that. That's what you get from someone who has been disenchanted with life for a couple of decades. I don't think living is such a fantastic thing. So I don't care about doing some wonderful, noble thing that helps other people live. I grasp that others don't feel the way I do, and they do love life, and do want to live it. Having gone to high school with a few kids who grew up without a parent, or had a parent die in their childhood, it's clear how devastating that is.

Now you say something deep.

Perks!

When Turkey announced he was closing his law firm, I was in a panic at the idea of going through that whole unemployed period again. Everyone kept telling me it wouldn't be like that. They felt it. I didn't feel it. I'm one of those "don't count chickens before they've hatched" people. Apparently I didn't need to feel it though, because everyone else's feelings were right. Thank god for you people and your feelings and your chicken-counting ways.

When Gay Crush and I had our interview, it was interesting. There was no typical interview posturing on either side. He asked if he could give me health insurance through an HMO. I said no; he said okay and wrote down PPO. Health insurance is in the works.

He asked what I made working for Turkey. I told him my salary was $500 a year, but with overtime I earned $550 a year. He offered to pay me $525 a year. When I worked for Turkey the hours were 8:30 to 5:30. Now my hours are 8:30 to 5pm. That half hour makes all the difference. 

Gay Crush wears a t-shirt or polo with dark jeans and dress shoes each day. So I'm wearing jeans and a nice top. Not just on Fridays, but every day. 

"Health and fitness is very important to me, so I'd like to offer you up to $100 a month towards a gym membership of your choosing. Would you be interested in that?" Okay, now if you said that to a future employee and their response was, "Nah, I like being a fat slob," wouldn't you ... second guess your decision to hire them? Maybe they're not so smart after all. So I said yes not only because yay how awesome, but also because I wouldn't respect him if he respected me if I'd rejected the offer. My plan is to start gymming it up as soon as I have health insurance. If you get a call from someone crying and asking you to tell them to suck it up and go to the gym, it's me. 

Gay Crush gave me an iPad! He got a newer generation one and gave me his old one, but still. A real iPad! I am totally going to figure out how to use it just as soon as I get wireless. People keep saying I can download things onto it at work and then use those things at home without the wireless. But I don't know what things they're talking about, and if it's games, well ... I already fuck around enough in my free time. I don't need more easy ways to do that. 

I'm getting business cards. I'll be sending each of you five. You can put one on your refrigerator. When Gay Crush asked me, "Do you think you want business cards?" I asked back, "I don't know. Do you plan on hauling me around anywhere?" He doesn't know. Hey, he flies to NY a lot; I'd be more than happy to be hauled there! Nobody's ever given me business cards, but that makes sense, because legal secretaries really never leave the office. Sometimes people ask for a business card, but you just hand them the attorney's card. 

Another perk is that Gay Crush is ... mentally stable. Like, every time he walks into the office, he's got the exact same personality. He's a generally happy guy. If he gets upset with one person, he doesn't take it out on another, and gets over it quickly. He vents for ten seconds, and then moves on. 

Also, he doesn't have an ego. He left it to me to cut and measure the contact paper for the shelves in the office kitchen, but he would have helped if I'd asked. (I'll be asking tomorrow because I'm too short to reach the higher shelf. Just for placement help though; I'll do all the cutting.) Gay Crush has crawled under desks to get at outlets, picked up desks to access other outlets, etc. He doesn't waste his time, but he doesn't think he's too good to do things that need doing. 

One time many moons ago, on a really hot day, Turkey arrived at the office with a Jamba Juice smoothie in hand. He stopped at my desk to pick up his messages, looked at me sweating under the skylight, and thought out loud, "Oh. I should have asked if you wanted anything." I smiled and said nothing. Yes, that would have been nice. Turkey wasn't that kind of nice. Turkey was the kind of nice where he wouldn't fire you if you were five minutes late coming back from your lunch hour because he made you pick up his lunch on the way back. 

Then there's Gay Crush. Every time he runs out for a coffee, he asks if I want anything. If I said yes, he would refuse to take money from me. We agreed that I will do some personal errands for him, and he always encourages me to take as much time as I need, and reminds me not to use my lunch hour. So far I've bought him conditioner.

So technically, at the end of the year I'll probably have earned less than I did working for Turkey. That's okay though, because it's only $3,000 less for 120 fewer hours per year, and my quality of life has skyrocketed.

Back Down

Way back in the olden days, the general public never knew anything about actors except which films they had starred in. For the most part, there were never films about an actor's private life until after they had died.

There was a president in a wheelchair and nobody even knew he was handicapped. Now we know the intricate details of a former first lady's medical condition. There are gay people who've lived with their partners for decades and may not be able to find out the status of a partner in a hospital, but we know about Hillary Clinton's brain clot?

The fact that we have a tv show that tells us the details of Khloe Kardashian's uterus? Granted, she is an adult who made the decision to make her infertility struggles public. But I think she has made a mistake. I don't believe someone should be able to be famous for ... nothing.

Dance Moms could be a great show, if it featured what the moms do for their daughters in relation to dance. Instead, it's the teacher manipulating the students and mothers into frenzies, pitting them against each other, and the moms constantly sniping at each other, exchanging petty insults I could have come up with in seventh grade. My mother spent tons of time driving me to and from dance class, sometimes sitting in the reception area through the classes, and I assure you she was NEVER decked out in a dress, with full hair and makeup.

I just want everyone to back up a bit. Take a little pride in their talents, and showcase them, and ONLY them. Here's the press release I would like to see regarding Hillary Clinton's health: Former first lady and current U.S. Secretary of State Hillary Clinton was hospitalized on Wednesday for a non-life threatening medical condition. During her hospitalization, Jane Schmane, Head of Blah, will be covering for Ms. Clinton. We wish Ms. Clinton a speedy and full recovery. That's it. We don't need the details. It's none of our business. Why the hell do we need to know the medical intricacies of a non-family member? Does Hillary Clinton expect a get-well card from us? Should we tweet Bill?

I don't want to know why Bethenny Frankel is getting divorced. Hell, I don't even need to know that she's headed in that direction. Tell when her next book or product debut. The end.

We need to take things down a notch here. I never thought I would spend time thinking about how to be ignorant, but right now, that's the direction I'm headed in. I want to be ignorant of these things.

Lunching With My Gay Crush

There's this outrageously hot gay subtenant at work who I have a crush on. I kid you not, I have giggled at things he's said. Giggled. He's just so prettttttty. And smart. And funny. I don't remember how it went down, but the Turkey said something to me, I made a face, and Gay Crush mumbled something that let me know he knew Turkey was ... well, a turkey. My love for him was cemented.

Luckily I don't twirl around in my chair while giggling all day long, though that does sound fun. Gay Crush and I chat throughout the day. Not so much when Turkey's around, or when GC is busy, but enough that we know some basics about each other's lives. For example, I know GC has an equally pretty boyfriend who he lives with. GC knows if Turkey's not around and I'm not busy, he can chat with me about the Bravo shows.

About two weeks ago GC and I went to lunch. How we came to have a lunch date really took me by surprise. I was reading a review of a nearby restaurant and happened to ask GC if he'd gone there. He hadn't and when I said I hadn't either but was intrigued by it, GC asked, "Wanna go?" I replied, "With you? OH MY GOD YES!" Okay, no I didn't, but that's totally what happened in my head. In actuality, I shrugged and said sure.

It took us forever to actually go. CG travels a lot, so he's out of the office at least one week each month. I wanted to go on a day when Turkey was out of the office, so I wouldn't have to worry about getting back in exactly 60 minutes. Then I was sick for about a month and wanted to wait to go until I was better, so I'd be able to taste food. Then GC got busy with work and wasn't taking lunches.

Finally though, all the stars aligned and CG asked me one Monday, "Hey, are we doing our lunch this week? How about tomorrow?" So it was tomorrow. I picked out my least ugly outfit. I dug out my Clinique Bonus Time free lipstick. I took the advice my cousin's husband gave me over a decade ago and read the newspaper, stockpiling topics we could talk about. I even double-checked the menu online to make sure there were still things on there that I like. I was prepared.

We walked over and got seated. Immediately, there was an awkward happening. Gay Crush is a bit of a lush. Not at work of course, but he totally goes home and boozes it up with his partner while they have dinner each night. He asked if I'd be getting something to drink. The thing is, I only ever drink water in restaurants. GC seemed to want to get a glass of wine or something. I told him I didn't mind if he got wine. "Oh, you'll get one too?" It felt awkward telling him, "Oh, no, I just meant it's not an alcoholic thing with my not drinking - you should totally feel free to drink if you want to." Yeah. He had water. Apparently people feel weird boozing it up if the person they're with isn't also boozing it up.

Luckily, we managed to get past this, and Gay Crush asked if I wanted to share a side dish with him. Sharing food? How intimate, of course! Then we ordered our food, and Gay Crush decided it was the perfect time to tell me the history of his quest to keep from going bald. Yes, you read that correctly. I had to sit there and listen to GC talk all about balding medications. For the record, he has perfectly nice hair. No power alleys or comb-overs or anything.

GC then pointed out how he dressed up for our lunch, by wearing jeans and a button-down shirt instead of his usual jeans and a polo. I confessed to wearing mascara as my effort to dress up. We laughed. We shared a side of fancy mac & cheese. I arrived at the lunch prepared to pay, but GC insisted he'd pay. He didn't look at his Crackberry once throughout the entire meal. He made gay jokes. Told me about his experiences as a child of having his parents deal with all injuries by getting antibiotics cheaply from Mexico (he's from CA, near the border).

I was worried it'd be weird when we got back to the office, but it wasn't. I'm not sure exactly how that was avoided, but ... it was so normal that it almost made me wonder why I even worried it'd be weird in the first place. I bet it was thanks to the mascara.

Please Weigh in on a Fat Problem

(And that will conclude the fat jokes for this blog post.)

You are me. You are friends with someone who lives nearby, and is, shall we say, zaftig. She has invited you to parties she's thrown, you've attended twice and had lovely times (when you are not surrounded by jewish people, to all of a sudden get to hang out with one brings out very good feelings, but that's not the only reason you like her). You have not reciprocated because you have not thrown any parties, but if you had, you would have.

Now you've found yourself volunteering for an event, specifically for zaftig ladies. You think she would enjoy it a lot (I almost typed tons, but then re-read my first sentence). You think of inviting her (to partake, not to volunteer).

Then you realize what you'd wind up saying is, "Hey! You're fat! Wanna go to this fattie event I think you'd dig?" You realize that if the roles were reversed, even though clearly everyone can look at you and see your size, to be actually called out on it would mortify you, and you'd promptly move to the mountains of Kentucky where you know noone. Yet on the other hand, you do realize that you are a delicate and overly sensitive flower, while not everyone else is, so perhaps you should not put your neurosis on others.

You are socially savvy. Tell me what to do.

Let's All Sit in a Circle

I love that rush I get when discovering not only a new author I love, but one who's written tons of stuff. That rushing thrill of New! Reading! Material! Then you curl up inside all that reading, and when you emerge in a daze with the way you think about things changed for life, in the back of your head all that's going through your head is What the hell will I read now? Wow. I guess I just really, really love reading.

I just need to pause to say that my apartment hallway is very echo-y, and I can always hear everyone who walks by, talks, or makes any noise. Right now a very chipper older late is talking to a man with a heavy Spanish accent who is responding to her politely but you can hear in his voice he wants to get away. Anyway, the point is, this woman has the same squeaky voice as my old cousin Clara, who was old for my entire life. She always used to confuse me with my mom, and it really made me twitch when she'd tell me, thinking I was my mom, that she remembers when my mother was alive. My mother *IS* alive, it's *HER* mother who died! Get it right, woman! Of course I could never say that - I'd just listen to her tell me stories about "my" mom and commit them to memory so I could tell my mom later, and she could collect other people's memories about the mother she didn't get enough time with.

Moving on! Back to reading! Good blogs are a great thing to discover because bloggers have archives. Archives mean days of reading material. I'm always flattered when I, my blog, represents that to someone else. People I'd never meet in real life. People who, even if I met, would agree we had nothing in common. Except people will write more than they will say (if their family isn't reading), so you can find those commonalities after all.

Charlene from -lifedramatic- recently found my blog and not only is she reading the archives, but she's commenting on things I'd forgotten about writing. She responded to an old post where I solicited questions with hers, and here's her list, along with my answers.

1. Don't keep me in suspense. Did you ever get a camera? What kind? Where are the pictures?? :)
Yes, I was given a camera. I don't know how to say what kind of camera it is properly, so I've gone meta and taken a picture of it with Photoshop for you. It says it's a Panisonic Lumix, with 5.0 megapixels and um yeah. I really, really want to be one of those people who takes their camera everywhere they go and takes cool pictures of a sewer grate or a businessman fixing his sock that make people stop and think, but I haven't reached that level. Then, before I could keep trying to reach it, my camera used up all its battery juice and buying new batteries for a camera simply is not a priority when you're scraping together money for rent each month, you know? So that's where I'm at with my camera.

A couple of years ago I went to LA, and I did take some awesome pictures if I do say so myself. I crossed a foot bridge in Santa Monica and took a picture of a Coke cup discarded carefully on a step that I really liked (yet can't find now). It doesn't help that I don't understand Flickr - why are the pictures I've taken in Photoshop on Flickr, and how did they get there? Where is my precious Coke cup picture? Where are all the old pictures I took on my camera and (thought I) uploaded to Flickr?

2. You mentioned you were in therapy for a long time. I'm in therapy now. Have been since my first husband started cheating on me, and never left her. I see a lot of things through your posts that I should be doing but haven't been able to yet. For example, doing things to help me not feel depressed. I find that I kind of wallow in the depression, like I'm in a maze and I can't really find my way out. How do you do it?
Wow. Well. Two or three things.
1. I am sorry your first husband cheated on you. It seems more common these days for people to forgive that, and although this may fall into the "you can't know until you're in that situation" I don't think I'd be able to forgive that. I believe in the "if you aren't into me enough to not cheat on me, then just break up with me honestly" religion.
2. Let's be honest here, okay? I'm not always able to snap out of it. Being out of work is very, VERY difficult. A little while before moving out of Florida my messiness reached an overwhelming head, and another person had to come in to help dig me out. I swore to myself it would never get to that point again. It hasn't, but I have been known to send in my unemployment form a week or two late because I lost it in the pile of stuff on my ottoman and haven't had the wherewith all to dig it out. So, I'm not perfect.

At least a decade ago I read an article in Newsday about how people with learning disabilities function better if their outside world is neat and organized. It took me several years to get my life in line with that, and found it was true. My brain is so busy translating what people have said into words and concepts I understand (and then I have to race to listen and process while also listening to their next thought and saving that for translation while responding to the first thing) that it creates more work when things are physically a wreck. So I try to stay neat. When I don't, I have absolutely noticed a correlation between seeing a wreck and my heart sinking and becoming overwhelmed.
3. The way I do it when I'm doing it is, I have a set schedule. So when I'm working, I know what errands I'll run on my lunch hour on which day, and which days I'll go to the library after work. When I wake up I smooth out my blanket to make my bed look neat (tucking in the blanket takes too long). On weekends I buy five breakfasts (or one cardboard tin of Quaker's Instant Oatmeal) so I'll have quick breakfasts each morning I'm at work. I feel no difference (other than hunger) between eating breakfast and not in terms of being productive, but study after study, decade after decade swears eating breakfast is good for you, so I eat a healthy one.

I keep in mind when I'm depressed all the other times I've been depressed (yes, I realize that sounds depressing) and that if I can just force myself to shower and get dressed, then I'll be able to take out the garbage, which will mean I'll be ready to go through mail that's piled up, etc. Things can spin out of control. But they can also spin into the control if you just start the spin. You have to find what will start your spin.

3. What would you do if your neighbor got a pig and you had to hear it grunting and squealing when you were trying to relax? (Seriously, this just happened to me...)
Charlene, this does not sound pleasant ... wait. Is it a baby pig? Because those things are cute! Did you see the movie with that Dawson's Creek kid who played Knox and his friend had a pig named Bacon?

To answer your question, I would ask the city/town if this was legal, and if it was not, because I'm somewhat passive-aggressive I'd consider reporting them. In the meantime though, I might ask the neighbors if they could move their pigpen to the center of their yard so the noise was traveling so well into my space, and I'd look into what kind of white noise I could employ to drown out the pig noise. Wind chimes probably wouldn't cut it, huh?

4. I've always wanted to visit California and SF in general! I love seafood. Do you like any seafood? (I know you said you are a picky eater).
Yes, I love seafood too. Every time I am at Whole Foods I check to see if the scallops are on sale. I'm not sure I've found any stellar seafood restaurants here, but I haven't specifically looked, and don't dine out much these days.

5. Have you ever been to whereever it is you can go to see the seals there? Seals are smelly, but they're cute too.
I think you're talking about Pier 39, where there are sea lions. Yes, I've been there. More than once. Maybe it does for other people, but for me, it never gets old to see the sea lions sunning themselves and pushing each other into the water, and flopping back up to dry off from a swim.

6. What's your favorite thing about SF?
People ask this a lot. I don't have a good answer. This is the first major city I've ever lived in, so I really have nothing to compare it to. I love that the weather makes it easy to spend time outdoors. I love that there's tons of free stuff to do and watch. You can make a full day out of watching the Gay Pride Parade, a full morning out of watching Bay to Breakers take off and then going to the Ferry Building for the farmer's market. You can surround yourself with tourists or escape them by going to the places tourists never know about. You can learn (if you're me) how to become comfortable being the only white person on the bus. Hell, you can learn how to use city buses, something that was foreign and scary to me at first.

This is the place where I learned how to make friends. Where I learned to cut myself a little slack. Where I got to hone the art of agreeing to disagree, of stretching my mind to see other people's viewpoints. I don't know that these things happened because I am in SF, just that they happened while I was here. But when I have entertained thoughts of leaving here and moving elsewhere, I have worried "what if I can't make friends?"

7. I grew up in North Miami, FL. It sounds like when you were in FL you were in the Pompano area. Why did you move there?
You nailed it. I moved to Florida because I wanted to move out of my parent's house. When I looked at apartments on Long Island, they were all depressing illegal basement apartments in the back of people's homes. I distinctly remember looking at one with my dad, and then quietly telling him, "This is the kind of place that's great for committing suicide." My grandpa lived in FL - he had an apartment in an old-people community, and mostly lived at his girlfriend's apartment (in the same community). When I considered the idea of moving to Florida, he allowed me to stay at his place for a few months while I got myself established. I knew of one girl around my age when I moved to Florida, and she was a real estate agent. She showed me four apartment complexes, all places she'd show her sister, and I picked the one with the most natural sunlight. The master closet was big enough for a controlled cartwheel. There was a laundry pantry in the kitchen. There was so much space in that apartment that I had multiple empty cabinets. So that's why I moved to Florida, the specific city within Florida, and the specific apartment complex.

8. Will you please post a comment or two on my blog? :)
Already done!

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.

Fat Actress

Sometimes my friends and I have totally normal conversations. How are you? What's new? Did you see they closed Tower Records? Did you hear about the homeless guy who shoves flutes up his nose and plays them while also playing the buckets near Union Square?

You know, the usual.

But sometimes our conversations veer off to so many different tangents that all of a sudden we're talking about how great Mayim Bialik is and I have no clue how we got there.

That's what happened recently while I was talking to Barrett. Now, Mayim happens to be around my age, so I actually DID watch Blossom when it was on, but Barrett is four years older than me, and I'm almost positive she didn't. She may not even have seen Beaches. And I'd bet if she did, she didn't cry when Barbara Hershey was dying. Oops, spoiler on a movie from the 80's!

Anyway, so Barrett and I were talking about Mayim, and she asked if I'd seen the Kirstie Alley series Fat Actress. I hadn't. Barrett told me Mayim plays Kirstie Alley's neighbor in the show and she hates her. This intrigued me, because I knew that had to mean funny, and I'd recently seen Mayim on TLC's What Not to Wear and had just found out Mayim could be funny. Like, truly funny.

However. I was never really a Kirstie Alley fan. When I thought back to Cheers, she always seemed to be hyper and uptight and whiny. When I thought of Look Who's Talking she seemed uptight and hyper. Harried. I didn't really think I'd enjoy Fat Actress.

Peoples, sometimes you should really just trust your friends. I didn't particularly enjoy the first episode of Fat Actress. I found Kirstie Alley to be whiny and annoying. But I was watching through Netflix, so I soldiered on to the second episode. And it all clicked for me. Turns out Kirstie Alley (who both stars in and co-wrote the show) is really funny. There were a lot of guest stars and I totally got into the show.

Just like My So-Called Life, I am very sad Fat Actress was only on air for one season. [insert cool lean against row of lockers while staring up at the ceiling as if thinking deep thoughts all while wearing a one-piece gas station jumpsuit, a la Jordan Catalano who is the only character or person able to pull that look off]

All this to say, you too, should go watch the Fat Actress series. Then we can discuss it. Then we can keep talking, and five minutes later we'll probably be laughing so hard we're about to pee in our pants while talking about unicorns or spatulas or something equally obscure. Because that's how we roll.

My Hand Was Eaten By a Giant Snake and I Was Waiting For the Reattachment Surgery

What? That sounds like a hell of a better reason than "I can't think of anything good to sayyyyyyyyy." 

In a nutshell, my life still sucks, but I'm tired of bitching about it, thus leaving me little to talk about.

Did I tell you I went to Mexico for the wedding of Golden Boy and Crazy Girl at the end of April? No? Well. Hi, I went to Mex ... yeah. So anyway.  My mother knew I was some sort of special type of moron way back in elementary school, and she went through different phases regarding it.  Sometimes she tried to pretend I was just like all the other kids, but other times she admitted I couldn't run with the bulls and did things like fussing at the administration to make me foreign language exempt from middle school, on through high school.  

Now, I don't know if my lack of taking Spanish is why I am completely unable to say anything with a proper accent, but I doubt it, since all the French words I know courtesy of years of ballet also come out of my mouth without an accent.  

This means that gracias always sounded like grassy-ass when I said it.  The frustrating thing was that I'd hear it come out of my mouth that way, hear that it was wrong, and still not be able to say it with the correct pronunciation.  Thus, the little foreign language I know, I never used.  You would cringe to hear me say croissant.  Except that I never say it because I'm embarrassed at how it sounds coming out of my mouth. 

I was very worried that the Mexicans I would encounter would sneer at me and make me feel like shit for my shitty attempts at Spanish, and for reverting back to English after the greeting portion of conversations had been completed.  My brother reassured me numerous times that this would not happen.  That Puerto Vallarta is a resort area, that they want you to have fun and be comfortable.  That they all speak English, and if they don't, someone who does will always be close by (this was true also).  

The Golden Boy does not lie.  Everyone was so warm there.  Even the cab driver who fucked me over did it nicely (it was my mistake - I'd been warned to always ask a cab driver how much the ride would cost before getting in the cab, and I didn't think to do that, figuring it would cost the same amount to get back to the hotel as it had cost to get where I was leaving from).  

I pushed myself really hard to always speak in Spanish if I knew the words for what I was trying to say.  They must be used to that in a tourist town, and by the second day I had gotten pretty good at using a combination of Spanish, English and pantomime to get concepts across.  By the third day my grassy-ass had become a real gracias and all of a sudden the accent I could never wrap my tongue around had materialized.  

Which may account for why two weeks ago, when I found myself lost in the Mission and running late, I didn't hesitate to walk up to three men manning a garage sale, greet them and then ask where the street I needed was, all in Spanish.  They answered me in English, which to be honest, is good, since I would not have understood "You're very close, just two or three more blocks that way," in Spanish.  

As my friend and I walked on she said to me in amazement, "I didn't know you speak Spanish."  I smiled.  "I don't."