It Happened To Me: I Was Sexually Harassed in a Train Station

What magazine was that feature from, Sassy? It was maybe 6pm in the evening and I was waiting for my train. There was a man standing about three feet from me. I'd purposely walked over and stood near him. While we were waiting for the train, two boys walked by us. They were probably in their late teens. One made a comment about my boobs as they walked. His friend didn't really even react. I didn't outwardly react either, although I wanted to. I didn't say anything back because it was two against one (and I was scared that I'd knock him onto the train tracks) and I was too shocked it had happened at all.

Here's what I would have liked to say: Really, Asshole? You think you're so cool to make a comment about a woman's body while walking by with a friend? You can't even walk without holding up your pants. Why don't you worry about your own clothes before commenting on how mine fit on my body? But even if your pants did fit your body properly, shut the fuck up. My body isn't here for your review and comments. Keep your comments to yourself. Nobody, not even your friend, cared about your opinion. Did you notice that? Take the hint. I guarantee if you had to stand against a wall silently I could make you cry with the things I could say about your body.

I'm now 38. I'm a big girl. This did not devastate or scare me. By tonight when I go to sleep, I'll have forgotten about it. I will easily move on from this experience. But you, Asshole? You'll be an asshole long after tonight. So even though you put me down, ultimately, you lose. 

Old

1.  Yesterday it was already dark as I was walking home at the end of the day. At one point, I passed a man holding on to a concrete half-wall, who was walking … weirdly. Carefully. I have a background in problems with walking so watched him for a few seconds. It wasn't a limp, it wasn't quite … anything else. I sighed. "Hey. Hey!" I walked back since at this point he'd already passed me. "Sir? Sir, are you okay?" 

He turned to face me, and that let me see he was an older man. He smiled. "I'm fine; I'm just old. Thank you, dear." I smiled back. "Okay, have a good night." A friend once told me that she likes to make homeless people feel like people, by acknowledging them. This guy may have been walking alone, but hopefully he felt good knowing he was noticed. 

2.  An out-of-town company is borrowing our conference room. There are several guys* representing this company, and they have back-to-back meetings with other companies for a few days straight. I know one guy – the one who made the reservation. This morning when he arrived he stood in front of my desk, doing that smile men do when they're trying to control their anger. I bit. "What's going on?" He unloaded, and told me how furious he was at his team, how he got sent to a meeting nobody else showed up for, only to find out it'd been cancelled and nobody had updated the Outlook invite to reflect that. Then he sighed, "Time to ream out the troops," before heading into the conference room. 

This evening we were chatting and he mentioned something about the boss being in the conference room right at that moment. "I thought you were the boss," I confessed. He corrected me with a grin. "I'm just the oldest." 

*  Everyone in the company that's renting our conference room is male and white. Every single person representing each company that's come to meet with that first company? Also male and white. I wonder if it's the industry (although what industry besides the KKK only accepts white males?), or the level of positions within each company (although that would be sad too).  They're all very nice. Perfectly gentlemanly and all. Just ... male. And white. 

New Year's Eve

1. A woman sitting across from me on the train headed downtown. She is wearing a black dress, beaded at the bottom, and is futzing with some loose threads. I watch as she carefully makes knot after knot, wondering why she doesn't just rip them loose. Does she know something I don't? I think to myself, "Pantelones would know about this." After a few more knots the girl does rip off the remaining threads. As the train slows to a stop she stands, and is holding a party purse. Small, black, beaded. Entwined in her fingers is a lace mask. I am intrigued and want to ask where she's going, if she is meeting somebody or has to walk in alone. I almost wish her a good time and a happy new year, and then don't. 
   
2. I am crossing the street, and there is a man crossing in the opposite direction. He is black, and pushing a big wheel ridden by a little girl whose legs are too short for the pedals. I immediately think of Oscar Grant. He has a shit-eating grin on his face as he pushes the girl, and she screams in glee. It's beautiful, and I want to tell him, "Go straight home. Don't go out tonight. Go home and lock the door."
   
   It's wrong, of course.  He should be able to put his daughter to bed and then go out to celebrate the New Year if he wants, secure in the fact that the only reason police are out is to answer people's questions when they're lost or want to know how late BART will run. It's wrong - it should be on the police to not shoot people, rather than on people to avoid getting shot by police. The whole thing leaves me sad.
   
3. The last errand of the day is picking up soup for my sick self. I'm not the only one waiting - an old man is waiting with a toddler. He tells her and me at the same time, "My name is Zoe and I'm two." The girl very softly repeats him, so I crouch down and softly say, "Hi Zoe. My name is Green and I'm 37." The guy looks old enough to be her grandfather, but tells me not to get too close to his daughter and that the whole family is sick. Zoe tells me she puked, so we talk about puke for a few minutes while her father goes to check on his order. He comes back with a bag of food and tries to prompt his daughter to say happy new year to me as he puts on her jacket, but she won't. "I hope you and your family feel better." He smiles and thanks me. As they walk out holding hands, the girl turns back and mouths Happy New Year to me.

Therapy Dogs Are Everywhere

I'm having a really difficult week.  I'm still recovering from a flu (this is week 3). There's been a heat-wave, which is never good news. Something horrible happened to my back yesterday and there have been muscle spasms going on for the last 36 hours or so that make it difficult to walk and breathe. Sitting hurts. Standing is exhausting, plus there's the worry of falling down due to the feeling of muscle weakness. Laying down hurts. My boss has been extra difficult lately.

I'm just really, really tired lately. Tonight I didn't even go to the library! Normally I go every Wednesday night, because it's the only night during the week they're open late.

Today I'd agreed that I would take the earlier lunch hour rather than the later one I prefer, as a favor to the Office Manager. He was going to a Thing, and wanted to take an extra-long lunch to attend it. So at noon I hobbled off to lunch.

Because of all my back problems I decided to go nearby to a little Japanese place for lunch. Got the food. Sat down. Promptly had soup go down the wrong pipe. Did that choking cough you do when that happens. Over and over. People looked. So I tried to stop. Except, I was still choking. Then, all in the same moment, three things happened. I was choking, suddenly about to throw up, and realized I was over-heating.

I had to get the hell out of there, immediately. Looked at my not-quite-half-eaten food. Looked at the long line at the register. Made the decision to let it go, and just throw it out - no time to wait in line to ask for to-go stuff. Apparently I was feeling worse than I realized, and weaker too, because when I tipped the tray into the trash can for all the food to slide in, I lost my grip on that tray and it slid right in also.

My first instinct was to plunge an arm in there and haul that tray out. That's the proper thing to do, right? You make a mistake, you fix it. My second instinct was pure self-preservation. If I leaned over, I was going to throw up. Fact. Looking around, it was clear nobody had seen. I'm not proud of what I did next. I left. Walked right out.

I just wanted to avoid throwing up or passing out in public, and if at all possible, doing either at all. An office building with a lobby full of chairs called my name, and I sat down. Made a phone call. An airing of the grievances, if you will. Ten minutes left of a lunch hour, and I headed back to the office. Popped a piece of gum in an effort to get rid of the throw-up taste in my mouth, and decided to pop into my favorite store near the office.

When I walked in, I saw an older couple with two dogs looking at home furnishings. My hesitation only lasted for a half a second before I zoomed over. "Hi. I'm having a terrible day. Could I please pet your dogs?" Must have looked suitably pathetic, because they smiled and introduced Sadie and Ivy as I sank to my knees. For five or so minutes, I sat on the floor of a very expensive store where old monied ladies have their drivers park in no-parking places while store employees carry out bags to the car.  The couple discussed vases and coffee table books while I sat at their feet and a dog with very large eyes looked into mine and kept kissing my hand.

Eventually I hauled myself back to my feet, thanked the couple, and went back to work. While sitting in the office lobby I had contemplated leaving early for the day, citing illness. After being emotionally fortified by the dogs, that was no longer necessary.

Tomorrow I will see Le Pooch, and her snuggles will be even better, more meaningful and more healing. I am sorry for having cheated on her with other dogs. Clearly, I am the perfect candidate for a therapy dog.

Parking Wars

I love this show. Here's the premise: a camera crew follows a parking enforcement officer (or two) around a city as they give tickets and boot cars. It's always in what I think of as second tier cities - Providence, RI, Detroit, Philly, etc.

I love this show because I am fascinated by people's reactions to getting a ticket. I got a ticket once. Yes, once. I was 20, and illegally parked outside of a restaurant to run in and pick up my order instead of trying to find a parking spot in a mostly full parking lot. Do you know why I did that? Because, like the guy who recently jumped into the tiger den at the Bronx Zoo, I momentarily lost any semblance of common sense. Thank goodness my lack of sense simply resulted in a little embarrassment and a loss of $25 or whatever it was, and didn't result in multiple broken bones, and national public humiliation. I don't know why I thought my desire to save some time was more important than following laws, but it's over 15 years later now and I've never done that again. As someone who spent a good portion of 1995 being carried on back boards in and out of ambulances, I should really have known better.

When the ticketing officer came over to me with the ticket, I tried to talk my way out of it. He politely but firmly refused my (admittedly very lame) excuse. I mumbled a thank you while taking the ticket, because while I may have been a horrible kid, I was at least a horrible kid who learned good manners.

I am amazed by all the people on Parking Wars who scream, curse and threaten the parking people. I guess that's what makes for good tv. I wonder if they act like assholes because there's a camera crew. Ten years ago, when reality shows were newer, yes maybe. These days, I am guessing having a camera in your face is simply not as big a deal.

Though I have still not been able to wrap my brain around how people can behave so badly, treat others so poorly, and not be horribly ashamed of their behavior. The other thing I don't understand is the sense of entitlement so many of these people have. I want to understand the psychology behind being angry at yourself for a stupid decision and taking it out on the person who forces you to acknowledge those stupid decisions.

Hey all this talk of driving reminds me - can I borrow your car for an hour or so? I like to drive every few months. I'm terrified of forgetting how. Thanks, and I promise not to get any tickets.

This Type of Waste

I think it was 2009 or 2010 when I lived for an entire year, including unemployment, on $19,000.  In the year-long moment I didn't realize it. It was only when I was doing my taxes for the previous year that I saw, and then cried. In San Francisco, that's not a lot of money for a year. Maybe it is in the Kentucky mountains or something. But not here.

Our prior office manager filed for unemployment. Turkey appealed. She fought the appeal. It went to a hearing. The hearing took so long that they needed to schedule a second hearing, to hear even more information. Turkey brought in his employment attorney to prep and attend both hearings. To date, he's spend $33,000 in legal bills on this.

Ask me how much his unemployment insurance would go up if Prior Office Manager is awarded unemployment. Go ahead, ask me. Okay, I'll tell you. IF five (or eight? I forgot the exact number) former employees file for it and are receiving at the same time, then Turkey's unemployment insurance payments go up LESS THAN 1%!

You know how there are all kinds of rules and regulations companies have to follow, as long as they have 20 or more employees? Yeah. Turkey has fewer than three full-time employees. He's got me, and Current Office Manager. Everyone else is part-time or an independent contractor. So I'm pretty confident in saying that less than 1% of Turkey's unemployment insurance payments are less than $33,000. 

Thus, Turkey wasted money. This is not the first time he's done something like this. He's gone to arbitration with former clients over outstanding legal bills and spent tens of thousands of dollars in time (he bills out at over $400 an hour, so it's pretty easy to calculate), all in an effort to get that former client to pay $2,000 that Turkey believes they owe him.

It's no joke to say that I could live on $33,000. Not well, but I could do it. It's things like this that cause me to have almost no respect for Turkey.

So I'm a Little Weird

But this is not new. And it's in a different way. I used to be weird in the bad way, like that girl in third grade who licked walls or whatever. I was weird in that way where you can't help it, and you want to be like everyone else but just can't swing it.

Since moving to San Francisco, home of people not just representing the quirk factor, but competing and winning the quirk factor Olympics, ironically it's gotten me to be more normal. Partially it's because I've spent years shaking off the weirdness of my family, and partially it's because my parents were so particular with how everything had to be done, everything that should be said, and I was perpetually nervous. In San Francisco, it's okay to be weird. Hell, it's practically encouraged. When it's okay to be weird, you're not so nervous you'll screw up being perfect.

At my temp job, there is a weird lady who delivers the mail. I like her! Find her amusing as all get out. She comes up the stairs, and in her little accent sing-songs, "Here is your mai-ail!" Mail is two distinct syllables. She likes to wait to be acknowledged before singing, "Goodbye! Have a nice da-ay!" She sings her sentences in such a way that you expect her to skip instead of walking. That's funny enough, but what cracks me up is the fact that it's all an act. I've run into her on the street a couple of times and she talks normally there when I've asked a mail-related question.

After work on Friday I went to a store nearby to look around, and while I was standing near the stairs she walked in to deliver the mail. When she sang about the mail to the shop employees, they smirked and rolled their eyes to each other. As she walked out she saw me and did a double-take. Any time someone sees a person outside of their element, I always think of my first grade teacher Mrs. Friedman, and how she was so mean and yelly to me, but when my mom and I ran into her at the supermarket she was so nice to my mom. It totally disgusted me that she pretended to be a nice person and didn't let my mom see her true mean side.

We said hi to each other, and chatted for a few minutes. The mail lady didn't sing while we chatted; she was a normal person finishing up her job for the day. Now I don't remember what we talked about, but it was very casual chit-chat stuff, and probably just two or three minutes. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the employees looking at me confused. Why would anyone be talking to the mail carrier?

As I walked out of the store, I felt ashamed. I did something by accident that made me look weird. But then I changed my mind. Fuck them and their pretentious hipster judgments. I saw someone I knew, and talked with them. That's normal. If they wouldn't lower themselves to talk to someone, then they should feel ashamed. Not me. I'd rather be thought of as weird for chatting with someone than normal for not lowering myself to talk with someone.

Why Couldn't I Have a Boyfriend?

At the place where I'm temping, the lawyer rents out space to other lawyers, which makes them sub-tenants. There are some former sub-tenants who still receive mail here, which means someone has to come by on a semi-regular basis to fetch said mail. One of the people who is a fetcher is a bald, corpulent man. He's probably in his late 30's or early 40's. He walks with a cane. I temped at this place last year, and I remember this guy from then. He'd come up the stairs, ask if he had any mail, and I'd hand it to him. After a while I got busy and told him he could just help himself to the folder where it's kept.
I started temping here again a few weeks ago, and the second day I was here, when he saw me he asked what my plans were for lunch. I was planning to run a bunch of errands I hadn't gotten done before starting to temp, and told him that. When I heard his response of, "Maybe some other time then?" I realized he'd been trying to ask me out. Oh.

Yes. So. The truth is, I had zero interest in going out with him. Even aside from not being physically attracted to him (and it's not because he's bald - there are plenty of hot, bald guys), there are other issues. I'm attracted to people who are smart. Nothing in our brief chats ever led me to believe he's smart. I'm attracted to people who are funny. To people who are the slightest bit extra nice. He did not seem to be any of these things. Plus, every day when I see this guy, he is wearing sweatpants. Not even just regular sweatpants, as if those aren't bad enough. No, he wears sweatpants with elastic around the ankles. Also, he tucks his t-shirts into the sweatpants. To say it's not a good look is a severe understatement. I never really liked the show Seinfeld, but sure did appreciate when Jerry spread the word that it's unacceptable to wear sweatpants in public.

Anyway. If you feel that I must be a snob for not liking this guy, and not wanting to go on a date with him, then so be it. You're attracted to whomever you're attracted to, and I'm not attracted to this guy on any level. I mentioned this asking-out to two people - my friend, and an associate who works here part-time. My friend told me, "Just tell him you have a boyfriend. You have to lie; it's the most humane thing to do." I agree with her. Any other reason I'd give for why I won't go to lunch will just translate to, "I don't like you." And even though I don't, he's not a bad person, just a bad dresser. No reason to make him feel badly.

The associate also told me to lie and tell him I have a boyfriend. But here's the reason it bothered me that she said that: she assumed I don't have one! My friend is my friend - she knows my life. The associate doesn't know I don't have a boyfriend! Why would she assume? Do I in some way LOOK unboyfriendable? I wanted to attack this point and force her to feel as badly as she'd (inadvertently) made me feel. I dug deep down, realized I felt nothing, and borrowed maturity from someone else in order to keep my mouth shut.

But it really hurt my feelings. And every time I think about it, it hurts my feelings all over again.

I Don't Have a Lisp, But I'd Like One

A lisp is the kind of thing you can fake for a few minutes. Or each time you do a specific thing, like answering the phone. Although there's not much lisping you can do when saying, "Hello." But maybe you work somewhere and have to answer the phone saying, "Hello, so glad you've called Sam's Swing Shop. I'm ready to assist with all your sex questions as they pertain to swings. How may I best assist you this morning?" But yeah, so I love lisps. Lisps and stutters really, but you're so much more likely to find someone with a lisp than a good stutter these days. I guess lisps are more popular.

Anyway, one of the few things I love more than a good lisp is a trip-and-fall story. Many of you know this, and are so kind as to alert me by e-mail when you've found a trip-and-fall online, which I greatly appreciate.

I happen to have excellent balance generally, but every so often even I trip. Just as I would laugh at someone on the street tripping, I will also laugh at my own trips. On Thursday, I tripped. It was extra stupid of me, and here's why:

For the last two days, I've temped in Union Square, and on my lunch hour this past Thursday, wandered into a small clothing shop wedged between a North Face store and an H&M. When you walk into this store, there are about two meters of space, then one step up, then the clothes the store sells. They put a fluorescent orange tape border around the step, which I noticed and appreciated. I stepped up. I walked around, talked to the owner, and laughed quietly to myself at how pretentious he was. When he told me he makes all the clothes in the back, I asked if he was the designer. He answered that he hates the word designer, and when I asked what word he prefers, he said, "Artist and constructionist." Alrighty then.

So I wandered around the store, and to be frank, my jaw dropped. The clothes were fucking amazing. Outrageously expensive (a t-shirt that I could tell would significantly shrink even in a cold water wash cost over $100), but also outrageously creative. They made my brain explode, and I was strolling from rack to rack with a smile on my face. There was an A-line dress in a dark purple velvet, with a white lace underlay on the sleeves, and a big lacey pouf at the front. I can't say it was pretty or my style, but definitely appreciated the creativity of the design. And it wasn't just a store filled with velvet dresses. Everything was super-creative in wildly different ways. It really made me think, and I meandered towards the front door with my brain racing.

I forgot about that damn step and tripped down it, despite that orange tape. Giggled all the way back to work.

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!

Bubbles and Bookstores

This morning I woke up to someone else's alarm clock. On a Sunday. It's a repetitive tone, not a radio. It's been going for about 40 minutes so far. I wonder about the person who owns this alarm clock. It didn't go off yesterday, which means they specifically set it for today. What kind of job does this person have that involves being woken up at around 8 am on a Sunday? What was this person doing last night that they don't wake up naturally by around 8 am on Sunday? Whatever it was, it wasn't something they were doing at home, otherwise I would have heard it. All noises are amplified here.

My nerves are getting rubbed raw by this alarm clock. When I used to wake up to my alarm clock radio, I'd leave the radio on while I got dressed, only turning it off on my way out. But I'm a light sleeper and never turned the volume up especially high. Can't help but wonder if this neighbor of mine rushed out without doing all their neighbors the courtesy of turning off their alarm clock, or they are still blissfully asleep.

Since I was awake, I decided to scrub out my little shower stall floor. For about two months my shower had a persistent drip. Eventually the Naked Handyman came to fix the drip, but then I realized the shower stall floor was kind of slippery. Perhaps it was sludge from water dripping consistently for two months? Gross. So this morning I sprayed Scrubbing Bubbles, let it sit, and then used my scrubby brush on the shower stall floor. The Scrubbing Bubbles directions say to just wipe with a wet cloth, but I decided that was for a surface that's routinely cleaned, not for one like mine, that needed a deep cleaning.

At first I just wet my scrub brush in the sink, but realized the suds in the shower weren't going away. So I turned on the water in the shower. It's a really tiny shower stall, so that's how I wound up with the top of my head wet. Despite having opened the bathroom window when I sprayed the Bubbles, my bathroom still reeks of chemicals. Yes, I know there are more natural alternatives, but I don't have those, I have the Bubbles, and will continue to use them until they're used up.

I scrubbed over and over, with water dripping down the top of my head, inhaling the fumes. It's been over 20 minutes since I finished, the bathroom window is still open, and at this point I'm high off the fumes.

There used to be a Borders bookstore about two blocks from my apartment. It was utopia - a free place to go in walking distance , that was air-conditioned, where I could read books all day long? Come on - that's what heaven looks like! It closed a few months ago, and I still think of that Borders wistfully sometimes. Times like now, when I'd really like somewhere to go that's free and out of the rain.

It's now three minutes shy of an hour and the alarm is still going. I feel certain the owner of the alarm must rush out of their apartment without turning it off. How could anyone stand this loud and repetitive noise for an hour straight?

Morsels

1. Recently I spent several days at my sister-in-law and brother's house. As a joke, my brother left me a type of food he found at Trader Joe's that is called the same thing he used to call me when we were younger (okay he sometimes still does). This morning when I thanked him, he was saying that when he saw it, he just had to get it, and it was only $3. As in, who can't afford $3? Well. Hi. There used to be a time in my life when I would spend $3 without blinking to make someone else smile. I look forward to getting back to that time. Our phone call moved on to other things, but in the back of my head I kept hearing, "... it was only $3."

When I went to lunch, it was raining, and as I walked down Market Street, holding the umbrella the security guards lent me, I saw a man crouching on the sidewalk, holding a cardboard sign that said HUNGRY. This morning I'd brought yogurt and crackers to eat for breakfast at work, and realized I hadn't finished all my crackers. I moved to the side and dug through my bag, my fingers searching past my makeup case, book, and tissue pack to find the ziplock baggie of crackers. Hauling it out, I walked over to the homeless guy. "Would you like some crackers?" He looked up at me, squinting through the raindrops, considering the offer. I almost added, "They're from Trader Joe's," in case he was worried about getting some crappy stale saltines or something. Just when I was wondering if I should come up with some way to "sell" the crackers to the guy, he slowly reached out and took them out of my hand. "Thank you." It was only some crackers.

2. To be blunt, I screwed up planning out meals for this last week of temping, which was why I went out to lunch. I was sitting at the Bistro Burger, eating my chicken Cesar salad without dressing, when a cute guy slid into the table next to me. He immediately started playing with his iPhone, and I went back to reading my book. All of a sudden, he stage-whispered, "No dressing!" Was he talking about me? Was he making fun of me? A lot of people seem to think it's weird that I don't like salad dressing. I looked over. He said it louder. "NO dressing!" He was talking to another guy in line, who was ordering for him. I resumed reading. A few minutes later, the No Dressing Guy's food arrives. I look over, and he has ordered the exact same thing I did! His friend began making fun of him for not wanting dressing. No Dressing Guy looked over at me. We realized at the exact same time we were having the exact same lunch, right down to the water. I almost asked him to marry me. Except you know, he was gay. And I'm shy. And he was playing with his iPhone at the table, which I find rude.

Disclaimer: I do not have an iPhone. Maybe if I did it would be so much fun that I'd play with it everywhere?

Funny thing to note: I have played with two people's iPhones. Both of those people were husbands of friends. I wonder if it's a guy/girl thing - guys offer me their cool toys to play with, and then we bond over it. Girls don't.

Dammit Jim, I'm Not a Doctor

I'm really fucking brilliant. No seriously, I am. I solved the problem in Haiti of all those parent-less kids and all the people who had their homes destroyed. Nobody listens to me of course, which is why the world is not benefiting from my problem-solving solutions. But if someone were to ask me, I'd have answers ready. Just saying.

However. I am not a doctor. I'm not POTUS. Plainly put, I'm nobody important. A little over a decade ago, when the car I had was dying out, at one point I said to my father, "I feel like I either need a new car, or a cell phone for when the entire bottom of my car falls out while I'm going 60 mph on the Northern State or Meadowbrook Parkway."

I got a new car. I didn't get a cell phone until a couple of months after 9/11. When I first got it, I used to keep it off all the time and only turn it on when I had to call someone. Texting is blocked on my phone. If I need to tell someone something, I can call them. Or it can wait. Despite being the MTV generation, I don't actually need instant gratification.

So today when I realized my phone had accidentally been left at home while I was out running errands, it was not a catastrophe. I did not ask to borrow a stranger's phone. I did not rush home. I have seen people freak out upon realizing they left their cell phone at home. This does not compute. Who do these people think they are that they're so important that they must be reachable all the time? It amazes me to see the level of freaking out that people do when they either can't reach someone they know has a cell phone, or when they either don't have their cell phone or have it but it doesn't work for whatever reason.

Once, back when I lived in Florida, I was babysitting for my friend while she and her husband were going into Miami for a wedding. It was the first time they were leaving the baby with a non-family member. I was going to be with the baby for a minimum of seven hours. Less than two hours after my friend left, she'd come back home.

Why? Because she didn't have cell reception at the wedding location. She drove an hour back home because she'd worked herself into a tizzy that something would go wrong and I'd not be able to (handle it or) reach her. She told me this, and I said to her, "You left the wedding invitation here - if I couldn't reach you on your cell phone, I would have just called the wedding place and asked them to get you. You know, as if it were 1991 back when only drug dealers had cell phones the size of bricks." She got a sheepish look on her face and admitted to having panicked.

Yes, there are fewer pay phones these days, I acknowledge that. But really, if you can't go out for a few hours without fully paying attention to the people you're with, rather than all the people you can reach*, then yeah, I think that's a problem. The world will not come to a screeching halt just because you're out of touch for a while.

It's not that I want to go live in an isolated cabin in the woods and only engage with others once a month when I go into town for supplies or anything. Don't get me wrong - I absolutely see both the value and the fun of having a cell phone. My issue is simply with the level of panic I see people have when cell phones are not available to them.

*This does not include actual doctors or people whose job includes being available 24/7.

"Sent Home - Alcohol"

Have I ever told you about first grade and how much I hated it? I hated first grade. Not just because my teacher was a yeller. Not just because I got in a fight with the most popular girl in our grade and everyone sided with her. Not just because my crush liked her rather than me. Not just because my teacher would grab your arm and drag you into the hallway all while yelling. But mostly, when I think back on first grade, I think of all the dittos. That's what we did all day, every day. Dittos. Each morning the teacher would pass out seven or eight dittos and we were to complete them by the end of the day.

At least one or two of the day's dittos always involved cutting and pasting. I happen to (still) have terrible small motor skills, and I was never able to deal with the glue without making a big mess. I was one of those kids who didn't like having dirty, sticky hands. Even a gluestick was not enough help for me. Every day everyone else would be finished with their dittos and playing, except me. The cut and paste ditto got me every time.

Yesterday I got a call from a temp agency for a law firm that needed eight temps to go in and redact for them. We were all put in a conference room, four of us from one temp agency, four from another, and redacted all day long. Or until we had to leave, whichever came first.

Here's the scary thing: the eight of us were not all legal secretaries. There were two attorneys sitting at that conference table. There were two JDs (people who graduated from law school but did not yet pass the bar) as well. I know it's taboo to discuss money, but I'm going to do it anyway. I got paid $20 an hour for this job. Everyone there was getting right around the same thing. How much does it say about the economy in the Bay Area that two full-fledged lawyers were sitting there sticking redacting tape all over pieces of paper?

It was a two-day gig, and one of the attorneys didn't come back today. He didn't talk to anyone yesterday. People were speculating that he felt it was beneath him and couldn't bring himself to show up this morning. I have no opinion on this, as the particular guy sat at the opposite end of the conference table from me and I can't even picture him.

We were dealing with employee sign-in sheets. These employees didn't physically punch a clock, but they logged when they showed up for the beginning of their shift, when they left for and returned from lunch, and when they left at the end of their shift. The woman who was supervising us temps and this project was very flustered. Apparently these documents are for a mediation happening next week, and the docs were supposed to be delivered to opposing counsel by Tuesday. That's this past Tuesday. So she wanted us to rush, but also go slowly and be careful. Her directions were not clear at first. We all had a lot of questions.

On my fifth or sixth sign-in sheet, I saw something strange. An employee showed up for work, left for lunch four hours later, came back from lunch a half hour later, and left for the day two minutes after returning from lunch. My eyes flew all over the sheet trying to figure it out. Then I saw an asterisk with the notation "sent home - alcohol."

Well that explained it then. I asked the woman supervising if she wanted the notation redacted. She did, but everyone started laughing hysterically. One guy turned bright red in the face, and giggled about it intermittently throughout the rest of the day.

This is the guy who was taking pieces of paper and cutting them to paste over the names that needed to be redacted. The woman supervising saw what he was doing and praised him loudly for his idea. Inwardly I groaned, and hoped she wouldn't tell us to start using scissors and glue, because I knew I'd be sent home. I have not had glue in my home since moving out of my parent's house. Luckily someone brought in tape and the majority of us used post-its, tape and redacting tape.

The other thing I want to mention about this job is that there was such a time crunch that random people at the firm would drop by to help. We temps talked among ourselves, and often listened as the law firm employees talked to each other. We talked about things like the economy, places in the city to find cheap parking, how scared we are, how many things we need but aren't buying, etc.

What were the law firm employees talking about? Their jet lag that is a result of having just returned from a vacation in Costa Rica, the new steakhouse in the Omni Hotel, how they'll be taking time off next week for a few doctor's appointments they have lined up... There were a lot of unhappy faces at the side of the conference table where all the temps were sitting.

Gay Tunnels

(This post has nothing to do with asses, in case you were worried.)

When I was first visiting San Francisco, you know - two weeks before I moved here, my brother drove me through a tunnel on the way in the city that had a rainbow painted on it. I immediately started calling it The Gay Tunnel even though I came to find out it's actually called the Waldo Tunnel. In the five years that I've lived here, any time I've talked to anyone in the Bay Area about The Gay Tunnel, they have giggled and immediately known what I am talking about.

The gay, I mean the rainbow, is fading. Luckily, I was not the only person to realize this, and the rainbow is being re-painted. So far two whole feet of the tunnel have been re-painted. Turns out the reason the painting stopped is that the People in Charge consulted with a color consultant who deemed the new paint too bright. I can't wait to see the finished product.

What I'm Not Blogging About These Days

Story number one: Today I walked over to the bank. It's only a few blocks way, and I've been there several times previously. It was really sunny out and I was squinting as I walked up to the bank door. When I yanked on the door to open it, it remained closed. I tried the other door. Nothing. I squinted harder at the door to see what the hours were. Per the hours, the bank was opened. I was confused. I looked around and felt stupid. Looked at the door again. Then I noticed a sign on the one of the doors that said something about using a different entrance. I walked around the building, and found another entrance. Then I went into the bank. I wonder why they changed which doors are being used.

Story number two: I went to the CalTrain station to get a September fast pass. You can buy them at a bunch of different places, but the CalTrain station never runs out. When I got there an Asian man was already in line. It seemed like all the windows were closed and nobody was there. There was a sign saying someone would be back at 5:45pm. Very weird. CalTrain is always open. I mean, maybe not from like 2am to 5am or something, but pretty much always. The guy turned around and told me you couldn't buy a ticket from the machines with a credit card. I walked towards the machines and saw someone who worked for CalTrain standing around.

I asked the man if I could buy a Fast Pass from one of the machines. He shook his head. I asked if there was anyone available to sell me a Fast Pass. He told me to go to Safeway. So I did.

See? You're not missing much.

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." 

Bad to Worse

Things are not going well. I know, things seem to never be going well with me. Sorry - that's just my life these days. If you want to read about something happy, go read a mommy blog - I'm sure someone's kid pooped in the toilet for the first time today.

First off, I broke the lease to leave my last place where I lived with 9am. I did this because 9am decided to break the lease himself (giving me less than 30 days notice) to move out to the suburbs, I couldn't find anyone to take over his place and couldn't afford the over $3000 rent by myself. So now we (collectively and separately) owe the leasing company $4600. Obviously I can't pay that, so I'm all, "Add it to the other shit I owe, what's another collection call when you already get over half a dozen each day?"

Last Thursday I went to the leasing office to talk with someone and get them to break down all the fees so I could see which could be attributed to 9am. My thinking was that I'd have him pay me, and I'd tell the leasing company that I'd take responsibility for the entire balance. I don't mind temporarily fucking over a company, but I prefer not to fuck over individual people. Unfortunately, the leasing company contacted me today to say 9am paid the entire thing to avoid having his credit affected, but asked them not to deposit his check and now they are waiting on me. Fuck. Waiting on me is a terrible idea.

Moving on. Because I am so short on cash, I did not want to think I had more in my checking account than I really do, so ages ago (like over half a year) I took out 9am's security deposit and have kept it in my night table in a bank envelope. I figured that after that meeting with the leasing office, I would deduct the things 9am should pay for and then re-deposit his money, and write him a check for the remainder.

Last week I bought a dozen eggs and a package of english muffins, figuring that would give me six meals (two eggs, one muffin per meal). On Friday I noticed that Wooffers took one of my english muffins. We do not have the type of relationship where we share food. She did not ask. She did not leave a note. I told my friend about it, and she suggested I sent her an email:

I noticed this morning that one of my English muffins was missing from the kitchen. Unless one of your dogs is capable of getting into the refrigerator and calmly taking one english muffin, I am going to have to assume that you decided to overstep your bounds and help yourself to something that was not yours to take. Please replace it ASAP, as I am on a very tight budget, what with having to pay steep moving costs twice in one quarter, and this is costing me one meal.

I was very saddened to learn that you would steal from me and my feelings are very hurt. I now do not feel safe leaving any of my belongings alone to be stolen from your home.

Please let me know that you have received/read/understand this email and feel free to express your feelings about this violation of my personal fridge space in your return email. I will expect a replacement muffin by end of day today, Friday, June 19.

I did not send that, deciding instead that although it'd be funny, I didn't want to deal with whatever reaction Wooffers would have, and besides, I'm moving in less than a week. Except, last night I went to make my very last box of mac & cheese. When I opened my cabinet to take out the box, it was gone. This morning, home alone, for absolutely no real reason, I sinned. I opened one of Wooffer's cabinets. Bet you can guess what I saw. That's right.

Know what else happened this morning? After the mac & cheese discovery I sat down to do the math for 9am's security deposit. When I opened my night table to take out the envelope, it was not there. That's $1399 that's missing. On Friday evening Barrett came back to help me pack again. I called her this morning to double check that we hadn't opened my night table drawer. We hadn't. I haven't had anyone else over. I can not think of any other way to handle this than to call the police.

In other news, I had my interview in the Tenderloin. You know how there are some men who think they're god's gift to the universe? They usually have slicked back hair. That's who my interview was with. Guys like that always hate me, for not being hot. The husband of an acquaintance of mine is this type of person. I once had to drop something off for the acquaintance at her husband's office, and when I approached him, he all but sneered at me. The other reason the interview didn't go well is because I was told they are moving. To the Bayview. I asked the guy interviewing me if the new office would be near the T-line, a train that goes out that way. He was emphatic in telling me no, it is way out there near nothing at all, not near any public transportation. I'm supposed to call Tony to tell him how the interview went, but I'm not sure what to say.

The reality is, it's a very small office, I don't fully understand what they'd need me to do, there's nobody to train me, even the attorneys don't understand the programs they have, oh, and they're totally swamped and way behind. Yeah, talk about knowing you're going to fail. If I had to describe the type of position I'd do worst at, this is it.

Meanwhile, now each time I leave the house, I'm feeling like taking my checkbook, jewelry, birth certificate, iPod, camera and passport with me (that's in addition to the wallet, keys and cell phone). I also want to write my initials on the bottom of all my food and have a list (that also leaves the house with me) of all the food I have.

Okay, I'm sort of kidding about the above paragraph. Sort of. I'm not kidding about calling the police about the money.

That Email We Knew Was Coming

Barrett has instructed me to respond with, "Thank you for the email Wooffers." My comments are in italics.

Green,

In order to accommodate your needs and avoid conflict, I will need 24 hours notice (via email) when you are having anyone come over to help you with packing and moving. The first half of her sentence starts out with accommodating my needs but the second half ends when her saying what she needs? I made arrangements with [Exboyfriend Who Has Joint Custody] to keep [Aggressive Woof] with him more if needed, but I need to contact him and arrange that as per his request. This time frame will insure that there are no mishaps because you will never have to bring people in without my assistance with the dogs. I don't feel I actually NEED her assistance.

I have explained to you the dangers of mishandling [Aggressive Woof], and you have stated that you understand. I realize you don't relate and possibly don't agree with the degree to which I need to protect him and the public from him. That is neither here nor there at this point, I am going to do what I need to do, and I would appreciate (and also require) your cooperation with this. I will help in any way that I can with your scheduling needs if things are handled in this manner.

Because all of this has been explained to you (and you can find, written in the contract that dog training protocols are decided by me solely) if for any reason you bring someone in without giving me ample notice so that I can remove [Aggressive Woof] or at least monitor him, any injuries incurred by people you bring in (or you, personally) will be your responsibility. I always assumed that any injuries to me, or my people, would be my responsibility, unless Wooffers gave some sort of attack command. Also, the only "dog training protocol" she has ever told me is simply "ignore them, complete with turning your back on the woofs" so it doesn't take a Master Communicator to explain that to anyone I have coming over. I am an elitest bitch and only like smart people, so those are the only types of people I would be having over. Also, all my people are dog people, and know how to deal with dogs, and follow the rules different people have for different dogs. If for any reason [Aggressive Woof] or [Other Woof] incur any injuries as a result of bringing people without giving ample notice you will also be held responsible.

In the future I would also appreciate you letting your friends know that they are not welcome to confront me verbally or raise their voice in this house, no matter what their perception of me. Barrett, I'm letting you know these things. I have never raised my voice to you or called you names nor would I allow my friends to do so to you. What happened yesterday was frightening for me and I now feel unsafe in my own home. Why would she feel unsafe in her own home? Despite all these hoops she is laying out for me to jump through in order to have people over, I am confident that if I announced that Joe Blow was coming over tomorrow night, Wooffers would decide either that it was only 23 hours and 58 minutes notice I gave her, OR, that it is simply not a convenient time (for her) for me to entertain a guest. Also, if she feels her woofs are so prone to violence and yet they love her, then shouldn't she have felt perfectly safe yesterday with Barrett calling her an asshole? Barrett was the one who had no dogs backing her up.

My goal when entering in this with you was to be as honest and direct as I possibly as I could be. Why wasn't her goal to be a good roommate? What the hell do I care if a roommate lies and says "Those jeans look great on you" or "No, I don't mind; I love the smell of tuna fish in the morning? Maybe that's why this whole thing has gone poorly - her priorities are completely different from what I think they should be. I have done my best to do that in a kind way. If you disagree with that I would like to know. If it's easier to send an email to express those feelings, please feel free to use that as a tool. Regardless of how it affects this situation, I am always looking to improve my communication and treatment of others and appreciate the feedback. Right. Like I want to enter into a conversation about feelings and priorities with someone who is not shuffling with a full deck.

We can get through this last 3 weeks without a struggle. Please plan on contacting me via email should you need anything, I check it regularly and will get back to you asap.

Please let me know that you read/received/understand this email. A while back Wooffers sent me an email about something, and then sent a follow-up email stating that she requested a response from me, and that she could see when I had opened my email. First of all, if you can see that, then you don't need me to tell you I received this. Second of all, I use gmail. Anyone know if gmail lets people emailing from another email program lets people see when mail has been opened? This is not MS Outlook - I did not click a little box that said yes, send a receipt to the sender. Thank you for your cooperation.

Wooffers

Moving and Crying (Get a drink, this is a long one)

Firstly, I would just like to say that I have always been a fan of Scotch tape. I've used it for my entire life, and it's always served me well. Very well. However as of today, I am now cheating on the Scotch tape, with Walgreens brand tape. Shocking that I would endorse Walgreens anything since normally I look down my nose at them, but that all changed this afternoon. This afternoon my good friend Barrett offered to come over, with moving boxes, and moving paper. Of course I jumped at this, and then when she arrived she ensured she'll be getting both a Hanukah and a Labor Day present from me by offering to drive me to Walgreens to buy tape and then to come up and help me start packing.

Peoples, this Walgreens tape kicked ASS. It was strong (perhaps I should wait to see if the boxes hold up through the move before saying this, but I'm going out on a limb - that's just the kind of wild and crazy gal I am), and didn't split off into strips when we tried to get the roll going. I must have told Barrett three or four times, "This tape is GREAT!"

Okay, moving on. As you may know, my roommate Wooffers wants me to give her notice before having anyone over. And by "notice" she means, she wants me to ask so she can veto it if it's not convenient for her. Which as well all know, is total and complete bullshit. I pay rent. I get to have people over during normal waking hours. It's really that simple. Now, the reality is, I haven't had anyone over socially since moving in at the beginning of May. My two friends helped me move in, there was the crying disaster with trying to have my brother and his wife over, a guy came over for 30 seconds to look at a chair I'd listed on Craigslist, and today Barrett came over.

It just so happens that I hurt my back something awful this morning. That threw me off. Then, I missed three buses in a row because I kept thinking I could move faster than I was really capable of doing (the bus stop is across the street - normally I run down when it's two minutes away). That threw me off tremendously. I was late getting to my friend's house, then late getting to my volunteer gig. I am almost never late. I was completely flustered today.

So when Barrett called to say she was on her way, I was an hour away from my home. I don't have Wooffer's phone number in my cell phone. Simply didn't get around to it and then once she gave me notice to get out I figured there was no reason to bother doing it. When I stepped off the bus, Barrett was sitting in her parked car across the street from my house waiting for me.