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

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

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

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

Bone Marrow and Stem Cell Donations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now you say something deep.

Hi. Can I Come Over?

... to use your bathroom? I came home from work today and thought nothing of it when I heard what sounded like the people who live above me taking a shower.

The sound of rushing water sounded a little different, but I remembered my bathroom window was still open from my shower this morning (my attempt to combat mold since there's no bathroom fan), and figured maybe the upstairs neighbors had their window open too. That could be why the water sound was different, right?

Wrong. I glanced into my bathroom and saw, well, what you see to the right. It's all over the floor. I promptly freaked out, called my landlord, listened to the outgoing voice mail message to get the phone number for the nudist handyman who lives in the building, and called him. It was about 6:15 in the evening.

Ole' Nudey was not pleased to be interrupted. But I begged and implored him! My bathroom is unusable! That won't do. Plus, this is exactly the type of thing you're supposed to call him about. I wasn't calling to say a light bulb was out, or that my neighbors were being annoying. I was calling to say there's a flood of sludge all over my bathroom floor and I can't tell where it's coming from (and I have to pee)!

So Ole' Nudey puts down his blunt, puts on his clothes (maybe that happened in the opposite order; I wasn't there) and comes up to my apartment. He peaks into the bathroom after I point towards it, and asks me, "What happened?"

"I have no idea! I just came home from work and saw this and then promptly called you." Ole' Nudey proceeded to repeatedly accuse me of tampering with the piping underneath the sink. Bitch, please. I fucking wash my hands for 30 seconds any time I accidentally bump my hand against the pipes getting anything. I would never purposely touch pipes! Can he not SEE how prissy I am? Why on earth would I futz around with pipes? That's just utter and complete crazy-talk!

This is the same guy who kept accusing me of flushing tampons down my toilet (never) when the real problem was there wasn't enough water pressure when I first moved here. I don't know if it's me, or Ole' Nudey is this accusatory with everyone, but it infuriates me. Any time I have to interact with this guy he accuses me of causing the problem. 

Ole' Nudey's solution to my bathroom problem was to go to the apartment below and next to me to tell my neighbors not to use their bathroom sink until tomorrow. Oh, and to tell me he'll have somebody come by tomorrow to fix my sink. So I should just not use my bathroom at all until after it's all been fixed tomorrow. Because I have no problem going more than 12 hours without peeing. Ole' Nudey suggested I just use my kitchen sink instead of my bathroom sink. If there are guys peeing into their sinks, I don't want to know about it. I'll just take this moment to let you know that I have never in my life peed into any sink of any kind. Once, I went to this girl Juliet's house and we went to a nearby playground. I needed to pee and she tried to tell me to go in the bushes but I wouldn't, and she got angry at having to bring me back to her house.

My friend came over and calmed me down. She then bravely stepped INTO THE SLUDGE (and as she pointed out, let's all appreciate that as gross as it is, at least it's sink sludge and not toilet sludge) to lay down about half a dozen plastic garbage bags so I can at least step into the bathroom on top of the bags to use my toilet until I get to work tomorrow. In the top picture you can see the bags along the bottom third of it.

The second picture is a makeup bag formerly kept in a basket formerly kept under the sink, that now has sink sludge all over it. It will all be thrown out. As will the bathmat which got sink sludge in it too. As horrible as this is, I am so relieved to be in a place financially where throwing out something doesn't make me cry, and having to replace something doesn't cause a panic.

Okay. So. If you need me, I'll be rocking back and forth in my chair and trying not to scratch the hives that have popped up on the insides of my wrists. To think these fuckers are raising my rent in July.

Hurt? Oh Good, Lemme Poke It

Former Office Manager warned me eons ago to never tell Turkey anything personal about myself, and to never let him see any weak spots. I don't recall her exact words, but the visual her words gave me was of having a bullet wound and him poking his finger into it and wiggling it around.

He's like that with clients too. Some law firms have companies as clients and some have people. Mine has both. People hire lawyers because they're in trouble, or they're worried they might be in the future.

An older woman hired my firm to do work for her because someone wronged her. She's dying of breast cancer, and she's trying to right the wrong before she dies. This is a really sweet older woman, one who calls us all dear. She's spent so much money on legal fees. Well over $20,000. That's not a lot for a company, but it's a lot for a person. It's more than I earned in 2010. She got told by Turkey to give us a credit card that we could charge $500 on each week. She did, and we used up the entire credit limit. She has no savings left, because she's spent them all on legal fees. Our legal fees.

She's been flying back East for treatments, and also to LA for some other cancer treatments. She knows Turkey doesn't read his emails regularly so she calls to tell me, "I've sent Turkey an email, would you be a dear and print it out to make sure he reads it?" I am happy to be a dear for her.

Usually when I make a mistake at work, only my boss knows if anyone does. But once, I made a huge mistake and she knew. She was at a Kinko's and asked me to fax her a specific email. She had to pay $1 per page received. I faxed her the wrong email. She called back frantic saying, "I already have that one; I needed the next one! I just wasted $6!" I felt so bad that I told our office manager, and asked him to credit her $6, and if Turkey said anything, I'd pay that money myself.

This morning I read a few emails Turkey sent to this client. He fired her. It's pretty unusual for a lawyer to fire their client. It's definitely unusual for a lawyer to fire their client by email, and as harshly as Turkey did it. It wasn't a gentle "Hilda, I am so sorry, but I just can't represent you anymore. It's been a pleasure working with you. If you still feel you require the services of an attorney, I suggest you call Heidi Ho." It was more like, "Hilda, fuck you, and fuck your little dog too. You're FIRED!"

Okay, it wasn't exactly like that. But even the WASP read the emails and said if she'd gotten those, she'd cry. I would too. He was harsh. Hey, I get it - when you're trying to run a business you need clients to pay you. But lawyers have this nifty thing called pro bono. That means clients they take on for free. Turkey doesn't do any pro bono work. Not for any of his clients.

I'm really bummed out today. I've seen other lawyers write off thousands and thousands of dollars in legal fees. Lawyers earning a LOT less than Turkey. Lawyers with families to support, lawyers with much lower incomes. Just lawyers who have hearts.

Crushing the Possibility of Us Ever Becoming Best Friends

(Every time I arrive at Blogger and begin typing the title, it shows up in Hindi and I have to press the toggle button to turn off Hindi, lest the majority of you be unable to read my witty titles. Does this happen to anyone else who uses Blogger?)

I do a lot of reading. When I wasn't working, I read an average of a book every day and a half. Now that I am working, I read through my lunch hour, and then before I go to sleep. And sometimes after work if I'm hyper and want to calm down.

In walking distance of my apartment is a little tiny library with funky hours. There's a bigger library a little ways away, but it costs $2 to get there. Often when I go to the little library it seems I've already read all their good books and there's nothing left. That's how I wind up doing dumb things like reading Danielle Steel or (dead) V.C. Andrews and getting angry at myself for thinking they might not suck (they do, every time).

On good days I show up at the library and go to the Reserve Shelf to yank the books off the shelf that they've set aside for me based on reserving them online (I fucking love living in the future sometimes). On good days I stumble across a new author who it turns out has written 24 books. That fills me with the same feeling as when I open the refrigerator and see I have one yogurt for each day of the week. On good days I walk down to the little library with a list of books I've compiled. Maybe I saw someone on the bus reading something that looked good. Maybe a magazine wrote a blurb about a new book. Maybe Wide Lawns has been reading.

I can't remember how I found out about the book Malled, by Caitlin Kelly, but the second time I stumbled across the title I was in a position to pop online and reserve it at the library. I was excited! She's writing about working at the mall. I worked in a mall! She's writing about working in a mall in New York. I worked in a mall in New York! I envisioned a lot of smiling and nodding as I read. Then the e-mail came from the library that the book was waiting for me. So I trotted on down to the library as fast as my little legs would take me and fetched my book about a woman working in a mall in New York.

Yeah um.... the book fucking sucked you guys. This woman tried to imply that she was now on the "other side of the cash wrap" but the truth is, she worked one day a fucking week for the most part. Her editor must have HATED her to allow Kelly to come across as such an elitist bitch. She writes multiple times about how highly educated she is, how she's fluent in foreign languages (as if her co-workers from Spanish Harlem aren't?), how she can relate to her customers because she's so well-traveled. I mean, it's a fucking miracle her ego could fit through the mall doors.

She doesn't just mention these things once, at the beginning of the book, to introduce herself to readers and explain her circumstances, but over and over again. Kelly also writes more than once about how even though part of her job is to clean the employee bathroom, she flat-out refuses to do that.

Kelly clearly lives in some other world, because she seems surprised that she only gets one break in eight hours of working, and that working in a clothing store is physical labor. I was almost surprised she didn't bitch about her hands getting filthy from touching dollar bills for an entire shift. That's what I remember most about being a cashier - how dirty my hands got from touching money. Probably why to this day I come home from work and immediately wash my hands.

It almost seemed like this was meant to be a similar book to Nicked and Dimed, but missed. Where Kelly wanted the reader to feel sympathy for her, I was only able to feel disgust. If you want me to feel sorry for you that you work ONE shift a week in a mall, then don't talk to me about buying a $200 shirt from Saks and going to Paris on vacation.

In one spot, Kelly seems confused as to why, when she tentatively reached out to her co-workers by inviting them to her house, they blew her off. It doesn't seem to occur to her that perhaps the fact that she thinks she's better than them seeps through in her interactions with them.

When I worked at the clothing store (men's clothing) in the mall, I was lucky enough to be able to wear sneakers. My jaw dropped at reading that Caitlin Kelly got to wear shoes that North Face gave her. For free. To keep. You know those are high quality shoes right there. Actually, they're way more expensive than I can afford. Kelly talked about her experience with the horror one would usually reserve when recounting their time in a sweatshop. My utter disgust for her as a person distracted me from the story multiple times.

I know that some of you actually buy books, whether from bookstores or on those Kindles and iPads or whatever you've got. If you're intrigued by the story enough to want to read Malled, please don't waste your money on it. I know some people have Germ Issues with library books, but I read them all the time and generally only get sick once a year. Just get it from the library. Then go to the mall and be nice to the people who work there. It's not their fault their stupid company forces them to welcome you to the store and then tell you exactly what the 400 signs say that are plastered all over the store.

Here's Some Syrup, Now Get Out

The partner is back from his two-week vacation to Montreal. He bought a six-pack of little plastic bottles of syrup and gave one to me, telling me three times, "It's real syrup." Well thank you! I was touched that he thought of the temp while on vacation.

This is probably my last week here. I was told to put the employee contract Office Manager sent out in Partner's pile of mail. Of course I looked through it quickly to see how much they're paying her. A salary that would have been just fine with me. She is going to try to give only one week's notice at her current job (where is it? can I have it?) and start here on Monday. I am trying not to be crushed. Or drink my syrup straight from the bottle, circa 1982 (yes Mom, I confess now).

Wow, how much do you think that would freak these people out? If I just sat here at the reception desk, swigging from the syrup bottle.

Help When Needed

Recently, a girl I know from high school was complaining about being hot on Facebook. It seemed she had a window air conditioner but was too afraid it would fall out the window if she put it in herself, so she needed help.

I knew for a fact that she has a good relationship with her parents and is often at their house (not too far away from where she lives) doing laundry, sleeping over, having dinner, etc. So I asked if she could ask her dad to come by and help. If my dad lived as close to me as her dad lives to her, I'd ask for exactly that type of help. But she said she couldn't ask, as "my parents still live on Long Island, and I'm in Queens." Um, Valley Stream is like, the last town before you HIT Queens. WTF? But okay.

I felt bad for her though. Because my dad would absolutely come over to help. He's the type who, on the very first warm night in early May, would say that the following weekend he would put air-conditioners in. Now, my parents got central air before my brother and I moved out. My point is, my father would help. I felt bad for this girl that she was so scared of accidentally killing someone that she was sweating her ass off in her oven of an apartment. Because, for whatever reason, she couldn't ask her father to help. Yes, maybe her parents don't have a car (although, everyone living on Long Island has a car). Or maybe her dad only has one arm. Or a bad back.

That's just not the impression I got though. I got the impression she simply could not ask that of them - it is not one of the services they provide. Free use of washing machine? Yes. Hauling ass into Queens to lift something heavy? No.

Then, a different friend broke her foot. She needed to go to a hospital. She happened to be staying at her mother's house (also in Queens, and yes, had she not been broken I would have asked her to go help the high school friend put in her A/C because I'm too far away to do it myself). This friend told me the hospital she was planning to go to the next day. I was not pleased, and made a phone call to find names of better hospitals near her.

When I called her back with these hospitals, she got upset. She was at the mercy of her parents, and they were only willing to take her to this one crappy hospital. I was frustrated and upset. I was angry at her parents. Had my parents still been living in New York I would have asked my own father to go into Queens, fetch my friend, and take her to a good hospital. And you know what? He would totally do that. He's just that kind of person. And my mother would take her to the drugstore to fill whatever prescriptions needed filling and also buy her a lollipop.

In my family when people were so sick or injured that they were immoble, they were given a little bell to ring when they needed something. And everyone in the family checked on you. Multiple times. They brought you things to play with throughout the day and night. Sometimes they just came and kept you company. Once, when I was stuck laying on the floor, waiting for an ambulance, my brother gave me his Gameboy to use. The EMS guys arrived to put me on a body board and I was playing Tetris.

I didn't grow up with a tv in my bedroom, but the couple of times I had long illnesses, one was brought in. I have a very clear memory of waking up in the middle of the night, turning on the black and white tv my father had put on my dresser and watching a movie where Gary Coleman was an angel (strange timing, I know). You knew you were seriously sick when the tv was brought in.

We're not particularly mushy about medical problems. There's very little "Oh, you POOR THING! I feel SO BADLY for you!" But there is a shit-ton of practical help, with a big dose of realistic reassurance. So there's no "You'll be FINE, don't worry!" but there is a lot of "We can deal with whatever the new reality is, because we will research the shit out of it and find the best people to help."

When my friend got angry at me for suggesting alternate hospitals she could ask to be taken to, I was hurt, confused, angry and frustrated. In thinking about it, I realized that she felt frustrated too. Because not only did her trip not turn out the way she'd planned it in her head, but because she couldn't take care of herself, and she's fiercely independent.

I don't care that my friend lashed out at me in anger. I'm angry at her parents though. She didn't get dropped off in front of the emergency room doors. She wasn't made comfortable. One of her parents didn't even ask how everything went when she left the hospital.

Of course everyone is different and has different experiences. But sometimes it takes seeing how people deal with things to realize how huge the differences are. Hearing about my these friends experiences with their parents makes me that much more grateful that my parents could be counted on to help. I hope that I am the kind of person others can count on to help.

Dammit Jim, I'm Not a Doctor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spreading the Power

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

My name is brandy. And I have a blog.

And a plea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I did.

Look at Your Hand

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't Tease Me, Bro!

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

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

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

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

Truth and Numbers

We're getting all raw and honest today. Every two weeks I get $860 courtesy of unemployment.

Yesterday while on my way to the library after volunteering, I got a phone call from a recruiter, asking if I could work tomorrow (that'd be today). I said sure. He was more chatty than usual and after a while I recognized it as nervous chatter. So while we talked about how great the weather's been lately and how sad it is that Michael Jackson died, my mind was racing. Then it hit me.

"So Tony, what does this pay?" It's so nice that you can ask recruiters and headhunters flat out about money instead of having to play the "I am confident you will offer me a fair wage commensurate with my skills and experience..." card.

I knew I'd hit the mark when Tony hesitated. "I don't want you to think this is what we think of you - Patty and I know you're worth much, much more. You're at the top of our list for all jobs that come in. They're only willing to pay this because they don't need someone with a lot of experience, but we don't have anyone with such a little bit of experience." And on and on.

$14. That's right. $14 an hour (normally when temping I get between $25-30 an hour). That's $98 a day. That's $980 for two weeks (not that this was a two-week gig, but for math's sake, hear me out). $860 from unemployment. Or $980 BEFORE taxes from a job. I'm in the "take about a third out" tax bracket. So if you're following along, that means I get more from unemployment than from working today.

You may want to tell me, "But Green! This was an opportunity to sharpen your skills! Possibly learn a new program to put on your resume! NETWORKKKKKKK!" Ummm, yeah, you're right. It was an opportunity to do all these things.

Here's what I learned today: Jergens makes a cherry almond lotion that smells really good! I used it in the bathroom after photocopying bills to go out to over 100 clients, and stuffing, stamping and closing envelopes. Because paper dries skin out. Which I learned from Sandy who I worked for at the tennis club in New York.

I did not learn to use any new programs, though I did un-jam the copier and figure out how to use the fax machine without any assistance. My skills are as sharp as the two paper cuts I got. The Ivy league educated partner said hello to me in the morning and then belched as he walked past me, so there wasn't much networking going on.

But hey, positive thinking, right? I had something to do today that involved leaving the house! That's two days in a row. Plus, because I was working today I didn't have time to read all day, so now the books I took out from the library will last one day longer than they would have otherwise. And let's not forget that Jergens cherry almond lotion. Because that was a great find.

Bad to Worse

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Disenchanted With Dogs

Until I met Wooffers I was always comfortable saying I was a dog person. Not any more. You'd think that with how much I love Le Pooch, living with two woofs would be absolute heaven for me, but it hasn't been. Before moving in I had visions dancing in my head of laying on the floor next to a woof while reading, watching tv with a woof next to me, playing catch or tug-of-war with a woof, etc.

One of the woofs has aggressive tendencies (born out of fear) so you have to be careful with how he's approached. Also, if he gets too excited (from interacting with you), he pees. This happened earlier this week when I was petting him. I was absolutely horrified to see him frantically lick up his own pee with a worried look on his face.

The other woof gets jealous of any attention she sees the aggressive woof getting, and she will start humping him. She doesn't seem to want to be petted, it's more like she puts up with my petting her, but it does nothing for her personally.

In Wooffers' eyes whatever I do with her woofs is wrong. Once I was cooking in the kitchen alone, and when I turned around there was suddenly a woof there that hadn't been. I was holding a sharp knife and almost tripped over the woof. The words that came out of my mouth were, "Whoa ... it's okay," to reassure both myself and the woof that even though we'd both gotten shocked we were indeed fine. Of course Wooffers was sitting at her computer in the dining room-turned-office and chastised me for talking to the woof, reminding me that I was to ignore at all times.

Living with woofs is not fun here, by any stretch of the imagination. For example right now one woof is home, and keeps sticking her head through the living room blinds and crying (Wooffers took the aggressive woof out for a solo walk). Although I'm greatly amused when people trip and fall, I have this instinct to comfort anyone who is crying, man or woof. Comforting is not allowed though, only ignoring is. So here I sit on my bed, listening to a woof cry in the living room.

I fear that I don't like dogs very much anymore. Surely if this all got therapized I would come to see that the problem is not the woofs themselves, but Wooffers and her instructions to ignore, ignore, ignore. I am hopeful that when I move out of here I will go back to loving woofs, and will not cringe when I hear someone proclaim themselves a dog person.

Moving and Crying, Part Two

Here's Part One. This will also be a long one, you may want to refresh that drink. So I am so freaked out at Barrett just walking in the door with me that I beg her to give me five minutes while I go upstairs and tell Wooffers that my friend is coming over with moving boxes. Let me be clear - it's not that I am scared of Wooffers. The fact that I lock my bedroom door at night ... well, whatever man, she's fucking crazy. It's that I don't want to deal with the emails and talks Wooffers will want to have with me. You know, because I'm not "allowed" to have people over without clearing it with Wooffers first. I hand Barrett a pluot for while she waits in her car and run upstairs.

I walk in, Wooffers is taking her woofs out. I ask her if she's just taking them for a walk or if she's headed out for a while. She says, "I can't talk now," and walks out. I shrug and think, "Oh well, I *tried* to tell you." Turns out Wooffers was just taking the dogs out for a two minute walk and when she comes back I tell her that my friend is coming over.

She asks when. I say now - that she generously offered to drop off boxes for my move. Wooffers says that's not convenient for her. I shake my head saying sorry, she's just going to come into my bedroom and since my friend is doing me a favor, I have to work around her schedule, it wouldn't be right to force her to work around mine.

Wooffers then tells me I shouldn't have left the front door downstairs (to the building) wide open. I say okay. Wooffers asks why my friend can't just haul the moving boxes to the door and leave them there for me to deal with. Um, because she's a good friend and a nice person and offered to help me get started packing?

We go back and forth and I ultimately lose it saying, "I can't deal with this right now!" and walk out to go meet Barrett on the street. I tell her what's going on and Barrett's overall response is, "This is bullshit. We're going in." I explain that one of the woofs is problematic and Wooffers believes it's a very real possibility the woof could attack her. If anyone were to sue Wooffers for her woof's attack, or report it, Wooffers has told me she could have her woof training license yanked, and her woof could be euthanized. Barrett does not scare easily.

When we get inside Wooffers and the woofs are in her bedroom with the door closed. Barrett and I go into my bedroom and start putting together boxes and packing. At some point I go into the hallway to get something and Wooffers sticks her head out of her bedroom door. I let her know Barrett and I are in my bedroom with the door closed. She tells me this is not okay, that I should have come and told her that right away, etc. Barrett can hear what's going on and yells, "Green! I need you to come in here RIGHT NOW!"

I say excuse me to Wooffers and run into my bedroom. Barrett just wanted to get me away, she didn't have a packing emergency. I tell her Wooffers is standing there, waiting for me to come back and finish our conversation. Barrett rolls her eyes so heavily I am impressed they did not fall out, and walks into the hallway.

She looks straight at Wooffers and says something like, "You need to stop being an asshole," or "You're being an asshole." At that point I was swallowed up by the ground and was both horrified and fascinated at what was happening. Here's the interesting thing - Wooffers did not look shocked that she'd just been called an asshole. Most adults do not randomly call other adults assholes. Yet Wooffers did not seem surprised at all, which makes me wonder - is that not a new thing for her?

Wooffers tried to tell Barrett this was between herself and me. Barrett argued with her, said Wooffers was intimidating me. At one point Wooffers said that if she was intimidating me I needed to tell her about that. The line from Dirty Dancing where Lisa says to Baby, "I don't 'just gotta' do anything," flashed through my head. So I refused. I don't want to get into a big discussion with Wooffers about ... well, anything really.

At this point Barrett was going to come into the kitchen to help me reach things too high up (all my friends are taller than me) for me, so I left her in my bedroom and went to ask Wooffers if the woofs were staying in her bedroom and Barrett could come in the kitchen, or ...? She said something in the negative I couldn't catch, so I asked her to repeat what she'd said. Wooffers asked me to have Barrett wait until the exboyfriend who has joint custody came to pick up the aggressive woof. The reason I couldn't understand her the first time? Because she was crying, again.

Look, everyone cries sometimes. Like pooping, everyone cries. I'm not making fun of Wooffers for crying. I'm just saying that there is something very unhealthy going on if you cry any time your roommate is going to have someone over, or does have someone over. I went back into my bedroom and told Barrett that Wooffers was crying. She rolled her eyes and marched barefoot into the kitchen and started getting things down off the high shelves. Wooffers tried to talk to us, or me.

Barrett and Wooffers went back and forth. The next fun highlight was when Barrett told Wooffers she is crazy. Using the word "crazy" and everything. Oh yeah. Just like that. Right out loud, to her face. Let me tell you, I stood there clutching my set of cloud bowls so fucking tightly it's a miracle they did not break.

Wooffers tried to "get me in trouble" with Barrett by telling her that she (Wooffers) had asked me to leave (no she didn't, she told me to leave) because I did not follow the terms of the agreement we signed. It was comical. It was insane. Barrett wound up mediating between Wooffers and me, and ultimately got us to agree to communicate solely via e-mail. I am "eagerly" awaiting the e-mail Wooffers will be sending me regarding what happened today. Yes of course I will share it with you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Notice

It's official. 9am told me tonight he's moving out this weekend. Yes, you read that correctly. Despite all my blathering on about "30 days notice this" and "30 days notice that" in the hopes he'd take the hint, 9am refuses to believe he has to conform, and seems to think it will take me no more than three days tops, to find a new roommate. Even though I've told him every time that I've had a roommate give me 30 days notice I've still wound up living alone for at least a month before a new roommate moves in (meaning it takes me over 30 days to find a new roommate).

When I was gainfully employed (I can barely remember those days) it was tough to pay the full rent without a roommate. Now it'll be downright impossible. Earlier today when on the phone with Golden Boy I told him I'd be able to stay in San Francisco through May. Now it looks like I should just start shipping things to Florida tomorrow. I feel ill.

I Ramble. She Roominates.

Please help out my local blogfriend Catheroo, and go leave her a comment. Why? Because she's trying to get in better shape and for every comment she gets, she'll work out even more.

In other news, tonight 9am decided to try out saying, "Right on." It wasn't pretty. He is way too tightly wound to get away with saying something like that. As soon as the words were out of his mouth he got a shocked look on his face, like, "Oh! That's what that sounds like? That's AWFUL!" Yes, yes it is.

Maybe Next Year

This was written but not published a couple of months ago.

Dine About Town comes to a close at the end of this week, and I haven't gone to any of the restaurants to participate. When the Nutcracker was being performed last month, I didn't go to see it. Grease will be here in March, and I won't be seeing that either. I am upset and embarrassed that I haven't been able to buy people holiday and birthday presents.

I console myself with the phrase, "Maybe next year." I had to say that a lot throughout 2008, and I'm still saying it now. It's the kind of thing someone would say to a child. Can we go look in the Hello Kitty store? Can we get ice cream? Can we go to the playground? It's what you say to console yourself. Only thing is usually you're saying it for extras. Can I pay my PG&E bill? Maybe next month.

Back when I worked with Perky Paula and the Secretly Pregnant Secretary, it was through a temp agency that I hated. The recruiter lied consistently. I liked the firm though, so I continued temping in the hopes they would offer me a job. They didn't. Last week that temp agency sent out an e-mail saying W2s would be available for pickup starting this Monday. They called to confirm my address. I stopped by in jeans and sneakers on Tuesday to pick up that W2. Which they didn't have.

The receptionist couldn't bring herself to tell me, and directed me to the ditzy, lying recruiter I'd hated dealing with months ago. She asked if I was looking for work and I said I was. Pulling my file, she looked at a page and said, "What happened with Lake East? They offered you a job, right?"

Um, yeah. They offered me a terrible job that I would not have been able to do. It was at a desk that had been empty for several months (backlog of work), in a type of law I was not familiar with (complex tort), at a firm that does not do formal training, has no IT or WP departments on site (both crucial for me to succeed), that is headquartered in LA or on the East Coast (I forgot), where basically, they would toss me at the desk and expect me to be up and running. During the interview I remember thinking with certainty, "They would fire me within a month."

I explained this to the recruiter. She pushed me to take the job. At the time I was still temping at the place with Perky Paula, and felt comfortable saying no. Months later she asked again if I was interested. Just the fact alone that they hadn't been able to fill that desk reaffirmed my thought that it was not a good fit.

But two days ago what happened? That's right. The temp she has there now is out with a broken leg, and does she want me to see if she can get me in to temp for the temp? I have tort experience, right? Um, no.

At this point I'm not even thinking, "maybe next year." No, at this point I'm just trying to stay in San Francisco without being homeless for as long as possible. I am falling down a well and holding onto the edge by my fingertips. Next year isn't going to come for me.