The Right Writing Style

I don't know anything formal about writing. I took nothing more than the requisite English classes in high school and college. I didn't score particularly high on the English section (or the math section, lest you get the wrong idea) of the SAT's. To be frank, I barely scored mediocrely (perhaps my use of that word is part of the reason why) on either section. My entire trick to writing decently involves attempting to write what I'd enjoy reading. Most of the time I almost succeed, but not quite.

However, for much better tips on how to write well, check out Wide Lawns. When I read her tips, a few of them were things I'd figured out on my own, a couple were things I realized I'd been taught in Composition 101 in college, and several just made total sense even though I'd never heard them before.

This is the type of post that you want to print out and put up on your bulletin board that hangs above your desk. Now all I need is a bulletin board. And a desk. Oh, and an apartment big enough for a desk. Until then, I'm going to make a more conscious effort to write in a more Wide Lawnserly way.

Shit You Might Like to Like Too

I started writing out this whole big story involving going to the bank on Saturdays with my dad, and rolls of pennies from the penny jars my grandparents would give Golden Boy and me. This story was linked to my creativity, but I erased it upon realizing I couldn't find the connection anymore between that and the title of this blog post. I got lost. I changed the title. I watched a Friends rerun, because when is it not funny?

Anyway, hi. I'd like to let you know about some stuff I like.

Maven of Savin' is pretty rad on the store and coupon deals. Very corny name, but all is forgiven when you look at the stuff she comes up with. Also, she updates her site multiple times a day.

On a more local level, I like Jeremy's, even though I can't afford to shop there. But you can! Plus it's still fun to go in and touch all the stuff. If I ever do have money again, I will want to hire a professional clothing shopper to take me shopping there.

All the books by Lisa Lutz are amazing, and I tore through them to keep finding out more about the Spellmans, ignoring the inner voice telling me to slow down so I couldn't cry when they'd all been read. It's fun to read books that have the story take place somewhere you live. I mean, she writes about the Philosopher's Club, and okay, while I can't say I've drank there, I have been at the train stop you'd get off at if you were going to drink there, and that's practically the same thing. Anyway, my point is, Lisa, please hurry up and write more soon. Thank you.

I don't think my parents would tell you they were awesome. They're not braggy in that way. But some people think their parents were awesome, and they sent pictures in to a website to prove it. This website makes me cry. I am dying for more information. It fascinates me to see people with decades of giving other people advice ahead of them. (It horrifies me to have terrible sentence structure.)

Lastly, these bowls are awesome.

So yeah.

East Coast - West Coast Rivals

At 10am this morning I got a call from one of my temp agencies saying they needed someone to do some "legal admin work." To those not in the legal industry, all the non-lawyer jobs probably sound interchangeable, but they're not. A receptionist is not capable of doing a paralegal's job, and a paralegal would be highly insulted to be asked to do a receptionist's job. In New York, there are legal secretaries who work for judges, but there's also a job called "judge's secretary" and those people are required to be lawyers. Confusing, I know.

You can understand now why I asked the agency guy for clarification. I am a rockstar in certain aspects of my job, but most definitely not in others, and I didn't want to set myself up to fail by arriving at a firm and not being able to do what they needed. Somewhat luckily, this particular firm just needed a receptionist (which I haven't done in over a decade, but the real key is not to freak out when ten lines ring at once, and to not drop any calls), so off I went to the Financial District.

I asked the agency guy what the hourly rate would be. He asked what my minimum was that I'll accept. Screw that. So I told him that when his co-worker Tony sends me on jobs my usual pay rate is blah. We'll see what happens - hopefully I'll get more than unemployment pays.

This was an East Coast-based firm. Having now worked on both coasts I can tell you with certainty that West Coast-based firms are better. East Coast firms require more formal dress. No business casual for them, except maybe on Fridays. They're more likely to block websites. Quite frankly, overall the people are less friendly. I will lost all my New York street cred for saying this, but it really doesn't take any extra time to smile and say hello. (All the Southern states just started jumping up and down and waving to me.)

I hand-wrote this blog post while at the job today, around noon. At that point six people had walked by the front desk where I was sitting. One person stood at "my" desk looking over a package that was over-nighted to her and then tried to hand me an empty UPS box to throw away. Another asked if there was a pad of paper at the desk, but didn't greet me or introduce herself. The next three completely ignored me, not even making eye contact. The sixth actually introduced herself.

By the way, I was sitting at the desk of a woman who has been at this firm well over a decade. I can tell, because there is a three-foot lace doily laid across the desk, with various trinkets on it that involve teddy bears and angels. Not to mention the jar (the cover of which has a 3-D farm on it) of obligatory old lady candy.

By the end of the day the most shocking thing to happen was when the guy training me won the award for Least Politically Correct Person In San Francisco. First, he referred to the lawyer who handles immigration law as "the Korean." Then, he told me the receptionist was useless. I was so shocked that I said, "What?!" and he clarified that she has cerebral palsy and her right arm is completely useless. Oh. My.

The thing that struck me as especially weird is that you want to think that someone who would say such things is mean. Like grumpy and cruel all the time or whatever. But this guy was very nice to me (of course I'm white, like he was, and am not handicapped). People are so strange.

What I'm Not Blogging About These Days

Story number one: Today I walked over to the bank. It's only a few blocks way, and I've been there several times previously. It was really sunny out and I was squinting as I walked up to the bank door. When I yanked on the door to open it, it remained closed. I tried the other door. Nothing. I squinted harder at the door to see what the hours were. Per the hours, the bank was opened. I was confused. I looked around and felt stupid. Looked at the door again. Then I noticed a sign on the one of the doors that said something about using a different entrance. I walked around the building, and found another entrance. Then I went into the bank. I wonder why they changed which doors are being used.

Story number two: I went to the CalTrain station to get a September fast pass. You can buy them at a bunch of different places, but the CalTrain station never runs out. When I got there an Asian man was already in line. It seemed like all the windows were closed and nobody was there. There was a sign saying someone would be back at 5:45pm. Very weird. CalTrain is always open. I mean, maybe not from like 2am to 5am or something, but pretty much always. The guy turned around and told me you couldn't buy a ticket from the machines with a credit card. I walked towards the machines and saw someone who worked for CalTrain standing around.

I asked the man if I could buy a Fast Pass from one of the machines. He shook his head. I asked if there was anyone available to sell me a Fast Pass. He told me to go to Safeway. So I did.

See? You're not missing much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When You Can't Think of Anything to Blog About ...

Go look at what your blog friends are blogging about, and copy Nicole.

1. 9am is off visiting his family for the week, and I'm greatly enjoying having the apartment to myself. I don't have to put on a bra before leaving my bedroom, and don't have to clean up messes in the kitchen that I didn't make. It's also nice to not have to see 9am involuntarily flex his muscles each time he feels his masculinity is threatened, like when I catch him laughing his very high-pitched laugh.

2. I like to walk along the Embarcadero. You can look out at the San Francisco Bay, walk right under the Bay Bridge, and you don't have to pay attention to traffic at all, because, like Boston's Esplanade, there's no break in sidewalk.

3. Not too far from the ballpark where the SF Giants play there used to be this funky candle store on the Embarcadero that I liked to stop in at during my walks. Then it moved. The store listed their new address. I looked it up on a map. I went to where I thought it should be, right in my neighborhood. But it wasn't there. I gave up. It's not like I had any urgent need for candles.

4. Today I bought eggs.

5. On my way home, I saw a sign for the funky candle store, complete with directions in my language (go to end of walkway, turn right, follow curve of street, shop is on the right past auto body store). I was very excited to finally find the store again! Turns out they have changed to mostly selling wholesale, which is why they didn't need such a huge space on the Embarcadero anymore. Also turns out, they were having a sale, and the candles they show on the clearance section of their website that sell for $5 are being sold in the store for $3.

6. Still, I did not buy any. Wasn't that a nice story?

7. I don't really have anything else to share. Nothing else is going on with me these days.

8. Oh wait! Did I tell you about the time a few months ago when I tried to make mashed potatoes and it didn't go well? I wound up having to throw out the whole concoction, which greatly upset me as I hate to waste money.

9. Well, last week, I looked at several recipes for mashed potatoes, figured out what I'd done wrong (hadn't boiled the potatoes, nor had I had a potato masher which while not technically necessary, probably does make things much easier), and tried again while staying at Crazy Girl and Golden Boy's house. With great success! If you ever come over and I offer you mashed potatoes, whip your fork out from your pocket and dig in, because they're fabulous.

10. Lastly, I'd just like to make sure you're aware of FMyLife and FailBlog. Both funny. Both highly inappropriate for work.

Sharing the Funny

I read a lot of blogs. Some get comments all the time and those bloggers are probably tired of me. Other bloggers probably have no idea at all I'm aware of them, and no idea why they should care that I am (the mountain).

One of the blogs I read is one I found through someone who hasn't blogged in a long time, but should (cheers!), and I've never commented.

Earlier in the week was de-lurking day in the blog world, and Brandy, sorry I'm late. Hi, I read your blog, find it hilarious to the point that I no longer drink while reading it after snorting water up my nose more than once, and think everyone should read your blog too.

Peoples, Brandy guest-blogged on this girl Jamie's blog and I laughed during American Idol. You should click the link and read it. Go! Right now.

Blurp (Domo Arigato)

If you would be so kind as to take a look at the left sidebar, you will see I've changed around the lists of blogs and websites I read regularly. Also, I have updated the Playa List.

Outside Looking In

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

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

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

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

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

Talking and Listening

People always say that if someone is depressed, they should talk about it. Talk it out. Talk, talk, talk. I don't want to talk. I love talking, but I hate people listening to me. The way they listen. Which is funny, because multiple times each day I resist the urge to scream, "Somebody! Just pay attention to me!" I do not get nearly enough attention. This is why people should have shrinks or therapists. Because what you want to do is talk to a friend. Because you trust them, you're comfortable with them. But if you told them all the crazy thoughts you have, and how often you think those thoughts, or how infrequently you're NOT thinking those thoughts, of course they wouldn't want to be friends with you anymore. And when one of the things that makes you want to kill yourself is not feeling like you have enough people who care about you, you know talking to friends about your problems would be social suicide.

I don't want to talk. I want to solve. I want to not need to talk. If talking doesn't solve, it's just complaining. Venting. Whatever. You know why else talking sucks? Because it involves another person. And when their suggestion won't work and you explain why, that person never takes it well.

I don't want to talk. I get that people ask because they care. The caring? Appreciate it a thousand times over. More than I can express. But what you need to know is that sometimes I need a break from it. It keeps me up at night. If my eyes are closed I will swear to you that something physical is truly pressing down on my chest and that's why it's hard to breathe. Sometimes I need to be distracted. Sure, there are some people in denial about their situations. I am not one of those people. I never forget. It's simply that I don't know how to fix it.

You know how when a baby wants to be picked up they look up at you and hold their arms up? That's how I feel. I can't fix this. I can't make it better. I need someone else to, because I can't. But if you're not going to, don't talk to me about it. Because yes, I'm registered with every temp agency in the city. Yes, I already looked into it, and I qualify for neither welfare nor foodstamps. Yes, I saw that job on Craigslist and applied for it. Yes I check these other websites daily. Really, I'm on it.

I don't want to talk. I know you care. I just need a break. Let's talk about you. What's going on with your life? How are YOU? I want to listen. I'm great at listening. What would you like to tell me about you?

Grinding Halt

Despite having a post in Draft, I have no desire to write lately. Not blogs, not e-mails, not even signing my name. I'd much rather call these days, or hang out in person. If I owe you an e-mail, this is why you haven't gotten one. If I sent you a one-line email that seems rushed, this is why. I refuse to force myself to write, because the whole point is gone if I do that.

Instead, I will wait for myself. Wait until I want to catalog all the ways the universe is sending me signs of the new year. Wait until I want to detail for you the two (two!) people who fell on the bus this weekend. Wait until I have the patience to post the first part of the story about the partner who got fired.

Don't wait for me to write about things like the bail-out though, because I'm waiting until I can ask Golden Boy to explain it to me. He is one of the very few people who instinctively knows how to explain things in ways I'll understand, which is why he gets the hard questions.