The Death of it all

At the end of January, GQ laid me off. I did not take it well. I told one friend and then couldn't even tell anyone else. I'm still not over my PTSD from being out of work during the recession (quick recap: it lasted almost 4 years, I had to go on food stamps, was a month away from eviction proceedings starting when Turkey called), and had just begun relaxing after getting away from Turkey.

All I hear in my head is me screaming at the top of my lungs, "AGAIN?! REALLY?!" over and over. I have a very strong reference letter from Turkey (which I drafted myself) and another one from GQ. GQ's is more emphatic in how great I was, but because I didn't write it for him, it's not well written (I don't mean that to be obnoxious - there are typos).

GQ and I have not kept in touch. I did not delete him from my LinkedIn people, but after sorting out signing the severance agreement for a severance check we haven't spoken at all. I do not follow him on Twitter. I may have stalked him on Facebook for a couple of months. It really hurt to see him keep going on trip after trip. "Sorry Green, I can't afford to keep paying you, because my boyfriend and I want to go to Hawaii. And Mexico. And New York."

I have this cousin who adopts cats, and one after another they die. I'm sure he is taking care of the cats and it's just very bad luck that cat after cat kicks the bucket. But if I had a cat I would sure never ask him to pet-sit for me, you know? And even though I was laid off at my last two jobs through absolutely no fault of my own, I sure wouldn't hire me. Somehow, bad job luck seems to follow me. I'm completely mortified about it. I feel like I'm always out of work.

When my brother married Crazy Girl I was out of work, and although I was genuinely happy for them and they threw a beautiful wedding, it was very difficult for me to attend because I was at a very low point in my life and I had quite a difficult time holding my head high. Once, when my aunt heard I was out of work, she loudly said, "Again?!" and I think that's what I hear constantly in my head. Golden Boy was very kind and when I talked to him about not having money for a wedding present, he waved me off. "Just get us a 5th year anniversary present instead!"

Yeah, their five year anniversary was this April. Two and a half months after I got laid off. Anyway. Now you know why I haven't been writing. I can barely get out of the house each week for my two volunteer gigs (and it's about to get worse since one is ending soon).

So! How are you doing?

Oh Hey

I think about blogging often, but ... yeah, there's no good reason why I don't. I'm not super busy, there's been no dramatic happening, I haven't been too depressed, just ... haven't.

Yesterday I got home after a week of house and dog-sitting at Crazy Girl and Golden Boy's house. Right before they left, there'd been some sort of kerfluffle which caused the internet to die.

At the library to use their computers, I had to wait in line but that was okay because, you know - there are books to read while waiting! Here's how you should picture it: there is a free-standing counter with five computers. Facing the back of the screens are five chairs. If you sit in Chair #1, you are first to use a computer when one frees up. Computer users get 15 minutes of computer time before the computer automatically kicks you off. If nobody is waiting in the chairs, you can use a second 15-minute block.

When I arrived, all the chairs were occupied. The guy sitting next to me looked how Santa would look if he'd gone to prison, lost some belly, and been forced to cut his hair upon arrival, but now some of it had grown back. Oh, and zero jollyness. He told me that on Sunday afternoons, the computers always have a long wait. I replied with something non-committal, and he continued, telling me about how on Sundays homeless people get kicked out of shelters for four hours while the shelters get cleaned, and the library is a great place to go.

Then he proceeded to tell me he'd been homeless, and a friend had been holding his computer for him, but then the friend gave it away. "Nice friend." The guy was very zen about it. "Well, it was for a long time." This guy was not crazy. When I started working for the Turkey a year and a half ago, I had enough money for one more month of rent. Then I was going to (squat until I got evicted) begin the descent into homelessness.

I used to think homeless people were homeless because insurance companies won't pay for mentally ill people to get all the treatment they need before kicking them out of the mental wards of hospitals. But after this experience and how crazy it made me, I realize facing homelessness, and being homeless can make you crazy. Priorities shift and then change.

My way of dealing with the impending doom was to compartmentalize. The morning I applied for food stamps was a multi-hour project with excellent people-watching. Upon leaving the food stamp place, I raced to meet my parents who were in town, saw a movie with them, and then went to dinner in North Beach. The dichotomy blew my mind and I had a hard time getting through dinner (and it wasn't just because the waiter weirdly decided to ignore everything I said) (I am not playing victim - even my father noticed it).

It strikes me as very impressive to meet someone who has been homeless and to see they're not mentally ill. Of course, the library guy might be. Maybe he was in a cycle of taking his meds, or maybe being in the library was his safe, happy place and nothing was triggering him. But in my older age I seek out good, sparkles and sunshine, and I would like to think he went through something horrific and came out of it intact.

He's not homeless anymore, though (first world problem alert) he doesn't have a computer. Hence, the library. I don't know what we chatted about. The Giants? The weather? I was so focused on not being nosy by asking inappropriate questions about his homelessness (how long? how terrified were you? how did you deal with being terrified?) that I wasn't fully paying attention to whatever we were discussing. 

I love closure. In all forms. When I write the letter "o" the two ends always overlap. There's certainly never an "o" written by me where the two ends don't quite meet. I like to say goodbye, rather than drift apart. If you tell me about a fight with a friend, I want to know how it was resolved. If we met, I will think of you 16 years from that meeting and wonder where you are, what you're doing. It's beyond closure.

The (non) homeless guy finally got a computer, so our conversation ended. A bit later I got one too. When I was walking away, I saw the guy was still using his 15 minutes. One of the things I strongly disliked in my family was that it seemed like our family motto was, "Don't get involved; worry about yourself." It was as if because my bedroom was always a mess and I'd never done my homework, I couldn't possibly help someone who was crying by offering them a tissue, or letting someone know they'd dropped something. It drove me nuts. I didn't, and still don't, understand it. But I don't live under their rules.

Before I could change my mind, I doubled-back and gently touched the formerly homeless guy on the arm. "I'm glad you're not homeless anymore," I told him. He laughed. "Me too." I wanted good closure. "I hope it stays that way; good luck." He turned away from the computer to look at me. "Hey, thanks." I waved and went to the elevators.

Maybe he thinks I'm crazy. It doesn't matter. To know how low I was and how far I've come... and I didn't even wind up homeless. I just wanted to acknowledge his achievement. The impressiveness of it. Because it really, really is. I wanted him to know somebody else saw that. You don't get a bonus for getting a roof over your own head. The bonus is the roof.

One of our neighborhood homeless guys just died a couple of days ago. There are flowers and a little memorial set up for him.

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.

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." 

Part One: Out Ya Go!

You guyses, I totally thought that this weekend I'd be writing about all the fun people I'm working with while temping, but then last night when I got home my world exploded, so now I feel like writing about that instead. So here we go.

Have I mentioned that I moved? Yes, I did. I told you all about how lovely the neighborhood is. It still is. Today I volunteered in the community and despite working outside in a heatwave, I had a lovely time and look forward to going back next weekend.

Let's talk about my roommate, Wooffers.* She's got two woofs, which I was totally psyched about. She is a woof trainer and a woof walker. She is all about woofs. She has a tattoo of one of her woof's names on her arm. I met with Wooffers three times before moving in. I was not thrilled that any time we talked she found a way to bring the conversation back around to woofs, but figured I could deal.

Maybe two months ago or so, when I thought admitting defeat and moving in with my parents in Florida was my only option, I asked Crazy Girl for her opinion when we were in the car alone. Sometimes when I talk with her and my brother, my brother will make suggestions but she will stay quiet, and I wanted to hear how she saw the situation. What CG said kind of upset me, simply because it wasn't what I wanted to hear, you know? She told me if she were in my position she would not think twice about selling all her furniture and moving elsewhere in the city. Regardless of how many roommates she had to have, or what kind of place it was, basically Crazy Girl was saying she'd do whatever had to be done to stay in SF and not go to Florida. I had been hoping there was a way I could have everything I wanted and just hadn't come up with the way to do that, and CG was saying basically that I had to give. It was good advice, and I went over it in my head a lot.

So when a friend forwarded me a link to an ad on Craigslist from this woman she knew, saying she was looking for a roommate to pay $1000, I thought of what Crazy Girl had said, and went to meet the person and check out the place. When I looked at how little closet space there was, I thought of what Crazy Girl had said, and told myself I could get rid of a lot of stuff. When I looked at how tiny the bathroom was, I did the same thing. When I talked with the woman and realized I'd have to get rid of most of my living room furniture and store things, I resolved to find a way, because staying in San Francisco was (and still is) the ultimate goal.

So two weeks ago today, with the help of two friends, I moved in. There was friction from the very start, but I thought it was the type of friction that most new roommates have, where everyone is sorting out where everything goes, and how to balance making yourself at home without stepping on anyone else's toes. I was completely wrong.

I hadn't been able to sell all the furniture I wanted to sell before moving, so I had to bring some of it with me. I donated a ton of stuff, and CG, Golden Boy and a friend were all nice enough to let me store various things at their homes, but I still had more than just one bedroom's worth of things, you know? My bedroom is packed right now, and it is seriously a miracle that I have not yet stubbed a toe walking around it yet.

The very day when I moved in, Wooffers was upset. One of the friends who'd helped me move had placed a side table next to the couch in the living room. Wooffers and I had agreed that I could move my coffee table into the living room, but that was all. My side table was simply in the living room while I rearranged furniture, trying to make everything in the bedroom accessible. I knew it wasn't staying there. But Wooffers was freaked out about it, and I had to reassure her multiple times I'd have it out of the living room before 24 hours had gone by since I'd moved in. This kind of rubbed me the wrong way, but I reminded myself of how much rent I was saving, and pushed the feeling away.

The day after I'd moved in, I had some things to exchange with my brother. I told him that since it was my fault I'd forgotten to leave something of his and take some things of mine when I'd left their house, I'd be happy to go back there, but he was welcome to come over and see the new place. I kind of wanted him to come by, check out the view, and also, he'd been very busy the last couple of months, and while I saw him at Passover and in Mexico, it was always in the midst of tons of things going on with tons of people around. Not environments conducive to talking, you know? We agreed Golden Boy would come over in a little over an hour.

I went to tell Wooffers my brother was coming, and as I thought to myself, "I hope CG is coming too, and should I tell Woofers she may come, or ..." Wooffers Freaked the Fuck Out. Complete with crying. Twice.

*We will call the canines woofs because I don't want her googling and finding this, at least until I've moved out.

A Post About the New Digs

Peoples, I just want to apologize for my lack of writing lately. First I was all stressed and busy getting ready to go to Mexico, then I was all stressed getting ready to move, and now since moving, I do not yet have my furniture set up in a way conducive to writing. I'm working on it.

So yeah, I moved within San Francisco. Now I'm not in the neighborhood closest to the Bay Bridge anymore. Now I'm only paying $1,000 a month and splitting utilities. I'm no longer in a touristy neighborhood. Peoples, I am finally in a neighborhood that feels like it's really in San Francisco, complete with hills and fog!

I'm in a neighborhood that has its own farmer's market. Last weekend I ran down there and signed up to volunteer. Of course, don't think I did that because of what a good person I am, who wants to give back to the community. No, I did it because I'm hoping it'll lead to free farmer's market food.

This area is great. I mean, aside from not having any supermarkets, that is. Other than that, it's fantastic. When I went to the bank to let them know to change my address I wound up talking to a very nice bank dude who'd also just moved to the area. When he told me his apartment was full of empty boxes, I told him to throw an ad on Craigslist to sell them - he was shocked to hear they'd sell, but mine did. Hell, I practically had a bidding war going at one point. Later while waiting for the bus to get back up my hill, I made friends with a lovely old lady who moved to the area in 1956 when her son was two weeks old, and we chatted for over 15 minutes about how things are so different now from how they used to be. The lady told me that once a week she gets together with her old high school girlfriends for lunch. I wandered into a chocolate shop to look around, and the owner offered me some free chocolate. Who wouldn't want to live here?!

The apartment itself is a big change for me - this is the first time I'm not living in a place with a leasing office. My landlord is actually a human being. There are only about 10 people in total who live here. One of my neighbors introduced himself to me and shook my hand and everything! Remember when you were a little kid and your mommy made all your friends for you? Well, my mommy always dealt with the relationships with neighbors too, and now I don't know how to do it. I've never lived in a place where I've known my neighbors before. Am I supposed to run out and buy some sugar in case a neighbor needs to borrow some? Am I supposed to listen to hear if any neighbors sneeze so I can rush to make them some chicken soup? How does this work?

What essentially happened was that I had to move a full apartment's worth of stuff into one bedroom (and one bathroom). Clearly I gave away a lot. Golden Boy and Crazy Girl are storing my dining room table and chairs, and a good friend is storing some of my other things in her tiny apartment.

Oh, the Crushing Awkwardness

A couple of weeks ago, I dogsat for Crazy Girl and Golden Boy while they went to NY and Crazy Girl had her final dress fitting and they saw family and stuff.

Pretty much nothing makes me happier than playing with a dog, especially one as happy and friendly as Le Pooch. Seriously. I can't express how happy it makes me that I am their number one go-to person when they need their dog watched. So I love it, and am totally happy to watch her any time. They know this. We always have these funny conversations of "Thanks for watching Le Pooch" and me saying, "Oh you're welcome and thanks for LETTING me watch Le Pooch" and we go back and forth a bit.

I've told my brother repeatedly, that even though theoretically I'm doing them a favor by dogsitting, the reality is they are doing me a favor. It's unconditional love, helps with depression tremendously, it's forced exercise, etc. Plus it's nice to be at their house, somewhere that's a change of scenery yet somewhere I'm very comfortable.

Passover is coming and they invited me to their potluck seder. At first I said I'd go, and make this dish that I make really well. Then I realized how much it would cost, and called my brother and said "Look, the truth is there's no way I can afford to make this to bring, I'm so sorry, I have to bow out. I got carried away b/c Passover is my favorite holiday."

He said of course I should come anyway, because they're nice like that. I thought maybe (wrongly) I could scrounge up the money for a can of macaroons or something, because how awkward if somebody would turn to me to ask what I brought and I had to say "My good cheer for this happy holiday!" or something. Then Golden Boy suggested he and Crazy Girl buy the ingredients for the dish and I make and bring it. I said, that's really nice, but are you doing this just so I can come and save face? He insisted he wasn't, that I'd be doing them a favor because if I didn't make it, they'd have to make it, so it would help them be less busy when they're preparing for 62 people to arrive.

So today we're supposed to get together and go buy all the ingredients for this Passover dish. Then a few days ago, it was suggested they take me to breakfast before going food shopping, as a thank you for watching Le Pooch.

Last night we were trying to iron out details of what time, and where, and things never fully got resolved. Mostly because of me - we were doing this all by e-mail, and I was not home to read e-mail. So we got as far as a time but not as far as a place.

I am low on toothpaste. While I appreciate people trying to do nice things like taking me out places that I can't afford right now (I say this like it's temporary), the reality is, I'm running out of toothpaste. The reality is, I already used up my last kitchen garbage bag.

Sure it's fun to eat pancakes, something I never make at home, but some of that fun is diluted when you realize the cost of those pancakes could pay for a tube of toothpaste that would last you a couple of months. It's hard to be properly appreciative in this situation.

I know everyone expresses their gratitude in different ways. Everyone wants gratitude expressed to them in different ways. Expressing thanks (beyond saying 'thank you') can be really easy or really difficult. My mother used to like to send me flowers on my birthday. I love flowers. Except it's really hard to look at flowers these days, knowing they could pay for a week's worth of food, or the PG&E bill for a month. To me, I truly feel thanked for watching Le Pooch when I get asked to do it again next time. That's all I need, and it's plenty.

That's how Golden Boy and I came to have the most awkward conversation ever this morning, with him saying "We just want to show you our appreciation," and me responding, "Yes, and I appreciate that, it's just hard to happily eat breakfast out when I know that money could pay for half a week's food or whatever." It got to the point where Golden Boy said if their appreciation would best be expressed by purchasing me some toothpaste, then they're happy to do that. So that's what's going to happen.

I'm going to make some oatmeal for breakfast here. Then I'm going food shopping with Golden Boy and Crazy Girl so they can buy ingredients in order for me to bring something to their potluck seder, and there'll be toothpaste buying.

I cried when Golden Boy and I got off the phone. I'll probably cry again when I get home from food shopping. It's so embarrassing. So frustrating. I'm not one of those welfare bitches whose life ambition is to get everyone else to pay for things. I want to work. I like being a contributing member of society. Nobody seems to want my contributions though. Even the place I signed up to volunteer at took all my information and then never called, after saying repeatedly how busy and swamped they are.

I'm such a fuckup that I can't even get hit by a truck and die, because I always forget in order to do that, one has to leave their house.

Hello? HELLO?

I just spent four days taking care of Le Pooch at Crazy Girl and Golden Boy's house, while they were off doing fancy things in fancy places. Phone reception in their house isn't too great - you have to stand in certain spots in order for your cell phone to work. The entire time I was there, my cell phone only rang for collection companies, nobody else.

Yesterday afternoon I got a voicemail from my father, but my phone never rang when he called. Last night Crazy Girl told me she'd heard my aunt say that my parents said I never talk to them.

I called my father back this morning, and while we were on the phone I got call-waiting twice. Both times it was collection companies.

I Could Panic

Because oh my god i just met up with my very first roommate I ever had when I moved to San Francisco and I was 27 and she was dating like a mofo sometimes two dates in one day and I never saw anyone throw themselves into a project as persistently as she did, complete with hiring a matchmaker and everything and then she moved out because she decided to buy a house with her older sister who is a doctor and was also single and they were going to be two spinster sisters together and we made jokes about rounding up cats for them.

Naturally we found each other again on Facebook because that's where everybody finds everybody else these days and she was listed as married and it turns out she works right near where I live so we agreed to meet today at Starbucks and two hours before meeting all I wanted was to go to sleep and nap because the idea of having to see someone whose life is so clearly marching forward while mine is so pathetic that having to pay for a drink will throw my sparse budget into a tailspin really did not appeal to me but I totally rallied and put on what my friend Beth would call a boobie shirt but what other people would just call a shirt that fits rather than an oversized tshirt which is pretty much part of my normal uniform.

I was running late and so I rushed and then wound up there early and was on the phone with my brother when she came up to me and she was wearing this big white shirt and she is PREGNANT and I got off the phone right quick and we hugged and I don't know why I always get so outrageously uncomfortable and nervous before meeting up with people - she is so nice and warm and easy to talk with and she insisted on buying my hot chocolate which was so happy and unexpected and then we sat down to talk and not only is she happily married and knocked up but so is her older sister the doctor.

The doctor actually gave up on finding someone to marry and went and bought sperm and had IVF or whatever and got knocked up and when she was six months pregnant she met a guy and they got engaged and then her IVF baby was born and then she and the guy had a baby and they are getting married in less than a year and she is happy now and I am so happy for her because she was such an angry person when I last knew her and I wonder if everyone sees me as some sad angry person and if I am in fact a sad angry person and if I am maybe I should get some donated sperm and knock myself up except that I'm not a doctor and can't afford to be a single parent and wouldn't be a good parent without having help anyway so no never mind this is a terrible idea.

My point is while I'm happy, very happy for my former roommate (I did not ever blog about her - she is the roommate I had before Cagney), I wonder if I am destined to be single and without a family forever and when I truly fully think about that it upsets me so much that I need to throw myself on my bed and cry hysterically except I can't do that now because it would freak 9am out and I would be embarrassed but holy shit am I going to really have a life like I say, where I will just be a great aunt to any kids Crazy Girl and Golden Boy wind up having but always be the third wheel to everyone and holy shit should i start collecting cats now to work on becoming a proper Crazy Cat Lady and do I really have to wear floor-length skirts to be a spinster?

Like a Vacation, But Less Expensive and Without Getting Lost

Over the weekend I house and dog-sat for my brother and Crazy Girl. There was really no reason to stay at their house - in the past when I dog-sit, they just drop the dog and her things off at my place. I don't even know why I asked if I could stay over, really. But I did, and they said I could, so I did.

Saturday morning I hiked up the hill to their house and tried to remember what Crazy Girl had told me about which key was for which lock. Of course I forgot to write it down and so of course I forgot and wound up standing outside for a long time playing with keys. On Saturday it was very hot in the city (for here), and as I climbed up the flights of stairs it only got hotter. But I forgot all about that when Le Pooch raced down the last set of stairs to greet me, tail wagging wildly.

She raced up and down the stairs around me, jumping and running in circles as I put my things down and took off my shoes. When I picked up Le Pooch, she laid her head against my shoulder and we had an, "Awww" moment. My brother had left me post-its on each of the three remote controls, detailing how to use them to watch a dvd. I laid down on the couch to watch Water (while drinking some ice water), and fell asleep reading subtitles. When I woke up the movie was still going, and I'm not sure what I pressed to turn it off before stumbling to the bedroom, Le Pooch following me down the hallway.

I never allow myself to fall asleep on the couch at home. I feel like it's rude to my roommate - what if he wanted to sit there? Or have a friend over in the living room?

The next morning I stripped the bed and did a wash of sheets and towels. Later, I spreaad everything all over the couch to fold. For no real reason, I left it all out when Le Pooch and I went for a long walk. Because I could, I guess. At home I would never do that. I fold laundry in my bedroom, putting it in piles on my bed before putting all my clothes away.

Maybe this is why I had asked to house-sit. Crazy Girl and Golden Boy were only gone overnight - they didn't need their house "sat." But maybe I had needed a break from being considerate all the time. It was a great break.

Then I came home and cleaned crumbs that weren't mine off the kitchen counters.

We ARE Mature Professionals In Our Early 30's

Golden Boy invited me over for dinner tonight. This afternoon we were on the phone when he brought up the subject of this evening's menu, and he asked, "I took out filet mignon; that's okay with you, right?" I confirmed, and Golden Boy continued, "Great, so I'll make up some of those, Crazy Girl will make broccoli, and I'll make potatoes Ruth's Chris-style."

I then asked, "And what should I make?"

Without missing a beat, he replied, "A doody in your pants."

Of course.

How the Love Affair Ended

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

*Alternate Title:
I Found My Deal-Breaker

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am unsettled.

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

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

It Really IS All About Presentation

I can't believe I missed seeing Marie pass out. Damn dinners with friends for getting in the way! Wait I mean, thank you so much for dinner. Yeah that's it. Thank you. Ahem.

Yesterday morning my brother called and suggested we meet for lunch. Excellent, I love meeting people for lunch. Wanna do lunch?

When I arrived, Golden Boy was waiting for me. We sat down at an outside table, and he put a brown paper bag from Ace Hardware in front of me. And then we proceeded to have the weirdest conversation of my entire life.

Golden Boy: I know you're trying to watch what you eat, so I packed you a special healthy lunch.
GreenYogurt: You got me lunch from Ace Hardware?! (He packed me a picnic? That we're going to eat in the Financial District, seated at restaurant tables?)
GB: Oh, no that's just the bag it's in.
GY: You know I was just going to get a salad here, right? I wasn't going to eat anything unhealthy.
GB: Well, just see if you like what I packed you. If you don't like it, I'll get you food from here.
GY: Is there enough for you? What are you going to eat?
GB: Oh, I'm going to get food here. What's in the bag is all for you.

Golden Boy nodded at me encouragingly. I opened the bag, and pulled out a ziplock. Of green grapes. I pulled out the next ziplock, which had two Fig Newtons. Another ziplock had baby carrots. The last one was wrapped in tinfoil. Like a sandwich.

GY: You made me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich? (Isn't a salad healthier than a pb&j sandwich? This whole thing is so weird. Should I cry? This IS weird, right? I know sometimes I notice little things that other people think nothing of, but it IS weird to bring food to a restaurant, right? Right? And I have to eat this special healthy food brought from home while he gets to eat food from the restaurant?)

Golden Boy encourages me to unwrap the tinfoil. PB&J are the only sandwiches I like. But you know what I love even more? Green iPod fucking Nanos!
Who needs drugs to get high when you get birthday presents presented to you that way? I had a hard time sleeping last night, what with being so excited to have joined the iPod masses.

Seriously, it was the absolute coolest presentation of a gift I've ever had or heard of in my entire life. Thank you Golden Boy and Crazy Girl! I love it, and you.