Humbling

Today I applied for a job. It has a salary range. The highest end of the range is over $20k lower than my last job (GQ) paid, and he paid $3k less than Turkey did.

I'm not going to lie. It really hurts. It's a job in a law firm, so I spent at least an hour in bed last night whispering my answer to the interview question "why do you want a job that pays so significantly less than what you were earning before?"

It's hard to come up with a good answer.

1. Well look when I was working - clearly I can't be picky. (Attracts attention to gap in resume)
2. I want something lower pressure. (Being a legal secretary is not high pressure)
3. I wanted to try something new within the legal industry. (Attracts attention to my lack of experience)
4. I thought it would be fun to expand my experience. (Will they be offended that I want to use their job for fun?)
5. Ugh, because I am desperate and just need a fucking job for my mental health already! (Overshare)

So yeah. I need to prepare for an interview for a job that I both need and don't want. Oh, and the person who brought this position to my attention warned me they've had trouble keeping people in the seat because there's zero room for advancement.

But it pays significantly more than nothing. It even pays more than double what unemployment pays (which is no good for my mental health, plus provides no health insurance, plus runs out). So I will continue working to come up with an answer to why I want this job to be prepared for an interview (we're thinking positively!) and will make sure my attitude is right before walking in the office door. 

From Scratch

So that guy who was brought in as the substitute for Nicki, Turkey's personal assistant? (Oh my god, the stairs are right outside my apartment door and while I was typing the previous sentence I heard someone clomping up them and then, they tripped! Tripped!)

Oh wait. Remember how I told you that the PA was being fired? Like, at least a month ago? Well, she's still here. As of right now, she's been demoted. Her hours have been slashed in half. Office Manager is not normally the type, but on Tuesday he totally told Turkey a true tale about how the PA does lots of personal work while she's on the clock and it offends him.

Now you may think that's lame, but the thing is, everyone surfs the web while at work. Everyone makes a personal call every so often. The key is that you are quiet about it. You close the screen when somebody walks over. You only make personal calls when the office is quiet and nobody will need you. Anyway. So the PA has been demoted, and meanwhile, that substitute guy is still here.

Turkey likes him. Swear to god, Turkey commented on his body to his face just this past week. We don't really need the Sub, but Turkey thinks he could prove useful eventually, so he's keeping him around, and calling him the firm's Client Development Manager. Sub's  real job is being a professional fundraiser for a specific type of company. I didn't even know that was a thing, did you? Sub skipped his high school graduation to leave for Europe, and didn't come back for about 13 years. So it's great that he's tri-lingual, but bad that he's got no American office experience.

This is the guy who thought it was okay to send out a letter to a client folded in quarters. It's not. This is the guy who took a phone message but didn't include the date or time. This is the guy who is expected at work at 9am and has never once shown up before 9:10am. Also the guy who thought it was okay to send out solicitation letters to potential clients from Turkey, without having Turkey actually sign them.

To be fair, Turkey wants everyone to take initiative. Sub understood that to mean he didn't need to show Turkey the letters before they went out. He was wrong. Turkey wants people to take initiative by like, seeing that something needs to be done, and getting it done perfectly. Office Manager, Turkey and I all had a big meeting about Sub, and it has been determined that he is not stupid, he just has little office experience, no law firm experience, and no American office experience.

So while he knows how to say, re-fill a stapler, he doesn't know if a multi-page letter being given to Turkey for editing should be stapled or paper-clipped. (The answer is paper-clipped - Turkey hands back each page as he's edited it.) All this to say that come Monday, I will be trying to break down how one works in an office to the Sub.

I love training people. Not saying this to brag, but I'm excellent at it. I can turn anyone with a bit of intelligence into at least as a good a legal secretary as I am. This training will be a bit different though. I've never trained someone who's starting from zero. And I've got to find a way to do it without offending him. Monday is going to be interesting! (And, based on past experience, it'll also make my throat hurt from talking so much.)

Hurt? Oh Good, Lemme Poke It

Former Office Manager warned me eons ago to never tell Turkey anything personal about myself, and to never let him see any weak spots. I don't recall her exact words, but the visual her words gave me was of having a bullet wound and him poking his finger into it and wiggling it around.

He's like that with clients too. Some law firms have companies as clients and some have people. Mine has both. People hire lawyers because they're in trouble, or they're worried they might be in the future.

An older woman hired my firm to do work for her because someone wronged her. She's dying of breast cancer, and she's trying to right the wrong before she dies. This is a really sweet older woman, one who calls us all dear. She's spent so much money on legal fees. Well over $20,000. That's not a lot for a company, but it's a lot for a person. It's more than I earned in 2010. She got told by Turkey to give us a credit card that we could charge $500 on each week. She did, and we used up the entire credit limit. She has no savings left, because she's spent them all on legal fees. Our legal fees.

She's been flying back East for treatments, and also to LA for some other cancer treatments. She knows Turkey doesn't read his emails regularly so she calls to tell me, "I've sent Turkey an email, would you be a dear and print it out to make sure he reads it?" I am happy to be a dear for her.

Usually when I make a mistake at work, only my boss knows if anyone does. But once, I made a huge mistake and she knew. She was at a Kinko's and asked me to fax her a specific email. She had to pay $1 per page received. I faxed her the wrong email. She called back frantic saying, "I already have that one; I needed the next one! I just wasted $6!" I felt so bad that I told our office manager, and asked him to credit her $6, and if Turkey said anything, I'd pay that money myself.

This morning I read a few emails Turkey sent to this client. He fired her. It's pretty unusual for a lawyer to fire their client. It's definitely unusual for a lawyer to fire their client by email, and as harshly as Turkey did it. It wasn't a gentle "Hilda, I am so sorry, but I just can't represent you anymore. It's been a pleasure working with you. If you still feel you require the services of an attorney, I suggest you call Heidi Ho." It was more like, "Hilda, fuck you, and fuck your little dog too. You're FIRED!"

Okay, it wasn't exactly like that. But even the WASP read the emails and said if she'd gotten those, she'd cry. I would too. He was harsh. Hey, I get it - when you're trying to run a business you need clients to pay you. But lawyers have this nifty thing called pro bono. That means clients they take on for free. Turkey doesn't do any pro bono work. Not for any of his clients.

I'm really bummed out today. I've seen other lawyers write off thousands and thousands of dollars in legal fees. Lawyers earning a LOT less than Turkey. Lawyers with families to support, lawyers with much lower incomes. Just lawyers who have hearts.

Thanks

Preface #1: I've been a little emotional lately.
Preface #2: In case you're new or slow or something, I'm the Family Fuckup. I know - in other families the fact that I've got no tattoos, all my teeth, a piddly associates degree, and never served hard time would make me the family golden child, but not in my family. There are people in my family who've won Emmys and written books, directed plays, birthed beautiful children, traveled with famous people, and done it all with a smile.

I've never even directed a sports play, and the one time I traveled with someone famous I didn't realize it until the plane had landed in LA, and once told the famous person had been on our plane, I'd never heard of him. Some things are wasted on me. Like good sushi.

My parents took mental breaks sometimes in their raising of me, but one of the impressive things about them is they never stopped trying. Sure they lost their shit on occasion, took some bad advice from professionals, but they were always game to take a deep breath and dive back in. One of the things not so impressive, is that they never allowed my history to stay in my past. If I lied this week, I was branded a liar for life, because I'd lied last week and the week before too. What was the point in telling the truth all the time when at least 75% of the time I could get away with lying, especially since they never believed me anyway? (I just forgot the point of sharing this.) (Oh yeah.)

Nothing ever felt truly forgiven because past offenses were brought up time and time again. Even in my 30's my mother has brought up the fact that I pushed a lamp off the piano when I was four years old. Since I'm an adult now, I can say with full authority that if she's still bitter enough (or anything enough, really) to bring it up, then she's got more problems than Four Year Old Me.

It wasn't until my late 20's that I understood how true forgiveness works. It slayed me when it happened, and it still slays me each time I think about it. I basically never talk to the person who forgave me, teaching me about forgiveness through her actions, but think of and appreciate this person all the time. I try to practice her style of forgiveness when other people hurt me. Of course, I'm a bitter bitch who holds grudges so I'm not as good at it as she is, but the point is that I try and that's better than not trying, right?

Anyway, there are so many people (and by so many, I mean like four - I keep my world small) who are truly open to letting me be however I may be (quirky comes to mind when I'm in a kind headspace, batshit crazy comes to mind when I'm not) without making me feel ashamed. And, see Preface #1, but I appreciate this more than I can say. Even more than a Hallmark AND Blue Mountain card combined could say.

I view my strain of crazy as a well. You know, like in a forest, with a bucket and shit? And I feel like I sit on the stone wall of the well. Or I walk around near it in the clearing that's in the forest. Yesterday was a particularly bad day and I dipped into the well.

My most important rule for myself when feeling that way is to not make any big decisions. Any email with the subject line "Hey, you know what I've always wanted to tell you?" should be discarded. Calls to people not spoken to in a long time should be avoided. Wait for the storm to pass. It always does. I am stronger than my crazy, and will use incredible upper-arm strength to pull out of that well.

Once out, you look around at the world. It's the same, yet slightly different. Well, the world isn't really different, but how you view it is. For me, I'm just appreciating those four a little extra right now.

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?

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.

If You Don't Like It, Don't Read It

To which I say, fuck that. Seriously. People say all the time that if you can't relate, don't understand, or don't like something, you shouldn't read it online. I do not understand this.

Here is just a smattering of the blogs I read:

Pat Stack - we have absolutely nothing in common, and I barely understand over half of what he writes about. I highly doubt he reads my blog.

She Walks - she's a married mother who likes to drink wine. I'm single without kids and don't drink alcohol.

Kingdom Twindom - this woman lives ... in New Mexico? I'm not sure. She's republican and very religious. We believe opposite things, basically. To be completely honest, I can only read her blog in small doses.

Jessie Sholl - again, pretty much nothing in common. She wrote a book, I read her book, now I read her blog. I'd read her food-shopping lists.

Noraebang - he is a guy born in Korea, adopted in America, who lives in a part of Florida where I once got horribly lost and cried. I am always excited when I understand even half of what he's written about, and have spent fascinating hours reading all sorts of articles about adoption. I was neither adopted, nor do I plan to adopt. Um, nor am I Korean.

Shelby Fero - she's a freaking teenager! Tweets about her prom and everything! I just read her because she's a funny kid. <---- understatement.

People say if you don't like it, stop reading. I say if you don't like it, challenge yourself to keep reading. Find a piece of that person you relate to, that you can understand. There's a blogger who posts what she'll cook for dinner each night. Most of her meals don't appeal to me, but there's always at least one that intrigues. Wide Lawns has more than double the formal education I do, but we like some of the same books. Should I have "stopped reading" because of a couple of blog posts about her cat, since I'm a dog person? No!

So I challenge you. I challenge you to read something even though you don't relate to the author at first glance. I challenge you to dig deeper. To expand your mind and learn about someone you don't think you'd have for a friend. Learn something you didn't know before. Learn to think about something in a way you never did before. Push yourself to see something from a different point of view.

Please Weigh in on a Fat Problem

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

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

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

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

You are socially savvy. Tell me what to do.

Dejected

This morning I applied for an awesome job. It's at a firm I've temped at before. The attorneys I worked with loved me; partners even requested me more than once. Normally I just apply for any job I'm qualified for, because I am not one of those people who believes in bliss, or following it. Work is for earning money, not for fulfilling my soul. A pollyanna may say "what if work could be for both?" and to that I answer that for me, it can't be. The things that fascinate me are not fields I can work in.

This job I applied for today though? It would tap into a couple of my strengths. It involves travel, and while I have no interest in strangers feeling me up in airports, legal secretaries never travel for work which is why that would be super exciting.

The reality is though, I won't get this job. Why? Simply because history - specifically the last three years of it - dictates that nobody will hire me. I am never going to get a job again. This month I have only been able to get two interviews.

It's like I am standing on the rooftop of one building, all the jobs are on the rooftop of the building next to mine, but jumping simply hasn't been invented yet. So I can only stand and look, but can't ever get there. I can see everyone else on the other rooftop, scurrying around, passing around important papers, going on trips to other rooftops, buying things other rooftops are selling. But none of that is for. Just for everyone else. I am surrounded by rooftops.

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?

Let's All Sit in a Circle

I love that rush I get when discovering not only a new author I love, but one who's written tons of stuff. That rushing thrill of New! Reading! Material! Then you curl up inside all that reading, and when you emerge in a daze with the way you think about things changed for life, in the back of your head all that's going through your head is What the hell will I read now? Wow. I guess I just really, really love reading.

I just need to pause to say that my apartment hallway is very echo-y, and I can always hear everyone who walks by, talks, or makes any noise. Right now a very chipper older late is talking to a man with a heavy Spanish accent who is responding to her politely but you can hear in his voice he wants to get away. Anyway, the point is, this woman has the same squeaky voice as my old cousin Clara, who was old for my entire life. She always used to confuse me with my mom, and it really made me twitch when she'd tell me, thinking I was my mom, that she remembers when my mother was alive. My mother *IS* alive, it's *HER* mother who died! Get it right, woman! Of course I could never say that - I'd just listen to her tell me stories about "my" mom and commit them to memory so I could tell my mom later, and she could collect other people's memories about the mother she didn't get enough time with.

Moving on! Back to reading! Good blogs are a great thing to discover because bloggers have archives. Archives mean days of reading material. I'm always flattered when I, my blog, represents that to someone else. People I'd never meet in real life. People who, even if I met, would agree we had nothing in common. Except people will write more than they will say (if their family isn't reading), so you can find those commonalities after all.

Charlene from -lifedramatic- recently found my blog and not only is she reading the archives, but she's commenting on things I'd forgotten about writing. She responded to an old post where I solicited questions with hers, and here's her list, along with my answers.

1. Don't keep me in suspense. Did you ever get a camera? What kind? Where are the pictures?? :)
Yes, I was given a camera. I don't know how to say what kind of camera it is properly, so I've gone meta and taken a picture of it with Photoshop for you. It says it's a Panisonic Lumix, with 5.0 megapixels and um yeah. I really, really want to be one of those people who takes their camera everywhere they go and takes cool pictures of a sewer grate or a businessman fixing his sock that make people stop and think, but I haven't reached that level. Then, before I could keep trying to reach it, my camera used up all its battery juice and buying new batteries for a camera simply is not a priority when you're scraping together money for rent each month, you know? So that's where I'm at with my camera.

A couple of years ago I went to LA, and I did take some awesome pictures if I do say so myself. I crossed a foot bridge in Santa Monica and took a picture of a Coke cup discarded carefully on a step that I really liked (yet can't find now). It doesn't help that I don't understand Flickr - why are the pictures I've taken in Photoshop on Flickr, and how did they get there? Where is my precious Coke cup picture? Where are all the old pictures I took on my camera and (thought I) uploaded to Flickr?

2. You mentioned you were in therapy for a long time. I'm in therapy now. Have been since my first husband started cheating on me, and never left her. I see a lot of things through your posts that I should be doing but haven't been able to yet. For example, doing things to help me not feel depressed. I find that I kind of wallow in the depression, like I'm in a maze and I can't really find my way out. How do you do it?
Wow. Well. Two or three things.
1. I am sorry your first husband cheated on you. It seems more common these days for people to forgive that, and although this may fall into the "you can't know until you're in that situation" I don't think I'd be able to forgive that. I believe in the "if you aren't into me enough to not cheat on me, then just break up with me honestly" religion.
2. Let's be honest here, okay? I'm not always able to snap out of it. Being out of work is very, VERY difficult. A little while before moving out of Florida my messiness reached an overwhelming head, and another person had to come in to help dig me out. I swore to myself it would never get to that point again. It hasn't, but I have been known to send in my unemployment form a week or two late because I lost it in the pile of stuff on my ottoman and haven't had the wherewith all to dig it out. So, I'm not perfect.

At least a decade ago I read an article in Newsday about how people with learning disabilities function better if their outside world is neat and organized. It took me several years to get my life in line with that, and found it was true. My brain is so busy translating what people have said into words and concepts I understand (and then I have to race to listen and process while also listening to their next thought and saving that for translation while responding to the first thing) that it creates more work when things are physically a wreck. So I try to stay neat. When I don't, I have absolutely noticed a correlation between seeing a wreck and my heart sinking and becoming overwhelmed.
3. The way I do it when I'm doing it is, I have a set schedule. So when I'm working, I know what errands I'll run on my lunch hour on which day, and which days I'll go to the library after work. When I wake up I smooth out my blanket to make my bed look neat (tucking in the blanket takes too long). On weekends I buy five breakfasts (or one cardboard tin of Quaker's Instant Oatmeal) so I'll have quick breakfasts each morning I'm at work. I feel no difference (other than hunger) between eating breakfast and not in terms of being productive, but study after study, decade after decade swears eating breakfast is good for you, so I eat a healthy one.

I keep in mind when I'm depressed all the other times I've been depressed (yes, I realize that sounds depressing) and that if I can just force myself to shower and get dressed, then I'll be able to take out the garbage, which will mean I'll be ready to go through mail that's piled up, etc. Things can spin out of control. But they can also spin into the control if you just start the spin. You have to find what will start your spin.

3. What would you do if your neighbor got a pig and you had to hear it grunting and squealing when you were trying to relax? (Seriously, this just happened to me...)
Charlene, this does not sound pleasant ... wait. Is it a baby pig? Because those things are cute! Did you see the movie with that Dawson's Creek kid who played Knox and his friend had a pig named Bacon?

To answer your question, I would ask the city/town if this was legal, and if it was not, because I'm somewhat passive-aggressive I'd consider reporting them. In the meantime though, I might ask the neighbors if they could move their pigpen to the center of their yard so the noise was traveling so well into my space, and I'd look into what kind of white noise I could employ to drown out the pig noise. Wind chimes probably wouldn't cut it, huh?

4. I've always wanted to visit California and SF in general! I love seafood. Do you like any seafood? (I know you said you are a picky eater).
Yes, I love seafood too. Every time I am at Whole Foods I check to see if the scallops are on sale. I'm not sure I've found any stellar seafood restaurants here, but I haven't specifically looked, and don't dine out much these days.

5. Have you ever been to whereever it is you can go to see the seals there? Seals are smelly, but they're cute too.
I think you're talking about Pier 39, where there are sea lions. Yes, I've been there. More than once. Maybe it does for other people, but for me, it never gets old to see the sea lions sunning themselves and pushing each other into the water, and flopping back up to dry off from a swim.

6. What's your favorite thing about SF?
People ask this a lot. I don't have a good answer. This is the first major city I've ever lived in, so I really have nothing to compare it to. I love that the weather makes it easy to spend time outdoors. I love that there's tons of free stuff to do and watch. You can make a full day out of watching the Gay Pride Parade, a full morning out of watching Bay to Breakers take off and then going to the Ferry Building for the farmer's market. You can surround yourself with tourists or escape them by going to the places tourists never know about. You can learn (if you're me) how to become comfortable being the only white person on the bus. Hell, you can learn how to use city buses, something that was foreign and scary to me at first.

This is the place where I learned how to make friends. Where I learned to cut myself a little slack. Where I got to hone the art of agreeing to disagree, of stretching my mind to see other people's viewpoints. I don't know that these things happened because I am in SF, just that they happened while I was here. But when I have entertained thoughts of leaving here and moving elsewhere, I have worried "what if I can't make friends?"

7. I grew up in North Miami, FL. It sounds like when you were in FL you were in the Pompano area. Why did you move there?
You nailed it. I moved to Florida because I wanted to move out of my parent's house. When I looked at apartments on Long Island, they were all depressing illegal basement apartments in the back of people's homes. I distinctly remember looking at one with my dad, and then quietly telling him, "This is the kind of place that's great for committing suicide." My grandpa lived in FL - he had an apartment in an old-people community, and mostly lived at his girlfriend's apartment (in the same community). When I considered the idea of moving to Florida, he allowed me to stay at his place for a few months while I got myself established. I knew of one girl around my age when I moved to Florida, and she was a real estate agent. She showed me four apartment complexes, all places she'd show her sister, and I picked the one with the most natural sunlight. The master closet was big enough for a controlled cartwheel. There was a laundry pantry in the kitchen. There was so much space in that apartment that I had multiple empty cabinets. So that's why I moved to Florida, the specific city within Florida, and the specific apartment complex.

8. Will you please post a comment or two on my blog? :)
Already done!

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.

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.

Different types of luck

As a kid, any time I played Monopoly I would go back and forth from Free Parking to Jail, over and over. Extreme highs and extreme lows. We always said if anyone was going to win the lottery in my family, it would be me. Once, as a hanukah present, my brother gave me scratch-offs. I won. Something like $15, that I collected at a gas station.

There are some people who lose their job, spend a couple of months sleeping late, going to the matinee movies, having long lunches, taking vacations, etc., before they get antsy and want to get back to work. So they buy a new interview outfit, send out a slew of resumes, and within three months from when they started their job search in earnest, they are again gainfully employed. Or they temp somewhere, and do such a stellar job that their supervisor finds or creates a position for them. I don't have that kind of luck.

I find pennies in the street. That's my kind of luck. Last week I was talking to Golden Boy about luck, and we realized something. In April of 2009, the thinking was that I would go to Mexico for his wedding, and practically straight from the wedding have to give up and leave San Francisco. Instead, I came home from Mexico, moved in with Wooffers, and less than week after moving had a temp gig. It's now over a year later and I'm still in San Francisco, so maybe I am lucky after all. Guess I just have a different type of luck than what I expected.

I Know Someone Who DIED From That

Many, many moons ago, I worked with a girl who had a tramp stamp in memory of her father who'd died. She also had a teeny, tiny stud in her nose, and her boyfriend had one undesended ball (I'm more mature now, and if you tell me these things about your boyfriend or husband I no longer want to giggle each time I see them, because I immediately try to forget I know the second after you give me this type of information). She also had diabetes. Once, the manager for our department went up to this girl and asked her, right in front of my desk, what she should if she "has a diabetes attack" and so the girl launched into a two minute explanation of some needle that she kept in a certain spot in her desk and where to jab it into her body and how to do it so the insulin would get in. I was on the phone at the time and didn't hear the details, but clearly remember the look of shock on the girl's face when the manager wrinkled her nose and said, "Oh, that's way too complicated, never mind," and walked off.

Recently someone on Twitter raged a few times about people being ignorant when it comes to diabetes. Which made me think, "Umm ... I'm pretty ignorant. Shit, have I said anything offensive about diabetes lately?"

I always sympathize with the ignorant asshole - probably because so often it's me - and this time came up with a way to do something about it. I asked said Twitter-er if she'd like to do a guest post (!) on my blog about her diabetes. And now you will know what not to say when someone tells you they have diabetes. (Thanks to my Twitter Friend for doing this, and apologies for font issues - there was a lot of cutting and pasting going on.)

1. What kind of diabetes do you have? The kind that's kept in check by diet, or do you need insulin shots?

I'm a type I diabetic. It's the kind that they used to call Juvenile diabetes, or insulin-dependent diabetes, but neither of those names are used too frequently anymore. I take insulin, but in my case, instead of taking shots, I have an insulin pump. That's a small computer, about the size of a cell phone, that's attached to me by a teensy little catheter. It holds a reservoir of insulin and the computer gives me a very low dose constantly. When I eat or if my blood glucose is high, I give myself extra insulin. It's a lot more convenient than having to give myself shots. I've also found it's a lot less conspicuous than having to pull out syringes and insulin if I want to have a snack. A syringe tends to draw a lot of attention and curiosity, and that curiosity is often negative.

2. If you have to walk around with needles, how do you get on airplanes with them? Do you carry a doctor's note?

That's exactly what I do, actually. Before I fly, I have my doctor write a letter stating that I am diabetic and must travel with syringes, insulin, my pump, and monitoring equipment on my person. When I go through security, I put everything but my pump and continuous glucose monitoring system in a clear plastic bag so that it's all visible, and I inform the security agent that I'm traveling with medical equipment. Then when I go through the metal detector, I turn my pump off, detach it (which is not at all a big deal), let them X-ray it, then turn it back on and re-attach it. Not a big deal, as it turns out--I thought it would be the first time I flew, but the screeners have seen it all a million times before. Yeah, yeah, lady. Just make sure your laptop is out. What's interesting to me is that I do have to turn off and disconnect my continuous glucose monitoring system, which is a little plastic radio transmitter, when I fly. You know how they tell you to turn off laptops, cell phones, and other devices before the plane takes off? It's just like that.

3. If we know someone with diabetes, should we not offer them sweets?

Oh, wow. That's really a great question. Diabetes treatment has changed so much over the last 20 years, even over the last 10, and most of us can (and do) occasionally indulge without it being a big deal. My first inclination is absolutely to say yes, I do think you should, especially if they're a part of a group and you're offering something sweet to everyone--dessert, for example. Offering doesn't quite have the impact of, say, offering a drink to someone who's in recovery for alcohol abuse or something like that, which is fraught with all kinds of...I don't know. Part of this disease is learning to make good choices for ourselves, and while you might feel a little awkward about offering, we're just fine with saying no thanks if we need to. What's so much worse for us is feeling singled out or excluded for being diabetic. I know a diabetic who was diagnosed at 8. The year after she was diagnosed, at her birthday party, her mother baked a birthday cake, served everyone else but her, and then handed her a bowl of apple slices.

4. What's a good thing to say (other than 'Oh....' or 'Hey, my dad's cousin died of that in the 80's') when someone tells you they have diabetes?

One of the things we struggle with is finding a way to tell people that isn't a total downer or conversation-ender. Most of the time, people notice my insulin pump and ask me about it. People love technology and are curious about things they've never seen before, and I would much rather answer questions about it than hear about how someone's grandmother went blind and had all her toes amputated. Although I'm sorry to hear about that grandmother and her toes, I already got the memo that diabetes is scary. You wouldn't believe some of the things I've heard people say. My all-time favorite is still, "But you're not that fat!" Oooh, thanks, but I've got the other kind. Anyway, I guess the best answer to your question is probably to ask a question. Ask them if they're type I or II. Ask them when they were diagnosed. Most diabetics would much rather answer a question or two--we're always impressed to hear that someone knows something--than hear about the multitude of awful ways we could die.

5. What should people avoid saying?

Ohhh, the internet. A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing, and I've been told that I can cure diabetes with cinnamon, cayenne pepper, a vegetarian diet, a vegan diet, the power of prayer, and roots from a certain tree that grows in the U.S. Southwest. Let me just say this: there is no cure for diabetes, and people who try to convince you otherwise are, without fail, pursuing an agenda that has nothing to do with you or your health. I would avoid any sentence that starts out "I've heard you can cure diabetes with..." The implication is that we're fools to still be suffering from the condition, because there's a cure. Believe me, there's not a cure. With nearly 25,000,000 Americans now suffering from diabetes, the word would be out by now.

6. What assumptions do people make about you when they find out you have diabetes?

The usual: I must not be very active or energetic. My health must be very fragile. I'm not crazy about the assumption that someone knows all about me just based on the fact that they have a cursory knowledge of the facts of diabetes. Probably the assumption that I like the least is one that, surprisingly, often comes from medical professionals, and that's that I don't know anything about diabetes. My experience is that many doctors who aren't specifically diabetes experts don't know as much as I do. I had a baby last summer, and when I was pregnant, I had an excellent obstetrician who freely admitted he didn't know a great deal about diabetes. He was terrific about asking questions about things like my insulin pump, how often I checked my blood glucose and what range I tried to keep it in, some of the little foibles of the disease. He was eager to work with me, he said, because my health was very good and pregnant diabetics who are in good shape tend to have fewer complications than those who aren't, and even fewer than some non-diabetics, because we are so knowledgeable about how our body works.

7. How old were you when you got it? Do your kids have it? Are your kids more likely to get diabetes because you have it?

I was diagnosed at 25, in the summer of 2001. I got the flu the winter before, and my doctors think that the virus caused my immune system to mistake the cells that produce insulin for invaders, attack, and kill them. I have no family history of diabetes--nobody in my family has it. Neither of my children have it, and they're not any more likely to get it than any other kid with non-diabetic parents. I'm not genetically predisposed to diabetes--it's just one of those crazy fluke things that happen sometimes. My kids are actually at higher risk for type II diabetes--my mother-in-law has it--than type I. Of course, I'm a mom, which makes me crazy and paranoid, so I went through a terrifying couple of days when my son was 2 1/2, when he began demanding a bottle of water to take to bed with him at night, resulting in a sopping wet bed every morning. I had him tested for diabetes, and he tested negative, but still. Scary stuff.

8. Does diabetes get research funding like cancer? Is somebody working on a cure? Is there such a thing as a cure?

Diabetes does get research funding similar to cancer. The American Diabetes Association, the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation, and the Federal government are among those who are working like mad for a cure. Like with all autoimmune diseases, it's tough to find a strategy to selectively turn off the immune system--to tell it to stop attacking one specific cell. There's a really exciting development in Australia: a nanovaccine that does exactly that in mice. It could potentially lead to a human vaccine against type I diabetes. There's also been some promising research into islet cell transplant, or taking insulin-producing cells from a donor and transplanting them--but in the long term, that hasn't worked very well. Transplant patients have to take huge doses of steroids in order to suppress the immune system, and one of the effects of steroids is that they raise blood glucose levels. So basically, in order to make insulin, they transplant these cells, which ultimately raise the demand for insulin so much that they basically end up exhausting the cells that they've transplanted. But 100 years ago, diabetes was basically a fatal, acute illness--there was no real effective treatment at all. So the bell curve that research is on says that we're close to a cure. That'll be a good day.

9. What do you wish people knew/understood about you and/or diabetes that they (we?) don't?

We don't all look like Wilford Brimley. Diabetics are an exceptionally diverse group of people, many of whom take great care of themselves and are proactive about their health. Despite that diversity, we almost universally hate being told what diabetics are "like." It's like trying to describe what people with curly hair are like--just way too broad a category to accurately form a generalization. Diabetes is serious, but it doesn't have to occupy every corner of your life. I give it the same effort as I do raising my kids or maintaining my relationship with my husband, and I do it as much for them as I do for myself. As much as I'd like to see a cure in my lifetime, my assumption is that there won't be one, and so I try to take as good care of myself today as I did the day I was diagnosed.

10. Since you have a catheter in you all the time, do you worry about people bumping into you? Can you not play contact sports because of it? (Do you have to be careful when you're having sex because of it?)

I don't worry too much about people bumping into me. The catheter, which is the part that's actually under my skin, is a little tiny flexible plastic tube that's about the diameter of a thread and less than half an inch long. It's taped in place right near my hip and most of the time I can't feel it, The bigger problem is the tubing--if I don't have it all tucked under my clothes, I've done things like catch it on door knobs and that kind of thing. I've never accidentally pulled it out that way, but it hurts, mostly because of the tape. I have yanked out the catheter pulling my pants on or off a couple of times, which is also not that much fun. I usually forget to carry an extra infusion set and inserter with me if we're just out for the day, so if I do that, it means we have to turn around and go home.

As far as sports, it tends to be a personal preference, but in general it's fine to wear the pump during. They make holsters and that kind of thing, similar to those armbands people use for their iPods, that go around the arm or the leg, which keep it pretty close. Some people will reduce the amount of insulin they get while they're playing sports or exercising, because the activity can cause blood glucose to drop. On the other hand, you don't want to be off the pump for more than an hour or so, because you'll start to become hyperglycemic unless you're really exercising hard. The pump is water-resistant (one of the very first things I ever did with mine was to accidentally drop it in the toilet) but not waterproof, so I take it off when I swim or shower--it's got a little detach mechanism right at the skin, which leaves this little grommet stuck in my side. And as far as sex goes, usually I take it off. It's not that it freaks my husband out, he's adorable and surprisingly non-squeamish about it. It's just that we tend to get tangled up in the tubing or roll over on the pump. It doesn't hurt the pump, but I've ended up with a pump-shaped bruise on my butt before.

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.

Groundhog's Day

I woke up this morning thinking about my grandpa. It feels like so much longer than a year since he died, and at the same time, just a couple of weeks since he died. In the past I used to call my grandpa on Groundhog's Day. I didn't know if someone who was widowed would want to be wished a happy anniversary or not, so I wouldn't say it to him. I'd just call and chat with my grandpa, and we wouldn't address the fact that it was out of the norm for me to call on a weekday rather than a weekend.

Growing up I was so much closer to my grandma than my grandpa, but relationships change when you grow from child to adult. Since my grandma died two months after I turned 18, I didn't get the chance to form an adult relationship with her. In a way, I think it was because of her death that my grandpa and I became as close as we did, since she wasn't there to serve as a buffer between us. Please don't think she interfered, because she didn't. It's just that dynamics change depending on which people are involved.

I miss my grandpa. I miss how smooth his hands were. How I could look at his hair and see the same wave in the front of his hair as I have in mine. That my great-grandma, his mother, had in hers. How he always spoke as if he knew. I miss that if I read the Sun Sentinel before calling him, and then mentioned something I knew was going on in Florida, my grandpa was always on top of it - he'd read about it too, and had an opinion. When we'd talk I could visualize exactly where he was sitting. If I called at his house, I knew which chair in the kitchen he was sitting in, with his back to the oven, and all his papers spread out on the table in front of him.

I miss my grandpa.

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.

How Corrupt Am I?

In general, I'm pretty black and white on where I stand on issues. Stealing is wrong. Saying please and thank you is right. But I know not every issue has a black or white answer. Safety comes before law in my opinion, which is why I felt no guilt over sliding through a stop sign, hand slammed on the horn to approaching cars, one winter afternoon while driving my mother somewhere. I did what would be safest for me, my mother, the car, and gambled that the other cars would watch out (we were fine).

As a kid I lied a lot. So my parents were very black and white on lying. It wasn't until I was a teenager that my mother explained the fine art of the white lie. "If a friend asks if you like their dress and you hate it, you can say 'That shade of pink is beautiful!'"

As an adult I lie very little, except for white lies, which I feel no guilt over, and at work, which also creates no guilt. One time, back when I worked with Cowboy and Nice Partner, Cowboy called from his car, demanding to speak with Nice Partner, who was on the phone with someone already. Nice Partner hated nothing more than to be interrupted (with stupidity a close second), so I told Cowboy that Nice Partner wasn't available due to being on the phone. Cowboy told me to interrupt.

I interrupted. Nice Partner gave me his Glare of Death. Told me to tell Cowboy he was on the other line. Cowboy told me to tell Nice Partner that he was holding for him. It was very awkward. Later, after Nice Partner was off the phone, I knocked on his door.

"I know you don't like to be interrupted and am sorry I did it, but I had Cowboy demanding that I interrupt you. How do you want me to handle it next time this comes up?" At that point Nice Partner's Glare of Death dissipated as he understood the position I'd been in. He thought about it for a second, and then told me, "Lie. Tell Cowboy I'm not here." I nodded, thanked him, and walked away. Legal secretaries tell people who call that the attorney is not there, when in fact s/he may very well be standing right at their desk. That kind of lie is just fine with me.

However. When I was a little girl I'd go food shopping with my grandma and she would take a grape from the produce section, or a jelly bean from the bulk section. I was taught this was stealing, and to this day, I hate seeing people do that. It's one thing when Whole Foods has clearly put out samples for people to taste, but other than that? Wrong.

It's hard to explain if you don't understand it without using the cliche that desperate times call for desperate measures, but since I've been out of work, my standards have ... become more flexible.

Last night I got a Safeway delivery, and the delivery guy accidentally left me with a package of Keebler cookies I hadn't ordered. Every once in a while something has been tossed into your delivery that's not yours. If I notice it before the Safeway guy has left my floor, I open the door and run after him. If I notice it after he's left, I call Safeway to let them know. Last night I called Safeway to tell them about the cookies I hadn't ordered. They told me to go ahead and keep them.

Thing is, I don't need any cookies. But I do need milk. And potatoes. In another lifetime, I would just bring the cookies to work so other people could enjoy them. But I don't have a "work" these days. So I am tempted to bring those cookies back to the supermarket and exchange them for foods I actually need. It's not something I would do if I were working and earning money. And it's not that I think that because I'm in an extreme situation it's okay to do, because I don't.

This afternoon I got a call from a temp agency. They need someone to do transcription tomorrow. I was told it will be the entire day. I want to take that as license to work as slowly as I can, to stretch the tapes out to last the full work day. Even if in reality it only takes me four or five hours. Again, totally wrong. And yet.

There's a bookstore in the Ferry Building here in San Francisco. Outside of their store they have a cart with books on it. There's a sign on the cart. Normally the type of sign you'd see would say something about shoplifters being prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. But not here, not in hippie dippie San Francisco. No, the sign here says not to steal because if you do, karma will get you.

I've gone through stretches of time where I am a really good person. And you know what? Good things don't come to me just because of that. I've had bad things happen when I've been good, and good things happen when I've been a bad person. So despite the fact that my mom used to tell me, "God'll get ya," when I search for reasons not to do things like exchange something I didn't pay for to get something I need, or to stretch out an assignment since they think that's how long it will take even if I can get it done sooner, I come up empty these days.

Have They Always Been That Big?

The other day I was at someone's house and there were two pizza boxes on top of the stove. When asked for a slice from the bottom box I held one in each hand as I changed out the boxes, being careful not to knock over bottles of wine or wine glasses that were nearby on the counter.

Since moving out of New York, I haven't found good pizza. I won't even try pizza from places that sell other things, like subs, because some foods just don't belong together. Growing up we got pizza about once every two weeks or so. Often it was my job to take the pizza boxes out the the garage, stepping on them to fold them into quarters so they'd fit in the big garbage pails. Now I am just one person, so I never buy pizza pies. I don't really touch pizza boxes that often anymore. Maybe these were extra-large pizzas that came in extra-large pizza boxes. Or maybe the pizza boxes have always been that big.