Old

1.  Yesterday it was already dark as I was walking home at the end of the day. At one point, I passed a man holding on to a concrete half-wall, who was walking … weirdly. Carefully. I have a background in problems with walking so watched him for a few seconds. It wasn't a limp, it wasn't quite … anything else. I sighed. "Hey. Hey!" I walked back since at this point he'd already passed me. "Sir? Sir, are you okay?" 

He turned to face me, and that let me see he was an older man. He smiled. "I'm fine; I'm just old. Thank you, dear." I smiled back. "Okay, have a good night." A friend once told me that she likes to make homeless people feel like people, by acknowledging them. This guy may have been walking alone, but hopefully he felt good knowing he was noticed. 

2.  An out-of-town company is borrowing our conference room. There are several guys* representing this company, and they have back-to-back meetings with other companies for a few days straight. I know one guy – the one who made the reservation. This morning when he arrived he stood in front of my desk, doing that smile men do when they're trying to control their anger. I bit. "What's going on?" He unloaded, and told me how furious he was at his team, how he got sent to a meeting nobody else showed up for, only to find out it'd been cancelled and nobody had updated the Outlook invite to reflect that. Then he sighed, "Time to ream out the troops," before heading into the conference room. 

This evening we were chatting and he mentioned something about the boss being in the conference room right at that moment. "I thought you were the boss," I confessed. He corrected me with a grin. "I'm just the oldest." 

*  Everyone in the company that's renting our conference room is male and white. Every single person representing each company that's come to meet with that first company? Also male and white. I wonder if it's the industry (although what industry besides the KKK only accepts white males?), or the level of positions within each company (although that would be sad too).  They're all very nice. Perfectly gentlemanly and all. Just ... male. And white. 

Oh Hey

I think about blogging often, but ... yeah, there's no good reason why I don't. I'm not super busy, there's been no dramatic happening, I haven't been too depressed, just ... haven't.

Yesterday I got home after a week of house and dog-sitting at Crazy Girl and Golden Boy's house. Right before they left, there'd been some sort of kerfluffle which caused the internet to die.

At the library to use their computers, I had to wait in line but that was okay because, you know - there are books to read while waiting! Here's how you should picture it: there is a free-standing counter with five computers. Facing the back of the screens are five chairs. If you sit in Chair #1, you are first to use a computer when one frees up. Computer users get 15 minutes of computer time before the computer automatically kicks you off. If nobody is waiting in the chairs, you can use a second 15-minute block.

When I arrived, all the chairs were occupied. The guy sitting next to me looked how Santa would look if he'd gone to prison, lost some belly, and been forced to cut his hair upon arrival, but now some of it had grown back. Oh, and zero jollyness. He told me that on Sunday afternoons, the computers always have a long wait. I replied with something non-committal, and he continued, telling me about how on Sundays homeless people get kicked out of shelters for four hours while the shelters get cleaned, and the library is a great place to go.

Then he proceeded to tell me he'd been homeless, and a friend had been holding his computer for him, but then the friend gave it away. "Nice friend." The guy was very zen about it. "Well, it was for a long time." This guy was not crazy. When I started working for the Turkey a year and a half ago, I had enough money for one more month of rent. Then I was going to (squat until I got evicted) begin the descent into homelessness.

I used to think homeless people were homeless because insurance companies won't pay for mentally ill people to get all the treatment they need before kicking them out of the mental wards of hospitals. But after this experience and how crazy it made me, I realize facing homelessness, and being homeless can make you crazy. Priorities shift and then change.

My way of dealing with the impending doom was to compartmentalize. The morning I applied for food stamps was a multi-hour project with excellent people-watching. Upon leaving the food stamp place, I raced to meet my parents who were in town, saw a movie with them, and then went to dinner in North Beach. The dichotomy blew my mind and I had a hard time getting through dinner (and it wasn't just because the waiter weirdly decided to ignore everything I said) (I am not playing victim - even my father noticed it).

It strikes me as very impressive to meet someone who has been homeless and to see they're not mentally ill. Of course, the library guy might be. Maybe he was in a cycle of taking his meds, or maybe being in the library was his safe, happy place and nothing was triggering him. But in my older age I seek out good, sparkles and sunshine, and I would like to think he went through something horrific and came out of it intact.

He's not homeless anymore, though (first world problem alert) he doesn't have a computer. Hence, the library. I don't know what we chatted about. The Giants? The weather? I was so focused on not being nosy by asking inappropriate questions about his homelessness (how long? how terrified were you? how did you deal with being terrified?) that I wasn't fully paying attention to whatever we were discussing. 

I love closure. In all forms. When I write the letter "o" the two ends always overlap. There's certainly never an "o" written by me where the two ends don't quite meet. I like to say goodbye, rather than drift apart. If you tell me about a fight with a friend, I want to know how it was resolved. If we met, I will think of you 16 years from that meeting and wonder where you are, what you're doing. It's beyond closure.

The (non) homeless guy finally got a computer, so our conversation ended. A bit later I got one too. When I was walking away, I saw the guy was still using his 15 minutes. One of the things I strongly disliked in my family was that it seemed like our family motto was, "Don't get involved; worry about yourself." It was as if because my bedroom was always a mess and I'd never done my homework, I couldn't possibly help someone who was crying by offering them a tissue, or letting someone know they'd dropped something. It drove me nuts. I didn't, and still don't, understand it. But I don't live under their rules.

Before I could change my mind, I doubled-back and gently touched the formerly homeless guy on the arm. "I'm glad you're not homeless anymore," I told him. He laughed. "Me too." I wanted good closure. "I hope it stays that way; good luck." He turned away from the computer to look at me. "Hey, thanks." I waved and went to the elevators.

Maybe he thinks I'm crazy. It doesn't matter. To know how low I was and how far I've come... and I didn't even wind up homeless. I just wanted to acknowledge his achievement. The impressiveness of it. Because it really, really is. I wanted him to know somebody else saw that. You don't get a bonus for getting a roof over your own head. The bonus is the roof.

One of our neighborhood homeless guys just died a couple of days ago. There are flowers and a little memorial set up for him.

NYC in SF

I miss New York sometimes. Not all the time, but sometimes. I miss having a car. I wouldn't want to have to pay for a garage or circle a block looking for parking, but I miss getting places relatively quickly. Yesterday I was going to a kosher-style deli, and had to stand around on a street corner in Chinatown for 12 minutes, waiting for the bus to chug its way up the hill. While standing around lamenting my lack of book to pass the time, I noticed the street sign for the alley across the street, smiled, and jaywalked over to take a picture (see attached).

While I don't hang out in Chinatown on a regular basis, I've been there in the past, and never seen any crime. Yet while on the bus on the way in, the bus driver announced three times, "Next stop, Chinatown, watch your wallets!" The Chinese kid (mid 20's?) in a suit sitting next to me laughed and nodded his head each time. All the tourists looked scared and grabbed their purses and kids a little bit tighter. For the entire 14 or so minutes I was in Chinatown, I continued my apparently lucky streak of not seeing any crime.

Lunching With My Gay Crush

There's this outrageously hot gay subtenant at work who I have a crush on. I kid you not, I have giggled at things he's said. Giggled. He's just so prettttttty. And smart. And funny. I don't remember how it went down, but the Turkey said something to me, I made a face, and Gay Crush mumbled something that let me know he knew Turkey was ... well, a turkey. My love for him was cemented.

Luckily I don't twirl around in my chair while giggling all day long, though that does sound fun. Gay Crush and I chat throughout the day. Not so much when Turkey's around, or when GC is busy, but enough that we know some basics about each other's lives. For example, I know GC has an equally pretty boyfriend who he lives with. GC knows if Turkey's not around and I'm not busy, he can chat with me about the Bravo shows.

About two weeks ago GC and I went to lunch. How we came to have a lunch date really took me by surprise. I was reading a review of a nearby restaurant and happened to ask GC if he'd gone there. He hadn't and when I said I hadn't either but was intrigued by it, GC asked, "Wanna go?" I replied, "With you? OH MY GOD YES!" Okay, no I didn't, but that's totally what happened in my head. In actuality, I shrugged and said sure.

It took us forever to actually go. CG travels a lot, so he's out of the office at least one week each month. I wanted to go on a day when Turkey was out of the office, so I wouldn't have to worry about getting back in exactly 60 minutes. Then I was sick for about a month and wanted to wait to go until I was better, so I'd be able to taste food. Then GC got busy with work and wasn't taking lunches.

Finally though, all the stars aligned and CG asked me one Monday, "Hey, are we doing our lunch this week? How about tomorrow?" So it was tomorrow. I picked out my least ugly outfit. I dug out my Clinique Bonus Time free lipstick. I took the advice my cousin's husband gave me over a decade ago and read the newspaper, stockpiling topics we could talk about. I even double-checked the menu online to make sure there were still things on there that I like. I was prepared.

We walked over and got seated. Immediately, there was an awkward happening. Gay Crush is a bit of a lush. Not at work of course, but he totally goes home and boozes it up with his partner while they have dinner each night. He asked if I'd be getting something to drink. The thing is, I only ever drink water in restaurants. GC seemed to want to get a glass of wine or something. I told him I didn't mind if he got wine. "Oh, you'll get one too?" It felt awkward telling him, "Oh, no, I just meant it's not an alcoholic thing with my not drinking - you should totally feel free to drink if you want to." Yeah. He had water. Apparently people feel weird boozing it up if the person they're with isn't also boozing it up.

Luckily, we managed to get past this, and Gay Crush asked if I wanted to share a side dish with him. Sharing food? How intimate, of course! Then we ordered our food, and Gay Crush decided it was the perfect time to tell me the history of his quest to keep from going bald. Yes, you read that correctly. I had to sit there and listen to GC talk all about balding medications. For the record, he has perfectly nice hair. No power alleys or comb-overs or anything.

GC then pointed out how he dressed up for our lunch, by wearing jeans and a button-down shirt instead of his usual jeans and a polo. I confessed to wearing mascara as my effort to dress up. We laughed. We shared a side of fancy mac & cheese. I arrived at the lunch prepared to pay, but GC insisted he'd pay. He didn't look at his Crackberry once throughout the entire meal. He made gay jokes. Told me about his experiences as a child of having his parents deal with all injuries by getting antibiotics cheaply from Mexico (he's from CA, near the border).

I was worried it'd be weird when we got back to the office, but it wasn't. I'm not sure exactly how that was avoided, but ... it was so normal that it almost made me wonder why I even worried it'd be weird in the first place. I bet it was thanks to the mascara.

It's Not ALL Bad

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

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

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

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

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

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?

I Don't Have a Lisp, But I'd Like One

A lisp is the kind of thing you can fake for a few minutes. Or each time you do a specific thing, like answering the phone. Although there's not much lisping you can do when saying, "Hello." But maybe you work somewhere and have to answer the phone saying, "Hello, so glad you've called Sam's Swing Shop. I'm ready to assist with all your sex questions as they pertain to swings. How may I best assist you this morning?" But yeah, so I love lisps. Lisps and stutters really, but you're so much more likely to find someone with a lisp than a good stutter these days. I guess lisps are more popular.

Anyway, one of the few things I love more than a good lisp is a trip-and-fall story. Many of you know this, and are so kind as to alert me by e-mail when you've found a trip-and-fall online, which I greatly appreciate.

I happen to have excellent balance generally, but every so often even I trip. Just as I would laugh at someone on the street tripping, I will also laugh at my own trips. On Thursday, I tripped. It was extra stupid of me, and here's why:

For the last two days, I've temped in Union Square, and on my lunch hour this past Thursday, wandered into a small clothing shop wedged between a North Face store and an H&M. When you walk into this store, there are about two meters of space, then one step up, then the clothes the store sells. They put a fluorescent orange tape border around the step, which I noticed and appreciated. I stepped up. I walked around, talked to the owner, and laughed quietly to myself at how pretentious he was. When he told me he makes all the clothes in the back, I asked if he was the designer. He answered that he hates the word designer, and when I asked what word he prefers, he said, "Artist and constructionist." Alrighty then.

So I wandered around the store, and to be frank, my jaw dropped. The clothes were fucking amazing. Outrageously expensive (a t-shirt that I could tell would significantly shrink even in a cold water wash cost over $100), but also outrageously creative. They made my brain explode, and I was strolling from rack to rack with a smile on my face. There was an A-line dress in a dark purple velvet, with a white lace underlay on the sleeves, and a big lacey pouf at the front. I can't say it was pretty or my style, but definitely appreciated the creativity of the design. And it wasn't just a store filled with velvet dresses. Everything was super-creative in wildly different ways. It really made me think, and I meandered towards the front door with my brain racing.

I forgot about that damn step and tripped down it, despite that orange tape. Giggled all the way back to work.

Promise to Smack Me

It was raining today, a day I am temping, and as I walked to the job I saw someone else holding a hotel umbrella as he scurried down the street in the opposite direction.

I love that hotels will lend out umbrellas. I love that building management of major corporate buildings lend them out too - you just have to lend them your building ID while you have the umbrella.

My friend's boyfriend says umbrellas are for pussies. Every time it rains I think of him, sloshing through the rain with just the hood of his sweatshirt for protection, and decide I'd rather be an umbrella-holding pussy than get that wet. Plus, a friend in Texas sent me an umbrella a few years ago, and it makes me smile every time I use it.

As I saw that guy with the hotel umbrella this morning it reminded me of a couple of months ago when I was temping and it was raining, and I saw something that made me uncomfortable. A white guy, clearly well-off, striding down the sidewalk with nothing in his hands. A black man in a Ritz Carlton uniform, striding alongside the white guy, holding a Ritz Carlton golf umbrella over the white guy's head.

Really? You are so full of yourself that you need a PUH? Aren't you embarrassed? Especially to have someone of a minority race holding it for you? Aren't you embarrassed to be so uncoordinated that you can't walk and hold an umbrella at the same time? Aren't you embarrassed to be forcing someone else to get rained upon so that you stay dry? I understand this may be a service the Ritz offers, and that's nice of them. But if any of you ever find out I have won the lottery, become filthy rich, and started doing this, please smack me.

You know what else I want to know? Where does this sense of entitlement end? Do you have someone cutting your meat for you? Do you uncap your own pens? One minute someone is buttoning your shirt while another person is standing behind you, brushing your hair, and the next minute you're giving the nod to someone who briskly claps their hands two times before yelling, "Wipers!"

The Bitch of it All

This morning I was on Muni, seated near the front, when I heard a commotion behind me. I never look, because people causing a ruckus want you to look - it adds more fuel to their fire, but I did listen.

Mostly all I heard was angry cursing. The people around me were looking, and I knew the man was coming closer and closer to me. He said something about how he had to get on the train in the back, and I extrapolated that he was angry at the driver. As he pushed past me, he kept cursing and yelling, and all of a sudden it was all clear.

He was hit by Muni in 2008, and it caused damage to his leg. No way of knowing if that damage necessitated amputation or if the train actually ran over his leg, but either way the guy hates Muni and everyone associated with it. Even the people like me, who just use it to get around the city.

The guy went to the very front and continued yelling at the driver, saying he blamed her, and wanted her to die for what she did. I kept watching his hands, thinking of Colin Ferguson. The driver was very cool, calmly telling the man that she personally did not injure him, that she personally, was very sorry he was in a wheelchair. He agreed with her that she was not responsible, but did emphatically tell her that he'd have to hold her responsible since she works for Muni.

At that point the driver had gotten to the stop where the man wanted to get off the train, and he rolled on down the ramp. How sad is that? I really feel for the guy. Of course his screaming and cursing is inappropriate, but if three years ago your leg were amputated, putting you in a wheelchair for the rest of your life, wouldn't you be angry at the world too? Plus, it must really burn that he has to continue using the train system, even after it hurt him.*

*We are not debating whether or not the accident was his fault. Even if it was, you don't deserve to have your leg chopped off. You deserve to have the horn blown at you and be given the finger.

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?

Bubbles and Bookstores

This morning I woke up to someone else's alarm clock. On a Sunday. It's a repetitive tone, not a radio. It's been going for about 40 minutes so far. I wonder about the person who owns this alarm clock. It didn't go off yesterday, which means they specifically set it for today. What kind of job does this person have that involves being woken up at around 8 am on a Sunday? What was this person doing last night that they don't wake up naturally by around 8 am on Sunday? Whatever it was, it wasn't something they were doing at home, otherwise I would have heard it. All noises are amplified here.

My nerves are getting rubbed raw by this alarm clock. When I used to wake up to my alarm clock radio, I'd leave the radio on while I got dressed, only turning it off on my way out. But I'm a light sleeper and never turned the volume up especially high. Can't help but wonder if this neighbor of mine rushed out without doing all their neighbors the courtesy of turning off their alarm clock, or they are still blissfully asleep.

Since I was awake, I decided to scrub out my little shower stall floor. For about two months my shower had a persistent drip. Eventually the Naked Handyman came to fix the drip, but then I realized the shower stall floor was kind of slippery. Perhaps it was sludge from water dripping consistently for two months? Gross. So this morning I sprayed Scrubbing Bubbles, let it sit, and then used my scrubby brush on the shower stall floor. The Scrubbing Bubbles directions say to just wipe with a wet cloth, but I decided that was for a surface that's routinely cleaned, not for one like mine, that needed a deep cleaning.

At first I just wet my scrub brush in the sink, but realized the suds in the shower weren't going away. So I turned on the water in the shower. It's a really tiny shower stall, so that's how I wound up with the top of my head wet. Despite having opened the bathroom window when I sprayed the Bubbles, my bathroom still reeks of chemicals. Yes, I know there are more natural alternatives, but I don't have those, I have the Bubbles, and will continue to use them until they're used up.

I scrubbed over and over, with water dripping down the top of my head, inhaling the fumes. It's been over 20 minutes since I finished, the bathroom window is still open, and at this point I'm high off the fumes.

There used to be a Borders bookstore about two blocks from my apartment. It was utopia - a free place to go in walking distance , that was air-conditioned, where I could read books all day long? Come on - that's what heaven looks like! It closed a few months ago, and I still think of that Borders wistfully sometimes. Times like now, when I'd really like somewhere to go that's free and out of the rain.

It's now three minutes shy of an hour and the alarm is still going. I feel certain the owner of the alarm must rush out of their apartment without turning it off. How could anyone stand this loud and repetitive noise for an hour straight?

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.

Who Needs Titles?

When I lived in Florida I never understood why the old people always yammered on about the weather and their various medical ailments. I am older and wiser now, and thus understand the weather thing. They yammer about the weather because it's fun. I don't know exactly what age this becomes fun, but if you are 21 or 23 and thinking that sounds like crazy talk, then you have not yet hit the magical weather age yet. I love bitching about the heatwaves. I love tossing an extra pair of socks in my bag in case the original socks get soaked while I'm walking through a rainstorm in the city.

So. While I hate the heatwaves and hide out in my home or air-conditioned bookstores, a friend of mine loves it. She runs outside and does all kinds of warm weather activities like going to a pool or beach or laying out in a park. But. She always calls me to see how I'm doing on her way home from the beach, to make sure I haven't schvitzed away.

It's been raining all day today. After checking the hourly forecast and seeing it's scheduled to rain all day I headed out to run an errand. Halfway to the store I was soaked. My goal was Kinko's to print out a couple of things I need for tomorrow. By the time I arrived my jeans were heavy from being so wet. I stood in line, and as I looked around, noticed I was the only white person in the store. My hands were wet and slippery from the rain, and as I tried to fully close my umbrella my hand slipped, the umbrella shot out, and hit the black girl in front of me in the ass. HORRIFIED! Luckily she was cool with my, "Oh my god, I'm SO sorry!" and laughed it off.

I walked in and dug in my bag to get out my wallet - you have to put a credit/debit card in to use the Kinko's computers. My wallet was not. in. my. bag.

This was shocking. I am not the type of person who forgets her wallet. I am the type of person who opens her front door to leave the house and pats her jeans packet to make sure she feels her keys there. Who checks and double-checks. Who is cautious.

My heart sank at the thought of wading back home through the rain to get my wallet and come back. I dug through my bag again - maybe I'd just missed it. Nope. Found my checkbook, but no wallet. I asked the guy at the counter if I could pay by check and held my breathe waiting for his answer. No. You can pay by check for a service, but not to use the computer.

I thought for a second. "Is there any way I can use a service to print out two things, rather than using the computer?" The guy told me there wasn't. I thanked him and turned away, prepared to walk home through the rain. "Here," the guy said, holding out what looked like a Kinko's giftcard. I took it, and he told me to use that and then we'd see where things stood.

As quickly as possible I used the computer (they charge 25 cents per minute) and printed out the documents I need for tomorrow. When I handed the card back to the guy, I stood waiting to hear how much I should write a check out for. He nodded at me. "Have a nice day."

I freaking love nice people. So very much. When I got home, I decided to call my friend who loves the heatwaves, since as much as I hate the heat, she hates the rain. Before we hung up, I said if it was still raining tomorrow I'd pick her daughter up from school, so she doesn't have to go out in the rain a second time in one day. She told me to call her anyway after I take the test I have scheduled in the morning (for a job) to let her know how it goes. "Thank you for being my family." It just came out. Having somebody care really counts for a lot.

Shut. Up.

For the last four weeks I've been temping in a penthouse office in Union Square. This sounds fancier than it is - there are no good views. Also, despite doing legal secretary work, I sit at a reception desk and also do reception work. It's been many years since I've fetched people coffee. This is awkward, because I don't actually know how to make coffee. Anyway, picture a square. You walk up the stairs to the penthouse at the top left, and my desk is at the top center, and offices are all around me. The lawyer I work for has sub-tenants who rent office space. One is cool (not just because he's gay and has a lisp), and the others are all weird. Oh, and all the offices surrounding my reception desk? They're above me, by two steps. That's right; I sit in a sunken living room.



The lawyer was either so busy or so overwhelmed (not sure which yet) that he had a personal assistant for about half a year. I asked her one day if anyone ever fell down the stairs. Not only am I paranoid about falling myself, but I keep watch any time anyone is on the move, in case they fall. I want to be ready to laugh. Sadly, she said nobody has bit it, but she's tripped over the door frames several times. So now I'm paranoid about that too.



The lawyer has an office manager/paralegal who is a very nice black lady. She gets lots of personal calls - to the point that I've started recognizing some of her callers, and earlier in the week something big was going on - I think she may have broken up with her boyfriend - and a lot of people who seemed deaf were calling. It was fun (for me).



Them: Yeah, Shaniqua Watkins there?
Me: Is this Gwen?
Them: What?

Me: May I tell her who's calling?
Them: IT'S GWEN!

Me: Just a moment please.



There's also an associate who works here. She's tall and thin and WASPy, but with brown hair instead of blond. She was so distant with me, and quiet with perfect posture, that I told Golden Boy I was determined to find a work-appropriate way to hug her, just to make her squirm. If you're just now deciding I'm cruel, to that I say, "Haven't you been paying attention? Keep up!"


The ironic thing is there are people who think I'm very stiff and formal. So you know if I'm thinking someone else is that way they must be totally frozen! I decided to make it my life mission to warm this associate up. I looked up her bio on the firm website. Turns out she worked at the same firm I did, a few years before I got there. This was my IN.

The day before yesterday when I'd come back from lunch her husband and children were leaving. I asked her kids if they had fun seeing where their mom worked and they nodded politely. Associate told me her husband was a fireman so his workplace was much more exciting. So I said something about how we needed to get a playground on our rooftop in order to compete with the firehouse.

Yesterday I told Associate she was the second female attorney I'd met whose husband is a firefighter. How the first one was a partner at a law firm in New York and worked as a judge in night court. I didn't tell her they wound up divorced. We wound up having a nice talk, and I worked in the fact that I'd worked at the same law firm she had.

Now, I'm kind of trying to get a job here, so I didn't want to talk smack about that old law firm. But there is a lot of smack to be talked, because that law firm sucked ass. I ran into the receptionist from there on the street about a year ago, and she told me the firm had fallen apart during our current economic crisis.

By the way, this receptionist gave me very good advice when I first moved to San Francisco: when walking in a city, always make eye contact with drivers before stepping into their paths. It helps drivers be more aware of pedestrians.

Anyway, so now Associate and I are chatting about the founding partners of this sucky firm. One of them was total hell to work for, and now Associate was telling me he wasn't just cruel to secretaries, but associates as well. She mentioned working there when he was going through his divorce.

Me: To Eileen? She died.
Associate: Shut. Up.
Me: Mmm hmm. She died.
Associate: Shut! Up!

I grinned a tiny bit. I found a way to give a work-appropriate hug, albeit a verbal one. The ice had cracked, and now we had bonded. She told me how that partner had had a drinking issue, how she barely lasted a year there, how after she left she had PTSD at her new job, always doubting her writing abilities. We totally bonded and gossiped and had a grand old time chatting about all sorts of random shit for the better part of an hour.

So yeah. Watch out. I'm not afraid to hug you.

Outta Twenty

In New York when you're in a store and paying for something, you can say to the cashier "out of five" or "out of twenty" or whatever, and while you're pulling out that five or twenty, they are getting your change. It's a time-saver, and there's nothing New Yorkers like more than that.

It drives me nuts that Californians do not seem to grasp this concept. If I say "out of ten" to them, they just stand there, waiting. So yesterday when the cashier starting pulling together my change as I dug that twenty out of my wallet, I got so excited that I did something completely out of the norm. I turned on the charm and chatted with the cashier. He confirmed that he is from Jersey, and made a joke about how Californians are a distrustful lot and that must be why they won't start making change until they've been handed the actual bill.

I've been the cashier. I know how the pressure feels when you look up and see a long line of people waiting for you. It just seems like good sense to never stop moving when ringing people up.

I would never make it in the South.

Not a Mommy Blogger

But I am still giddy that yesterday I got to spend as much time as I wanted at Target. I wandered up and down ALL the aisles. On both floors. Earlier in the day I'd met a friend for lunch in the suburbs. Target was in walking distance, and right next to the train station. So I went.

When I lived in Florida I lived about a block away from a Target. I used to do all my greeting card shopping there. And my candle shopping. And my care packages shopping. And almost all of my drugstore shopping.

One of the few things I don't like about living in San Francisco is that there isn't a Target here. Since moving here, any time I've gone to Target it's been with other people. Don't get me wrong - I greatly appreciate the rides there and love going places with friends. But I'm one of those people who feels like, if you're doing me a favor, I should be as un-inconvenient to you as humanly possible. So I scurry around grabbing the products I need as quickly as I can, so you won't have to wait even one second for me.

So yesterday it felt luxurious to leisurely wander around, looking at product after product. Nobody was waiting for me. Nobody was distracting me. I had nowhere to be later in the day. This wasn't something I thought I missed. On the train home though, I couldn't stop grinning. I was so happy!

Even though I spent less than $30, and bought things like saline and bandaids, it was still a great time.

Dammit Jim, I'm Not a Doctor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's Only Fair To Tell You About the Fare

Yesterday I got called in for a temp job. Why yes, I can be in the Financial District in a half hour. While I can walk there, taking the bus would save me time. So I poured out my glass jar of change onto my bed and sifted through to find $2 in coins. Scooping all the needed coins into my jacket pocket, I rushed out the door.

The bus came. I started putting my nickels and dimes and quarters into the fare machine. When I'd emptied my pocket, the machine said $1.90. The bus was already moving. Feeling around my pocket for the last dime, I came up empty. I don't carry change around. I'd specifically taken $2 in coins just for the bus, there was nothing else. I told the bus driver, "I'm sorry, it seems like I've lost a dime. Do you want me to get off at the next stop?"

He handed me the pass that lets you stay on the bus until two or so hours later. "Here." I took the pass, and took his word to mean he was letting that dime slide.

Today, since I knew I'd be working, I left the house early enough to walk.

Racist or Just An Abuse of Power? You Decide!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not Even a High Five

All the MUNI drivers are friends. Well maybe not ALL, but many. They don't just smile or wave at each other when two buses pass each other, they sometimes come to a complete stop in the middle of the street and start talking to each other.

Today, on Market Street, I had just gotten off the 71 Haight bus and was waiting to cross the street when I saw another 71 Haight bus driving in the opposite direction of the one I'd just departed. The light was red so I stood there waiting, and watching the two bus drivers. They just drove right past each other! They didn't even give the nod or anything!

I wonder if there's a big MUNI driver drama going on and they're in a fight. I wonder if they used to be friends and now they're not. I wonder if there was some sort of bus battle.