08
Jul 10

Only in San Francisco

1) On the Caltrain last week, I managed to sit behind a man and a woman who spent the whole ride exchanging prescription meds.

They seemed to be in their late 40s.  The guy was white, and the woman possibly Philipina.   She had one of those smoked-a-billion cigarettes voices and was clearly on something that made her really hyper.  At the top of her lungs, she extolled the virtues of Percocet and  Oxycontin.

At one point, I noticed her peeking at me through the crack between the seats (I had put on my headphones with the hopes of drowning them out).  She had dropped her water bottle apparently.  Instinctively I thought, Be nice to the crazy lady, and looked under my seat.  No water bottle.

“Oh, I must have recycled the wrong one!” she said excitedly.

When she finally deboarded, she was such a mess, she ended up dropping a couple of tea bags, except they were not tea.  Then I saw the guy’s backpack was FILLED with prescription bottles.  Classy.

2) On the bus yesterday, a white, dowdy middle-aged couple talked loudly about BDSM the whole ride.

“When I tied someone up, I like to use. . .”

“I wouldn’t do it in the yard.  I wouldn’t do it outside.”

I couldn’t hear everything they said, but enough snippets to feel really embarrassed (so call me a prude) and relieved when they got off the bus.

3) Down the street there are a pair of crapped-in jeans. They are as disgusting as they sound.  They’ve been there a few days, and I keep forgetting not to walk on that side of the street.

Only in San Francisco.


17
May 10

What’s new

I have a new piece up at Matador Life. It’s about how a Buddhist monk and a trip to Prague helped me leave my cheating husband.

I got the job! It’s part-time technical writing/admin work at this start-up right outside SF.  This week I work Thursday and Friday, but my regular schedule will be Monday, Wednesday, and half a day on Friday.  Yay for moola and getting out of the house!

Part-time is so perfect for me.  On my “free” days I can write, and the way my schedule is now, I don’t even have to miss my yoga classes.

I have renewed energy for my corporate murder mystery. I got some very helpful feedback recently.  I was dissatisfied with my NaNoWriMo draft, but I hadn’t even looked at it.

So this weekend I actually took the time, and so far it’s not as bad as I thought.  It definitely needs work, but – so far – it seems to be doable work.  In fact right now I like this version better than the rewrite I had been working on.

I have renewed respect for good customer service, because I got some shitty service over the weekend.  Normally, Elite Cafe is awesome, both in terms of waitstaff and food.  But yesterday there was a new bartender who was a bit of a dick.

We were sitting at the bar.  He asked us if we wanted anything to drink, but I couldn’t hear shit because the place is noisy and he was mumbling.  So I just gave my order.  He looked sort of taken aback, but whatever.

He got our drinks and repeated our order to MB only.  So I really didn’t hear that time.

Inevitably I got the wrong order.

I was nice about it.  I said, “Oh, I actually asked for the corned beef hash.”  To me good customer service would be, “So sorry! We’ll get that straightened out right away.”  But he had to say:

“That’s why we ask you twice.  To make sure we got it right.”

So it’s my fault huh?  Even though obviously I couldn’t hear anything you said, and you asked my boyfriend and not me what my right dish was?

I think the waitress behind the bar realized the new guy’s faux pas because she apologized to me and tried to be friendly.

Sure, it was totally partly my fault for getting the order wrong, but let’s pretend it wasn’t.  That’s part of the whole experience of going to a good restaurant.


19
Apr 10

Lovely low-key birthday weekend

I was somewhat distracted by my dizziness problem, but still managed to have a nice weekend.

Saturday morning we were surprised by someone at the door.  It was FedEx with a package.

“Probably a birthday present for you,” MB said.

“Doubt it,” I automatically said.  Despite all my trying to teach myself to have no expectations – meaning neither high nor low – and being open to surprises, I still have some learning to do.

It was a gift from my brother: a very nice yoga mat and bag.  Such a nice surprise. I had told him how I just use the mats at the gym and he was all skeeved.

“You mean you put your face where other people put their feet?” he said.

Well, if you put it that way.

And I totally neglected to include my brother on my Grateful 38 list!  I blame the Drammamine.  If I were more alert, he’d have gone right after 8, 9, and 10, the ones about my parents: “I’m grateful my brother has always been my partner against the insanity of our parents.”

MB and I went out to lunch, took a nice long walk, and saw Kick-Ass at the AMC Metreon.  I was under the impression that people simply don’t talk at the movies in SF, but Sitcomgirl is totally right that at the Metreon they do.

Still, it wasn’t as bad as NYC.  People, including us, repeatedly told the noisy girls to STFU, and the woman with the baby (great idea to bring an infant to Kick-Ass) apologized for the baby’s crying.  Plus the movie was so noisy, it didn’t matter that the audience wasn’t quiet.

After the movie, we headed over to Border’s, where MB got me a few books plus a gift card.  Yay, books!  I’m still loving Harry Potter.  I just finished number four and bought number two since the library doesn’t seem to have it.  Kids do not treat these books well, by the way.  Number four was full of ripped pages – like deliberately ripped – and in one section, some idiot had changed the word “pus” to something dirty.  Damned kids.

Yesterday MB made huevos rancheros for breakfast, then we took another walk since it was such a gorgeous day.  It was actually hot when we started out, probably almost 80.  We went to Union Square and hung out for a bit.  Then suddenly it was chilly.

We had dinner at Borobudur, our favorite Indonesian restaurant, where we overheard the best conversation.

An Asian couple was sitting behind us. I had seen them walk in – the woman petite and well-dressed, wearing an enormous hat and sunglasses, and the guy kind of schlubby.

WOMAN: Can you recommend something without peppers?

WAITER: Sure, sure. [Rattles off suggestions]

WOMAN: Do they have black pepper? No black pepper either.

WAITER: Uhhh. . .

WOMAN: No black pepper, and no chili pepper.

WAITER: Okay. Honey beef is good.

MAN: No beef.

WAITER: Okay. [Rattles off other suggestions]

MAN: And no salt. Is it salty?

WAITER: Uh, yeah, it’s kind of salty.

MAN: And no oil. Is it oily?

WAITER: Uhhh – How about this? [Kindly makes another suggestion]

MAN: You think that’s good?

WAITER: Yeah, yeah, good.

WOMAN: Is it spicy?

WAITER: No, not spicy.

WOMAN: Um, okay.

By now MB and I are rolling our eyes and staring at each other like, Are they kidding?

A few minutes later:

WAITER: Sorry, that dish is already marinated in salt.

MAN: It is? [Begins to sound desperate] Um, I don’t know, you decide. I don’t know what to do.

WOMAN: It’s okay.

Now MB starts munching like crazy on our tumis buncis, which if you don’t know is string beans sauteed in a very salt, somewhat spicy fermented shrimp paste. It’s really delicious.

“Mmm!” he said unnecessarily loudly. “This is sooo good!”

MAN: That looks good. It’s probably salty though, right?

WOMAN: Yes, very salty.

MAN: [Sigh]

Hearing that conversation was probably the best birthday present ever.


12
Apr 10

The manifesto of manifesting your manifest-man

I enjoy looking at the New York Times Sunday wedding announcements.  I don’t read them all but glance through the names to see if there are any I recognize (less and less so as I get older), if there are any cute “how we met” stories, or it’s-horrible-but-I-can’t-look-away spectacles.  Yesterday was a spectacle day.

I didn’t really pay attention to it till I saw a write-up in Gawker.  Sometimes Gawker goes a little overboard with the hate and snarkiness, but they were definitely on the money with this one.  As I read the announcement, I cringed, then cringed some more:

When Jonathan Grubb first spotted Kestrin Pantera, she was dressed as a light-saber-wielding Jedi knight.

That’s just the first line.  It gets better.

Powerful, wise and dedicated to the “light side of the force” is how Ms. Pantera described the character she sought to embody at the 2006 Burning Man arts festival in Nevada.

Burning Man, ’nuff said.

Mr. Grubb. . .recalled watching with a cousin as the warrior set up camp. “I know you’re perfectly capable of setting up this tent by yourself, but we’re doing it for you,” he said.

Being manipulated from the start.

As they did, Ms. Pantera. . .imagined a glowing arrow pointing at Mr. Grubb’s head.

Because life is a quirky movie with special effects.

“This is him,” she recalled thinking as she mentally listed qualities she wanted in a mate — a list that she had drafted as part of the daily “personal manifesto” that she had been writing for years.

Um, daily “personal manifesto”?  I’m all for writing down one’s “intentions, motives, or views” but a manifesto is a PUBLIC declaration.  I mean, I’ll blab my head off about what I want and think, but I’m not going around calling it a manifesto like I’m Karl Marx.

Then the kicker:

“Everything pointed to us being a perfect match,” Mr. Grubb said. “Except one thing: my girlfriend was due to arrive.”

D’oh!  And then the article NAMES the girlfriend!  Double d’oh!  So. . .

At the festival, Mr. Grubb and Ms. Pantera developed a chaste friendship. Yet Mr. Grubb remembers the moment he knew Ms. Pantera was in his future. “Kestrin began playing Jimi Hendrix-style electric cello after revealing that she spoke German and Mandarin and read monetary policy reports for fun,” he said.

I’m high-class talented, see, cuz I play the cello, but I’m EDGY because it’s electric and I play Jimi Hendrix style, and oh yeah, I’m FIERCELY intelligent because I speak all these languages, AND I’m basically a biz dude in a hot girl’s body.  Isn’t that every guy’s dream?

BUT, then she finds out through an online profile he doesn’t want kids, which is like totally against her manifesto.

My manifesto-man wanted kids,” she said.

That’s right folks, she said it: her manifesto-man.

Then blah blah blah, he breaks up with his girlfriend, hooks up with Kestrin, and they kiss.  Harp players appear over their heads; doves fly out of their butts.  But what about the no kid pronouncement in his profile?

He had invented many [online profiles] “as tests for my work,” said Mr. Grubb, whose résumé dates to the start of the Internet boom.

Hmm, seems sketchy to me.  But that’s their  fight to have when Kestrin’s biological clock starts ticking.

Then he pops the big question:

“I know you’re perfectly capable of living this life on your own, but I want to live it with you.”

I know you’re a fully capable woman who doesn’t need a man –

That’s right! I don’t need a man! I’m quirky and wild and independent!  I read monetary reports for FUN!

Well, yes, that’s what I’m saying –

I’m a FEMINIST!

Yes, I totally agree.

I went to Burning Man!  I dressed as a Jedi Knight and NOT Princess Leia!  I don’t need a man!

You’re right, you’re right. Actually I can’t live my life on my own, although I’m a man.  I need you.

All right then.

(AND scene.)

So then they get hitched (not far from SF incidentally), and. . .

Because the bride hates to “kill” flowers, she carried a bouquet of tillandsia, an unusual, spiny gray-green bromeliad that feeds off air.

*Sigh.*  Just *sigh.*

Ms. Pantera, the former Jedi warrior, pledged in her wedding vows “to constantly generate a force field of awesome.”

And Mr. Grubb vowed to constantly generate a force field of telling her she’s awesome.

There at the wedding, they both burst into tears: the manifesto had been made manifest.

Oh no they didn’t! (Yes, I’m afraid they did.)

But it doesn’t end there:

Of her affection for the spiny tillandsia plants, which surrounded the guests and numbered in the thousands, the bride said, “They manifest life from thin air.”

Then the write-up mind-blowingly ends with a quote from the jilted girlfriend, who is supposedly still friends with them: “I want to be involved in their whatever, forever.”

I like to imagine she’s saying “whatever” with fingers like a W and a mean girl smirk.

Coming to a whimsical theater near you, Our Whatever Forever.


31
Mar 10

Now that all I do is write, all I think about is writing

Except of course when my mom’s driving me crazy.

Now that I have a couple of articles out there, in addition to my blogging at The Nervous Breakdown, I get some kind words from people, which I really appreciate.  I also get haters, which is kinda fun.

I’ve written before about the risks of writing about my life, especially in such a public forum like the internet, where you can get immediate feedback.  I have to be careful about writing about other people, changing names and other details, and I have to really think about what I want to put out there about myself.  I don’t mind making myself look bad, but there are some details that are TMI, even for me.

Recently I received a comment that I need to “put things in perspective and get over it,” that “life moves on” and that my need to write about the past only hampers my “inability” – I think she meant “ability” – to move on with my current “happiness” (cuz I’m not really happy now you see).

If you’re familiar with my writing, you know I write a lot about the past.  Why do I do this?  Number one, it’s a good story.  Number two, it helps to put it behind me.  Number three, writing about the past helps me see the lessons.  It puts it at a distance so I can see meaning and events more clearly.

I’m not interested in making myself look good.  An important goal of my writing is to own up to my own faults and mistakes.  Plus how boring is a “heroine” who’s perfect?  You might as well read a romance novel.

An essay is a smidgen of the real me.  Even this blog is not the “real me.”  It’s what I choose to share.  You can believe I’m happier than I’ve ever been, more in love than I’ve ever been, or you can not.  I really don’t care.  There are other things for you to read; no one forced you to read anything of mine.

Recently I attempted to write a piece about one of my favorite childhood authors, Madeleine L’Engle.  In my research, I found a fascinating write-up about her.  I had always assumed she based her books on her own family, and that her family was pretty much perfect.  Turns out her kids hated her books because they felt she had appropriated their lives.  L’Engle wrote a memoir, but there’s nothing in it about her troubled marriage, or the troubled relationships she had with her kids.

I feel like I can’t help but write about myself.  I blab and blab, probably too much.  Maybe because I’ve always had a diary, and when I was kid, would force myself to write about upsetting things because I thought it was “therapeutic.”  (I think I watched too much thirtysomething.)

But, I could only write about my marriage and ex’s affair after we divorced.  I couldn’t bring myself to face it while it was happening.  It was simply too painful.

“Is this good for you?” a clueless guy I once dated asked me of my memoir.  “Should you be writing this?”

In a way writing about the past was like reliving it, but the only way I could write about it well, was to have enough distance.  It’s like watching a movie or reading a book: you’re completely wrapped up in it at the moment, you laugh, you cry, you’re scared, upset, happy, but you know it’s not real.  Clearly I was calmly sitting there writing, not sobbing or tearing my hair out or sucking my thumb in the corner; yet this guy still thought writing my memoir wasn’t “good” for me.

So why not just go to therapy?  Why do I feel a need to share my “pain” with the world?  One, it’s cheaper.  Two, I’m a writer.  The way I express myself is to share through my writing.  If you don’t want to witness my pain, then move along, there’s nothing for you to see here.  Go watch Dancing with the Stars (though that seems pretty painful too).  I’ll still be writing.


24
Mar 10

Cruisin’

Now my mom has a new plan: instead of coming up to San Francisco, go on a cruise for a few days.  I was so glad to hear she and my father wouldn’t be staying with us for a week, that I enthusiastically said, “Sure, I’ll do the research!  We’ll treat you guys!  I’ll go!!!”

I don’t mind doing the research and treating my parents (they won’t let us spend too much anyway), but I realized after the fact that I really hate cruises and really don’t want to go.

I’ve been on one cruise.  Three days and three nights stuck on a giant floating hotel, which managed to make me feel both claustrophobic and agoraphobic.  It was the same time of year too, June, and so the boat was full of partying college kids.

The room my mom and I shared a) was the size of a walk-in closet, b) had no windows, and c) was right next to some incredibly noisy girls.  One night they just went on and on.  My mom wasn’t complaining so I tried to suffer through it, but then my mother muttered, “Xiao gui.”  Little demons.

That did it.  I banged on the wall three times.  “Shut up!” I shouted.

The girls were silent for a moment, then started laughing and banging back.  “Shut up, shut up!” they mimicked.  After that they’d do things like bang on our door late at night and run away.

It was like all seven deadly sins in one place.  Lust, the college kids doing god knows what in the outdoor hot tubs.  Gluttony, all those all-you-can-eat buffets, including a midnight Mexican spread that I gave in to.  Sloth, nothing to do but sit your ass in a chair and stare at the ocean, wondering if you’ll survive the next three days.  Greed, the people gambling in a casino (I won $70 playing video poker, then promptly lost it).  Wrath at those stupid noisy college girls.  Pride kept me from admitting how lonely I was (my marriage was falling apart at the time).  Finally, I was totally envious of anyone not on that cruise.

But there were some fun moments.  Like when my cousins and I climbed the rock climbing wall, and joking around at dinner, and playing Pictionary, and seeing my grandmother’s face light up whenever she saw any of us.

But I’m really hoping I won’t be able to find a cheap cruise, and my mother will have to come up with crazy plan C.


22
Mar 10

The haters come out again

Well, not really haters, but sometimes that’s what they feel like.

You may or may not have seen my post on that documentary about the adoption of an eight-year old Chinese girl.  Quite frankly, I didn’t think many people read it.  I know people like to read my rants, complaining about my mom, or about me and MB.  But sometimes I just write about whatever interests me.

I get maybe 100 unique visitors a day.  The most I ever got was 186.  So about 3000 visits in a month.  Maybe that seems like a lot but you know how many the Huffington Post got in February 2008? 1,865,000.  One MILLION eight hundred and sixty five thousand, versus three thousand.  The population of a city versus the student population at a small college.

So I was very surprised to get a comment from the adoptive mom from the documentary.

I won’t get into the details of our exchange (which you can read in the comments of the post), only to say that it was a reminder that my words are not simply disappearing into cyberspace.

Writing online has its hazards.  It’s great that you can get an immediate response, and it’s bad that you can get an immediate response.  Lately I’ve been dealing with the idea of external validation, and wanting it too much, getting so dependent on it that when I don’t have it, I feel yucky.  Of course it’s something in my brain I need to work out, but I think the internet enables it.  How many comments do I have?  Is mine the most read article?  What do people have to say about me?  Do they like me, really like me?

Or the opposite: when people disagree, or are insulted (even when I don’t mean to be insulting), or take my words the wrong way.

I actually think I can deal better with a negative response than no response.  With a negative response, at least people are reading.  There’s no such thing as bad publicity.

For a while I kept thinking, well, I just need to put myself out there more so I can get more external validation so that I don’t feel bad.  But while I should indeed put myself out there more, it shouldn’t be for external validation, but for the process in and of itself.  For whatever goal I’ve set for myself.

I like this site.  On the surface it seems a bit nutty because it talks about “practical magic,” but it has some smart things to say about external validation (emphasis mine):

We lose force whenever we seek external validation from others because we give control over our lives, our thoughts, our emotions, and our choices to others. Magically, this is a loss of personal power, which is defined as our knowledge plus our control plus our responsibility.

The act of receiving external validation does not, in itself, necessarily cause us to lose force. In fact, encouragement from others can often increase or amplify our force – but only temporarily. For example, have you ever noticed that a compliment from another person, while pleasing and temporarily energizing, often leads to second-guessing about the person’s motives? Or perhaps you might feel momentarily flushed with the energy of the compliment, then feel let down over the next several days if you don’t receive another compliment? In other words, external validation can add to your force, but because it doesn’t come from your own knowing and your own experiences it will soon fade. You can’t “own” the force from a compliment.

Trying to live in the present helps, instead of imagining the outcome of something, whether good, bad, or non-existent.


18
Mar 10

Oh, Mother

*Sigh.*

So my cousin is getting married in June in L.A.  This means my parents are flying out, and thought they’d take the opportunity to come up and visit us in SF afterward.  Simple, right?  WRONG.

My mother, as she does, has come up with a flurry of complicated plans.  She had told me that my brother had suggested driving all of us back up to SF and spending some time together.

“All of us?” I said.  “We’ll have to rent a van.”

“Oh sure,” my mother said.

Then today she told me that IF my brother wanted to drive, THEN she and my father would both come up to SF and stay with us for a few days before driving back down with my brother.  (They need to be back in L.A. for the weekend to look after my grandmother while my uncle, aunt, and her side of the family go to Las Vegas.)

BUT, if my brother didn’t want to drive, then only my mother would come up and my father would stay with my brother, and in that case my mother would stay a whole week instead of just a few days.

Oh my head is spinning.

ANOTHER scenario is that she’ll convince my dad to go to SF no matter what (ie, even if my brother doesn’t drive, though why that’s a determining factor I have no idea), and they’ll stay a whole week.

A whole frigging week.

Tactfully as I could, I said our place is actually not that big so that while they could stay a few days (hopefully more like two), a hotel might be better, and I promised to do research.

My mother seemed keen on this idea, but then suddenly said, “You know, you guys should pay for the hotel.”

I was thinking that same thing, out of guilt, and said sure.  Fine and dandy, right?

Wrong.

“You didn’t even offer,” my mother huffed.  “You didn’t even think of it first.”

So after I a) offer to research hotels, and b) agree to pay for it, she still criticizes me.  I was so frigging annoyed.

But because I’m such a wuss when it comes to my mom, I did a little research and called back to very nicely inform her of current hotel pricing.  “Too expensive,” she kept saying though she seemed to have gotten over her huff.

There is just no winning with her, my brother said.  You’re going along, you’re trying your best, and then there’s this secret behavior that you’re supposed to engage in, and if you don’t, you’ve totally failed.

By the way, it turned out my brother never offered to drive them.  It was all her own idea.  What is wrong with her???


16
Mar 10

I miss Pick-a-Bagel

Today for lunch I was really craving a bagel with tuna salad, a staple in most New York delis.  When I lived on the Upper East Side, I’d get one from Pick-a-Bagel or the more expensive Sable’s, if I felt like splurging.

There’s no Pick-a-Bagel around here so I popped into a nearby cafe which makes a big deal about serving organic, fair-trade coffee.  But they also have sandwiches and, yes, bagels.

I said to the girl, “Could I get a bagel with tuna salad?” to which the girl replied, “Tuna salad. . .on a BAGEL???” like it was the weirdest fucking thing she ever heard.

“Yes,” I said.  “Tuna salad on a bagel.”

“So, like a sandwich, but with a bagel?”

“Yes.”

She bent over the cash register, trying to figure out how to ring me up.  “That’ll be $10.95.”

WHAT?

She explained that the sandwich platters came with salad, hence the ridiculous price.

“All I want,” I said, “is a bagel with tuna.  Like instead of a bagel with butter, imagine a bagel with tuna.”  I didn’t say “imagine” but really wanted to.

She finally figured it out.

I mean, I know it’s not so common around here, but you have bagels, you have tuna salad – voila, you have a bagel with tuna salad.

Voi-fucking-la.  Dumbshit.


04
Feb 10

What I hate about yoga

As some of you may know, I’ve started taking yoga.  It’s been about a month now, and I think it’s really made a difference.  My flexibility is better, and my arms and upper body look and feel more toned.

I feel myself improving from class to class.  Earlier this week we were doing that thing where you’re standing on one foot with the other leg up in the air behind you and your arms out front.  I can do it, but usually I’m wobbly.  Suddenly, this time I thought, The balance isn’t in my foot, it’s in my middle.  I tightened up my core and was able to get my body even straighter.

But of course there are still some things about yoga that I find annoying.

People’s feet. I don’t like looking at people’s bare feet, unless we’re at the beach, and this includes my own.  I don’t know why.  I just get skeeved seeing them positioned and pointed, especially guys’.  During class of course I don’t notice it, just before we’re about to start.

Yes, I know I’m a freak.

Show-offs. Before class even starts, I’m going to start doing yoga.  Or during a pose, I’m going to do EXTRA.  See how flexible I am?   See how I can balance?

There was one woman earlier this week who was a yoga MASTER.  I just copied what she did.  But did she show off?  Nope.  Before class started, she was reading/writing, and she did the poses exactly as the teacher said.  Just because you’re good doesn’t mean you have to show off.

People’s cell phones going off. Not that I’m all spiritual, but if it’s quiet and you’re relaxed and trying to focus, that’s the last thing you want to hear.

Seeing my chubby albino legs in the mirror. Gah, I’m blinded!  This is why I’ve started wearing pants.

My hyperextending elbows. What was a parlor trick, I now know is a freak show.  I have to remember to not hyperextend as we do the warrior pose or the triangle, although I’m sure people aren’t paying attention to me at all.

Today I may try a second round.  Usually I just go once a week, but I feel like I’ve recovered from Tuesday.

Lately I’ve been lessening the intensity of my cardio workouts.  MB suggested a change in routine might jump start my body.  I used to do five days of cardio – four miles on Monday and Tuesday, elliptical on Wednesday, four miles on Thursday and Friday – but I’ve been doing that for years, and I think my body hit a rut.

Now I’m trying:

    Monday – run 3 or 4 miles; light weight training for arms
    Tuesday – run 3 or 4 miles; one hour of yoga
    Wednesday – 40 minutes of elliptical
    Thursday – rest; or possibly yoga; no cardio
    Friday – long cardio session (run 5 to 7 miles)

Eventually, that’ll become too routine as well, and I’ll have to change things up again.  I think that’s the trick – variety.