Forever Your Girl

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

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

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

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

Therapy Dogs Are Everywhere

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

It's Not ALL Bad

This is the architect's last week, so today we went out for a goodbye lunch. I know there's a heatwave going on in most of the country this week, and my heart goes out to all of you sweaty, crabby people, but it's cold and foggy in San Francisco. People are wearing coats and scarves here. Except for the tourists who think all of California is Los Angeles so they are wearing shorts, with a sweatshirt that says San Francisco that they bought in over-priced Fisherman's Wharf. Those poor tourists - someone should tell them they could buy the same shit in the Mission for half the price.

Anyway, it's cold. That's the point (so far). So when we went to our lunch the restaurant had turned on the outside heaters. I wound up having to sit right under one, although I'd have preferred to sit as far away from it as possible because I'm a sensitive snowflake who overheats easily.

While we were all getting settled and figuring out what we wanted to order, I apparently waved my hand in front of my face without realizing it. Turkey, who was sitting across from me, asked if I was hot. I didn't want to be a complainer, so I admitted I was, but added that I was fine. He told me the entire left side of my face was bright red. Within 30 seconds he'd flagged someone down and asked if they could turn the heat lamp off.

For all of the Turkey's drinking in the bathroom each morning, hiding jellybeans in the bathroom, losing checks from clients, lying and being passive-aggressive, he did something good today. I was really grateful the heater was turned off. Climbing over his personal assistant once I needed to puke probably would have resulted in a mess on top of her head.

When I overheat it's not just that I get a little uncomfortable. I truly get physically ill. Unfortunately Turkey is such an ego-maniac that I couldn't thank him as profusely as I'd have thanked anyone else, otherwise it'd have gone to his head and he'd bring it up to me any time he wanted me to do something corrupt in the future.

I Bought the More Expensive One

I've been temping for two solid months at the same place. The place where the lawyer is batshit crazy. On Friday, he sent me an email with a letter to me in the body of it, that was supposed to constitute an employment agreement. He sent that with the instruction that I should put it on letterhead and print it out. Neither professional nor classy, but okay. Except. Except that the employment agreement has typos all over it. Which hey, those can be ignored, right? It's a reflection on him, not me. It's just a reflection on my desperation that I'm open to working for someone so unprofessional. My name is misspelled on the signature line though.

There are some parts of the agreement that have run-on sentences, and fragments of sentences. There's a lot of redundancy. In a couple of spots, the writing was so bad I wasn't even sure what he was trying to say. The lawyer tried to get me to sign it right then, and I knew based on the quick skim I'd done, that shouldn't happen. So I refused. "As a lawyer, I'm sure you can understand my wanting to take this home to read when I'm not pressed for time, not interrupted by the phone twice a minute." Reluctantly he agreed, and now is expecting that I'll show up Monday with it signed.

I called Golden Boy and sent the agreement to him, then spread all four pages out on my bed, and we went through each paragraph. Golden Boy was disgusted by this Ivy League lawyer.* "He should be disbarred!" Well. You can't really disbar someone for creating subpar work product, but Golden Boy is not wrong despite that. This lawyer is so unethical that he should be disbarred. He does a slew of illegal things (coughdouble-billingclientscough).

From now on I will refer to this lawyer as Turkey. There's one other lawyer there, the WASPy one, who I cracked, and now don't think of as WASPy at all. Then there's the architect who's getting married later this month and leaving next month to go off to law school. There's also Turkey's personal assistant who's only in the office part-time; nobody likes her. Lastly, there's the part-time billing dude and the full-time office manager who's been there for ten years. She, the WASPy lawyer, and the engaged guy have all told me flat-out, "You don't want to work here." "You're going to keep looking for something else, right? You should."

Come on! I mean, that's a pretty bad sign, right? So I am going to keep looking. In the meantime though, as difficult as it is to work for the Turkey, it's great that I'm finally being offered a steady job with benefits. It's great that I'll have some blog fodder. You know what else is great?

Normally I am not one to count chickens before they're hatched. However. All last week, the engaged dude, the Turkey and his assistant were sick. On Friday the office manager managed to send the engaged guy home early. I Clorox wiped his desk, his phone, the arms of his chair, and Lysol'd the entire office. Looking back, I forgot to Clorox wipe the copier machine. But this morning, I woke up with a sore throat. After volunteering when I got home, I flopped on my bed and slept for almost three hours. When I awoke, my throat hurt even more, and I had fever.

I dragged myself to Walgreens to look for Halls Vitamin C Drops or something to soothe my throat. When I looked at the ingredients I saw there was Red #40 in them. Cold Eeze didn't have any artificial coloring in them, but they were like three dollars more expensive. Artificial coloring in some things negatively affects me so overall I try to stay away. However while I've been out of work I haven't bothered - the things that have that shit are generally less expensive, and so what if it makes my learning disabilities more pronounced if I'm not working?

Today, I spent that extra three dollars. It felt kind of nice to be able to do that.

*This employment agreement is so awful that over the next few blog posts, I will share parts of it with you. We can play, "what do YOU think that means?" It'll be fun. It'll be an example of what you should never do as an employer, and what you should never sign as an employee.

Why Couldn't I Have a Boyfriend?

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

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

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

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

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

Fudgesicle Popsicles and You

The other day my throat started hurting something awful, and I decided that before this turned into a Big Sickness I had better get to the store and stock up on everything I'd need to get through it.

One of the things on my mental list was icepops of some sort. Soup was also on my list, but holy shit there is like a week's worth of sodium in every can of every brand of chicken noodle soup at Safeway, so screw that.

Anyway, when looking at the icepops a few different things were going on:

1. I was running out of steam and needed to leave close to Now to get home
2. There was a guy with a huge dolly unloading food which left very little space for people with wagons to get by him
   
3. There was a guy there with his daughter and their wagon, and neither of them had any sense of how much space they and their wagon were taking up

These three things caused me to grab the first vaguely acceptable pop from the freezer and just get out of there. Upon arriving home though, I realized the pop I'd brought home was not the pop I thought it'd be. I thought I'd gotten the skinny fudgesicle popsicles. Those are great because they're the perfect size and you don't feel like since you're eating them you should go make a macaroni necklace while sitting at a wooden picnic table at camp. You're just a respectable adult having a popsicle.

Turns out, I'd gotten the camp size fudgesicles by accident. I'm not a huge fan of these. Firstly, I'm not a huge fan of chocolate. I mean, it's okay, but like, chocolate does not make me happy. You know those women who laugh when eating salad by themselves? Those same women are the ones who close their eyes in bliss when they bite into chocolate. I'm not one of those women.

I just want a little popsicle, not one big enough that it could easily utilize two sticks. Two sticks is one stick too many, and quite frankly I am not a huge fan of those wooden sticks to begin with. The splinter factor is just too great. Plus there's the whole melting issue to keep track of, and who wants to keep an eye on melting chocolate when they're not feeling well? You might say to just eat the popsicle over a bowl, but again, who wants to have to clean up a bowl when they're not feeling well?

On Twitter, I made some comment about having bought the wrong size of fudgesicle, and at least three people expressed surprise that there are different sizes at all. So this blog post is meant to share and educate. There are different sizes. The smaller size is better. Though, not having a sore throat at all would be best.

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.

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.

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.

So I'm Not Moving to the Inner Richmond

Yesterday I went to see an apartment in the Inner Richmond. For those of you not familiar with the area, the apartment is literally across the street from Golden Gate Park. I met the Asian landlord named Jack who told me he came to this country over 25 years ago and lived in an apartment in the Mission that had roaches, and he stayed because the rent was so low. Now his daughter is starting Berkeley in the fall, and he is a mailman and owns a slew of apartments with his wife.

When I first emailed Jack about the apartment he wrote back that I sounded like the perfect tenant. Sitting on my bed reading his email, I said out loud, "I *AM* the perfect tenant!" We arranged to meet at 3pm so Jack could show me the apartment. I was worried about switching buses and getting lost (Inner Richmond is not my side of the city).

The bus to get there goes straight through Golden Gate Park. I showed up early, so killed time by wandering around a few blocks. It was all very flat and residential, though I later found out I was in walking distance of Geary and Clement.

Jack and I talked for about a half hour. I could tell he liked me. The apartment was fine. I could live there. In our talks, Jack mentioned he was seeing a number of people, so I filled out the application while I was there. Jack said he needed a check for a portion of the security deposit, so I wrote a check for $500. The application needs to be accompanied by $25 for the credit check, so I gave Jack $25. Jack told me he needed proof of income so I told him I would ask my boss (a.k.a. my friend, who offered to let me use her as a faux employer on my resume) to e-mail him confirming my income.

On the way out, Jack all but hugged me. Tonight I got a very nice e-mail from Jack saying in part:

Fortunately, I was able to cancel your screening process. Therefore, I will be able to give you back the $25 fee along with your deposit check. Please advise if 10 Great Sight Lane is the address that you would like me to mail to. Additionally, what is the apartment number?

I am terribly sorry for the inconveniences this may have caused you. I wish you the best finding a place that you like. Thank you.

I wrote back giving my full address and thanking Jack for his time and for being able to give me back the $25, saying it was nice to meet him, etc.

His response?

It was my pleasure meeting you.

I will put in mail first thing in the morning with your deposit check, plus a check payable to you in the amount of $25 (for cash is not allowed in mailing). Rest assured that all documents pertaining your personal information has been destroyed through shredding. Thank you for your understanding.

Even though I am sad, I am not really surprised to not get the apartment. Once he ran my credit I wouldn't have gotten it anyway. Who would rent an apartment to someone who doesn't have a job, has shit credit, and is moving after living in their current home for three weeks? It kind of seems stupid to even bother looking for a place to move at all under these circumstances, but I don't know what else to do.

I just wanted to share this because I thought it was sweet and funny - Jack won't mail cash because he knows, due to his mailman career, that it's not allowed.

Life Sucks

Mama Nabi totally hit the nail on the head the other day - working makes me happy. I like having a reason to get up and get dressed each morning. I like making my tiny contribution to society. I like having structure to my day. I like earning my money rather than collecting unemployment.

The two-week temp job has ended, and I am sad. This evening I went to look at an apartment in this same neighborhood. It's $985. It's at the top of five huge hills where no buses run. It's a room in an old lady's house. There's a kitchen smaller than my bedroom closet. It's not an apartment attached to a house. It's a bedroom in someone's home. A home that smells like an old woman.

Today I got an email from the City of San Francisco. I applied for a job with them several weeks ago. Apparently I am disqualified from the application process because of something I did not understand. I guess you have to be in a training program, or have taken a specific training, but I didn't, or haven't.

Wooffers had sent me an email earlier this week asking me to respond back that I agree, saying that on May 15th she'd given me 60 days notice. I didn't email her back. Yesterday, at my temp job, I met with a lawyer who does tenant advocacy. Three or four times he said, "I wouldn't pay her any more money."

That is what I walked out of our meeting understanding. That a lawyer advised me not to pay any more rent. Wooffers expects me to pay her $500 on May 29th, representing half a month's rent from June 1 - June 15th. Then my last month's rent that I gave her before I moved in would cover June 16th through July 15th.

When I got home from the temp job this afternoon Wooffers asked me to read my emails and respond. I went to look at the old lady room, and when I came back I told Wooffers that obviously she does not want me here, and obviously I don't want to be somewhere that I'm not wanted, so I want to leave as soon as possible. Which means if I can be out of here by June 15th, I will.

Wooffers reply was that as long as I give her 30 days notice that will be fine. She then told me that she wants me to move out because I do not follow her instructions with her precious woofs. This, even after she has gone out of her way to praise me for ignoring them routinely (which is what she told me to do when I come home), saying that most people can't repeatedly ignore dogs that rush to greet them.

What I understand is that Wooffers wants to tell me in great detail (that keeps changing) how much I suck, and then wants me to agree with her, and THEN on top of that, agree that she is generous to be putting up with me for as long as she is. The cherry on top is when Wooffers all but begs me to discuss my feelings about whatever issues she's raised, which of course I refuse to do, saying my feelings don't matter.

Wooffers, emphatically: But your feelings DO matter, to me.

Thing is, I don't give a shit what matters to her at this point. She wants me to care so much about her delicate emotional state, and that for a couple of days she was in her bedroom with her door closed, supposedly because of me. And I just don't. Wooffers wants me to agree how much she's gone out of her way for me, and I won't.

She has created a world where everything revolves around her. I refuse to revolve around her. The end of this month is two full years since I got laid off and stopped working for Tuna and Nice Partner. I can not sustain myself. I am totally fucking cracking. I can not both be out of work and not have a comfortable place to live.

I am a homebody. I like to putter around my house, reading books, playing online, rearranging my furniture. Right now I can not find my true lefty scissors from second grade. I can not reach anything on the top shelf of my closet. I can not find my favorite bowl. I am not comfortable here. I want to go home, but I have nowhere to go and no money to get there.

Edited to add: Wooffers has told me that it's best I keep my bathroom door closed at all times, because the woofs will otherwise go in and make a mess, eating the garbage and whatnot. I keep the door partially closed, but not completely. I have never even seen either woof so much as stick their nose in there. Also, don't bathrooms need to air out? There's no window that can be opened. Maybe I'm imagining things but I feel like it smells musty and moist. This bothers me. Just wanted to mention that since apparently this is an airing of the grievances.

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.

Please Don't Leave

9am came home from work today to say that his boss moved the office from the Financial District out to Menlo Park. We talked about it for a while, and 9am told me his boss has agreed to pay his commuting costs. 9am claims that as long as it takes an hour or less, he's fine with that. I suggested he ask about working from home one or two days each week.

I am terrified 9am will commute for one week and then decide to move out there. Then I will have to scramble to find a roommate. Each time I have had to find a new roommate, I have never been able to do it before the old roommate moves out. I have always had to carry the full rent on my own for at least one month, if not more.

While I might be able to talk the leasing company into letting me out of my lease without charging me three months of rent if I point out my roommate is leaving and I have no job (which they do not know, since I had a job when I moved in), there is no landlord in their right mind who would ever rent to me without a steady income. Plus I can't afford to pay for a move anyway.

To sum things up, I can't afford to stay and I can't afford to leave. To say that every day I hope to die would be a gross understatement. I feel like a completely unproductive member of society, who is merely a drain on the economy. Every single morning I wake up sad to discover I didn't magically die in my sleep. Every single day on the news we hear about one more company shutting down, how many tens of thousands of people are being let go. There's this bailout worth hundreds of billions of dollars, and none of it is going to help me at all. There has never been a moment in my adult life where I feel more stuck than I am now.

Please send 9am "Staying in San Francisco is worth the commute" vibes.

Lack

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Appreciating What You've Got

I am currently accepting any and all advice (as long as it does not come from Oprah) on how to appreciate and be satisfied with what I have.

The other day I was looking at some Facebook pages and saw a "friend," a girl I went to high school with and was friend with then, a girl I've gone to lunch with since moving to San Francisco, is now married. And she never told me.

This is the second time someone I thought would have at least told me they were getting married, hasn't. And I'm wondering if maybe people think I'm one of those single bitter people. Who thinks all married people are Smug Marrieds, like Bridget Jones. Which I'm not. I don't. I was completely pleasantly surprised to discover I'm totally capable of being happy for other people.

Anyway. So obviously this girl is not my friend, she is simply a girl I used to know. And yes, I know. That's what Facebook is about.

But the thing is. What is the thing? The thing is, I am hurt that a girl I am not friends with did not tell me she got married. I am sad that she does not consider me a friend, because surely you tell your friends when you're getting married, right? I mean, even if you're not inviting a friend to your wedding, you let them know that you've gotten married, right?

It would be sad if I had things like this were happening, but what's bothering me more than this is that there are other people, real friends, who ARE reaching out to me. Who do call when big things happen. When they are buying first houses, when my grandpa has died. These are the people who ARE my friends.

And I do appreciate them. I totally notice and am blown away by every little gesture they make, you make. I even try to reciprocate when I can. When I think of it. When I'm in a position to do it.

But why can't I stop being upset about being left out of things? I mean, when somebody draws a line you have to respect that. In 9th grade I was in this art class and overheard a girl named Christine tell a story one Monday morning. Over the weekend she and some friends had gone to a party, and a senior stood up on a table and yelled that freshman weren't welcome. So she left. She said, "Why would I want to be someplace I'm not wanted?" That stuck with me and made an impact.

I don't want to be where I'm not wanted. Really. But why can't I stop wanting to be wanted by people who don't want me? Why can't I just appreciate the people who do want me? Why can't I be happy with what I have? It's more than I ever thought I'd have. So much more.

This Is My Life

I took a week off from avoiding phone calls from creditors and begging for work to deal with the death of my grandfather. Which I didn't deal with at all, because that's how I roll. I am scared that if I let myself feel it, if I start crying, I will never stop. I already take 4-6 hour daily naps. Imagine how much worse that would get. If we are friends in real live, please avoid me if it will bother you that almost every other sentence I say to you will start with, "My grandpa used to ..."

Now I am back to begging for work and trying to deal with creditors and unemployment issues while my grandmother is dying.

Yeah. You envy me. Admit it. You wish you had my life.

Outside Looking In

I am not participating in NaBloPoMoNoMo or whatever it's called. Quite frankly, you don't want me to, because I've got nothing to say. I pretty much stay in bed all day, every day, unless I have somewhere to go, which is very rare these days.

The depression thing is a horrible and vicious cycle. You'd like to think you can talk to friends about when you're not doing well, but nobody wants to hang out with someone who's such a downer. Which only makes you feel worse. Plus, most people get together and do things that cost money, which I can't do. Which again, only makes you feel even worse. Even when people offer to pay for you, that's kind of awkward because not only don't you want to feel like a charity case, but you want to reciprocate and can't.

The result of all that is about once every week and a half, I struggle to shower and get dressed and venture out of my house to get to the library. Where I amble down the street wide-eyed at all the people who are not only dressed, but dressed UP, and look like they do it every day, without a major hardship (and a four-hour nap) (before and after). Where I am amazed at how ... outside everything outside seems. The air is sharper, the colors are brighter, the people aren't all inside the television....

Yeah so I'm not writing every day. If I were, all you'd read about is what's going on with the people who ARE willing to talk to me, and what I think about what they've said. And to be honest, the only person who seems willing to talk to me lately is my father, and I think that's only because my grandpa is having major health issues and my father knows how much I care.

However. I am going to try to comment at least once a day on someone's blog. I realized over the weekend (wait, today IS Monday, right? it's so hard to keep track when you have nowhere to go) that often times I go to comment, then see someone already has four or twelve or however many comments and think, "Oh. Well they won't give a shit what I have to say." But in case I'm wrong, and you do, comments will be made.