Grace and Dignity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vote With Your Fork

I was reading this article by Marion Nestle where one of the phrases she says, is to vote with your fork.

One of the things she says is that you set an example, and make it social acceptable for others to care. There are no grocery stores in San Francisco that use plastic bags anymore. The smaller food grocery stores, like Trader Joe's and Whole Foods sell reusable bags, and most give you five cents off your bill or something if you bring your own bag. However, they also have brown paper bags for bagging food.

Maybe a year ago, a TJMaxx opened two blocks away, and because I'm an old lady, I went to check it out. I bought a frying pan, and they gave me a reusable bag for it. When I go food shopping, I try to remember to bring it with me. I can't even tell you how many people have commented on it. Always tourists.

I'm not the most environmentally friendly person around, but I'm always happy to promote doing something that's less damaging, so I'll stand there and talk about how no, it's not a huge inconvenience to go through life without plastic bags. Yes, it really is possible to remember your bags when going food shopping. Then I tell them how to get to Macy's, Old Navy, or Fisherman's Wharf.

It's almost like, because I do so little for the environment, I owe it to said environment to encourage others to do what I do. Because it practically is the least that can be done. I'd like to get better in this area. The whole bringing-my-own-bags and refusing bags in stores is not enough. Buying more organics, buying less meat, recycling, composting - these all need to happen. I would like to make sure I donate everything that can be donated, rather than throwing things out. Does it make sense that I want to set a better example for myself?

Everything is NOT About YOU

A few days ago, while my parents were in town, we went to see a movie. Two girls were sitting in the row in front of us, and they had their feet up on the seats in front of them, which pushed their seats back. Directly into my knees. The girl in front of me kept throwing her head back every few minutes, further jamming her seat into my knees. I couldn't find a way to sit that was not uncomfortable. Finally I ran out of patience. I leaned forward, and very quietly said, "Excuse me. Is there any way you could stop pushing yourself back in your seat? It's going directly against my knees every time and really hurting me." Her friend barely looked back at me as she responded, "Why don't you move?"

Why don't *I* move? Because I'm not the one doing something I shouldn't be doing which is then causing someone else difficulty! If you want to do something like put your feet up on the back of the chair in front of you that's none of my business ... until you make it my business. After they finished exchanging "She's such a bitch!" looks, and "Oh my god, can you BELIEVE her?" looks, they each got up and moved to the row ahead of the one they'd been sitting in. My knees and I were very relieved. The bruises should be gone by the end of the week.

Yesterday as I was walking home from work, there was a middle-aged plump woman with a bad perm walking in front of me. She was on her cell phone, and walking slower than the average pace. She was also weaving and each time I tried to move around her, she weaved in front of me. My only option besides continuing on behind her would be to step into oncoming traffic.

I chose to open my big mouth. "You keep weaving in front of me each time I try to pass you," I told her. She looked at me, pausing from her phone call. "Sorry ... bitch!" I was a little surprised to be honest. Probably because it was clear she'd surprised herself by calling me a bitch. She didn't have any way of knowing what I was listening to on my iPod, that I was all pumped up from it. That the song, combined with the physical exercise outside after sitting inside all day, plus her calling me a bitch, shot adrenaline through my system in an instant. I was a little amused by the predicament she'd just put herself into, and my lack of fear clearly made her feel she was in over her head. She scurried ahead and then ran across the street. For half a second I thought about staying on her heels just to rattle her, but did the mature thing and hung back, putting some space between our surprising confrontation.

It got me thinking, though. Twice people did obnoxious things that, while not illegal, a little ... dickish, and twice when these people were called out for their dickish behavior negatively affecting someone else, they got angry. As if the person they'd hurt/annoyed should have just taken it and stayed quiet. As if "me" is more important than "you." Why? And when did this happen? Didn't it used to be different? Didn't people used to trip all over themselves to help others?

When I talked to my friend about this, she suggested that nobody ever wants to be called out on their bad behavior. It's not as if someone littered and I tsk-tsked at them. Why are people caring so much about their lives, their comfort, that they don't care if their comfort infringes on someone else's comfort? How do we change things back, to the time when if we realized we hurt someone, we immediately apologized and felt badly about it?

So I'm a Little Weird

But this is not new. And it's in a different way. I used to be weird in the bad way, like that girl in third grade who licked walls or whatever. I was weird in that way where you can't help it, and you want to be like everyone else but just can't swing it.

Since moving to San Francisco, home of people not just representing the quirk factor, but competing and winning the quirk factor Olympics, ironically it's gotten me to be more normal. Partially it's because I've spent years shaking off the weirdness of my family, and partially it's because my parents were so particular with how everything had to be done, everything that should be said, and I was perpetually nervous. In San Francisco, it's okay to be weird. Hell, it's practically encouraged. When it's okay to be weird, you're not so nervous you'll screw up being perfect.

At my temp job, there is a weird lady who delivers the mail. I like her! Find her amusing as all get out. She comes up the stairs, and in her little accent sing-songs, "Here is your mai-ail!" Mail is two distinct syllables. She likes to wait to be acknowledged before singing, "Goodbye! Have a nice da-ay!" She sings her sentences in such a way that you expect her to skip instead of walking. That's funny enough, but what cracks me up is the fact that it's all an act. I've run into her on the street a couple of times and she talks normally there when I've asked a mail-related question.

After work on Friday I went to a store nearby to look around, and while I was standing near the stairs she walked in to deliver the mail. When she sang about the mail to the shop employees, they smirked and rolled their eyes to each other. As she walked out she saw me and did a double-take. Any time someone sees a person outside of their element, I always think of my first grade teacher Mrs. Friedman, and how she was so mean and yelly to me, but when my mom and I ran into her at the supermarket she was so nice to my mom. It totally disgusted me that she pretended to be a nice person and didn't let my mom see her true mean side.

We said hi to each other, and chatted for a few minutes. The mail lady didn't sing while we chatted; she was a normal person finishing up her job for the day. Now I don't remember what we talked about, but it was very casual chit-chat stuff, and probably just two or three minutes. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the employees looking at me confused. Why would anyone be talking to the mail carrier?

As I walked out of the store, I felt ashamed. I did something by accident that made me look weird. But then I changed my mind. Fuck them and their pretentious hipster judgments. I saw someone I knew, and talked with them. That's normal. If they wouldn't lower themselves to talk to someone, then they should feel ashamed. Not me. I'd rather be thought of as weird for chatting with someone than normal for not lowering myself to talk with someone.

May Madness

Getting what you want is never quite as good as you think it'll be. It's really hard to go from zero to sixty and that's what I did, literally. This lawyer had me working tons of overtime - so much that some nights I just came home, set my alarm for the morning, and flopped into bed for the night. The having money part is great. The structure to the day is great. It's just hard ramping up. Now he is away in Europe for a couple of weeks, so there's no more overtime while he's gone. Hopefully (sort of) he will make me a permanent employee when he returns from his vacation.

One of the great things about working is it streamlines my reading. I read on my lunch hour every day, and then a couple of chapters at night to calm down enough to go to sleep. When I think about how libraries were in the pre-computer days it makes me sad for all the library goers. How awesome is it to read a magazine, see reviews of books that interest you, reserve them and get an e-mail telling you the books are ready for you to pick up? Remember the olden days when we needed to just go there and hope they had what we wanted? Or when we needed to haul our asses all the way there just to reserve a book?

Meanwhile, one friend died and another friend seems to have dumped me. The first was expected and a years-long, drawn-out process while the other was sudden and shocking. I have cried over both. I have so few friends that to lose one for any reason slays me.

On the home front, the washing machine ate $2 worth of quarters this evening, so a letter was written to the landlord and dropped in the box where rent's supposed to go. Hopefully he will reimburse like he did last time.

There is a little Indian toddler who lives on my floor. She goes with her mother to do laundry, and likes to follow me around any time we see each other. Once she followed me into my house, and I almost stepped on her by accident. I haven't seen her in a few months, but tonight on the way home I saw a little Indian baby who is just the cutest thing, and I want to steal her. There seem to be a lot of babies living here - over a dozen. I count them based on the strollers kept all over the hallways. The landlord likes to write yelly memos in all caps that he puts up around the building, but they're in English and a lot of people here don't read English.

So You Think You Can Dance is starting up in a few weeks, and I'm very excited. Few things make me as happy as seeing people dance who love it.

I have a secret. I have volunteered at the same place for ... two years? There are four or five guys who are there. They all have names like Peter and Steve and I have zero idea which name goes with any of the guys. Of course at this point, not only do they all know my name, but it's been too long and it'd be awkward to ask now. Normally I'm better with names than this - I don't know why the block exists here. I do know the name of the volunteer coordinator, if that redeems me at all.

So that's what is going on here. What's going on with you?

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.

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.

My Hand Was Eaten By a Giant Snake and I Was Waiting For the Reattachment Surgery

What? That sounds like a hell of a better reason than "I can't think of anything good to sayyyyyyyyy." 

In a nutshell, my life still sucks, but I'm tired of bitching about it, thus leaving me little to talk about.

Did I tell you I went to Mexico for the wedding of Golden Boy and Crazy Girl at the end of April? No? Well. Hi, I went to Mex ... yeah. So anyway.  My mother knew I was some sort of special type of moron way back in elementary school, and she went through different phases regarding it.  Sometimes she tried to pretend I was just like all the other kids, but other times she admitted I couldn't run with the bulls and did things like fussing at the administration to make me foreign language exempt from middle school, on through high school.  

Now, I don't know if my lack of taking Spanish is why I am completely unable to say anything with a proper accent, but I doubt it, since all the French words I know courtesy of years of ballet also come out of my mouth without an accent.  

This means that gracias always sounded like grassy-ass when I said it.  The frustrating thing was that I'd hear it come out of my mouth that way, hear that it was wrong, and still not be able to say it with the correct pronunciation.  Thus, the little foreign language I know, I never used.  You would cringe to hear me say croissant.  Except that I never say it because I'm embarrassed at how it sounds coming out of my mouth. 

I was very worried that the Mexicans I would encounter would sneer at me and make me feel like shit for my shitty attempts at Spanish, and for reverting back to English after the greeting portion of conversations had been completed.  My brother reassured me numerous times that this would not happen.  That Puerto Vallarta is a resort area, that they want you to have fun and be comfortable.  That they all speak English, and if they don't, someone who does will always be close by (this was true also).  

The Golden Boy does not lie.  Everyone was so warm there.  Even the cab driver who fucked me over did it nicely (it was my mistake - I'd been warned to always ask a cab driver how much the ride would cost before getting in the cab, and I didn't think to do that, figuring it would cost the same amount to get back to the hotel as it had cost to get where I was leaving from).  

I pushed myself really hard to always speak in Spanish if I knew the words for what I was trying to say.  They must be used to that in a tourist town, and by the second day I had gotten pretty good at using a combination of Spanish, English and pantomime to get concepts across.  By the third day my grassy-ass had become a real gracias and all of a sudden the accent I could never wrap my tongue around had materialized.  

Which may account for why two weeks ago, when I found myself lost in the Mission and running late, I didn't hesitate to walk up to three men manning a garage sale, greet them and then ask where the street I needed was, all in Spanish.  They answered me in English, which to be honest, is good, since I would not have understood "You're very close, just two or three more blocks that way," in Spanish.  

As my friend and I walked on she said to me in amazement, "I didn't know you speak Spanish."  I smiled.  "I don't." 

The Michael Jackson Thing

I've had this rolling around in my head for a week or so now, but with all this coverage of the funeral, it's spilling out. I just want to start out by saying that I liked a lot of the older MJ music. I liked his dancing. I have always separated the artist from their art. I can like a person without liking their art, and can like their art without feeling I need to profess my love for the artist.

There is no denying Michael Jackson was huge. It is a fact. However, I believe, and have believed since seeing his interview with Martin Bashir, that his hugeness was a huge part of Michael Jackson's problems. It was during the airing of that interview that I came to think Michael Jackson did not believe the rules and laws applied to him. (I happen to think Tupac Shakur had the same problem, by the way.)

You may be rolling your eyes and thinking things that involve the phrase "speaking ill of the dead" to which I roll my eyes back. Because this is all just Too Much. CNN just interviewed some woman (who does NOT have tickets to get into the Staples Center) standing on the street. She traveled by bus for three days from North Carolina to LA in order to attend this event. She said she sold all her belongings.

Really? REALLY? When you go home and are hungry and want to cook some pasta but realize you no longer have a POT to boil water, will you truly feel it was worth it? When it gets cold and you don't have a sweater or extra blanket will you feel like it was worth it? Sometimes grand gestures are not so grand. They are just stupid.

Another thing disgusting me this morning. There is a red carpet at this funeral. Celebrities are posing. For a funeral. Gross. I get that this is to celebrate Michael Jackson's life. But this is also a funeral.

How would you feel if your parent had just died, and millions of people who didn't even know him were crying over it, and screaming that they love him? Michael Jackson is not theirs to cry over. He "belongs" to his children. Well, and maybe those little boys he developed "special relationships" with too.

Don't talk to me about how Michael Jackson is an icon, how he invented the moonwalk. I know. I don't care. Los Angeles is asking people to donate money to pay for all the security they are forced to provide for crowd control.

I Ain't Got Shit To Say

I'm so tired of "having issues" that you must be tired of reading about them. Unfortunately, you can't really run away from yourself, so I'm stuck having my issues until I can get rid of them, which is proving harder than getting off the Val Pak mailing list.

There are lots of other people with shit to say, but since it's bad enough this is a pansy post by passing you off to read other writing, I'll just give you one link, THIS ONE. It's some of the funniest shit I've read lately. Of course, that may be because I've been reading a lot of Thomas Perry books, and he's not known for his humorous writing.

I've also been watching a lot of movies, courtesy of Netflix, but neither Billy Elliot nor Trainspotting are particularly funny either. No, I'm pretty sure that one link above is funny because it's funny, not because I've been surrounded by non-funny things.

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.

Suddenly (I See) Susan

By now, you've all seen the Susan Boyle video. I have too. And I'm absolutely disgusted by it. By everything surrounding her. The only thing that doesn't disgust me is Susan herself. Once again, I am disappointed by society. Society, you have let me down once more.

Something really needs to change if we would look at someone, and decide, based on appearance, how well they might be able to do something that has absolutely NOTHING to do with appearance. Maybe we need to go back to the old days when we heard singers on the radio and didn't watch them on tv, so we would focus on their actual talent, rather than their fake tits and perky, Crest White Stripped smiles.

The only shocking thing to me about Susan Boyle is that she wasn't discovered years and years ago. Her looks should have absolutely nothing at all to do with her ability to be marketed for her voice. Quite frankly, if a marketing team said they were unable to market her due to her looks, I'd think they weren't very good at their jobs.

I hope Susan Boyle is able to use this show as a springboard for a singing career. Partially because she has a fabulous voice and it would be great if more people got to hear Susan, but also because I hope she will be a (visual) reminder that appearance is not everything. People are so much more than how they look. It's sad that society needs to be reminded of this fact.

My hope is that as people are reminded, they will stop being nice to stupid-yet-pretty girls who coast on their looks, and expect them to propel their lives.

Susan, your voice is beautiful. I thought you were beautiful. I hope you go far. If I bought music, I would totally buy anything you recorded.

Whoa

1. Both my parents friended me on Facebook.
2. I went to a tea party today for the first time in my life. I do not drink tea.
3. Sometimes I feel like I have no friends and am completely alone while other days I am overwhelmed by how much people reach out to me.
4. The other night while walking home I ran into the owner of a small business here in SF that I used to frequent when I had money. It's a nail salon, and as the owner locked up for the evening I asked how business was doing. The answer given was surprising. The owner told me that although he had to let a few people go, business was still maintaining. That since it was only $40 or $50, people are still making appointments. That it's important to continue to pamper yourself. Um, if business is so good, why did you lay people off?

Where Are You?

I could add to this, or I could just let it all spill out here. Since I haven't blogged in a while, we'll go with here. Here's where I am.

For the first time this year, on Thursday and Friday I worked. That'll get it's own blog post, because it was just that juicy. I'll just say now that I hate the way the firm is run, but if they had any job openings I'd apply faster than you can say "lawsuit" because there are no coins in my can to shake as people walk by.

My lease ends in July. Looking online, I saw that my apartment complex is advertising apartments just like mine for $500 less than I pay. On Friday evening, 9am told me commuting to San Mateo isn't working out for him, and he's moving out by March 1st. Each month I barely scrape together my rent of $1700 (oh yeah, that's right). So there's no way I can afford to pay both my rent AND his rent come March 1st.

You want to tell me to break my lease, and just move out now, I know. But I can't afford to move. To hire movers. And despite having more friends here than I did in Florida and New York, I don't have friends who would help me move. Just people who are friendly enough to say, "Wow, yeah moving sucks, good luck!" I can't afford a security deposit - the one I gave here was only for $99 because they were running a special. Plus, what landlord would rent to someone who has no income?

What about unemployment? Well, that runs out in about 11 weeks. Unless Obama's stimulus thing is going to stimulate unemployment benefits within the next two and a half months.

So as of March 1, I can't afford to live here. But I can't afford to move. I have nowhere to go. Oh wait. Except. Except that Friday night (I know, it's quite the exciting life) while on the phone with my parents, they said I am welcome to move in with them. In Florida. Land of Humidity.

You may see how desperate things are that I am considering this (no offense, Mom & Dad). I had a lot of questions. How would things work? How much rent would I have to pay you? Would you be treating me like your child or like a roommate who you just happen to know very well? How long do you intend for this to be? My parents had no answers. My father suggested I write out all my questions and e-mail them so he and my mother can discuss and present a united front.

I love living in San Francisco. As much as I complain about it, I love it. I've made better friends here than I've ever had in my life. I love that I went from not really "getting" why gay people were gay at all, to getting all teary when talking about why gay rights are so important. I love the Farmer's Market, even though I haven't gone in over a year. I love that (extremely) slowly, the bus lines are coming together for me. I love that I'm almost ready to buy clothing in a used clothing store. I love living in a city where you can meet up with a friend, go hiking, and come out of the woods to find yourself overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

And I don't care - I'd give it all up in a heartbeat. Really, I'd walk away from it and go South. I can always move back here later. I could deal with frizzy hair again, rain every afternoon, being surrounded by capri pants, and living in Jeb Bush Land.

Could I deal with being stranded in a house with my mother in the suburbs all day, every day? Could I deal with being asked where I'm going by my mother every time I get up from a chair? Could I deal with having to be present for my parent's fighting?

Yes. I do. Because I'd have to. What I'm not sure I could deal with is living there and having just as hard a time trying to get a job there as I'm having here. That is my biggest hesitation in saying I'm moving back to Florida. Sure, I wouldn't be paying $1700 in rent. I'll have stopped going as far into debt as fast as I am now.

I am severely depressed right now. My room is a wreck. Right now, on my bed there are two messenger bags, a towel, a sweater, a makeup case, a copy of a timesheet, a scarf, and me. There's a huge mess of papers and magazines on the floor that I can't seem to sort through. There's a stack of books to be donated to the library on the floor. I am having trouble eating. Not just because I have become permanently nauseous as of a few months ago. But I keep getting paralyzed by indecision and can't plan which meals to eat when in order to keep food from going bad. The battery on my watch died. I'm wearing it anyway, because I feel naked without a watch.

I flit around my apartment unable to tackle any one issue, overwhelmed by how many there are. I need someone to swoop in and fix it all, but there is noone. I have nobody. Each day last week I meant to go to the library. I never went. Why? Couldn't say.

Meanwhile everyone around me keeps moving forward. Planning and going on vacations. Buying new gadgets, new clothes, new whatevers. "What do you mean, you've never been to Tahoe?" they ask me. "Well where do you go for vacation?" I go to New York for open heart surgery, or Florida for a 90th birthday party for a man who will die three months later.

So I sit, looking out my window at the rain, waiting for somebody to tell me what to do, since apparently I can't make any good decisions, as all of mine have gotten me to this point.

No, It's Not Mother's Day

1. I inherited my soft skin from my mother, who inherited it from her father, my grandpa.

2. When we were first moving to New York, we stopped in at a local drugstore. My mother ran in to get something and I followed her while my brother and father stayed in the car. I was three and a half then, and my favorite colors were pink and green (hey, some things don't change). While in the drugstore, my mother bought me a little hand mirror that said SMILE on the back and was decorated with pink and green. I loved it.

3. I got busted by my father for sliding down our banister and after he finished yelling at me I went to my mother, crying. After I confessed what I'd done, my mother smiled, put her brush down, and took me by the hand into the study, where she pulled out an old photo album. To show me a picture of her own mother, sliding down a banister in the late 40's or early 50's.

4. In second grade when I was sick and out of school for several days, I got sad and started crying one afternoon. When my mother asked why, I said it was because nobody from school had called to ask after me. She nodded and then excused herself. A couple of minutes later the phone rang, and my mother yelled for me to answer it. When I said hello, the person on the other end was my mom, calling me from our other line to ask why I'd been out of school, expressing how sad she was that I wasn't there, etc.

5. My mother will claim that all the animals she draws look exactly the same (except the pig, which gets a squiggly tail), but I claim that she used to draw beautifully. For every single holiday, even the ones nobody celebrates like Groundhog's Day, my mom would draw some cute little design on paper with different colored markers and leave it on my place-mat for me to find in the morning before school. I loved those.

6. My mother was willing to spend hours after school sitting on the couch, watching me do handstand after handstand, critiquing me so I could reach my goal of being perfect.

7. Just like they do in regular public school, my hebrew school also took yearly pictures. One year I'd really liked how my picture came out, but I couldn't find any of the pictures and got all upset about it. I worked up a whole speech in my head about why I should be allowed to have one of my pictures, and launched into it in front of my mother, trying but failing to hold back tears. After a few minutes she interrupted me, took me by the hand, led me into the den where she sat me down on the couch, and she sat down on the piano bench. With a little smile, my mother said, "Now, what did you want to talk to me about?" There on the piano was that hebrew school picture, in a white frame that had a pink and green design.

8. In seventh grade my mother taught me five years worth of math in one week. Because she really is that good of a teacher.

9. When I was 18 and very sick for months and months, my mother got a Carvel crunchy cake for me that said, "Feel fine fast."

I Had To Look Up How Inauguration Is Spelled

So, dude takes office tomorrow or something. Yeah. Very exciting. Except ... not really. Yeah, you read that right, I'm not excited. In fact, I'm kind of unhappy about the whole thing. Did you just check to make sure you're reading the blog you meant to be reading? It's me. You're not lost. I did vote for Obama, and I am happy he's becoming our president.

But to be honest, I think I'm more excited that Georgie is getting the fuck out. Yes, the politically correct thing to do is to celebrate the positive, but hello, have you met me? I want to celebrate the negative. That Bush is finally leaving. That his hurricane of destruction is dying out. That when Americans travel abroad, we (or should I say you, since I have never traveled abroad?) won't claim to be from Canada so as not to be hated any longer?

How gross are we to do that, by the way?! After all the fun Americans poke at Canadians, for being stupid, for the hockey, the syrup, the cold? But when the United States are sucking and an embarrassment what is the best choice? Claiming to be Canadian. Sorry, Dave.

So back to this inauguration thing, and why I'm not happy. Something like four million people are expected to show up for Obama's thing (I can not bring myself to type that word again). I heard on the news recently that 5,000 porta-potties were being brought in. By the way, that's not enough, so if you're going, don't drink anything, or wear a diaper.

Part of why we like Obama is because he's into the environment, right? He believes in the whole "global warming" thing, thinks it's real? Doesn't pollution go hand in hand with that? Do you REALLY TRULY believe all those four million people aren't going to pollute? How much money do you think it'll cost to clean up after four million excited people?

Isn't part of why we like Obama because he acknowledges we're in a major recession? So don't you think it would be better to save the money it will cost to clean up, to provide crowd control, security, etc., and spend it on more important things?

Also, one figure says that over 65 million people voted for Obama. So let's just completely generalize and say that a lot of people like him. There are a lot of people out there who don't like him. There are even a lot of people who'd probably like to kill him. Some because they're afflicted with hating black people disease, some because they want to be famous for killing a president, and some for other, unknown reasons.

Know where a good place to hide is? Inside a big fat fucking crowd of people! Like say, four million of them. I like Obama. I think he can do a lot of great things for our country, or, at the absolute very least, staunch the flow of bad things Bush has been doing to our country. I don't want Obama to die, and I'm really scared about that. (How come nobody talks about that?) Now, I'm sure there's some statistical system that figures out how many people one cop/security guard can control, and that's how they figure out how many cops they need for this crowd. But the thing is, two is not just one more than one. 100 people are not just twice as strong as fifty people. My confidence in whatever security will be working tomorrow is shakey at best. I am a skeptical person. If anything goes wrong, I do not have confidence that order can be maintained.

You're white, and young. You don't understand how big of a deal this is, and why we need to celebrate. Well, you're partially right. I am white, and I am young. But I do understand that this is an outrageously huge deal. That's why I cried when Obama won. I was crying with relief. I watched the debates, I asked tons of questions, did lots of research.

But I think it'd be much more cost-effective and environmentally friendly (not to mention safer for Obama) for his inauguration to take place inside somewhere, without crowds, and simply televised for all to see from the comfort and safety of their own homes.

You all hate me now, don't you?

Thank Yous To Those I Don't Know

Shit you guys, way to make a person's jaw drop. Thank you to the Oaklander (Oaklandnite? Oaklandnette?) who sent this. I don't know where to send the thank you so I'm posting it here in the hopes you'll see and know it's for you.

In less than one month three members of my family have died. Since a few days ago when rent got paid, I have had less than $100 in my bank account. It's the least amount of money I've ever had since opening a bank account. To say I am scared would be an understatement.

However. Things are slowly and cautiously looking up. There's this picture. There's my friend who hired me to watch her baby for a couple of hours each day for the next week or so. There are some interviews coming up. There's email and real mail and comments and encouragement and intuitive healing and as of today's trip to the library there's now the dvd for My So-Called Life (until the 11th, when I will return it).

So I am feeling hopeful. If everything goes well, there will be a lot of paying it forward I'll be doing in 2009.

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.

I've Banged Into This Before

Some people are really good at solving problems. Some people are really good only at solving problems that don't involve people, like how to make furniture look good in any room, or how to cook lasagna when there's no meat. Some people are really good at solving other people's problems. I'm one of those people.

I can listen to your problem, think about it (or not), and then just know, THIS is how it can be solved. To a small degree this can be transferred to myself, but other people are much easier. People sometimes get excited about solving other people's problems. If you're good at it, it comes naturally, and it's fun. It's very little effort, and for someone who is not successful at many things, it's outrageously rewarding to see someone else's face light up, or to see tons of worry lift from their face.

So I get it. I get the urge to swoop in and fix someone else's life. I've been on the other side of this too, where other people want to swoop in and fix MY life. Which is why I understand how annoying a Swooper can be, and I try not to offer solutions unless someone is open to hearing them.

The problem with swooping in unwanted is that usually you are missing some key pieces of information. Pieces of information that would make that solution ... well, not a viable solution. Like to say to someone who makes the best cupcakes you've ever tasted, "Hey! You should get a bus! That has an OVEN! And you should go around the country making your cupcakes in the bus and selling them! Like an ice cream truck!"

Ignoring the fact that the cupcake-maker doesn't like driving. And doesn't have enough money to buy a truck. And only likes to bake late at night. And has a family. Maybe it's a fun fantasy, maybe the cupcake-maker even gets swept away in your excitement and designs the outside of the bus and comes up with a cute company name. But the reality is that this is not a good idea for this person.

Some problem solvers (and yes, I realize this was more of an idea and less of a problem to be solved, but the two go together) do not want to hear why their ideas will not work. They get angry. "You're just coming up with excuses!" "You don't really care about what you complaining of two seconds ago!" "You're not truly interested in your life changing at all!"

And then you never speak again. Or you do, but the relationship is forever strained. Which is why I try to be careful about how and when I give unsolicited problem-solving advice. I've had people get angry at me for not taking their advice. Often their advice would work for THEM if THEY were in my situation. But it doesn't work for me in my situation. Some times what they suggest to solve your problem is actually a way to solve their problem they haven't even told you about. Sneaky little problem-solver. Yes, I've had that one happen to me too.

I fear I may have a problem-solver quasi-stalking me. I fear I may have brought it upon myself. And now I don't like the road I see us going down, and see this ending badly. Which is a problem, as we're related.

While in New York for my grandpa's funeral, a cousin was staying at the same hotel as my family. We got to talking, and her son is at a school for learning disabled kids. We got to talking some more, and she gave me some potentially very helpful advice about dealing with my own learning disabilities. Which cost a lot of money. Which you may know I do not have now. She is very well off. I have noticed that most people who are very financially secure have a hard time understanding that other people may not be.

Once in a bank in Florida, I went to ask if they would waive the fee they were charging me for not having a minimum amount of money in my account. The bank manager came to talk to me. "Well, can't you just move money in from another account," she asked me. "No. This is all my money." I left the bank with four bank rulers and three bank calendars and the fee waived for six months. (Bank of America, in case you're wondering.) (Yes, I now have an account with them that has no minimum balance.)

I was very appreciative of this cousin's advice for me. I tried to make it clear, without telling her my current pathetic situation, that these are things I will pursue when I am in a more stable place in my life. She even reiterated that waiting until I have health insurance is a good idea.

However. This cousin is, as my friend would say, a little cuckcoopants. It seems now she feels free to comment and assess my entire life. This is not helpful. I do not need this. There is no good to come of you telling me that being a legal secretary is not the right field for me. It's all I know, all I've got experience in, all I'm qualified to do. It's not that I'm scared to do something else, because I don't get that type of fear. It's that aside from being a garbage man, I can't get a job doing anything else that will earn me as much money.

I hate ... well, to be honest I hate keeping my mouth shut. I must admit that there have been times when I've said "Can I say something about this?" to Golden Boy and Crazy Girl, and Crazy Girl has laughed as she's asked, "Can I stop you?" But I also hate having others critique my life, and feeling like I can't defend it, or myself, because in some way they are in a position of power, for whatever reason. Which this cousin is, you will just have to trust me.

Right now we are in the stage where she feels free to critique my life. This does not please me. This does not help me. The info about learning disabilities? Totally going to be helpful in the future. The other stuff? Not so much.

Loose Ends (In My Brain)

- So remember Christian Siriano, on Project Runway? You know, the young gay guy with funky hair? Well, he has a boyfriend, Brad Walsh. I follow Brad on Twitter and read this morning that Christian would like to send some dresses to Michelle. Obama. You know, that woman whose husband is going to be POTUS? Yeah, her. If anyone has a direct connection...

- While I am beyond elated that you know, yes we did, I am having a hard time believing it's really real. I am more excited about this than I was at going to Disney for the first time. And that's not just because I ran into my sixth-grade teacher at Sea World while holding three dead fish to go feed to the dolphins.

- With this elation comes worry. I'm scared of an assassination attempt. Can we donate money to the Secret Service?

- In his acceptance speech, Obama told his daughters he will get them a puppy when they move to the White House. Mr. Obama, please consider me for all your dog-sitting needs. I can provide references.

- Lastly, I'd like to throw out a big what the fuck regarding California's Prop 8. I'm very disappointed. While I know it is not a gracious thing to insult those who think differently, I can't help but feel that people who voted YES must be stupid. I don't say this as an insult, though I know it is one, I say it because I feel surely those people must just not understand what they're saying.

People are BORN gay. It's not a choice. You come out (literally) into the world, and it's just ... inside you. It's not a decision, but an inevitability. Kind of like with hair color. Can you imagine if the bible said anyone with blonde hair should not be allowed to marry? It would be laughed at, and everyone would stand around agreeing that while the bible has some interesting things, clearly it has not kept up with the times. Except not everyone would, and that's just one more example of why I think critical thinking should be taught in public schools.