Pill Popper

I'm very much a product of the MTV Generation. I like instant gratification. This extends to taking vitamins and supplements. Recently, I had $855 worth of blood work done (thanks to health insurance it only costs me $80), and one of the results was that I am Vitamin D deficient.

My doctor suggested I take a Vitamin D supplement. She said that it may do things that I'll notice, like cause me to gain energy, lose weight, stuff like that. So far I've taken the supplement twice, but I haven't noticed anything. This makes me not want to take it anymore, because I like to see results promptly. Within 25 minutes of taking Advil, a headache will go away. That's what I want with all pill popping I partake in. I am trying to be more patient and accept that I may not notice any difference at all, unless I get my blood work checked again and the numbers change.

*For those wondering, my dentist's sister found a match (who is not me). I have a lot of Big Thoughts about why it was so hard for me to decide, but ultimately, it doesn't really matter. What matters is that the sister get what she needs to live. 

Hi. Can I Come Over?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Open the Windows!

My slumlord is cheap and doesn't pay for garbage pickup on the weekends. He also didn't want to pay for garbage pickup at two ends of the building, so it only goes into one place. That place sadly, is right below my apartment. This means unfortunately, that by Sundays my apartment smells pretty gross and by Monday mornings, the smell is so bad that I worry I smell badly. On Monday mornings after the trash goes out for pickup, the maintenance guys mop the hallway floors. I'm not sure what chemical it is they use on the floors, but it reeks horridly, and the smell of course spreads to the apartments.

There are windows in the hallways, but there have been signs up next to them from the landlord saying they are not the tenant's windows and as such we do not have the right to open them. Furthermore, we will be fined if he catches us (there are cameras all over the building). Recently a notice by the City was posted right outside the front door to the building, telling the landlord he was in violation of a bunch of laws.

One had to do with not allowing us to open windows. Today, as I was walking back to my apartment after dropping off rent and requesting my landlord fix my kitchen light fixture, a guy was frantically opening all the hallway windows while yelling "Open the windows! Open the windows!" He was trying to get me to agree that it's not healthy for us to have no outlet for the chemicals used to clean the floors. Telling me the landlord isn't allowed to refuse to allow us to open the hallway windows.

I was wearing a hoodie, jeans and flipflops. In no way did I look at all official. Although it turns out my landlord has hired attorneys who happen to be sub-tenants at my office, I do not work for them. I don't work for my landlord. There was no reason for this guy to get me on his side. I hold no power.

When the maintenance guy came to fix my kitchen light he asked if I'd heard all the yelling. I nodded and told him it was about the windows. Hector then spilled the gossip about the Yeller. Apparently he had a back injury and got hooked on painkillers. Hector went on to further explain that the guy is also an alcoholic, and the combination of the two is not good. Well! Thanks for all the gossip on the guy who I formerly only knew of as the guy who had a bike and always holds the door for me.

Are we now free to open the hallway windows without fear of getting in trouble? I don't know. The important thing is though, now I know who to go to when building gossip is needed. Hector!

Dirty Secret

When I first moved to Florida, I was living in my grandparents' apartment, had no friends, and was bored. So I did what any Jewish girl from New York would do, and went shopping. A lot. I lived near about three different malls, one of which was an outlet mall, so there were plenty of choices. The truth is, I got a lot of shit I didn't need. The truth is, I got so much stuff that I couldn't properly utilize it all. When I moved to my own place, it wasn't just a walk-in closet. It was a closet that could comfortably fit a bed. A closet I could easily do a cartwheel in. Well, if there weren't so many piles of bags and clothes.

At some point, I confessed to my brother how bad it had gotten, and from the opposite end of the East Coast, he gave me one of the best presents I've ever gotten. He hired someone off Craigslist to help me clean out my closet. Now, unfortunately for this poor girl he hired, despite the fact that I honestly explained how bad things were, she agreed to work for a flat fee. I'm not sure how much Golden Boy paid her, but she knew it was a present for me, and you could see all over her face when I showed her my mess, that she was upset she'd agreed to the price. I wound up giving her like $60 or so, calling it a tip. Plus a few bags of clothes. But I'll bet you she never again agreed to be paid something without seeing what she was walking into after that.

Anyway, this girl, I want to say her name was Clarice, but it wasn't, but it was something like that, was great. Golden Boy sure knows how to word a Craigslist ad. And sift through responses. Clarice and I spent three days sorting, tossing, donating, washing, folding, and ironing. At the end of the experience, I promised myself I'd never let it get that bad again. I've kept my promise. That was the closest I've ever come to being a hoarder.

At the time, I didn't know that word - like the word introvert, it would be a word I'd learn after moving to California - but I was well on my way to becoming one. It was something I didn't want to become, and each time I've moved, I've gotten rid of stuff. You know that little high you feel when you find something in a store to buy? I get that high. But I also get a high when I've created space in my home by getting rid of things also. Time to confess: what do you hoard?

I'm not sure how I stumbled across Jessie Sholl's Dirty Secret book. But I did, and I reserved it from the library. I can't watch Hoarders anymore. It skeeves me out to think of the bugs that must be there. Because I have bugs where I live. Not because I hoard, since I don't, but because I just live in a shitty place. It grosses me out so much that I have hives, daily. So I can't watch Hoarders anymore. I wasn't sure I'd be able to read the book.

Shouldn't have worried. Jessie Sholl could write a fucking phone book and I'd read it. She is funny and light and deep and interesting all at the same time, which shouldn't even be possible. She throws out hoarding statistics that you'd think would get really dry, but somehow they don't. She psychoanalyzes her own mother, publicly. I can't even imagine how difficult that must have been.

Jessie Sholl gave so much background about her mother, the hoarder, that as frustrated as you'll be on Jessie's behalf, you also feel sympathy for her, and understand why she does it. There was a slight touch of Eat, Love, Pray about the book that made me wary, but right before Jessie could have slid down the Italian rabbit hole she stopped and went in another direction.

Also, here's a Surprise! Bonus! At the end of the book she has her Acknowledgments section where she thanks people. You know who she thanks? You know Alice Bradley? That slippery lady? Yeah, me either. But they are friends! Like with each other! How cute is it to find out two awesome writers are friends?

So yes.
Dear Jessie Sholl,
Your book was great. Please write a phone book. Tomorrow.
Thank you,
Green Yogurt
P.S. An Ikea instructional manual would be a fine substitute.

Reason 382 I Am a Terrible Person

There's been a little mystery going on at my apartment this month, and yesterday I realized a flaw in my logic each time I think about it. A big, racially stereotyped flaw. You see, I live in a very echo-y place. I live at one end of the hallway, and if someone coughs at the other end of the hallway, I can hear it. Between the echo-happy materials used in the construction, my super-sonic hearing, and the lack of insulation here, I know way more than I should. I know it's Wednesday sex time on Wednesday afternoons (changed from Sundays). I know when the Indian girls next door are home alone, because that's when they smoke in their bathroom. I know when the little Mexican girl next door is having a sleepover from hearing all their giggles through the wall (it's pretty cute). And I think I know that three little boys down the hall don't seem to have left this building since the new year.

I'm home most of the time. It costs $2 to get anywhere, so I mostly just walk to close places. I can do a loop of post office, bank, drugstore, library, supermarket and back home in an hour without lines. So when I'm not temping, I'm pretty much home all the time. It'd be hard to fathom that these boys happen to leave only when I do.

It was in the week of the New Year that I realized the sounds of three little boys had been constant for a few days. Figured they'd just moved in. Figured the sounds would die down when school started back up. Sure the baby would still be around, and maybe even the middle kid, but at least the oldest one would be out of the house for a good chunk of time each day. Not so.

No, these three boys do not go to school. They speak a mixture of Spanish and English (not that they speak Spanglish, but that they switch back and forth). There are only studios and one-bedroom apartments in this building, so there are at least four people living in these boys' home, but I think it's five. I've heard a male voice soothing the baby when he's crying late at night, and a female voice screaming at all the boys to knock it off when their playing turns to fighting.

From hearing these boys constantly, I've sussed out that youngest is around two, the middle is around four or five, and the oldest boy - the one who taunts and mimics the others when they cry which makes them cry harder - could be anywhere from about six to nine. Six is a stretch, judging from his style of talk, but it's possible.

Then yesterday I had an epiphany! Maybe the oldest one is home-schooled! That would explain why he's home all day. This is where I become (yet again) a terrible person: I immediately dismissed the idea, thinking "these people don't homeschool!"

Promptly I felt ashamed, and tried to dissect my thought. Why not? What about these people makes them not the type to homeschool? They're poor? Lots of poor people homeschool. They're not white? Basically, yes. I honestly can't think of any people I've seen on tv, met in person, or read about who homeschool but are not white. It appears to me that people who homeschool are white. I'll just go stone myself to death now.

Around Christmastime there were two boys playing ball in the hallway one day when I was leaving. As I locked my door the older boy was crouched on the floor, tying his shoe. When I came home they were still in the hallway and as I walked past the older boy I told him, "Your shoe came untied again." He knelt down to fix his laces as I walked to my door. A half hour later I left my house a second time and the boys were still playing ball. The shoelace of the older one was again dragging on the floor. He saw me and immediately told his brother to hold the ball, and as I locked my door, I saw him struggling with his shoelace.

It became clear to me as I locked my second lock that he did not really know how to tie his shoe. When I asked if he'd like some help, he nodded, and I knelt down. As I tied I explained, asking the boy how old he was once I'd finished. "Nine," he admitted quietly. It was clear he knew he should know this skill. I didn't want to make him feel bad. "You'll get it if you practice," I told him. I wonder if these are two of the boys I am hearing all the time. If so, whoever is homeschooling them may want to add shoe-tying to what they're teaching.

It's not because they're not white. That's not why I think these boys are not homeschooled. I could easily expand my vision of People Who Homeschool to include all races and nationalities. No, more than race, it's attitude. The people I've seen who homeschool are really, really into it. Whether or not they're misguided or unequipped to be doing it, they have a clear sense of what they aim to teach their kids.

That apartment with the three kids? The acoustics are such that I can hear the mother when she's quietly talking to her friend on the phone late at night. Her window may be open, but mine is closed. If mine were open I would know exactly what they talked about (if we were language-compatible, that is). My point is, I can hear really well what's going on there (reason 828 I really need a job), and I do NOT hear any adult talking to this boys in any sort of teaching style. It's just not happening.

So I will remain mystified and intrigued by these three boys who are always home, always playing and fighting. I will hope they are somehow getting an education. Lastly, I hope that nine year old who can't tie his shoes either learns soon, or has parents who will get him velcro sneakers so he doesn't get teased by his friends.

*Does it count as people watching if you can't actually see them?

Stand Up

Yesterday I took my friend's daughter ice skating in Union Square. There was a long wait, about half an hour, and the kid asked if she could sit up on the wall nearby. I said yes and gave her a boost up. The two boys in front of us then begged to be allowed to sit up on the wall too, and before long, about a dozen kids, from ages two to about 22 were sitting on the wall. In fact, the only nearby kid who wasn't sitting up on that wall was one little girl who looked about eight or nine years old. She was in a wheelchair, and her dad stood next to her while her mom and sister were in line.

All the kids on the wall seemed so happy to be up there - about five feet up - and I felt bad for the girl in the wheelchair. So bad in fact, that I wanted to go over to the dad and ask if we could just toss her up there so she could be part of the other kids. I didn't do it though, because I got all choked up and would be embarrassed to cry in front of a stranger.

Later, when my friend's kid was skating, I found myself sitting on a bench next to the mother of the girl in the wheelchair. She motioned over one of the skate guard people (I don't know what they're called) and asked him if they could bend the rules, and let her get on the ice in shoes so she could hold her handicapped daughter, who would be on skates, upright. There's a rule that you MUST be on skates to step onto the ice. The skate guard said he would check with his boss.

There was a flurry of excitement and action as the parents raced to get the handicapped girl ice skated. The skate guard came back with the verdict. No. Shoes will slide unsafely on the ice, and the person wearing them would fall. Two more skate guards came over. The girl sat calmly in her wheelchair, watching her sister do rotations around the rink. Guess she's used to not being able to join in any reindeer games. All of a sudden there was a second flurry, and two of the skate guards were lifting the handicapped girl out of her wheelchair.

One stood behind her, holding under her arms, his hands clasped in the middle of her chest as he leaned forward to ask what her name was. "Ava," she told him. "Okay Ava, let's go ice skating." And they did. Her skates glided along the ice, her knees a little bent, and legs looking somewhat useless, but she was upright and she and the ice guard whirled around the rink, weaving around the hoards of people.

All of a sudden, over the music, the traffic, the people, we heard a high-pitched screech. "AVA, you're SKATING!" It was the sister, beaming, face to face with her sister. I guess holding a kid upright when leaning over them and balancing on skates is hard, because after every two rotations around the rink the ice guards switched off holding Ava upright. I have no idea what her handicap is, other than being able to see that her legs could not support her body at all. But for a half an hour, all the ice guards made it their mission to get a girl in a wheelchair on an ice rink in San Francisco. One held her up, while one cleared a path and another made sure no other skaters crashed into them.

Every time the ice guards switched off, the mother yanked Ava's sweatshirt down, since it rode up to her chest as she skated. As she yanked, she kept asking Ava if she was tired and wanted to stop. One look at her face and anyone could see Ava would keep saying no, even if she'd been naked, if it meant she could keep skating. It kind of made my day.

Snippets of Ramblings

- There's a heatwave going on in the Bay Area these days, and as a result the temperature never dipped below 85 in my apartment last night. Combined with the fact that my fan makes a horrid and loud squeaking sound, I never got into a deep sleep last night, and have been awake since 5am.

- One of my favorite shows, Dancing With the Stars, has recently started their 11th season. Jennifer Grey, most famous for not being put in a corner, is on the show. At first I was really, really excited. Can you imagine how great a dancer you'd be if you'd been informally (yet, kind of formally) trained for three months or so by Patrick Swayze, a professional dancer?

I was so excited. I wanted Jennifer Grey to win. Then last week, DWTS showed her crying. It was understandable - I mean, they had her dancing to a song in the soundtrack of the movie that really put her on the map. The movie that also really put her co-star on the map, the same co-star who died a year ago. So Jennifer kind of had a pass for that one, in my book.

Then this week in rehearsals, they show the clip of her explaining how she had cancer and needed multiple neck surgeries, complete with a closeup of her scars on the back of her neck/spinal column. Because I'm still rooting for Jennifer, I was a little disappointed, but hoped this would be the last of the drama. I think it's really important for an actor to understand that there's a time and a place to roll out the drama.

Jennifer and Derek did their dance, a jive, and it was ... solidly great. But here's what bothered me: they had what? a week? to learn this dance. At least a week. I assure you, that when you are doing a dance performance, you do it many, many times in rehearsals. Even once you've gotten it perfect, you just keep repeating it. Muscle memory counts for a lot. So I was a little confused as to why Jennifer was so out of breath that she had to sit/lay down on the dance floor immediately following that dance. It struck me as a little dramatic. A little too much. While I love her dancing (doesn't she look great for 50?), I am not loving all this drama.

Dear Jenners, Please do not let me find out you are putting on these histrionics for votes, and let your dancing speak for itself. It's good enough, and you don't need anything else but that, to shine through. Kthxbai.

- A year or so ago, I applied for a job working for the City of San Francisco. It's in a completely different field from what I do now, and I was intrigued because it pays pretty much the same salary, and I'm actually qualified. Well, not exactly, because I suppose if I were qualified I'd have the job, but I was qualified to apply. I sailed through the first interview, but then failed the second. Luckily, I was able to review what went wrong, and even more luckily, it just has to do with presentation, rather than substance. The City's rule for that position is that you have to wait six months to reapply. I not-so-patiently waited six months, only to find out they'd stopped accepting applications for the position. Crushed. But! Yesterday I saw they're again taking applications, so I am pulling all my paperwork together to apply once more. I don't get hopeful anymore, but as much as I do, I am.

I Will Help

I am in the minority in this apartment building. My guess is less than a quarter of the tenants are white here. The landlord treats most tenants like shit. Not me though, because to an unintelligent person, I come across as whip-smart. It takes effort not to yell when I catch him treating other tenants like shit. He gets away with it because a lot of them don't (or barely) speak English.

One interesting thing I noticed about living here is that the non-white tenants are much more friendly than the white ones. They hold doors open. The other day an old black man using a cane moved past me on the stairs to help me haul a laundry cart up the staircase. I felt so guilty letting someone with a handicap do something physical to help me. They always say hello. With eye-contact and everything. They move out of the way on the stairs. If I drop something they rush to pick it up. Last week when I was going into my apartment a little baby going for a walk in the hallway rushed in behind me.

His mother zoomed up and started apologizing to me. I laughed and said it was okay, and waited for the baby to go to her. She was standing right in front of my doorway, looking strangely hesitant, and for a minute I couldn't figure it out. Then I realized - she wouldn't come in because I hadn't invited her. She really thought she couldn't go after her own child? Obviously I encouraged her in, and we exchanged a flurry of "I'm so sorry's" and "Oh it's okay, he's so cute's" while she got him to walk out.

The other day - the one where the heat was out of control - I went to Trader Joe's. I was shopping for myself and a friend who's out of commission. Walking home from the bus stop, sweat was pouring down me as I carried four heavy bags. My friend's little girl had come with me and she was carrying the two lightest bags. For me, they would be light. For her, they were heavy, and we stopped to rest every third of a block or so.

When we were about three blocks from home, a Vietnamese woman came up to us. "Do you live at 123 Willow?" she asked. Surprised, I said yes. She pointed at the girl and explained that she recognized her and also lived there. Then, she took the bags from her and said to me, "I'm going home; I will help." I was so shocked. I was blown away. Who ever does that?

She carried the two bags all the way up to my front door on the second floor. I almost hugged her.

Apartment #3: There Are Hardly Ever Cockroaches

That's what the landlord said to me as I stood in the tiny kitchen, looking at the smaller-than-average oven, the shallow sink, the rotting cabinets. I peaked into the bathroom, and my first thought upon seeing the dark shower stall was, "This is a perfect place to commit suicide." I could almost see the dead body hanging there.

I look at jobs every day. Most days, twice a day. I have approximately four months of unemployment checks left. Then I will officially have run out of incoming money. When I go to sleep at night, I think of different things I can do to Wooffers. A Facebook friend emailed me to say she lived with a similar roommate, and when she was moving out she may have "accidentally" thrown out some of the roommate's things. That crosses a line for me, but it got the mental ball rolling. Even though I'm sure some would say dreaming of revenge is not healthy, I must wonder if those people ever got screwed. Living well may be the best revenge, but when I was at my highest point, even then nobody ever would have said I was living well. I was just living the best I ever had.

I've never had cockroaches. Once, when I lived in Florida, I found a huge bug crawling across the living room. I screamed and rushed to vacuum it up (because that seemed like the logical thing to do after bashing it with a shoe). After that buggy day, I kept any open food in the refrigerator. Box of crackers? Fridge! Bag of pretzels? Fridge!

I do not want to live among cockroaches. I am trying to be more open to compromise, but I think cockroaches may be a line I am unable to cross.

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.

A Post About the New Digs

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's All Just Too Much

A. The trip to Mexico
B. The move
C. How it ended with 9am
D. The new roommate
E. The new 'hood
F. The future of well, my future

You decide.

Not the Discussion I Was Expecting

You guys know I'm a real bitch. You know how much I laugh at people when they trip. Or fall. Or both! You know that sometimes when I'm bored I amuse myself of thinking of past trips and falls seen days or weeks ago.

But I try to be a nice bitch, if there can be such a thing. I try to make sure that when I direct my bitchiness at someone it is deserved. Nothing makes you feel worse than giving an accidental bitching.

It was past 9pm when I finally sat down to dinner this evening. I was eating in my bedroom, because 9am was home and if I sit in front of the tv he has a habit of coming over and standing in front of me silently, waiting for me to acknowledge him. He then talks about whatever his issue is. I spend a lot of time with movies paused. It pisses me off.

Tonight, while eating dinner there was a knock on my door. I did not want to acknowledge 9am, because I am outrageously tired (I haven't been able to sleep during this heatwave) and stressed and, and, and. But I did the mature thing and went to say hi and see what 9am wanted to discuss this time.

Somewhat nervously, 9am asked if he has done something to hurt my feelings or offend me in some way, because if he has, he wants to fix it and apologize. He feels I've been angry at him.

This was my moment to tell him all the things he does that annoy me. How he leaves wet, used paper towels on the kitchen counters, that he never cleans out the toaster despite using it daily, that black dress socks don't go with white sneakers especially when you're going to work out at the gym. But the thing is, we're moving out in a week. I will not be here for the majority of that time. 9am is moving way out to the suburbs. The likelihood of ever seeing him again is quite small. So I decided there was no point. It doesn't matter that his moving out before the lease is up causes me problems. Why? Because he's not going to decide to stay due to that.

I told 9am that what I was about to say might not come out too sincerely because I've been rushing around so much today that my adrenaline was in overdrive. However. I have a lot going on right now and am very stressed, but I'm not angry with him. That we're both moving, and moving is stressful. That I'm going out of the country the weekend before my move. I could not stress the stress enough.

9am then confessed that normally he falls asleep five seconds after laying down, but the last few nights it's taken him hours, because he's been worried he did something wrong or offended me. I asked how long 9am has been feeling this way. "About a week," he admitted.

I felt awful. Spent a few minutes talking about how hard it is to find a replacement roommate to fill a spot on your lease when you have two weeks to do it (9am admitted to now understanding why those 30 days I kept bringing up were important). He seriously looked like a huge weight was off his shoulders. I asked 9am why he carried this around for so long, why he didn't say something sooner.

"I was scared it would be something awful, something too big to fix," he told me. We hugged, and I reiterated that we're cool, said he has to live his life for himself and that I totally understand that. Because he does, and I do. 9am told me that if there's anything he can do to help with all this to please let him know. In fact, he said it two or three times.

So I decided to toss it out there. "Think about if you want to help me move a week from this Saturday. You can let me know if you can do it next week, you don't have to give me an answer right now." 9am's eyes got wide. I think that was a little more than he was expecting, but he said okay to thinking about it. I won't be offended if he doesn't help.

The entire conversation was very weird. For some reason I thought 9am would be angry at ME, because I wouldn't sign the form he wanted that would take away his financial obligations here. Funny how things work.

Resurfacing

There were two middle schools in my town, and then just one high school. Richie came from the other middle school, not mine, and he hadn't been popular. He hadn't been unpopular, but he hadn't been one of the popular kids. When he arrived in ninth grade, everyone from my middle school thought he was outrageously cute and funny and nice, and we all promptly got a crush on Richie. When the girls from the other middle school realized what a diamond they'd had, they immediately all developed crushes on Richie too. He got voted school treasurer. Richie became popular overnight. For his birthday, my friend took him into the woods behind the school to give him a birthday blowjob.

Richie had two secrets though. He began working at the supermarket where I worked and that's how we became friends. One day my father drove me to work to pick up my check and Richie was there for the same reason. As he pretended to put money into the candy box he winked at me as he took a handful of candy. Exiting the office, paycheck in hand, we headed out of the supermarket together. It was pouring, and it came out that Richie was about to walk home. He lived in the opposite direction from my house.

But somehow, knowing it would be okay, I breezily said, "Oh, my dad will drive you home," and Richie followed me to the car. Leaning in, I introduced my father to him, explained he lived down near McDonalds, and asked if we could take him home so he wouldn't have to walk.

It was less than a five minute drive, and I don't remember what was talked about, except that Richie called my father sir, and I giggled (hey, I was 14, these things were funny then).

One day when we were working, I asked Richie if I could call him Dick. "Only once," he responded. I promised him I'd save the honor for a special occasion in that case.

In tenth grade I worked at Haagen Dazs. A kid named Michael also worked there, and he'd gone to Richie's middle school. He told me Richie's first secret, that his family was very poor. I never would have guessed. Partially because we lived in this upper-middle class area and barely anyone was poor, and partially because Richie and his older sister never gave any indication of being poor.

As Michael and I worked together longer, he told me Richie's second secret, which I found much more fascinating than the first - that Richie was a dancer. At some point when Richie and I were alone, I made some joke that involved some ballet words, and he laughed, but then looked at me like, "how did you know I'd know what that meant?"

Richie was actually popular enough that he could have told people he danced and not had his stock go down, but as far as I know he never did. Towards the end of 10th grade I left the high school, never to see Richie again.

About two years after graduating, I was in a composition course at a local college and ran into a boy named Andy from high school. Andy and I caught up during breaks and he told me Richie's life had gone downhill since we'd last been in touch. He'd developed a drug problem. A pretty severe one, that caused him to wind up in jail, in rehab, in a world of trouble.

Sadly, Andy showed up to class one day and told me he'd gone to the dentist for a routine checkup to be told he had a huge tumor in his jaw, and after that day I never saw him again.

Then I was working as a teacher's aide in the same high school I'd left in 10th grade, and who pops up in one of my classes, but Richie's little sister? When she walked in and told me her name I asked if Richie was her brother, and a horrible look came over her face as she confirmed. What Andy had told me came rushing back and I never brought up Richie to her again.

A few months ago, a girl I grew up with posted a photo on Facebook (where else?) that included Richie and I sent her a message, asking after him. She knew nothing. Two days ago, Richie's big sister commented on that photo. I followed her link, and there's Richie, alive and in his 30's.

There's a weird pallor to his skin now, and the light I remember being in his eyes is gone, even in pictures with family where he's clearly trying to present as happy. He just looks ... not like the same boy in ninth grade. The boy who was overwhelmed and flattered to have his own Sally Field moment, and totally ran with it and rocked it.

Bringing Iran Home

I've had a slew of roommates. Two in college, two in Florida, and five in San Francisco (four of whom I've blogged about). In order, we had:

1. White hick from North Bumfuck, New York
2. The least cool black girl in all of Brooklyn, New York
3. Latina girl from Northern Florida
4. Half-jewish girl from Nice, France
5. Crunchy lawyer-girl from midwest
6. Young Lacey from different part of midwest
7. Steamroller
8. Trixie
9. 9am

My roommate 9am is Iranian. I seem to have a pattern of being roommates with people who are from places the U.S. is having issues with (the mountain). Remember when George Bush was angry at France and french fries became freedom fries? That was when I had a roommate from Nice, France. I brought her with me to a breakfast with my family and dared her to order freedom toast (she wouldn't do it).

A couple of weeks ago, 9am spent about a half hour teaching me the last 60 years of Iranian history regarding government. As I always do, I had a lot of questions, to the point 9am almost called his mother to get clarification on some issues.

This weekend 9am's dad is here. I met him tonight and he is very warm and friendly. I like him. He is easy to talk with. He lives in San Diego, and told me what it's like there. I feel really lucky that I've gotten to meet people from different parts of the country, and world, and talk with them and learn about the places they come from.

People sometimes ask why diversity is so important. This is why. Because when I hear Iran, I will think of 9am* and his dad. I will not think it sounds similar to Iraq and we hate Iraq so we hate Iran too. Because the more people you meet, the broader your world is, the more it opens up. Next time the news mentions Iran, I'm more likely to pay attention because I'll have a base of knowledge that I didn't have before. It will mean more to me (than nothing). Knowledge is power and all that shit.

Question for you nine who are reading: when your parents are coming over, do you clean your home? 9am did not clean at all. He didn't vacuum, throw out the garbage, clean his bedroom, clean off the dining room table (piles of 9am's mail), clean the kitchen in any way, etc. It's not like his father comes over every week or anything - this is his very first visit out here. Is it a girl thing to clean before guests (especially parents) come over, or a me thing?

*Yes, 9am is misogynistic and clueless and cooks chicken in the mornings. But as far as roommates go, he is overall a good one.