Feb 11

And now the shoe search

While at three years, my favorite shoes aren’t as old as my favorite jeans, they’re still pretty worn-out. They’re especially bad on rainy days when the rain seeps in through some apparently invisible holes, and my feet get soaked.

A couple of weeks ago, I ordered a pair from Zappo’s.  Bam bam bam, done!  No sales tax, no shipping costs.  Sweet!

But then I got a shipping confirmation saying that my shoes were coming from UPS.

Those brown shorts wearing bastards.

No, no, I take it back.  My experience with them has been mostly good.  I’ve loved every UPS delivery guy at my jobs.  They are always nice and friendly, and sometimes quite cute (those shorts!).  But while our area’s UPS guy is very nice, he doesn’t try very hard when delivering stuff to our building.

True,  delivering to our building, if you’re not the post office, is incredibly hard.  There’s no one to sign for shit.  Neither the super nor owner live in the building, and it seems the “manager’s” duties don’t include collecting mail.  So the guy will try the buzzers – once he didn’t even ring our buzzer and MB had stayed home from work to wait for him – and of course no one will answer because we’re all at work. He’ll leave notices, and then, seemingly, ignore the signatures and phone numbers left behind.

So that’s a long way of saying after two failed delivery attempts, I finally decided to pick up my package myself from the UPS center in Protrero Hill.

If you didn’t already know, San Francisco is spread out.  It’s not compact like Manhattan.  Plus there’s nothing like New York’s subway system (the Muni and BART don’t count).  The only option aside from cabs?  Buses.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve actually gotten used to riding the bus.  In New York I rode it regularly, especially living and working so close to 2nd Avenue, where there is one line to service the whole area.

Anyway, Monday night MB and I cabbed it. We thought it would just be easier and faster, and it was. Even UPS itself was empty. The woman looked at my ticket and asked, “Did you call to have your package held here?”

“Uh, no,” I said.  “I thought it would just come back here.”

Nope!  So I had gone there for nothing.

I planned on returning last night, but did not want to blow more money on a cab.  I’d take the bus, I decided ambitiously, and figured out my route.  I’d take the number 10 from the Cal Train to 16th and Rhode Island, then take the 19 from the same spot back to my apartment.

Easy, right?  Not so much.

First off, I had such trouble even FINDING the 10 going in the direction I wanted.  I finally did, after walking down a long, dark, and desolate block.  It was one of those “metal poles disguised as a bus stop” instead of a shelter that tells you how long before the next bus.  So I had no idea how long it would take, and judging by the dark and desolate street, I guessed a long time.

Luckily a cab drove by, and a five dollar, five minute ride later, I was there.  But did I say fuck it and ask the cab to stay?  No, I had to be a cheapskate and, after very easily getting my box (again the center was empty and the same very nice woman helped me), I thought, I am taking the bus if it kills me, and it nearly did.

Take the number 19! Google maps said. You’ll find it on Rhode Island and 16th! Well, I found Rhode Island and 16th, and there was no goddamned bus stop. I wandered up and down the street for a good 20 minutes, and finally spotted one but it was for the 22. I stopped in Whole Foods, where the woman said, “It’s right by that little Mexican restaurant.” Couldn’t find the restaurant.  Stopped in Starbuck’s and got the same spiel.  Found the restaurant! But where the hell was the stop?  There was only parking, and more parking, and – Oh crap there’s the bus!

I thought it would stop somewhere near the Mexican restaurant, but it did not.  It turned and kept going.  I followed it, and saw finally at the very end of the street, the stop.  Of course by then the bus was long gone, and I was thisclose to crying.

On the bright side, it wasn’t raining, and the stop was a real one with a sign telling me when the next one was coming: 12 minutes.  Not a long time, but it felt like the longest 12 minutes ever.

And after all that, I decided I don’t like the shoes.  Thank God you can return unworn shoes to Zappo’s for a full refund, and shipping via UPS is a billion times easier than receiving.

UPDATE: I ended up buying a pair from a shoe store near my job.  Same brand, different style.  I figure the sales tax I’m saving via Zappo’s will be spent on cab rides to UPS.  Plus the ones I bought were on sale anyway.

Jan 11

Chivalry is dead

At least in SF.

If you’re my Facebook friend, you’ve already heard me ranting about the altercation MB and I had with a middle-aged douche in Union Square over the weekend.  If not, you get to read all about it here.

Apologies to my East Coast friends, but we had a gorgeous weekend.  Sunny, upper 60s.  MB and I spent a good part of Saturday and Sunday in Union Square – he played his guitar, I read and tried to write – which while lovely is overrun with tourists.

We were maneuvering our way through the crowded and narrow sidewalk just outside of Macy’s when I noticed a guy engrossed in his Blackberry, blocking the way.  Now, the guy wasn’t right smack in the middle, but he was standing perpendicular against the building.  In other words, his body was still blocking at least 1/3 of the walking path, the walking path that I was on.

“Excuse me,” I said to him as we neared.  When he didn’t move, I told him, “You’re right in everyone’s way.”

That’s when he flipped.  “How am I in the way?” he shouted after us.  He was in his 60s, had on a polo sweater, khakis, and boat shoes with tassels.  “Answer my question. How am I in the way? I’m standing against the building. How is this in the way?”

“Look,” MB said.  “All she said was excuse me.”

“No, she said I was in the way.”

“I said,” I said, “excuse me. But you didn’t move. Then I said you were in the way.”

“You have no right to talk to me like that.  How can you talk to people like that?”

“All she said was excuse me,” MB kept saying.

This went back and forth for a couple of minutes till finally the guy said, “You’re crazy. You’re certifiable to think I was in the way.”

I almost started to laugh.  Good comeback!

We left but then MB said, “No, I’m going back,” then went after the guy although he had already crossed the street.  I can’t even remember what he said, really, but I do remember the boat shoe douche’s face got very red as he shouted, “What is this really about? I don’t suffer fools! You’re a fool! You’re foolish!”

Look, dude, if someone says, “Excuse me,” obviously you’re in the way.  You don’t ignore them just because *you* think you’re not in the way.  And if you heard me say, “You’re right in the way,” you heard me say, “Excuse me.”  And by the way, standing perpendicular to a building, if you’re six feet tall and 200 pounds, is not standing out of the way.

I wasn’t really surprised by this.  What I’ve noticed around here, more than the East Coast, is this passive aggressive sense of entitlement by white people 40 and over.  From the women I almost expect it, but from the men I expect a wee bit of chivalry, not refusing to get out of my way, or pushing in front of me, or ignoring me as I hold open the door for you, which I’ve experienced a lot here (especially for some reason on Fillmore Street).

Not that there aren’t rude men in New York.  But more often than not, they’re younger, and the older guys tend to be more old world – from Italy, Greece, or some other European country.  Here you know they grew up with their mommies spoiling them, and everyone telling them exactly what they want to hear all their lives.

The only upside is the now I appreciate when people are genuinely polite, and I don’t mean fake-polite, expecting me to kiss your ass for common courtesy.

Jan 11

More from the crazy Chinese mom

Call me obsessed but I can’t stop thinking about this.  I just read a couple of more excerpts from Chua’s “parenting” book, which I’ll copy and paste here:

After her young children presented her with handmade birthday cards:

I gave the card back to Lulu. “I don’t want this,” I said. “I want a better one — one that you’ve put some thought and effort into. I have a special box, where I keep all my cards from you and Sophia, and this one can’t go in there.”

“What?” said Lulu in disbelief. I saw beads of sweat start to form on Jed’s forehead.

I grabbed the card again and flipped it over. I pulled out a pen from my purse and scrawled ‘Happy Birthday Lulu Whoopee!’ I added a big sour face. “What if I gave you this for your birthday Lulu- would you like that? But I would never do that, Lulu. No — I get you magicians and giant slides that cost me hundreds of dollars. I get you huge ice cream cakes shaped like penguins, and I spend half my salary on stupid sticker and erase party faovrs that everyone just throws away. I work so hard to give you good birthdays! I deserve better than this. So I reject this.” I threw the card back.

Of course my initial reaction is, “Are you fucking insane?” But delving deeper, it’s obvious, as other commenters have stated, that Chua had just a flawed relationship with her own mother, and learned absolutely nothing from it. I show you I love you by throwing you big expensive birthday parties. You show me you love me by this card that you made. It’s not you I love but what you do.

Why are you throwing your daughters such expensive parties?  So you can throw it in their faces later?  So you can be better than the rest of the mommies?  If you’re not happy to do it, then don’t do it!  But of course she’s going to do it because then what would everyone think?

The other excerpt:

After her daughter’s beloved paternal grandmother Popo died, Chua insisted the girls write a short speech to read at the funeral. Both girls refused (“No please, Mommy, don’t make,” Sophia said tearfully. “I really don’t feel like it.”). Chua insisted.

Sophia’s first draft was terrible, rambling and superficial. Lulu’s wasn’t so great either, but I held my elder daughter to a higher standard. Perhaps because I was so upset myself, I lashed out at her. “How could you, Sophia?” I said viciously. “This is awful. It has no insight. It has no depth. It’s like a Hallmark Card — which Popo hated. You are so selfish. Popo loved you so much — and you — produce–this!”

First of all, “Popo” would be a MATERNAL grandmother, presumably Chua’s mother.  How awful to make her daughters feel like shit, to make her daughters question if they loved their grandmother enough, when it’s she herself who probably feels she didn’t love her mother enough, to do enough to make her mother one billion percent happy.

Jan 11

Earning a Superior Chinese Mother’s Love

There’s been a lot of talk about Amy Chua’s piece in the Wall Street Journal, “Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior” and some great responses.  I especially like the statement one commenter made, that the reason immigrant parents are so crazy and controlling about their children’s success is that they don’t want their kids to grow up in hardship and poverty like they did.  Chua, a Chinese American, presumably did not grow up in such poverty.

Chua’s piece basically details how incredibly strict she is with her daughters, even beyond my own upbringing.  You’d think raising daughters who are respectful, get mostly A’s, and play an instrument would be good enough.  But no.  The girls must get ALL A’s (except in gym and drama); they can ONLY play the piano or the violin (no guitars for you!); they’re not allowed sleepovers, play dates, TV, or video games; they’re (inexplicably) not allowed to perform in school plays; they get called names if they’re not respectful to their elders.

I’m all for kids being respectful to their elders, and like Chua, I can’t stand all the Western-bullshit worrying about a kid’s self-esteem.  “So how does having pancakes for breakfast make you feel, Jimmy?”  I would definitely want my kid to play an instrument.  I’d want them to not necessarily get good grades but to work to the best of their ability at everything they do.  I’d want them not to give up just because something is hard.


So her daughters get straight A’s.  So they’re concert-performing musicians.  They get into ivy league schools.  They get straight A’s again.  They graduate – THEN WHAT?

What is it all leading to?  Jobs her parents can brag about?  Making a lot of money?  Making a third generation of overachieving, Type A nutjobs?

My mother was concerned about all the same things Chua is.  The grades, playing an instrument, being respectful.  Though she was actually okay if I got mostly A’s, and I was allowed to give up piano by the time I started high school, but by then I liked it and kept going on my own.  (See? Choices are good.)  She actually would have loved it if I did a sport or was in a school play.  True, it was all so that it go in my college applications, rather than being a well-rounded human being, but basically she got there was more to life than straight A’s and piano.

I’d say she was much more crazy about the respectfulness issue, whether to her and my dad, other family members, or their friends.  But this concern has made me feel she cares more about others than she does about me.  Maybe I was being rude to her friend – after 20 years of being polite – because a shit storm is going on in my life.  But no, she was more concerned about what I said to her friend, how I, and therefore she, came off, rather than bothering to ask, “Is something happening to make you act this way?”

And they wonder why I didn’t tell them about my husband’s affair and our divorce till several months after the fact.

My mother’s love and approval were earned.  My entire life I felt I had to do things to earn love, which was how my marriage was.  If I was very very good, and did exactly what my husband and in-laws wanted, then they’d love me, not just love me, but love me best.  They’d be there for me; they wouldn’t leave.

I was wrong.

Of course nothing I did – or didn’t do – caused their behavior.  But now in a new relationship, I have to remind myself that I don’t need to earn MB’s love, but at the same time, in some situations, I need to put his feelings first.  If something causes him to be upset, I try to stop myself from thinking, It’s because of me, but I didn’t do anything wrong, I’ve been “good,” so he has no right to be upset, and I will give him the cold shoulder. I remind myself, He’s upset because of A, and all he wants from me, as he’s stated, is love and affection. Sounds easy but it’s been hard.

I imagine Chua’s daughters going through something similar after they’ve grown up and start having relationships.  Being successful equals being worthy.  If I’m not successful, no one will want me.  I have to keep achieving, keep “winning,” to be happy.  I’m only happy if someone approves of me.

I’ve been there, and it’s not a nice feeling.  I hope her daughters have a stronger sense of self than I did, and are able to eventually make their own way, out of the grips of their crazy mom.

Jan 11


I work in San Mateo, which is lovely little town about half an hour south of San Francisco.  The funny thing about San Mateo is that while it’s small, there are a surprising number of Asian eateries.  Supposedly one of the best ramen places in the Bay Area is here (I’ve yet to try it), there’s decent Thai, and I frequently get lunch from the Japanese market on 4th Avenue.  But sometimes I want just some soup and salad, and that’s when Draeger’s Market comes in.

Draeger’s is kinda fancy.  Think slightly more upscale Whole Foods.  The food is decent (though a little expensive) and the cashiers are always super nice.  Once I bought something I thought was on sale.  It wasn’t.  The cashier guy could have easily just said, “Nope, sorry,” but he went to the trouble of checking where I got it from.  The sale sign was still up – although the end date had passed – and he let me have the discount.

But while the customer service at Draeger’s is impeccable, the customers themselves are fucking assholes.

Yes, I’m talking about you, white people of San Mateo, you – at least those of you who frequent Draeger’s – are FUCKING ASSHOLES.

(And I do mean WHITE PEOPLE.  I go to the Japanese market far more often than Draeger’s, and I’ve NEVER encountered rudeness there.  Maybe a little pushiness, but that’s very Asian, and I will take direct pushiness over a passive-aggressive sense of entitlement any day.)

Cases in point:

Two old ladies in SUVs almost ran me over. Both times I was NOT jaywalking and had the light.  One lady was making a left turn in the parking lot and didn’t even check the walkway.  One lady was pulling out of the parking lot, and although she saw me (and again I HAD THE LIGHT), she just had to make me stop so that she could go.

“You’re excused.” So it’s always a great idea when you’re big and fat to stand right into the middle of an aisle so that no one can pass by.  It’s also excellent to ignore someone like me when I’m clearly trying to get by.  It’s even better to say obnoxiously, “You’re excused!” after I say, “Excuse me.”

“I’m sorry I look younger than you.” Probably the biggest fucking assholes at Draeger’s are the 30-to-40-something year old women – overdone, over-make-up’d, trying-to-recapture-their-youth-with-too-tight-jeans-and-high-heeled-boots.  I don’t know if they’re big assholes in general, or big assholes just to me, but whenever I go to the salad bar, and they’re there, they either 1) elbow their way in front of me, or 2) give me dirty looks when I go around them, as though I’m cutting them in line, although because you can around the salad bar in a circle, there is no line.

Why?  Is it because I’m Asian?  An Asian woman who will surely (and easily) steal your rich white husband?  Or is it because we’re probably around the same age but I look five to seven years younger with NO make-up or plastic surgery?

Today really took the cake.  I wanted to get beef barley soup.  BFD.  One of these overdone women was checking out the beef barley soup, decided she didn’t like it, then just stayed there in front of the beef barley soup pot.  She saw me waiting.  In fact she gave me several dirty looks.

“Are you getting the beef barley?” I asked.

“I’m waiting for the tomato basil,” she said.

The tomato basil was right next to the barley beef and occupied, but GUESS WHAT JERKFACE, there was room right on the other side of the guy getting his soup.  But no for some reason you want to stand on THIS SIDE in front of the very soup I want, so now I have to wait because YOU’RE waiting, oh queen of all the Draeger’s soups.

“Can I squeeze in to get the beef barley?” I asked.

Big fucking sigh.  “Well, I guess so, if you give me some room to move.”

Are you kidding me?  “Look, why don’t you just relax?” I said.

Of course she had no answer.

Because along with being passive-aggressive assholes, these San Mateo fucktards are also giant pussies.  When you call them out on their dickish behavior, they never have any response.

And it’s not just San Mateo.  It’s SF-proper too, but San Mateo is much much worse.

Man, I miss a good ole New York “Get the fuck outta my way.”

Dec 10

Away from home for Christmas

This is my second Christmas now away from home.  Last year we were a bit more festive: Christmas Eve MB made a yummy past dish, and on Christmas Day, he prepared some lovely cornish game hens with stuffing and a salad.  This year we’ve been very lazy.

Yesterday morning was like any other.  I worked a bit in the morning, then hit the gym.  Five miles, woohoo! For lunch and dinner, we ate random leftovers and at whichever restaurants were open (Mel’s for a late lunch, a Thai place for a late dinner).  We hung out the New People cafe in Japantown for a while.  (Vegan donuts for half price after 5 PM!) I brought my writing but didn’t feel like working so I – dangerously – ended up shopping instead.

All I bought was a $45 super soft sweater.  It’s dark gray and the material is unbelievably soft and cozy and not scratchy.

In the evening caught we caught Tron: Legacy, which wasn’t as bad as the reviews make it out to be.  I mean, a lot of the dialogue was dumb and boring, but there was plenty of action and the special effects were amazing.  Plus the music was super-cool.

There were a surprising number of people at the theater.  Lots of Asians, as I predicted, and at least one person who wanted to get away from her relatives.

“My family is so dysfunctional!” she said to someone on her cell phone.  “I don’t want to hang out with them on Christmas Eve.”

We got home around 11, had our late Thai dinner, and watched an episode of Boardwalk Empire.  We would have liked to have gone to sleep shortly after, but we had trouble with our noisy neighbor yet again.  This time it was her television, which she apparently moved into her bedroom (which of course is right under ours).  It was probably regular volume, but at two, three, four in the morning, regular volume directly under us seems very loud.  MB even stomped on the floor really hard (all 180 pounds of him jumping up and down three times).  The neighbor gave a little screech, then turned the volume down a tiny smidge.

Made no difference.  By 3:30 we decided to give up on sleep and got up for a while.  Finally, at 4:30 she turned off the TV, and we were able to go to bed.  So annoying that we have to schedule our sleep around the habits of a big fucking loser who happens to live below us.

I slept till about 9:30, and got up only because I had a huge craving for coffee and the vegan donuts from New People.  It was so bad, I couldn’t even wait to make new coffee.  I zapped yesterday’s leftover while a new pot percolated.  Still delish and highly effective.

I called my parents to wish them a merry Christmas.  My mother told me that apparently my father is now a huge fan of shopping online.  He hates shopping in real life, but loves ordering things like toasters and water heaters off the internet.  So the Amazon gift card I got him will be put to good use.

Since this morning I’ve been working on a draft of an essay for a travel writing contest due in early January, and jotting down some weekly goals, to help keep them all straight but also so I can cross them off as I complete them.  Check!  Or strikethrough! I should say.

Today is gray and rainy.  All we have planned is possibly checking out this Chinese restaurant we’ve been meaning to try.  Hopefully it’ll be open.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Oct 10

Confessions of an Asian groupie

Some of you may know that MB is semi-famous.  That is, he’s famous in his very narrow, very weird little world of his industry.  Sometimes people recognize him on the street.  He has over 5,000 followers on Twitter (I have 60).  He has been asked to autograph certain female body parts.

But he has about as many haters as he has fans.  He writes controversial pieces, is outspoken, and sometimes gets into it with certain people.  The haters don’t resist personal attacks, especially from under a cloak of anonymity, and so he’s always tried to keep me separate from his more well-known persona.

But apparently this hasn’t stopped the rumors.  One of his friends interviewed at a well-known place, and somehow MB came up in the conversation.  The guy interviewing asked, “Have you seen MB’s girlfriend?  She’s supposed to be an [industry] groupie.”

Me, a groupie?

For some reason, this cracks me up.  Number one, I barely understand what MB even does, and number two, when I think groupie, I think lithe young hottie in a barely-there skirt, trying to land the next Mark Zuckerberg.  Not an almost 40-year old who till fairly recently earned six figures and is making a nice little name for herself in her own industry (if I do say so myself).

To think that there are groupies at all in MB’s line of work is hilarious.  But I guess there could be in any field, not just entertainment.  Professors certainly have groupies, as do famous authors.  I remember a co-worker at my old company was VERY excited to ride in the elevator once with our CEO.  Keep in mind, we worked in pharmaceuticals.  PHARMACEUTICALS.  About as unsexy as you can get, and yet you’d think she had just seen Brad Pitt.

I wonder how the rumor started.  Did people just assume because of MB’s pseudo rock star image (an image perpetuated as a huge joke mostly by himself) that of course he’d be shtupping one of his fan girls?  Or maybe once someone caught a glimpse of me, saw that I was Asian, and assumed I was one of those trophy wives/girlfriends?

Who knows?  It’s actually not worth thinking about too much.  Just something highly amusing, and maybe for a moment I can pretend I’m a skanky gold digger.  Isn’t that every woman’s dream?

Sep 10

4 AM

When will I ever learn?

I couldn’t sleep AGAIN last night, and not because of a crazy downstairs neighbor.  I stupidly had some green tea in the late afternoon.  I didn’t think it was that strong, but obviously it was.

On top of that, we have mosquitoes!  What the fuck, San Francisco?  I thought you had no mosquitoes.  I guess it’s been the very warm, followed by the very chilly weather we’ve been having these past couple of weeks.

Last weekend MB discovered a bite on his (shaved) head, and I had one on my forehead.  We thought it was from our walk out to Haight-Ashbury.  But earlier this week, I’ve had more bites: on my face, hand, feet, arms, and calf.

The bites are super tiny and disappear fast, nothing like the ones I’d get in New York which would swell to the size of a half dollar and be insanely itchy.  These are more just an annoyance, especially since I can’t find the little buggers.  I *think* I saw them yesterday, and if that was them, they are incredibly fast and tiny.  There’s no way I can hunt them down like I did back east, where the skeeters were big, slow, and stupid.

So last night not only was I wakeful because of the tea, I was paranoid about mosquitoes.  Luckily the weather has cooled down, so I could blast the ceiling fan and cover most of myself with a blanket.  But I was up for a long time brushing away every tickle on my face, whether lint, hair, or actual little pest.

Yesterday I worked on my writing, though not enough to my satisfaction.  At least I got draft pitches down, as well as a draft of an essay, and started catching up TNB reading.  Today I will probably type up/revise/focus on the essay (which is a little all over the place right now), but also want to get out of the house.  Shopping!  Haven’t done that in a while.

I discovered that Real Simple is having their annual essay contest now.  Totally entering it!  Though the deadline is coming up very soon.

The complaining comments on the page crack me up.  How dare the judges give the prize to a 10th grade English teacher?  Surely she has an up on everyone!  Um, hello, the magazine awards the best essay, and the best essay not only has to have a great story, it has to be told well.  And yes, perhaps an English teacher or professional writer will tell that story better.  Them’s the breaks.  What should they do, say, “If you get paid to write, teach people to write, teach English, were an English major, ever wrote something ever in your life, you’re not eligible”?  That makes total sense.


Aug 10

Evil espresso, eviler wine, evilest fake running

Wow, I can’t believe it’s been almost three weeks since I last blogged.  I have a lot to catch up on.

I’m finally at a point in my work project that I don’t have to work too much this weekend.  While I’m glad to have time to work on my own stuff, I’m a little nervous too.  The work project is a no-brainer.  There’s a set process and  I just follow it.  With my own stuff, it’s a lot more loosey goosey.

My low cholesterol life is still going strong, though I did splurge twice this week on  fatty pesto pasta with fatty sausage, the first time after I had drinks with my co-workers and the second time last night because I didn’t feel like fish. (Last night was chicken sausage but the pasta was still pretty oily.)

It’s been almost a year since I’ve had a drink.  MB doesn’t touch the stuff and I’m allergic to alcohol so drinking is never that much fun.  Wednesday night I had a glass of red wine – no, half a glass of red wine – and I was DRUNK.  Very warm, very red, light-headed, and chatty.  By the time I got home, I was craving bad food.  Hence, the fatty pesto pasta.

I was also a slacker about working out this week.  Last Sunday I just didn’t feel like it, and was so blah in the afternoon, I made the mistake of having a double espresso.  As with alcohol, I’m sensitive to caffeine.  I mean, I can have as much as I want before noon, but after that, I’m in trouble.

I thought I’d be up till one or two.  I was up till 5:30 AM.  The worst was when I’d drift off, only to be jerked awake by something random – the door creaking, the girl downstairs talking at the top of her lungs, my brain skittering off to some random memory.

Luckily I work part-time so I just switched my days, working from home on Monday and going in on Tuesday, which meant missing yoga.  Boo hoo.  Then I went in on Thursday instead of Friday because we had a meeting I didn’t want to miss, which meant missing yoga again.  Must go twice next week!

Speaking of the gym, lately I’ve noticed this chick who simultaneously cracks me up and annoys me.  She’s Asian, very thin, and has a lot of dyed hair – you know, that weird brownish, reddish, yellowish color that some Asian women seem to favor.  She runs on the treadmill, but she runs 1) with all that hair down 2) fully make-up’d, and 3) holding onto the side rails for dear life.

Yesterday I had the opportunity to run next to her.  Being that close, I could see that in addition to big hair, she had big, fake boobs.  I mean, not ginormous but solid and perfectly round.  For a moment I wondered if she was actually post-op (ie, formerly a guy), but looking at her hands, I didn’t think she was.

To motivate myself, I got into a pretend competition with her.  I *have* to run more than this chick, I told myself, with all her hair and her tribal tattoo and silicon lady lumps.  But she ran a lot, and pretty fast.  Glancing at her machine, I saw that she ran six or seven miles an hour.

BUT.  She was holding onto the machine the whole time, the sides or the handles at the top.  And she wasn’t sweating at all, as far as I could tell.  Meanwhile I was running between 5.7 and 6.3 MPH for four miles, and I was drenched.

Then someone she knew took the treadmill on her other side, and they had a whole long conversation.  I mean, she was hardly out of breath.  I kept thinking, It’s because she’s holding onto the handrails right? She’s basically bracing herself or lifting herself up.  (The real question is of course, Why do I care? but I do and that’s that.)

This morning I found that it *is* fake running to hold the treadmill the whole time. Yes, vindicated!  I mean, I already knew that, but I just needed the internet to assure me again.

Now that I’m done being catty, it’s back to the gym again.  I’ll say hello to Miss Big-Hair-Fake-Boobs-Fake-Runner if I see her.

Jul 10

More fun on the bus

This morning I apparently insulted the woman next to me when I shifted slightly over as she jabbed her elbow into me while rifling through her bag.

“If you don’t want to be touched, get off the bus,” she advised me.

I calmly regarded her.  “It’s nothing personal,” I said.

I’d rather not be touched by any weird, inconsiderate person who reeks of cigarette smoke.

Okay, so maybe it was personal.