The Not-So-Secret Diary of a Bad Luck Girl

The weekend in San Francisco was really warm, like in the 80s or 90s, perfect weather for a walk around the Marina and tasty tacos.

Sunday we ate a new place, at least for me, Nick’s Crispy Tacos.  It was sooo good.  Usually I don’t find tacos filling at all.  I eat two and I’m still kinda hungry but in that yucky, fast food way.  But the tacos in “Nick’s style” – with cheese and guacamole and wrapped in two tortillas, one fried and one soft – were completely satisfying.

I had one carnitas – the pork tender, lean, and juicy – and one fried fish, which was doused in a deliciously tangy lime sauce, and was full about halfway through the fish, but ate it all anyway.

Plus the decor was really cool, like something out of the Rat Pack era:

I could imagine Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis, Jr., and Ava Gardner lounging in their tuxes and furs in one of those red booths, with taco juice dripping down their chins.

Afterwards we walked out to the Marina area.  What a great day to be near the water, though I resisted walking on the sand, which in retrospect I should have because the callouses on my heels could have used a good scrubbing.  We had fun watching the dogs play on the beach.  I find it hilarious when they roll around in the sand.

As we were strolling, we saw the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance.  “Let’s walk across it!” MB said.  The bridge seemed pretty long to me, and I wasn’t sure if people actually walked across it like they do the Brooklyn Bridge.  But sure why not?  Then as we kept going, the bridge hardly got any closer, and we realized it was much farther away than we thought.  Ah well, next time.

On the way back, we ran into the Palace of Fine Arts.  It was really pretty!

We saw a bride and groom having their pictures taken.  The bride looked pretty, but the groom was wearing one of those tacky white tuxes.  Plus he looked so not thrilled to be there.  Then again, when does any groom?

Walking back home was a challenge because of all the hills.  I kept thinking, How are these hills in real life and not part of some extreme gym workout?  We were so pooped, we had to stop in Japantown and see a movie (Surrogates, wait for the DVD).

Now it’s back to packing and organizing.  Soon it will be over!

Friday was my first day without work.  It was partially enjoyable, and partially worrisome.

It began great.  I got up around eight, had a leisurely breakfast, checked email and blogs, and packed a little before heading uptown to drop off donations at Housing Works.  You couldn’t have asked for better weather.  Sunny and cool.  In fact I needed a jacket.  The bus ride was quick and relaxing compared to crawling through massive traffic during the week (the U.N. was in session, and the President was in town), and then ridding myself of three heavy bags of clothes.  Yay!

Next I picked up copies of my patient records from my doc, and then a bagel with lox cream cheese from Pick-A-Bagel and an overpriced mocha from Le Pain Quotidien.  I mosied on over to Central Park and had my lunch by the Conservatory Water.  Central Park is definitely something I will miss about New York, especially in autumn.

I had planned on going straight home and packing some more, but then I decided I’d visit the Met one last time.  I made sure to check out the new American Wing, a light-filled open space with lots of sculptures and statues, as well as the Vermeer exhibit, which was just okay.  There were not that many paintings and it was very crowded.  Plus I had seen all of that and more at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam years ago.

I also visited a couple of old favorites: the Asian hall with all the Buddhas, and the Greek and Roman hall, what I like to call The Hall of Perseus’ Rock Hard Booty.  I tried to be discreet as I stared at that statue from behind (pun intended).

I got home around 3, and after chilling out a bit, that’s when it started: the boredom.  I should have known.  That listless feeling always starts for me then.  At work it’s not bad because I’m surrounded by people, and I can easily go for a quick workout.  But on my own, if I don’t remedy it immediately, it gets bad.

I started to think, Is this how it’s going to be in San Francisco?  Energized in the morning, and then blah and lonely in the afternoon, EVERY afternoon, not just on Sundays after a weekend with no plans?  Was this going to be good for my writing, or detrimental?  I remembered, as though it had been weeks since I stopped working, instead of of less than 24 hours, the relief of a peaceful Friday night after a busy week.  Some philosopher said pleasure is merely absence from pain – with no pain, would I know pleasure again?  Or would the days just blur into each other?

By 5:30 I decided enough is enough, and got out of the house.  I didn’t really have any errands to run so I just took a long walk out to Chelsea Market.  (I actually wanted to go for a run, but in my packing frenzy, I brought all my workout clothes to SF.)   That did the trick.  It helped clear my mind and get my confidence back about my writing as I imagined a routine of writing in the morning, then leaving the house by lunchtime and writing in a cafe or something for a couple of hours before going for a run or heading to the gym.  I envisioned taking some classes at the gym as well as a writing class, to have some social interaction.

I realized I was putting all this pressure on myself to GET OUT THERE immediately, meaning network and socialize in ways I haven’t really done before, like going to writing events and schmoozing, and that doing something I’ve done before, like simply taking a writing class, was a cop out.

But why?  My time off should be fun, as well as productive.  It’s as though now that I don’t have the pressure of work (and school), I’m creating this pressure.  I’m making up something to worry about.

~ ~ ~

Anyway, my weekend in SF has been lovely as usual.  My flight was good, aside from my rowmate who was a complete asshole.  Since I switched flights at the last minute, I had a window seat instead of an aisle, so I had to unfortunately climb over my row mate for my many trips to the bathroom.  The second time I had to wake him up because his legs were positioned in a way that there was no way I could climb over him.  After I woke him up, he just stared at me and held out his hands, like what am I supposed to do?

“Can you move your legs a little?” I asked.

He stared at me some more.  “I was sleeping,” he said.

Was he really not going to move?  “Well, I still need to get out.”

Finally, he was so generous to shift so I could get out.

When I came back, I very politely said, “Would you like the window seat so I don’t disturb you again?”  Read: take the goddamned window seat since you’re just going to sleep the whole time and I’m the one who needs to pee every hour.  He refused it.  Fine, then you’ll have to deal with me.

I actually tried to hold my pee longer than I normally would have, then finally just couldn’t anymore and climbed over him without saying excuse me.

What a fucking dick.

The guy was Indian or middle eastern, and I could picture his mother fawning over him while he was growing up, telling him he was a prince among men, and then his wife doing the same.

Aside from that, I’ve been having fun.  Yesterday MB and I walked all over.  It was hot!  Well into the 80s and very sunny, though in the shade and at night it was much cooler.  After dinner we had a quiet night in since I was so tired.  I slept like a rock.

Today blogging, unpacking, and running some errands.  I’m glad I don’t leave till tomorrow.

As I said earlier, this is my last day in the office.

Although I’m past the scare of not having a job (at least for the next few months), it’s only now hitting me that I’ll be leaving a place that I’ve been going to, almost every day, for the past 10 years.

Switching jobs within the company wasn’t that big of a deal, and a very welcome change. Getting a new boss every year was also run of the mill, and getting new co-workers barely made me blink an eye. But leaving the company for good, not for vacation, not for extended leave, but most likely forever is giving me the willies.

Imagine, every day, going to the same place, knowing, if not exactly was going to happen, that at least you had a desk, a chair, a computer, and a phone to call your own. “I live on the 15th floor” is something people around here say by mistake often, and while it’s a sad testament to how many hours some put in, it also speaks a truth: work is like a second home. You’re there five days a week, more or less, eight hours a day, more or less. You only spend more time sleeping (or maybe not).

My workplace has been my refuge. Where can I write when I want out of my apartment and am sick of cafes? Where can I stow all the CDs and books I don’t have room for at my apartment? Where will I print hundreds of pages of manuscripts and filch office supplies? Not only is this my workplace, it’s my work out place, my gym for the past decade. My eatery, my bank, my post office. I barely have to leave the building all day (whether that’s good or bad is another story).

It was from my desk as an admin that I planned my wedding, surfing the internet for dresses, venues, and honeymoon spots. It’s where I printed off labels and stuffed envelopes, and argued with the photographer on the phone. It’s where my nice bosses let me work on my writing if the day was slow, and where I dealt with a million temps, some pretty slow themselves.

It was where I received the shipment of my first (and only) published book, where I got the mysterious email from Ron and Judy, then later from my cousin Huang Lei that surprise! she was in America and married to Ron and Judy’s son Shane. It was where I tried to get in touch with my ex during 9/11, only to have his phone ring and ring and ring, and where, a year later, the city went black, a piece of cake compared to a terrorist attack.

The best was when I got a cube with high walls, though that didn’t stop people from barging in. It was in this cube that I dealt with my ex’s adultery, sitting at my desk and almost crying all day, every day. It was from this cube that I called my ex’s mistress and found out she hadn’t had the abortion he had asked of her.

Then finally, an office, where YP, sliding the door closed, came to bitch about our monster boss. Then another office where I, and all my coworkers, shut the door against another nightmare boss, and finally this office, monster printer and all.

Not having this second place anymore will be strange. In San Francisco, I’ll have my apartment, possibly the gym, and what, a café? the library? Both fine till you have to go to the bathroom, and then what, drag all your crap with you or ask some random person to watch your $2000 laptop? I can see why freelancers rent office space.

But I know that this place has been a crutch as well as a comfort, an excuse not to pursue my writing, not to socialize more. Being without an office will force me into new situations, though what those might be, I’m not quite sure. But I’m starting to think that’s okay.

Someone actually wants my copy of Loving Him Without Losing You, the last book of to-sell items in my work cabinet, on my last day of work.

I bought the book, embarrassingly, when MB and I were first dating.  Although I was happy, I was still terrified that I’d screw things up. I never really read the book. The table of contents has entries like Why Women Tend to Lose Themselves in Relationships: The Cultural, Biological, and Psychological Influences, How to Maintain Your Sense of Self While Flourishing in a Relations (examples: Learn to Go Slowly, Maintain a Separate Life, Stay in the Present and Reality, Don’t Go Changing to Try to Please Him, Speak Your Mind), and Become a Woman of Substance: Developing a Self and a Life That Satisfies You.

I guess I am a people-pleaser, a by-product of growing up with a demanding mother. In my last relationship, it was very easy to lose myself. Everything I did I did for my Ex (ack, that’s a Bryan Adams song, isn’t it?) and his family. They didn’t force me though I felt forced because I knew if I didn’t give up my weekends, spend every holiday with my in-laws, and take care of the house because the Ex was too worn out with taking of his parents’, that someone, usually the Ex, would be unhappy. Everything I did was about keeping people from being unhappy (which was how it was, and still sometimes is, with my mom).

I didn’t want to fall in the same pattern with MB, to spend all day waiting for his call, or do things just to please him. The problem with doing things to please people is that if they don’t have the reaction you want, you will be disappointed. You should do things just to do them, or to please yourself. Every gift and favor should be unconditional. Of course easier said than done.

As MB and I continued to date and our relationship got stronger, my terror subsided. Then other things came up, like my jealousy and paranoia. Although MB never gave me any reason to be jealous or think he’d cheat, those old feelings still came up, like watered down PTSD. They still come up now, once in a while, but I try not to beat myself up about it. I try to think, Okay, you’re being jealous now, why? That’s why? Well, isn’t that silly? I remind myself I’m feeling jealous and worked up over something entirely in my imagination, like an artist who draws a ghost and becomes afraid of her own creation.

The book’s suggestions make a lot of sense actually. Maintain a Separate Life – yes, very important, especially in SF where I won’t have a job. I don’t want to spend the day waiting for MB to come home. Stay in the Present and Reality: see above. Speak Your Mind, something I still have trouble with. What I try to do now is just say stuff right away, and not think about it or analyze it, because then I will probably chicken out.

I thought I was the only loser who’d want that book, not that the buyer is a loser, far from it. She’s probably just scared, like I was.

It’s funny to be shipping this book on my last day at this company and of this particular phase of my life.

This will be redundant for those of who follow my tweets, but I had a hell of a night last night being attacked by mosquitoes.

The suckers have been a problem ever since I moved into Manhattan. At my old apartment, I’d do battle with the buggers well into October. Then a new crop would appear during any warmish spell in the winter. I’d wake up looking like I had leprosy of the face, or with a bite the size of a snack product.

Till recently dousing myself with any repellant did the trick, whether it was wen bu ding, a green tonic I picked up in China; citronella spray; or OFF! But suddenly this summer, everything stopped working. Citronella spray – child’s play! OFF? Just like candy.

Like last night. Before I went to bed, I thought I saw something flying around but convinced myself it was a gnat. As I was falling asleep, I felt a tickle on the side of my face. I rubbed it a few times; then it started to swell. Dammit!

Out came the OFF! Spray, spray, spray, spritz, spritz, spritz – probably way more than the recommended dosage. Plus I stayed up and hunted the thing down, virtually impossible, but somehow I spotted it hanging on the underside of my dresser. Whack! Gotcha.

I lay back down, closed my eyes, and a few minutes later. . .more bites. This time around my eye, where I didn’t put any OFF!

Up again. By now it was after two AM. I was so desperate I thought about covering my head and face with pantyhose cut with nostril holes. As I was trying it – very uncomfortable, by the way – the skeeter attacked my knee. I stuck my legs out, trying to catch it, but it was so fast, it bit me half a dozen times before I finally spotted it on the side of my lamp and smushed it.

After a whiny text to MB, followed by a sympathetic phone call, I tried to go to sleep again. By now it was almost 4. Every tickle and dust particle on my face was a potential biter, which I brushed obsessively like a meth addict. I finally drifted off into unconsciousness, only to be woken by a suddenly itchy shoulder. No, it couldn’t be. Yes, it was: two new bites!

It was 5. I got up yet again and was up for good, on one hour of sleep. I made a half-hearted attempt to look for the mosquito, then Googled mosquito repellants. Basil, supposedly. Rosemary. Catnip. One of those plug-in things, citronella candles, garlic rubbed liberally over the body (no thanks). A mosquito coil or a mosquito net. As I was searching, guess what came buzzing on my leg? Itchy insect number 3. Bad Luck Girl SMASH! This one was bloody – with my blood.

Then later in the bathroom, I killed yet another, number four.

I doubt if that’s the end of them, which is why I’m tempted to crash at my parents’ for the next couple of nights. Of course New Jersey has mosquitoes, but they don’t get into my mom and dad’s house the way they do New York City apartments.

Next memoir post is up.

A Jewish myth says if you set up a couple who later get married, you’ve earned your place in heaven. What if you do it by mistake?

I’ve never thought about fixing people up. One of my writing teachers did it so much, she wrote a whole book about it. I don’t know if it’s because I just don’t know that many people, or because I know more women than men.

I’ve been in the presence of a match made just one other time. Senior year in college, a bunch of us were having dinner at someone’s apartment. My friends, let’s call them B and L, were there, and had never met before. B was a year younger than the rest of us and a dynamic playwright/women’s studies major. L claimed to be a Republican who loved the smell of money. I remember L made some joke, and B caught his eye, nodded, and smiled, and I thought then, Hmmm.

L called my other friend J and said, “B is cute.” The next thing we knew B and L were dating.

If I remember correctly, it lasted well over a year. But it didn’t work out. B was Chinese and L black, and B just knew her conservative parents would never accept him.

I’ve been on the receiving end of set-ups – or rather, potential set-ups – twice. Once was when I was a sophomore year in college, before I met the Ex. An older friend had me and some other people over for dinner. Among the guests were her boyfriend’s buddies from Harvard – a now-famous Asian American journalist and some kind of finance guy. My friend thought the finance guy might be for me.

About halfway through the evening, the finance guy said something about his home state of New Jersey, and suddenly it hit me.

“Do you have two younger brothers named Brother 1 and Brother 2?” I asked.

For a moment he looked surprised. Then he said, “Wait, I know Angela.”

Turns out he was the son of one of my mother’s oldest friends, whom I had basically grown up with while our parents played many rounds of mah-jongg.

“You guys know each other?” my friend said, looking disappointed. There went her spot in heaven I guess.

The second time was while I was already with the Ex, only my mother didn’t know I was. I had just graduated from college, was lving at home to save money, and couldn’t get away from my mother’s insistence that I meet Jeffrey, another son of yet another friend.

I had been lying to my parents about Joe, so I thought why not another lie. I’d go out with Jeffrey once and say we weren’t a match.

Joe did not like this and got pissed off because his parents had been trying to set him up as well. “But I’ve always refused,” he said. How was I supposed to know? It was always like that with him, his expecting to know things somehow, without his telling me.

Which was worse, my mother’s anger or my boyfriend’s? Mom was closer so I offered Jeffrey my plan. “I have a boyfriend,” I told him, “but my parents don’t know.” I suggested we go to one movie, and call it quits.

He agreed, albeit reluctantly. I wasn’t surprised when he never called again. I thought I was safe, but then a week or so later, my mother came barging into my room.

“Did you tell Jeffrey you have a boyfriend?” she said.

That blabbermouth, I thought. “No,” I said, trying to keep my face blank. “What are you talking about?”

“His mother said he said, ‘She has a boyfriend. I don’t want to get involved.’”

My mind did somersaults. “Maybe I mentioned Joe,” I said. As far as she knew, we were just friends. “And he took it the wrong way.”

“Oh.” My mother calmed down. “Well, you shouldn’t mention other boys when you’re talking to a boy.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

It seems most Western culture looks at set ups as a last resort. Love should happen naturally! totally by chance! even if it’s one in a million!!! On ther other end of the spectrum are traditional Chinese and Jewish cultures, where couples meet ONLY through set ups, as my cousin did with her first husband. As with most things, I think it’s something in between – being open to both chance meetings and set ups. Online dating is just do-it-yourself matchmaking; true, you lack the objectivity of a shadchan but at least you have some control over the situation rather than waiting around for Prince Whomever to show up. We can’t all be my cousin Huang Lei.

This time the flight out was better than the return. I had an empty seat next to me, we left on time, AND got in a whole hour early. Unheard of! The pilot said something about the winds being in our favor.

After I got to the apartment, we did what seems to now be our tradition: go to Grub Stake for a late dinner, then pick up pastries for breakfast from Bob’s Donuts. Yelp reviewers had raved about the apple fritters so we got a couple of those. Delicious! Like a cross between a donut and a danish with pieces of baked apple here and there.

Saturday we walked out to Haight-Ashbury, which was as expected: grubby and touristy. There was some cool graffiti but I wasn’t in the mood to take pics. I’ll have plenty of time do so when I’m all moved in. We walked around Golden Gate Park as well, where there was the BEST PLAYGROUND EVER. There was this ropy climbing thing that looked kinda dangerous (the best kind), little bouncy tea cups for toddlers, and a slide along the lines of Action Park. The kids all rode down on flattened cardboard boxes, and we wondered if the park had them lying around, or if the kids knew to bring them. I totally wanted to ride the slide and climb the ropy thing.

I might have mentioned this before, but what I’ve noticed about SF is that there are a lot of homeless people. A lot more than, at least, New York. I think it’s a combination of the mild weather and that there’s less walking traffic. People who aren’t homeless are more likely to be in cars, while in New York almost everyone walks.

There were tons of homeless in Golden Gate Park, a combination of older guys who look like they’ve been homeless for a long time, and scrubby kids with their dogs. I’m sorry but I have zero sympathy for the scrubby kids. If you can afford a purebred dog, tattoos, combat boots, and a leather jacket, no matter how dirty they are, you can afford a sandwich. You’re white, young, and articulate – work at the fucking Gap. Or go home to Mom and Dad in San Jose. In New York you see the kids only in the summer – they “summer” in New York, I guess you could say – but now I’ll get to enjoy them year round.

Saturday afternoon we just lazed around the apartment, then got dinner at Shalimar, this Indian/Pakistani place near our apartment. Like Bob’s Donuts, the place doesn’t have much of a décor, but the food was really good. We got chicken jalfrezi, chicken tandoori, daal, and nan, all for just $22. Everything was yummy.

That night we saw The Informant. Matt Damon was terrific. With some actors, you can’t get past who they are (eg, Tom Cruise, Julia Roberts, Jennifer Aniston), but I kept forgetting it was Matt Damon and just thought it was this schlubby, dopey guy.

Again, no one talked during the movie! I could hardly believe it. We were probably the noisiest.

Flew back yesterday. The flight left on time, but I was very tired. I thought I had a whole row to myself, but at the last minute this couple with a 10-month old showed up. At first I thought, Great, but the baby was well-behaved. He got a little fussy but didn’t really cry and slept most of the time. When he was awake, he was pretty cute. After we landed and were waiting to deboard, I heard a farting noise, but thought it was someone shifting their luggage. Then the couple cracked up. “That smells so bad!” they kept saying. It was the baby. Luckily I didn’t smell anything.

I missed the AirTrain by seconds cuz this idiot went to the doors, then decided, No, I’m not going in, and got out of the way VERY SLOWLY. “Excuse me!” I said, and he turned around and was like, After you, as the doors were closing. Yeah, thanks asshole. I didn’t have to wait too long for the next one, but the J took a year to get there, and also to get home. But hey, five bucks beats $50.

~ ~ ~

Oh my God, I forgot to write about the nightmare I had with FedEx last week. I shipped MB four boxes over the course of four days. He was supposed to get the first one on Wednesday, but he hadn’t. There wasn’t even a door tag. I checked the tracking number, and it had been sent back to the FedEx station because “the resident wasn’t home.” Well, yeah, that was why I said “No Signature Required.”

I called and the guy said there was a note in the system that the courier didn’t feel it was safe to leave the box, ie, it would be gone by the time MB came home. I said, “Okay, what do you think I should do?” The guy suggested letting a neighbor or the super know about the box, but I said I didn’t know anyone in the building, and who knows who would be home in the middle of the day? Then the guy said just leave the door tag with a signature, and I explained that wouldn’t work since the door tag had been taken. Finally, the dude assured me that the courier would probably just ring buzzers till a neighbor came down and would sign for the box.

Well, that didn’t work, because later I saw that the box had been returned AGAIN. I called FedEx and was basically freaking out. I felt so frustrated because I didn’t know why the guy wouldn’t leave the box, aside from “the resident wasn’t home.” Plus there were three other boxes in the same situation. The poor FedEx woman made all the same suggestions again, and I almost lost it.

“THERE IS NO DOOR TAG! SOMEONE TOOK THE DOOR TAG ONCE AND WILL PROBABLY TAKE IT AGAIN!”

I asked about redirecting the boxes, and when she took the address, she kept spelling the street name back wrong. True, English was her second language, but maybe it shouldn’t have been. In the end I decided not to redirect since it would cost extra. She was in touch with the FedEx station a couple of times, and finally someone there suggested that perhaps the courier needed the code to get in the building. I was reluctant to give it out, but I didn’t know what else to do. The rep gave the code to the station, then at the end of the call I said, “What code did you give them? I just want to make sure you got it right.” Then she proceeded to read back the zip code to me.

My head almost exploded.

After asking my question twice more, she finally got it, found the message, and read back the right code.

I felt like I still had no guarantee that the boxes would be delivered, though I did feel better when I called back regarding the other three to give the code. The reps I talked to sounded much more like they knew what they were doing. They asked for my name and a contact number, in case anything came up, while that first woman didn’t ask for any information from me.

I was very relieved on Friday night to see that the boxes had arrived. Sheesh.

There’s one more that should be arriving today (fingers crossed) and one last shipment that I am sending to MB’s work place instead. Taking no chances.

Oh, and because I had such a bad experience with FedEx (and that’s a first, usually they’re great), I ended up lugging a suitcase full of books to the airport, instead of shipping them like I was planning. It wasn’t so bad, or at least it was bad for a very short time, like when I dropped my duffel bag and both suitcases in front of a JetBlue guy, who just stood there, not moving a muscle to help me. But soon enough the suitcases were checked, and when I got to SFO, I found a cart just hanging out, and so was able to use to without paying the $5.