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?

Forever Your Girl

You know when you get a cold, and you're fussing with your nose so much that it gets sore? Well, years ago, my brother told me about his discovery to solve this issue. Puffs Plus Lotion. I only buy them when I'm sick (otherwise lotion is icky, in the way ointment is icky).

On Sunday I got very sick. On Monday there was an eye of the hurricane and I ran out that evening and got a small box of special sick tissues to use when I ran out of my regular tissues. By early Wednesday afternoon I had run out of all tissues. I had to resort to using toilet paper as a substitute, and it was very cruel. Literally, within two hours, my nose was sore and hurting.

A half hour later I was in the drugstore buying more special tissues. While waiting to pay, the woman ahead of me in line kept turning around and looking at the boxes nestled in my arms. I smiled brightly at her and tried to not look sick. (Spoiler: Probably didn't work)

What did I learn from this whole experience? That I need to be more negative. Less optimistic! Better in a day? As if! That may be how horrific colds work for other people, but not me. When I get sick, I'm down for a solid week. My mistake was buying only one box of tissues on Monday. Tissues don't expire. In the future, I'll be more loyal and invest more in the special tissues. Lesson. Learned.

Grace and Dignity

There is a phrase called "hate read" and I totally do it. There are blogs written by people with whom I vehemently disagree. I read their blogs anyway, even though the more I read, the less I respect them. Or each blog post that I read makes me want to send them a long email detailing my stance on whatever topic they wrote about. You might ask why I read if I hate. There are two answers. One is that I have a lot of downtime at work where I need to appear busy. The other is that I don't only want to read about things I relate to and people I agree with. I want to see different ways to think about things. I want to understand why people think about certain topics the way they do.

There is a blog I read written by a woman who could not be more different than me if we tried. Opposite ends of the country. She works from home, is a former drug abuser and alcoholic (personally she comes across to me as a dry drunk, but who knows if that's accurate?), grifter, etc. Anyway, her mother recently lived with her for the better part of a year, through some medical difficulties. This week, the mother moved out.

Throughout this experience, the blogger wrote about her difficulties with her mother. Including feeling like she couldn't have sex with her husband because of her mother being in the house. Which I didn't really understand since she made it clear the bedrooms are on a separate floor upstairs and the mother was living in the basement. And since the mother went places during the day while both this woman and her husband ... well he doesn't work, but they're both home during the day. They could have fucked worked it out.

The most recent blog post is about the relief felt now that the mother is out of the house. Like many (all?) of the blog posts mentioning the mother, it's painful to read how much she hated having her mother there, and equally painful to read how relieved and happy she is to have her mother finally gone. It's cruel to the mother. It's sort of cruel to all the people whose mothers have died and would put up with any inconveniences to have a bit more time with their beloved relatives.

I didn't realize this until recently, but here is what happened in my house between December 1994 and August of 1995.

1. My grandmother died unexpectedly. 
2. I spectacularly failed out of college and had to move home.
3. Golden Boy moved home after being away for four years.
4. My grandfather, devastated by my grandmother's death, moved in with our family.
5. I fell ill, with difficult symptoms that included passing out, unexplained rashes and screaming in pain, then needing to be taken for medical tests numerous times via backboard and ambulance. 
6. My father was working at a job almost two hours away from home (each way).

That's what my mother was juggling in 1995. I was stuck in my bedroom, and each night around 11pm my mother would bring me a bowl of cereal so I could take the really strong pain killer that let me sleep for a solid four hours on good nights. She would sit in the rocking chair near the foot of my bed and tell me all the things my grandfather, her father, did that annoyed her. He wanted the thermostat turned up higher, he wanted dinner to be before my father got home, he wanted to put garlic in his oatmeal for breakfast and microwave it which stunk up the house (I didn't smell it, but I never left my bedroom).

For Father's Day my parents solved the garlic problem by gifting my grandpa with garlic pills. My grandpa, despite being quite good to me, always viewed and treated my father like an evil son-in-law. I have never once heard my father say anything cruel about my grandfather. As frustrated as both my parents got with my grandfather, even while dealing with one sick kid and one boomerang kid, they never would have done what this woman does had blogs existed then.

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.

I'm Not Josie Grossy Anymore!

Last year I was really poor. Food stamp poor. Literally. Having friends mail you tampons poor. Literally. I have now been working for more than half a year. I've built up a small savings. I've taken a couple of people out finally, people who've held me up financially and emotionally.

While I was poor, I did a very good job of it. That thing where you write down every single thing you spend money on to see where your money goes? I didn't have to, because I knew, down to the penny. I spent nothing unless it was an absolute need. Even then, I went without several needs.

Now that I can fulfill all my needs and even some of my wants, turns out I still think like I'm poor. Can't seem to stop. While I was poor, I remember wondering how it was changing me, and if once I got a job I'd snap out of it, or if it was a permanent thing. Maybe this is like losing weight after having a baby? Where it takes as long as you were out of work, to get comfortable spending the money you now earn at work?

So I have this ugly, heavy black bag. It's so ugly that it's barely even appropriate to be bringing into a law firm every day. But I use it because it's what I have. For the last I don't even know how long, I've been looking for something nicer. Not hundreds of dollars nice, just like, nice-yet-inexpensive-since-it's-now-at-Marshalls nice. I love nothing more than finding a good bargain. Yet I couldn't pull the trigger. I couldn't bring myself to spend $80 (or even $40) on a bag. Even when my mother tried to buy me one last month, I couldn't commit.

Too much time was spent convincing myself I didn't need things when I couldn't afford them, that I didn't need to buy anything that struck my fancy because "the world won't stop creating awesome stuff" that I couldn't move away from that thinking. $50 is NOT AT ALL a lot of money to spend on a bag, especially a black one that would get used every day. I'm not one of those people who has 30 bags. I have fewer than half a dozen.

A couple of weeks ago I was talking with Golden Boy, and this came up. He said something to the effect of this not being a life-long commitment. That it's just a bag, and if I wind up hating it, I can get another one at some point. He didn't actually say anything I didn't know. Sometimes you just need to hear things out loud. Today I found a bag. The leather feels soft, not plastic-y. It was 60% off, at a discount shoe store. There are pockets, it's black, and I spent less than $35. Pretty sure I won't wind up hating this.

Different types of luck

As a kid, any time I played Monopoly I would go back and forth from Free Parking to Jail, over and over. Extreme highs and extreme lows. We always said if anyone was going to win the lottery in my family, it would be me. Once, as a hanukah present, my brother gave me scratch-offs. I won. Something like $15, that I collected at a gas station.

There are some people who lose their job, spend a couple of months sleeping late, going to the matinee movies, having long lunches, taking vacations, etc., before they get antsy and want to get back to work. So they buy a new interview outfit, send out a slew of resumes, and within three months from when they started their job search in earnest, they are again gainfully employed. Or they temp somewhere, and do such a stellar job that their supervisor finds or creates a position for them. I don't have that kind of luck.

I find pennies in the street. That's my kind of luck. Last week I was talking to Golden Boy about luck, and we realized something. In April of 2009, the thinking was that I would go to Mexico for his wedding, and practically straight from the wedding have to give up and leave San Francisco. Instead, I came home from Mexico, moved in with Wooffers, and less than week after moving had a temp gig. It's now over a year later and I'm still in San Francisco, so maybe I am lucky after all. Guess I just have a different type of luck than what I expected.

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.

Just Proving My Point

A while ago it was my mom's birthday. That night, after I called to wish her a happy birthday, I called Golden Boy to remind him to do the same, figuring he might have forgotten since he's been working crazy hours lately.

He laughed and told me, "In true Golden Boy fashion I already called her this morning."

Of course you did.

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 Two: Out Ya Go!

Here's Part One.

Very nicely, I asked what was wrong, and mentally raced to review the agreement we'd signed to try to think if there was anything in there about not having guests. Wooffers tearfully told me she was upset that my friend (who'd helped me move) had said something about the side table staying in the living room the day before. I reassured her that 1. she was living with me, not my friend, and 2. that I knew the side table couldn't stay there based on our prior discussions, and it would be moved before the end of the day (ultimately the table was out of there less than 24 hours after I moved in).

Then Wooffers told me something about how the apartment was not ready for people to be coming over to see it. I assured her my brother was coming to see me, not to judge HER on the apartment, and that he's moved, and knows how crazy things get during a move.

Wooffers then gestured to herself, saying she was not ready to be meeting people. When Wooffers was saying this to me, she was dressed and had makeup on. I again said my brother was not coming over to judge her, and that anyway, he was just my brother, not like, a king or anything.

After that she said something about having people over and how it affects her sensitive woof, to which I replied that her sensitive woof was out for the day (joint custody) and my brother would surely leave before the evening when it was scheduled to come home.

Wooffers then cried the second time and in all honesty, this startled me so much - that a 40 year old would cry over a roommate having someone over in the middle of the day for a little while - that I asked her if she really wanted me to call my brother and tell him not to come. I was absolutely SHOCKED when Wooffers reply was, "Yes, thank you."

I ultimately waited down in the lobby and had a two minute talk with my brother and Crazy Girl while they were in their car on the driveway. CG said something about how Wooffer's reaction did not bode well for the future. I agreed with her. When they drove away, I was very sad.

Wooffers is my eighth roommate, peoples. Not including the two I had in college. Maybe the way I've done things is very different from everyone else, I don't know. But generally, if you're having someone over and you see your roommate before your guest arrives, you tell them. You don't ask, you tell. If you're having a party, it's more of an ask, but it's really like when I was little and my mother would say, "I'm just phrasing it as a question to be polite, but saying no is not an option." If you're having overnight guests, you ask.

I have never had this problem before, except once when Trixie was having a party and wanted to store furniture in my bedroom so there'd be more space in the living room. Sometimes when a roommate has guests over you don't see them at all, sometimes you say hi and chat for a few minutes, and sometimes you wind up all hanging out together for hours. This entire range of options seems normal to me.

You may know I'm an introvert. In general, I am fine with roommates having people over. I know it's their right, as ... like, humans, to entertain their friends or family. I may bitch about wanting company to go home or whatever, but I know my roommates really do have this right. If I don't want to meet their friends, I just go into my bedroom and close the door, or I leave the house for a while. Wooffers seemed to want me to ask her permission to have people over.

A few days after the whole debacle, when I thought Wooffers had calmed down, I went back and asked her what the "real reason" was that she hadn't wanted me to have anyone over. She again cycled through all the things she'd told me previously. I learned nothing, except that instead of saying "I only want people to come over Sunday through Thursday" or some concrete guideline I could work with, what she wanted was to be asked every single time I wanted to have someone over.

That doesn't work for my lifestyle. Sometimes I meet up with friends out and about, and then they offer to drive me home. Sometimes when they drive me home, I invite them to come in for a while. Or they ask to come in to use the bathroom, or see my place. Or a thousand other things. As a child I had friends over so rarely that I could count every single time it happened, because my mother required me to jump through so many hoops that it was exhausting to get permission. I refuse to live that way as an adult.

I do not personally know any crack whores. My friends are all very nice people, some slightly more quirky than others. They are all capable of politely saying hello to my new roommate. Many of them have done just that in the past.

Last night when I got home from work, Wooffers knocked on my bedroom door and asked to speak with me in the living room. She told me that after not-quite two weeks, she could see this wasn't working out and I would have to leave. She then pointed out that our lease agreement says she has to give me 30 days notice, but she's generously going to give me 60 days. Wooffers reiterated this multiple times, clearly wanting me to comment favorably on her generosity.

Wooffers also encouraged me multiple times to share my feelings about what she'd said. Ding! Somebody's been to therapy. I shook my head. "My feelings don't really matter," I told her. Wooffers insisted they matter to her. I didn't really give a shit what mattered to her after what she'd told me. How I felt wouldn't change her wanting me to leave, and even if it did, who wants to live where they know they're not wanted? That's why my feelings didn't matter. Wooffers kept trying to get me to engage in a conversation with her about how I felt about the bomb she'd just dropped. I refused.

Years ago, I stumbled across a book about business dealings with the Japanese, and one of the things I learned is that Americans are outrageously uncomfortable with silence, and the Japanese know and use this to their advantage in negotiations. Well shit, I can be Japanese - so when I am in a conversation that either I don't want to be in, or that is with a person I am angry at, I will often become silent. It works every time - people talk to fill the silence. (No, I have never tried this with a Japenese person.)

Wooffers babbled on and on about how I had done things that were red flags to her. Like what? Like the bullshit with the side table. Like that I "just told" her and didn't ask about having my brother over. Like that I hadn't adhered to our roommate agreement. At this, I responded. I pointed out that I'd re-read our roommate agreement and the only thing it said about guests was not to have any under the age of 15 (because one of the woofs does not do well with kids).

Then she changed directions and said that when we talked about moving in, I'd said I didn't want her guests using my bathroom. This is true - my bathroom is two feet from the front door, while her bathroom is in her bedroom which is at the back of the apartment. She'd initially asked if it mattered which bathroom guests used and I said it did - that my guests would be directed to my bathroom and she should direct her guests to her bathroom. Wooffers then said that one of my friends (on moving day) had used her bathroom.

I asked her who, because I had not been aware of either of my two friends even going into her bedroom. She named a name, and I told her I hadn't known that, and was sorry if it had happened but had either of my friends asked, I would have of course directed them to my bathroom. Wooffers then changed course and said my friend went into her office (which is the dining room) and left her a note. This is true. My friend knows Wooffers - it was through her that I saw Wooffers Craigslist ad. My friend did poke her head into the office, and saw something she liked, and jotted a quick note to Wooffers about it so she'd see it when she got home.

There is a door between the kitchen and dining room that slides into the wall. Wooffers can close the door if she wants - that would be a clear indication nobody should take one step into the space she uses as an office. The door was open. I can see how this would unsettle a tightly wound person - to know someone went into their space when they weren't home. So I apologized on behalf of my friend.

Wooffers said multiple times that I wasn't adhering to our agreement, but she never articulated how exactly that was. She ultimately said that she just couldn't deal with living with a roommate after all. I told her I wish she'd known that about herself before I spent all that time, money and stress moving in.

I think she knows I'm pissed off. Wooffers said hello to me quite tentatively earlier today.

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.

Talking Your Way Out

The other day I was in the Financial District, and went to Starbucks to talk with my brother. As Golden Boy and I talked, there was a mild commotion (does that phrase even make sense? can a commotion be mild?) and I looked out the window.

Outside, a tow truck was hooking up a car parked in a commercial loading zone, and the car owner had raced outside to try to talk his way out of the whole thing.

When the car owner came back in, as he walked by us, my brother told him he'd dropped some money on the sidewalk. The guy said thanks and kept walking. Then he went outside again, stooped to pick up his fallen cash, and then spoke with the tow truck people.

He successfully talked his way out of having his car towed. By now you should already know I'm a bitch, so you probably won't be surprised to hear that I don't think he should have been able to do that.

Now what will happen is that he will brag. He will update his Facebook status. Ken Farcomb just talked his way out of a ticket and having his car towed! People will click that they like this. They'll congratulate him. They'll ask where he got away with it.

Then other people will see a parking spot, realize it's for commercial loading only, and instead of circling the block once more, will instead think of their friend Ken, decide they can get away with it, and park there.

Whereas if Ken had gotten his car towed things would play out differently. Ken Farcomb just had his fucking car towed and is PISSED! Then his friends would ask where he got busted, express their condolences, tell about the time they parked where they weren't allowed and say how much it cost them, ask where it happened, how much it'll cost, etc. Then the next time people see a commercial loading zone and consider parking there, they'll think of their friend Ken, and circle around the block again in a continung effort to find a legal parking spot.

But Green! You don't have a car! You don't know how hard it is to find parking! Well. It's true that I no longer have a car. But I'm not blind. And I USED to have a car, and USED to have to drive around to find parking.

Maybe Ken was running late, you tell me. Well, sucks to be Ken, is what I am telling you. Ken should have planned his time better, and alloted extra time to find a parking spot. Or he should have taken mass transit. Or even a cab. Or, if he was meeting someone (I didn't see anyone with him, but maybe he was having a work meeting at Starbucks) and had to drive into the city for whatever reason, he should have arranged to meet somewhere he knew he'd be able to find parking.

Maybe it wasn't his fault he was running late. Maybe his last meeting ran late and that's why he was running late for this meeting. Look, are you sleeping with Ken or something? Then he should have called his second meeting and told them, "My last meeting ran late, so I'm about 20 minutes behind schedule. I'm so sorry, can you meet at 11:30 or do you want to reschedule for another day?"

I do not understand people who know they're running late and don't bother to call the person sitting and waiting for them to let them know. It's outrageously rude. Especially when everyone and their mother has a cell phone. It's not like you'd have to pull over and go find a pay phone after digging through your car for a spare quarter.

In closing, Ken? You're an asshole. You got away with it once, but I hope you learn to manage your time better, read signs in the future, and don't get away with it again. Also, it'd be nice if you put some money in a meter that's about to expire for someone else.

I Don't Know What It Means

I was in jail, and so was Golden Boy. We were in different cells, and this was no ordinary jail. The general public was able to walk through the wide hallways, as if they were walking through a mall. There were tables set up along some of the walls where people sold things. It was like a flea market that had a few jail cells. I was in a cell near one of the entrances, and Golden Boy was in a call down the hall and immediately around the corner.

A security guard came and unlocked the door, telling me I could take a break for the day. I walked out of my cell thanking her, and then asked when I should be back. Tonight, she told me. I walked down the hall, and Golden Boy and I somehow got in contact with our mother. We walked around outside with her, and then went to dinner.

It started getting dark, and Golden Boy and I agreed we should get back. As we entered the building, we saw signs for public bathrooms. We each got in line for our respective bathrooms. Golden Boy's line moved faster (shocker) and he was on his way back to his cell while I was still waiting in line. Once I got in, I hurried through the bathroom, worried I would be late.

As I walked back down the hallway to get back to my cell, I see two police officers walking hurriedly in my direction. I now panic that I'm in trouble, then realize I'm wearing tan pants and a light pink short-sleeve shirt and nothing makes me stand out as someone who belongs in jail. That thought relaxes me a little bit, but I still hurry towards my cell, berating myself for not having asked for a firm time I was supposed to be back.

Then I see a few more police officers huddled together in the hallway, holding a little picture in their hands and looking closely at everyone walking by while talking into walkie-talkies. Worried I'm going to have to stay in jail even longer now, as a punishment for being late, I consider running, then decide not to, that it might attract attention. When I can see around the crowds of people still milling around, it's clear there are no police officers waiting at the cell for me. While hurrying down the hallway the last several meters, I wake up.

Lack

It's frustrating not having money, on many levels. First, there's the judgment. Everyone feels the right to inspect your life, so they can point out what you're doing wrong. To point out where your fatal mistake was. To a certain degree it seems like they're doing that to make themselves better. I have run out of money because of this specific error. But they would never make that error, so they will never become the shit I am. Better me than them - as hard as this is, I have never been very high up, so this isn't as hard a fall as it would be for some.

Multi-millionaires are now only millionaires. They have to travel within the country rather than internationally. Maybe they even have to fly coach. I have not slept through the night in months. I wake up with bile in my throat all the time. I stay at home because I can not bring myself to pay the $1.50 to take the bus anywhere. When I do take the bus somewhere I am in a rush the entire time. The last thing I want to have happen is to go over the time limit and have to spend another $1.50 to get home.

It's frustrating to not be able to invest in things, no matter how financially beneficial they may be to my future. Last Saturday I had to take the bus to another part of the city for a job (application). I was at the bus stop early, but the bus was even earlier and pulled away just as I got there. I ran down to another bus stop. Missed that bus too. Panic set in. It was hard enough to spend $1.50 for the bus, now I was contemplating spending over $10 on taking a cab, because I couldn't risk being late. (Ultimately I took three buses and got there five minutes early.)

Golden Boy is letting me borrow his car this weekend, and I was going to ask if he minded if I used it to go over to Target, to buy some cleaning and paper supplies I need. The kitchen sponge is falling apart and I barely have any Tide left, for example. Toilet paper is low. But there's no point, because I can't afford it. I will have to hope that 9 a.m. buys new sponges. I will have to wait.

A couple of years ago I used to try to encourage a friend to buy supermarket items (that didn't spoil) that were bigger, pointing out how they cost less per ounce. Each time she'd reject my idea, saying she couldn't afford it. I apologized to her about a month ago. I don't know how she didn't smack me.

It's frustrating at this time of year, especially. Every commercial is about holiday shopping. Everything you see out there has to do with consumerism. Sales. Buy things to stimulate the economy. I hear snippets of news that the idea of lowering interest rates for items bought in December is being tossed around. In an effort to encourage people to shop. To stimulate the economy. That won't help me.

I love my family, I love my friends. I would love to be able to give them things when I stumble across that perfect present. It would be nice to see a movie. It would feel wonderful to show people my appreciation for their generosity by doing more than just sending a thank you note.

My cousin on the East Coast wants to come out to San Francisco next spring. She gently inquired about staying with me, spending a few days here to explore the city. I want to say yes, of course. This is the type of relationship I have always wanted to have with my cousins. That I've always wanted to have as an adult, living on my own. But I'm hesitant to tell her to come. Even if I got a job tomorrow, I am so far in debt that five months from now I won't have enough money to show someone around the city.

So much of what we do involves money, especially living in a city. Even if I just wanted to go hike through Golden Gate Park. It costs money to take the bus to get there. And back, depending on how much time is spent there. Or you go for a long walk and then want to get a hot chocolate before heading home. I wanted to go somewhere, do something, for Thanksgiving this year. But you can't show up with empty hands. And since my pockets are empty, my hands remain empty. So I avoided talks about Thanksgiving plans as much as possible this year.

Lastly, it is frustrating to have money on the mind all the time. Everything always comes back to the money, and it's such a taboo subject. I have stopped reaching out to friends because getting together always costs money, and I feel wrong about letting others always pay. Last night I pulled out suitcases, but paused and looked at the biggest one. I've had it for over five years and never used that one. Could I sell it? For how much?

That's how I look at every single thing I own. How much is that worth and could I get money for it? I own two watches - one is professional and appropriate for work, while the other is more casual. Who needs a casual watch?! I don't need two watches. Hell, I have a cell phone, so I don't need any watches at all. I have four coasters - surely I could just put my drinks on top of a magazine. Wait, why do I need a subscription to Newsweek? If I cancel a magazine subscription that was a gift, will they send me the remaining money?

This is what I do instead of blogging. I look for jobs, and walk around my apartment trying to figure out why I own four mugs and how much I could get for them. Oh yeah, and I obsessively look at my bank account balance. My hope is that I'll realize I reversed two numbers, and the balance will be higher than I thought it was.

Hasn't happened yet. But that won't stop me from compulsively checking.

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?

Myriad of Stuff

*Today on the walk to work I saw a bald guy wearing a mezuzah. This is worth mentioning simply because it's so unusual here.

*Next week I have to sit at a different desk every day. Yes, I know that's exactly what I signed up for when I agreed to be a floater, but it's like being a mail-order bride. It'll be a better life than what you previously had, but there'll still be complaining to do.

*The attorney I'm working for this week has the strangest way of wording her instructions. It frustrates me. And you may have noticed, this is not my best week. "I need one copy of this, front and back." Any normal person would think that means to copy the front and back of whatever she just handed you. But what about when the back is blank? When you review the instructions you were given, she clarifies that what she meant was, it's currently a one-sided document, but when you make the copy, make it two-sided.

*During July I've been finding a slew of new blogs to read and that really excites me. Keep writing, people - I have 7.5 hours of downtime each day and reading your blogs gets me through the workweek. One of you people wrote something about liking the = sign, so I've included it in this post for you. You're welcome. Now update your blog again.

*9am and I were having a discussion last night about the people who grade bar exams. He told me sometimes they are given actual bar questions to practice their grading capabilities. To which I said, "Yeah, from prior years" but 9am insisted sometimes it's questions from upcoming exams. (I discussed this with Golden Boy - 9am is wrong, and it's prior tests.) 9am then went on to say if I know anyone who'll be grading the bar and thus, has access to what questions will be on it, perhaps I could just jot those down on a post-it, and maybe leave it laying around where he might see it... Lovely. I would like to think he's just going slightly crazy from the stress of such an important test in the near future.

*There was something I was going to say about how I viewed my father's shoelaces when I was little, but can't recall the details or the point.

*I have been a bit out of sorts since late last week, when some basic things I thought were a very obvious given were not only questioned, but argued against, vehemently. The thing about getting into a bad mood over one thing is, then you start viewing every other little thing as a terrible disaster. Everyone around you looks at a baby and agrees he looks just like his father. I think he looks like a meatloaf, and want to cry. Turns out the socks I wanted to wear are dirty? Shit, why does life have to be so cruel? Me + upset = ridiculously dramatic Green.

*The water at home is no longer cloudy and can now get hot.

There Are No Little Birdies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Big Thoughts

So there's this thing called the Fat Acceptance Movement. It's kind of interesting, and I waiver in my stance on the subject. To complicate things further, I also wavier on many of the sub-subjects. Like how I will cringe and avert my eyes upon seeing a fat man in a Speedo (Canadians in FL during the winter, eh WideLawns?). But, if we extend that thought process - which is "don't make yourself look extra-unattractive to others" - we will eventually bump into issues like whether gay people should be allowed to kiss in public. Hey, it might offend someone, and make them cringe, right? When I look at it like that, I think "Get over yourself, let people be comfortable."

Last week I wore a skirt to work for the first time in over three years. The skirt hiatus had been due to a cruel comment a guy made to me while I was walking down the street in the Financial District a few months after I moved to San Francisco. Last Tuesday I didn't get any compliments, but I also didn't get any insults either. Which is pretty much how I like things.

I guess it's a very fine line between not beating yourself up for your weight and embracing an aspect of your lifestyle that's unhealthy. Should shame play a part in motivating people to lose weight? I don't know. Maybe, if that's the only thing that inspires them to do it. But who is to decide how that shame should be brought on? What's crossing the line? Isn't it shameful enough to have to buy clothes in a fat-people store? Or in a different section at Macy's and Nordstrom? Maybe Old Navy thinks they're saving fat people the shame of having to buy bigger clothes, and that's why they took their fat people section to online-only.

Also, does society want fat people to stay fat so they keep feeling better about themselves? Your marriage may be in shambles, but hey, at least you don't look like THAT. Is that why it's so hard to find workout clothing for fat people? Huh, Missy Park of Title Nine?

Currently candy is taxed. What if potato chips and cupcakes and ice cream were also taxed? But where does it end? What about the people who eat half a loaf of bread with a huge hunk of cheese to maintain their (over)weight? What if you're buying a cupcake and you're a size six? Or you're planning to split one pint of Ben & Jerry's between seven people? Should pregnant people having ice cream cravings be excused from the tax?

I certainly don't think people should be allowed to sue McDonalds for eating their food and being fat because of that. If you can't figure out for yourself that eating from a fast food restaurant isn't healthy, then … well, unless you actually do have an extra chromosome, you don't want me on the jury when your case goes to trial.

There's a lot to think about on this topic. What are your thoughts? I may have to write about this again.