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.

Please Weigh in on a Fat Problem

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

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

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

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

You are socially savvy. Tell me what to do.

Swallowing

Sometimes it's hard to describe something that's not tangible and that you also don't have concrete proof of.

Sometimes I'm bad at letting things go. Like after my grandpa died and we cleaned out his apartment like less than a week after the funeral, in a few hours. We just took laundry basket after laundry basket of his things out to the dumpster. Really all that was kept was pictures and I think that's it. It was too sudden for me, and there were too many people and everything was moving too fast, and even though my parents had said I should just speak up if there was something I wanted, I couldn't.

Golden Boy was able to say he wanted one specific picture that my grandparents had had on their wall in Queens, and then took with them to put on their wall in Florida. So he got it, and rolled it up and he and my dad went to buy some tubular thing to transport it across the country, and my brother was all set.

Some of the things I wanted, I couldn't figure out how I'd get across the country and couldn't afford to ship. Some of them weren't practical. Mostly though, I just was really upset at throwing out all these useful things. My grandpa had glass jar after glass jar filled with nails and screws for "just in case." My grandma always had a big stash of plastic bags - she even carried one or two in her purse (or maybe that was just when I was around because we'd go to the library and she'd let me check out more books than I could carry). So I couldn't see them having wanted their things to be thrown in the garbage.

But my father just wanted it done. He and my mom seemed to be in this outrageously huge rush to list the condo for sale. I understood that, but not why they couldn't just arrange for Goodwill or the Salvation Army to come by in a day or two to pick up all the kitchen stuff that was in perfectly good condition.

Over the last year or two I brought this up to my father several times. That we did it. That these things could have gone to a family rebuilding their lives for whatever reason. Abuse or homelessness or something. It just seemed like such a waste, and it really bothered me. I kept raising the issue with my father and he'd never quite give me a straight answer, a reason for why it was done the way it was.

In October when my parents were visiting, I raised the subject again. My father started to get angry and I interrupted him before he got going to point out that I keep bringing it up because every time I do, I don't get a straight answer. Words are said in response to my question, but they're not an actual answer. So my father answered.

I still wish those things weren't thrown out. But my father had a reason, and I can accept that, and drop the issue. I like to be able to tell people when they've done something that bothers me.

This temp job is bothering me. Today I hurt myself futzing with the fucking files, so badly that I had to stand there for a few seconds making sure I wasn't going to cry. The girl I work most closely with saw my face, and asked if I was okay. I could feel it all about to come out - how angry I am that the temp agency didn't warn me about the position involving being able to carry heavy files (in big law firms if you have to move heavy files, you can call someone in Office Services to do it for you). How frustrated I am by how bitchy the paralegals are, and unfriendly the attorneys are. How annoying it is that the possibly pregnant office manager wears patchouli daily, the most offensive smell on the planet.

I swallowed it all down, and just let the other girl know I'd hurt my elbow. She enthusiastically told me all about the time a file clip pierced her finger open and she had to get a tetanus shot, as if we were bonding over our work injuries. I swallowed down the big difference - that she has the luxury of health-insurance and worker's comp and short-term disability, whereas if I break my elbow, I'm fucked.

If I had the opportunity to tell the guy at the temp agency I was upset he didn't warn me, I'd feel better. Even though nothing about the situation now would change - I'd still have taken the position. I just like people knowing how I feel, and it really burns me up when they don't care.

Phoebe Prince

So this girl in Massachusetts, a 15 year-old ninth grader, hung herself. Supposedly it was because of relentless bullying. I think we can all agree bullying is terrible. Wrong.

But what defines bullying? If you say anything that's mean is that bullying? So if a girl in the lunchroom asks if her outfit looks good and you say, "No, it makes you look like a fat cow," then have you just bullied her? Lots of people use the "but I was just being honest" stance as an excuse for being mean. If you bully someone, does that make you a bully? I really think all these questions need answers.

I bullied a girl in high school. For about a week. She did something trivially unfair to me, it flipped my rage switch, and I went on the attack. A teacher I liked pulled me aside and told me to cut it out and get ahold of myself. I felt ashamed, and stopped. The following year, after I'd graduated, I went back to the school to visit. The girl had changed, gotten tougher, marched right up and confronted me about what I'd done. I told her she was right, apologized to her sincerely, and she nodded, satisfied. Over a decade later she friended me on Facebook, and one night when she told me another classmate of ours had died in a car accident, I brought it up. Apologized again. She said she couldn't remember that happening. I don't know if she was lying or not, but either way she's clearly moved past it.

Honestly? If she'd killed herself over it, I never would have gotten over it. I remember everything - I remember friends' outfits from second grade, how your sister met her husband, everything. Luckily, she didn't kill herself. Luckily in the above instance, because I'd been bullied in the past, when I got called out on my actions felt guilty to know exactly how horribly I'd been making the girl feel.

An investigative reporter named Emily Bazelon has been writing for Slate about the Phoebe Prince suicide. She doesn't think Phoebe Prince was relentlessly bullied. Not by six kids. The district attorney is going after the six kids full force. Elizabeth Scheibel seems to have a history of being (what I think is) needlessly harsh on teenage defendants. If you know me, you know I'm pretty black and white on breaking the law. Unless you were literally saving a life, breaking the law is always wrong. That's how I feel. It's fair to get in trouble when you break the law. Elizabeth Scheibel seems to think you should get in more trouble than I do for breaking it though.

There's no question Phoebe Prince was what you might call "a troubled girl." She'd tried to commit suicide before, she was a cutter, etc. Girl had problems.

Several years ago, when I'd first moved to San Francisco, I was walking somewhere during my lunch hour when a homeless man made a rude comment to me about my body, the skirt I was wearing. Basically, he called me fat. To be honest I haven't worn a skirt since, so I can't say it didn't affect me. At the time, I don't think I told anyone, didn't cry, or do anything. Except never wear a skirt again. Adults are better at letting cruel comments roll off their backs than teenagers are.

As a kid I thought being an adult would be great, because adults were mature. They wouldn't bully or be cruel for the sake of hurting someone. Oh, how very wrong I was. I was shocked and so disappointed to find out that mean kids often just turn into mean adults.

It seems like at Phoebe's high school bullying was a bigger problem than at other schools. Is Phoebe responsible for all her own actions? Is the school responsible since she knew the kids who bullied her through school? People in this country like to blame. People like things to be somebody's fault. I think it's everyone's fault and nobody's fault, all at the same time. Is Phoebe responsible for deciding to kill herself? Not really, since she was mentally unstable. Are the kids who bullied her responsible for Phoebe killing herself? If you believe that if you aren't part of the solution then you're part of the problem, then yes, to some degree they are. Is the school responsible for not doing enough to protect Phoebe? Emily Bazelon seems to think so. So does Elizabeth Scheibel, the district attorney, which is why she went after the six kids so harshly.

The whole thing is a mess, and sad. Very little happened to the kids who bullied me in public school. Despite the fact that I graduated in 1994, it has stayed with me. I am hyper-aware of when I am not wanted somewhere. Nobody ever wanted to be associated with me in any way, and because of that to this day I am still hesitant to call anyone my friend, lest it embarrass them. Yes, I am a sensitive snowflake.

I definitely think bullying needs to be taken seriously in schools. At the same time, kids need to be reminded that high school is all bullshit. That they can and should move on from it, and I think kids should be encouraged to have a lot of things going on outside of school, in places where they are interacting with peers they get along with. Poor Phoebe Prince. And Poor Phoebe Prince's little sister, who not only has to deal with her parent's separation and moving to a different country, but now also has to deal with her big sister having killed herself.

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.

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.

Racist or Just An Abuse of Power? You Decide!

Last Friday I was talking to a friend's daughter about what it was like when I was seven years old, as she turns seven soon. I told her all about how seven was my best year, how I felt like I'd fully left behind babyhood and was 100% girl rather than baby, how seven became my favorite and lucky number and still is to this day, how second grade was my favorite grade, and everything about seven was just plum awesome. So, in honor of second grade, and Molly's upcoming seventh birthday, we're going to do this blog post (somewhat) current events style, like I used to do in Mrs. Firestone's class.

Who: the F Market Muni driver, and a black woman with three young children
Where: on Market Street
When: Sunday afternoon
What: the train was stopped at a stop, and the driver told the woman she had to fold up her stroller before bringing it on the train. The woman then asked the driver if he would let her on for free (cost is $2, kids under age 5 are free). The driver told her he'd let her on for $2. She said she didn't have money and asked again. He said again, she could get on the train for $2.

He then closed the doors and moved the train up a few feet. He then said into the microphone, "And she's still breeding." I was shocked. If you want to think things that's fine, but some things simply should not be said. Especially when you are wearing a uniform representing a company, you should not be stating your personal opinions about things. You should certainly not be broadcasting those opinions by using company equipment. The black woman heard what was said, and yelled at the driver. Much of that yelling involved curse words.

There was a lot of talk on the train about what happened. A handicapped woman was very vocal about how right the driver was. If we have to pay $2, everyone should have to pay $2. I thought her statement was stupid, since as a handicapped person she only pays .75 cents. She also felt that the black woman had an entitlement attitude and she needed to be taught a lesson.

The man sitting next to me, who loudly told everyone he was from New York, as if that gives him impressive credentials on such issues, decided the train driver's statement was borderline racist. A couple of other people said it wasn't racist, because the black woman was wrong to want to get on the train for free (which is a nonsensical argument). One woman thought the statement wasn't racist because the black woman is teaching her children to ask for and expect handouts and to be upset when they don't get them. Again, bad argument.

What are your thoughts? Was it a racist comment or inappropriate or was the driver right?

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.

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.

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.