My Orientation

Apparently a friend-of-a-friend has recently questioned my sexual orientation due to some jokes made about girlfriends in previous posts (and before you start clicking around looking for talk of pillowfights and sharing lipgloss, let me save you some time and tell you you won't find any. There's only some occasional rear-smacking and cloud-romping.) This question immediately triggered memories of back home, where if you're 26 and unmarried, everybody thinks you're either a lesbian or you should start buying cats. I remember once in college I brought home my short-haired, affectionate, semi-raunchy college roommate Leslie and announced my move to San Francisco. Later my mother came up to me and whispered, "Your sister thinks you're a lesbian!" "What did you tell her?" "I just laughed." "Mom!" "What?? I thought it was funny!" The two of us shared this private joke for some time, allowing the rumor to reach Gramma and Auntie before we finally broke down and told the truth. You could tell my sister was secretly disappointed, as I think she hoped to Know Someone Like That as fodder for her Great American Novel.

But for the record, I am currently straight. Now onto other things you may have inferred from previous posts that may not quite be true that I should clear up now:

1. I don't smoke da pot. And while we're on the topic, a cigarette has never touched these virgin lips. The hardest drug I've ever tried was snorting a pixie stick on a dare at a slumber party in sixth grade. (And for the record, DON'T DO THIS. It does NOT FEEL GOOD. PICK MOONING THE NEIGHBOR IF YOU HAVE A CHOICE.)

2. I did not get naked at the Marimekko store and roll around in their linens. I got naked in MY apartment and rolled around in their linens.

3. I did not 'technically' spend my lunch break surfing the internet looking for a picture of Michael J. Fox. I spent time before work surfing the internet looking for a picture of Michael J. Fox.

4. I would indeed accept a cup of nog from a perfect stranger on the streets of San Francisco and enjoy every warm, blissful sip of it before stumbling off to look for harder stuff.


Hopefully that covers any possible confusion. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go show my coworker Cynthia some appreciation for her outfit today.

You Can Use This If You Want

running for the bus
coffee clutched in hand, splashing
on my hoodie cuffs

You will be happy to know that I figured out a fabulous preventative measure for this all-too-frequent-soaking-of-the-cuffs phenomenon in RonaWorld. Napkins tucked up my sleeves. They stick out in a nice little fan cupping my hands, preventing all ambitous liquid from getting to my clothing. And let's not forget the added bonus of making me look like a scarecrow or someone who should not have left their house this morning without adult supervision.

I don't know why I'm single. This kind of genius...

Death by Nog

I passed an ad today that said, "Pass the Nog! Spread Holiday Cheer!" and there's an illustration of a generous hand reaching out a car window holding out a coffee cup to a joyful pedestrian. And I couldn't help but think that this ad must've been made in, say, Idaho, because nobody here would EVER think it was a good idea to start taking mysterious cups of good cheer from perfect strangers. I know if someone handed ME a cup of eggnog from their car window, I'd most likely turn tail and run, just in case they were about to offer me a scone, too. I could just see the headlines now: "Girl Drinks Stranger's Nog, Dies." It'd be one of those articles that people forward around, prefacing it with, "What an idiot! Why in the WORLD would you drink from a cup handed to you by a stranger? Who DOES that? Yeah, she had it comin' to her...Darwinism at its finest."

Time to start poppin' 'em out

I am fortunate enough to have a Korean mom here in San Francisco. This is in addition to my college-advisor-mom, my workplace-mom, and of course that woman who popped me out 26 glorious years ago, culminating in her life's desire accomplished.

My Korean mom came into my life when I began tutoring her daughter almost five years ago. I was an English tutor at the time, but it soon became apparent that M's difficulties were not due to her status as a first generation Korean-American, but rather due to her special needs. My time with her from that point involved help in a wide range of subjects: I found myself again immersed in high school math, English, history, pretending like I remembered stuff and regurgitating the rest after a scan of her textbook. I even helped her in swimming (which, if you knew my physical prowess, you'd understand was a complete joke: "Okay, so if my study of the encyclopedia was right, your legs are going to do THIS on the butterfly stroke. No, wait. Maybe that was the breaststroke...oh, heck. Do you know how to doggy-paddle?"). Obviously I don't charge her mother for this help*. Still, due to the fact that she doesn't speak much English therefore doesn't know what I'm teaching her daughter, she is grateful. And she cooks for me in their little Japantown apartment as payment. And it's so freaking good I feel guilty for the fact that I just spent 20 minutes teaching her daughter which fonts take up more space so she can lengthen her report without using four-inch margins (a favorite trick of hers I have to undo every time I open a page she has already worked on).

Recently, as I shovelled pounds of kimchee and bulgoki and meyuk down my throat, Korean Mama sighed happily: "You will have healthy babies eating like that!" That is when I realized that I had just received the Korean-equivalent of my grandmother's praise of my 'birthing hips.' And yesterday at church, when I wore lip gloss instead of my usual ponytail, she exclaimed joyfully, "You are getting pretty!"

It was pretty awesome, not gonna lie. And I'm just gonna say it: you can leave Oklahoma all you want to...but Japantown ain't that far off.


*and by 'help,' I mean, 'quite possibly a highly damaging education'

Sideshow Gosh Co.

Brought to you by the same gal known for such wisdom as "Never talk to a cancer patient when you're drunk," comes the newest blogger to join the cult! Join me in welcoming my favorite college roommate ever in life, one of the funniest people I've ever known (in fact, to this day the majority of my running jokes have been stolen from her repertoire, which alarms me because now we're so far apart that I worry I'm missing some good material I could be taking), the girl who's danced on Broadway in Hairspray the Musical, the girl who eloped with one of the best Okies I know, with whom she has recently moved to New York City to further his writing career and her acting career (could they BE more perfectly New York?) ,the girl who will promptly steal all five of my blog readers, leaving me high and dry and ridiculously jealous because the number of readers I have is directly proportional to my self esteem, the girl whose postings I will steal because they will be more clever than mine and I'm not above thievery as long as it gets me ahead, and the girl who will someday have her own show on which she has promised to wear Rona-created tees at least once a week and now this promise is published online which OBVIOUSLY makes it legally binding: SIDESHOW GOSHCO! (clap clap clap)

Check her out, love her because you won't be able to help it, and start following her path through the theater scene in New York. Someday when she's on SNL, you'll be able to say you knew her when she was a starving artist. And when her book deal gets signed, you can bribe me for an autographed copy. That's just the kind of friend--I mean, Managing Director--I am. In fact, just to secure your place in line, go ahead and start sending me money now.

Lea Lea About Her Coca-Cola Habit

"Hi. I'm Lea Ann. {faint choruses of "hi lea ann" "hi" fade away into silence broken only by the occasional cough} and I like to drink Coke. too much. (head down in shame)"

This is EXACTLY how I feel when I enter the Container Store (a.ka. 'the drug den').

I'm a Marimekk-ho

I've done it: after years of lusting, I got my first Marimekko--in the form of sage green Samovaari bedding. When I saw it on sale, I almost wet myself with joy and I definitely ripped off all my clothes right there in the shop and rolled around in the king-sized shams. Once the security guards informed me that I would now have to buy everything I touched, I hastily gathered up all of my things, new linens included, and sprinted home to try rolling in it in the Cloud, instead.

I have to tell you, it's everything I've ever dreamed of. My dreams were samovaari-studded skips through forest floors and green pastures, as daisies floated through the rosy air and music intertwined in my now-flowing locks. Every roll in my sleep led to the twittering of birds, a bursting of dandelions, and the liquid warmth of the sun pouring over my incredibly lithe dream-body.

Or that could've been the pot I smoked before bed. But oh how sweet this bedding is...

Burrito Dog

When I was a teenager, I used to babysit a lot. I had a sort of mini-daycare set up at one point in time, watching five little blond-haired girls who all lived in the same neighborhood. They'd line up in front of the couch, and I would take turns french-braiding their hair as we watched the Disney Channel and drank Capri-Suns. I ended up having to give two mothers a Braiding Tutorial because their daughters started asking for the style and they didn't know how to do it. I didn't have the heart to tell them that I learned how to do it when I was seven using a World Book Encyclopedia diagram and my Barbie.

I played one game with one of the littlest girls that I called 'Burrito Dog.' I don't know where this name came from, other than the fact that I may have been thinking of a hybrid between a burrito and a hot dog. At any rate, the game entailed the following: I rolled her up in a blanket, her arms pinned to her side, then picked her up, spun in her a half dozen circles, and right before I thought I was going to be sick, I'd drop her gently on the couch. Then pull the blanket out from under her so that she's spin out of it onto the cushions. She'd shriek with laughter and immediately leap off the couch and stretch out on the floor, ready to be rolled again. She could do this for HOURS, which is when I first formulated the rule "Never start anything with a child that you aren't willing to do THREE HUNDRED BILLION TIMES."

I never told the parents about the game, as it never occurred to me to tell them anything beyond what we ate, drank, watched, slept, and pottied. Then one evening the mother pulls me aside in the throes of desperation: "Tatum keeps running at me holding a blanket and shrieking 'BURRITO DOG! BURRITO DOG!' Do you know what she's TALKING about??" "Oh...yeah...turns out she's a big fan of hot dogs wrapped in tortillas. Who knew?"

Just kidding. I told her the game. And ruined her life, as she was then required to spin and flip her daughter every night for an hour for the next three months. That's when it occurred to me that if I ever had a child, I would tell the babysitter to do nothing but SIT ON THE COUCH AND READ AND IGNORE MY CHILD, that way when I got home and did just that, the interaction-bar wouldn't have been raised in my absence. Maybe she can even teach Baby to rub her feet or play the violin quietly in the background.

Sugar Mama

Bow chicka wow wow! Check out Katy, my favorite bad-ass-opera-singer- neighborhood-temptress- church-passer-noter- maker-of-laughter. She's in a show tomorrow, as Ivana Trump, and her costume involves a beehive, a plunging neckline, and not a little bling. HOTTTTTTTTTTTTT is all I'm gonna say.

My Rapper Name

Earlier this week I came to work and found this little gift on my desk:



I don't know if you can read the packaging, but it says "White Sugar." Either somebody absentmindedly made their coffee on my desk and left this cube behind, or someone's implying that I'm a cracker.

Only in the Bayview

The other day I was waiting for my bus in the Bayview and saw the small child below. Needless to say, I couldn’t pull out my camera phone fast enough. You will be relieved to know he is enjoying a lollipop, not smoking. The taped-together toy gun looked for all the world like a baby sawed-off shotgun. This gives me boundless joy.

3/4" and...

...growing. That stack of faxes can't seem to sprout legs and file themselves. If only they had a three legged man to help them along."

Foot in Mouth Disease

So earlier a coworker got sassy with me for doing my job (and I’m not lying, I did my job text-book perfectly in this particular situation. And it is NOT the norm that I follow the book) and so, in my newfound sense of righteousness, I got sassy right back, and concluded the conversation with muttering, “It’s always a pleasure working with you” under my breath. And of course, because I’m short-sighted, she hears me and whips around: “WHAT’d you say?” And of course, because I’m also not quick on my feet, I repeat it: “I said it’s always a pleasure working with you.” She storms off fuming, and I proactively hoof it to my boss’s office to tell her the tale before Mad Cow beats me to it and I get the lecture of a lifetime. Boss laughs, shaking her head, “You and your sarcasm! That’s going to get you in trouble, you know!” I felt more bad for my Boss, actually, knowing full well she’s going to be the one to deal with MC’s rantings and ravings all because I can’t hold my tongue like a damn bloody fool. Boss and I agree that I’ll apologize for my attitude and let MC simmer down. As I’m formulating the apology email, I struggle with the wording: “Hi MC!” I begin. “I’m so sorry for getting sassy with you at the end of our conversation! Sarcasm is unprofessional and has no place in the work environment. I should never have said that you were a pleasure to work with.” Then I revised the last line since I didn’t want to stir it up anymore than I already did, and finished with “I should never have said what I did. Please forgive me. Apologetically yours.” I blind-copied my boss for good measure, and am considering this a job well done. Except, of course, for my gross unprofessionalism in the workplace and inevitable canning.

You hiring? I may occasionally be sarcastic, I may occasionally smack you on the rear if I like what I see, and I may save music files on the network drive, but I can guarantee that I will never take the last cup of coffee without brewing a fresh pot, I will never abandon a jammed printer, and I shower at least twice a week. Let me know if you'd like to see my references. I want to make sure mother is free.

These Are Not My Dreams

Alison McChutney, my favorite Scottish Chutney-Maker, told me last night that she thinks she’s having other people’s dreams. She describes her daily life: “I make chutney. I take care of my husband. That’s all I do. Nothing in these dreams is anything I know.” She spends her dreamlife singing unfamiliar songs with unfamiliar groups of people. She tells these people in the dreams, “I’m not supposed to be here. This is someone else’s dream. There must be some mistake.” They nod at her, and keep singing.

This concerns her greatly. Who is having her dreams if she is having theirs?

Flashing

Omigosh, I totally forgot (thanks, Deee, for holding my memories for me and reminding me of this)--the same Steven I mention below--the martini-lifter, the hat-giver, the best waiter at Slanted Door--also went up to use the Macy's restroom on their fifth floor, and then stood in the window, texted us to look up, and proceeded to lift his shirt and press his chest against the glass for all of Union Square to see. It was, hands-down, the best window display I've seen at Macy's yet.

Breakfast at Tiffany's

A year ago last summer I went to a Movie in the Park with two girlfriends, Alexandra (“X”) and Tori (“No-tori-ous”), at Union Square. Bundled up, blankets wrapped around us, wine flowing like beer, we enjoyed Breakfast at Tiffany’s right next to the real Tiffany's. It was terribly romantic and wonderful. This was the same night that we met a fabulous gay man named Steven, who not only gave me the ski cap you see me wearing here (that’s me, in the middle), but also taught us how to sneak a martini out of a bar: “Order two!” he says, sipping one glass at the counter while holding the second high ball in his lap, ready for easy carryout. “The bartender will see your first glass left behind, and forget you had a second!”

I still have this hat. And the high ball glass.

On Becoming an Apple

She’s done it! Deee has started a blog! She’s probably going to hate me for putting her link on here given that it is private musings probably intended for close friends and family and everything, but I’m not the type of person you want to tell private or secret things to, and she knows this, so I’m going to proceed with reckless, sharing abandon and tell her to eff off if she has a problem with it.

That said, her blog is lovely. Really and truly lovely. Pablo-Neruda-lovely, private-musings lovely, how-to-roast-chestnuts-lovely. All of these things are Deee, and all of these things are the reasons that she’s my best friend and I adore her.

Plus I took her profile picture and I want everybody here to know that I’m RIDICULOUSLY good at portraiture.

On Becoming an Apple:

To the Foot from Its Child, by Pablo Neruda

The child's foot doesn't know yet that it's a foot,
and wants to be a butterfly or an apple.

But then stones and pieces of glass,
streets, ladders,
and the paths of the hard earth
go on teaching the foot that it can't fly,
that it can't be round fruit on a branch.
The child's foot then
was overcome, it fell
in the battle,
was a prisoner,
condemned to live in a shoe.

Gradually, without light,
it started to know the world in its own way,
without knowing the other foot, shut in,
exploring life like a blindman.

These soft nails
of quartz, in a bunch,
hardened, changed into
opaque matter, into hard horn,
and the small petals of the child
got crushed, unbalanced,
took the form of eyeless reptiles,
worms' triangular heads.
And then they grew calluses,
they were covered
with tiny volcanoes
of death, unacceptable
hardenings.

But this blind thing walked
without respite, without stopping
hour after hour,
one foot and then the other,
now a man's
or a woman's,
above,
below,
through fields, through mines,
through department stores and ministries,
backward,
outside, inside,
forward,
this foot laboured with its shoe,
it hardly took time
to be naked in love or in sleep,
it walked, they walked
until the whole man stopped.

And then it went down
into the earth and knew nothing,
because there everything was dark,
it didn't know that it had ceased being a foot,
if they had buried it so that it could fly
or so that it could
become an apple.

Michael J. Stud

One of my closest girlfriends has recently revealed a lifelong crush on Michael J. Fox. As a teen, she had close to 80 posters of him wallpapering her bedroom and never missed taping a single moment that he might have been on tv, from a 30-second appearance on an awards show to 12 minutes talking to Regis. To this day, these momentos of her youthful passion are ‘in storage,’ although I suspect this storage to be a little more accessible than she’ll admit. She can probably make mad bank by selling her archive in its entirety, but asking a girl to e-bay her first love is akin to asking her if I can have one of her twins. So instead perhaps I’ll ask her to will me her archive, and then I’ll sell it for mad bank.

The subject of Michael J. Foxy-pants came up when she was relating a dream she had recently in which she saved his life and he proposed to her. According to her, they were actually filming a show or movie while in the dream, so she knew the proposal was coming up in the script. As well as—pulse flutter here—a kiss. That’s right. They were gonna get it ON. That’s my girl.

The picture above she had over her childhood bed. I spent my entire lunch break (because that's the only time I work on my blog) looking for this photo that she described to me in detail last night: “He was wearing this white sweater...and then he had this blue collar above the sweater...like the color of his eyes...” and she trails off sighing, gazing off into space, no doubt regressing back to her blissed-out 15 year old self before I a-hemed her back to the future. (So to speak.)

She then of course tried to save face with, "But I'm over him now. That was just a high school--and maybe a little bit of college--phase." "But didn't you just dream about him a couple weeks ago?" "Well...you know...that was different."

Riiiight.

Out of Control

Apparently I just learned how to walk YESTERDAY, because I have fallen again. This time it isn’t my chin that's damaged, it's my knee. And since I was in a skirt, I completely skinned it. I look like an 8-year-old who decided to try breakdancing on gravel, all band-aided up and thinking that MAYBE it’s worth trying one more time. (As evidenced by the fact that I even left my home this morning without being padded head to toe.) My hands are also plotting against me—sometimes when I’m holding a cup of coffee they will jerk for no other reason than to dump my coffee all over myself. Last night, when I held my coffee in my right hand, my left hand—and I am not making this up—reached over and HIT the bottom of my cup. It tried to knock it over. So then I switched hands: “Okay, Left Hand, if that’s how you’re gonna play, YOU hold the coffee cup,” and then it gets all trembly, like, “weighs...too...much...can’t...take...the pressure...”

This recent lack of hand/foot coordination reminds me of some problems I had when I was younger with various compulsions. I was discussing these with some girlfriends in my bookclub because we had just read Sedaris’s Naked, and his hilarious plague of tics, and I tried to explain to them that it MAKES TOTAL SENSE, this voice in the head commanding you to do something and you CANNOT RESIST this voice, because if you do, it will drive you insane. When I was young, I too obeyed the command of inner voices. Mine weren’t as cruel as his—I wasn’t licking light switches or anything, thank heavens—but they did command that I touch every white awning pole on my elementary school sidewalk as well as occasionally step off the sidewalk altogether. “OFF, Rona. STEP OFF THE CURB NOW.” “I don’t WANT to step off the curb. I have a SIDEWALK. Right here. Where NORMAL people walk.” “OFF. This is the last time I’m going to tell you. You know you want to.” And so I step off and back on again, and resume my pole-tapping journey in peace. The voice also commanded that when I was in a car, I had to blink between poles—be they power poles, traffic light poles, fence posts—if it was any sort of marker, I had to blink. Not on the exact moment of passing the marker, but on the equidistant point between it and the next one. I never told anybody about this old hobby of mine until last Friday’s bookclub meeting, and looking at the wide-eyed, silent stares around me, I thought, “Note to self: not a first date story.”

Alas, also like Sedaris, my compulsions eventually subsided (for the most part). While he discovered smoking as a cure for his, I found reading to be the cure for mine. Now when I get a strange urge to, say, make everything on my desk perpendicular to the edge, I just find something to read and distract me. While using my left hand to push the paper subtly into alignment.

Only in Oklahoma

Last time I was visiting family, I snapped these photos with my cell phone at the carry-out counter of a local grocery store.

Sometimes, when people ask me if I'd ever move back to Oklahoma, I just laugh.

Pants Optional

Saturday morning dawned grey and cold and I had a heckuva time trying to figure out how to get out of bed. I was awake. I was alert, even. But with Deee out of town this weekend and no Farmer’s Market at which to meet her at the crack of dawn, I found that the forces preventing my emergence into the world were too great. One shift of my blanket, one draft of cold air, and I’d burrow deep again. The strappy little nightdress that seemed like such a good idea when I was warm at bedtime was now determined to lock me into bed all day. And my bed’s not just ANY bed. My bed is The Cloud. The world’s softest, warmest, most welcoming place in all the land. Known by girlfriends the world over, The Cloud is legendary. Magnificent. The stuff of fantasy and adventure. And this is where my nightdress was determined to keep me. The most progress I made was pulling a pair of red socks from my nightstand and a hoodie from the back of my desk chair before diving deep again. Bundled thus, the only exposed flesh being between thigh and sock-top, I shivered in the frigid air of my tundran bedroom and texted my girlfriends the following: “Why can’t I work up the energy to put my pants on?” And apparently the majority of my girlfriends find weekends to be ‘clothing optional’...or else they’re just plain sick:

Sara (who claims her husband wrote this, but we all know better): As long as you’re not at a stranger’s house, who cares?

Katy: Sometimes it’s a struggle, I know! I finally got mine on!

Caroll: Cause you are in THE CLOUD, silly.

April: Because it’s Saturday!

Deee: Because your mon amie isn’t waiting at farmey’s for you!

Leslie: Because if you do, you won’t be able to masturbate to me.

Sunny: Talkin’ to the right person. Am in a robe and wet hair.

Alexandra: Because pants are obselete! Go naked!

My New Onesy-Making Business

Pregnant Girlfriends: Quit Reading Now

I spent my Saturday morning looking for The Cutesy Onesy in All the Land for one of my ever-blossoming girlfriend's baby shower taking place that night. And of course I went to San Francisco's Premier Mothering Neighborhood: Noe Valley. Three high-end baby boutiques within four blocks guaranteed eventual success. One darling shop contained funny baby things, including the popular onesies that say things like "I Eat Dirt" and "I Don't Floss." Another boutique a block down had little knit sweaters for the bargain price of $98.00, guaranteeing that you WILL beat your child if they spit up. Then there was the organic baby shop, where your Little Precious can be swaddled in the fruit of the earth instead of fruit of the loom, and dreadlocked mothers posed on earth-toned packaging holding their all-natural born-in-a-cabin babies, who are sucking from teats flavored with hemp. After traveling the line of shops (think 'there and back again'), I finally concluded this: I liked the funny onesies best, but thought I could do better. After all, I have a tee-shirt making history. And I'm relatively clever. What could go wrong? So I bought some white onesies, I bought some iron-on transfers, and then I sat there, staring at my computer. After ten minutes of brain-betrayal, I concluded that I needed one of two things: either a drink, or the input of my most outrageous friends. Given that it was two in the afternoon and I forbid myself alcohol before 2:30, I hit up my girlfriends first. Unfortunately, two out of three girlfriends I contacted had no idea what a onesy was ("Is that a dress?" and "I have no idea what that means" may have been the exact responses), and then there was Leslie, who came through with shining colors in what I can only term The World's Most Offensive Onesies Ever. And by 'offensive,' I mean, 'ab-so-f*ckin-brilliant.' Of course, these particular pregnant girlfriends may not appreciate the sentiments, so I am filing them away to put on my own future offspring. But she inspired me. And the onesies are flowing off the presses. All two of them. I can't tell you what I went with (yet) as my pregnant girlfriends may not have obeyed their directions to quit reading this, but here are the ones that sparked the imagination. And if you're a sick mother-effer and would like one of these, just holla. You just may get a Rona-n-Leslie Original.

Here they are, onesies to make you weep:

"I Make Downs Look Good"
"Lactose intolerant. What else can I suck on?"
"Crack Baby With a Purpose"
"Rape Can Produce Something Cute"
"Abortion Attempt Schmabortion Attempt"

1977

Okay, so I've never been one to make an entire posting out of nothing but a link, but I have to make an exception right now. I got this blog entry in the form of a forward today, and it seriously made me laugh until I had tears in my eyes. So it definitely qualifies as 'Things People Say That Please Me.' I suppose I should now donate money to this guy's beer fund, but truth be told, if I don't, that's more beer for ME. (Wait...is that bad beer karma?)


http://15minutelunch.blogspot.com/2007/10/strap-in-shut-up-and-hold-on-were-going.html

San Francisco's Superhero

Last night as Deee and I are walking up Nob Hill, we see a huge, blue, square light being projected onto a wall at the top of a tall building and start speculating as to its origins. Deee guessed that somebody got a new projection screen across the street and got confused as to which wall to put their show on. I thought it was a call sign, like the Bat signal, to which Deee replied, "Who are they calling? Blue Rectangle Man?"

Who Knew My Browning Banana Had So Much Potential

"Did you know that when the next supercomet crashes into the earth and obliterates all mankind, it is the fungi that will rule the world?" --SL

My New Career

Word on the street PacSun's recruiting me and a girlfriend for a new modeling campaign. C swears this is legit. And she would NEVER lie to me. Apparently they created this mock-up with me on the far left and C next to me.

My New Twins

There's nothing more exciting than someone you love being With Child. Not only does this mean you get to hear months of hilarious pregnancy stories, but even better, a mini-version of this person is about to enter the world. And I don't know about you, but I LOVE the idea of there being more versions of my favorite people. So PROCREATE ON, friends! Make more of you!

One such lovely person is currently pregnant with twins, and I am PSYCHED about this efficiency. It's like hitting 'two copies' on the xerox machine instead of one. Way to go!

If you'd like to see the chronicle of my little Tar Heels progress into this world, check out Mama and Papa's new blog! And take a look at Timothy and Cameron's ultrasound--aren't they the most adorable peanuts you've ever seen??

Two Foreign Languages Being Taught to Children on Muni Today

Overhead Mother 1: Sientate! Me escucha!

Overheard Mother 2: You get over here! You don't sit on that dirty *ss thing! [into phone] Wassup, Darren, you ain't callin' me or nothin'??

Powder Fresh

So earlier I was in the restroom at work and realized too late that the stall I chose was out of toilet paper. I reached behind me for one of the many rolls adorning the back of the toilet, and in so doing I ended up knocking over A CONTAINER OF BABY POWDER. Now, don't ask me what it was doing there--because truth be told, I'd rather not think about it--but what DOES matter is that it was open, and virtually exploded on the way down, like so many mushroom clouds in a Vonnegutian novel. The least of my worries is what I shall call The White Lung, and the greatest of my worries is that I ended up covered in the fine dust, looking like a powdered donut with essence de sandalwood. I did as much damage control as I could, brushing myself off frantically through my coughing fits (see aforementioned 'White Lung'), but even now, as I execute a simple movement--a reach for a pen, a crossing of the legs--a delicate, wafting whiteness will drift through the air, and my coworker will say, "Do I smell...lavender?"

A Mother Concerned

"So I was trying to capture a photo of my friend's son...but expand the picture and get a load of the little man in the back. Should I be concerned...and start saving for future therapy sessions????"

Funny Pick-Up Attempt

From a girlfriend today: "So I made my weekly trip to Round Table for lunch today and I brought my book (Darwin, Origin of Species) with me to read while I wait for the pizza to cook. Darwin's sitting on the counter while I order, and the guy, whom I've seen fairly regularly since starting at Beacon Street (mmmm...I do like me dem pizza pies), says, as he's handing me my change, "Oh, yeah, I've read a couple of his books. He's pretty good, that Darwin." I look up, I struggle to keep the perplexed look from being too obvious on my face (calculating the possibility of whether this brilliant intellect is hiding from the mafia by working at Round Table Pizza, I mean who else would read several of Darwin's books, or if I've just been handed the most transparent pick up line ever), I nod "Mmhmm," and go sit down and begin my 10-minute vigil where I pretend to be patient for my pizza (mmm...I really like me dem pizza pies). Next thing I know, he yells out, "Wow, that's a really old book. I just looked it up online..."

Obviously.

"Sometimes I think the intelligence scale is spherical and past a certain steradian, you hit a deep state of stupidness. Thus, I am stupid because I am so smart. See?"

How Long Until the Cookies Are Done

Potlucker 1: Hey! Does anybody know how long til the cookies are done?

Potlucker 2: Twenty minutes!

Potlucker 1: Okay, great!

Potlucker 2, whispering to me: I TOTALLY pulled that out of my butt.

Me: WHAT?!

Potlucker 2 (motioning as though pulling something from her rear): "pop" two, "pop" zero.

Bowling

Me: Hey, will you get my pink 7-pounder when it comes out?

DK: Wait! That's MY line!

A Word About "The World as My Computer Sees It"

This girl, unfortunately, is not me. I wish it were, as this is one of the funniest things I have ever seen. This girl, however, IS one of my Favorite People Ever In Life and kills me every day with stuff like this. These pictures were all taken using a camera propped on top of her computer screen (during her lunch break, of course, just like I blog during my lunch break just in case one of the Office Snitches somehow got this link without my permission and is reading this right now). In the "bored" sequence, a person actually DID walk in the room during the shoot. You'll note C recovered nicely.

You'll see other reasons I love her here and here.

"The World as My Computer Sees It," Part Three

"The World as My Computer Sees It," Part Two

"The World as My Computer Sees It," Part One.

On Guessing the Exact Price of a Fuji Apple

"I like to take these little victories and tuck them away, to review later and then post on my blog." --Sunny

Advanced Life

Am I the only one who would like to see life divided up more clearly into Regular and Honors versions? I don't know about you, but I feel like my education spent in advanced and AP courses really set me up with a false expectation of what my lifelong peer group would look like. And I worry constantly that the people I am around all the time are dumbing me down. I mean, in real life, the average person DOESN'T speak four languages, I'm discovering, or play the violin, or whoop my *ss at chess (okay, maybe the last one is still true). And this distresses me, because now WHERE'S MY MOTIVATION, PEOPLE? I talked to my coworker Steve Long about this, and he said he had never thought about this HUGE PROBLEM before. But then, he's probably never questioned the size of his ice cubes, either, so maybe he shouldn't be my source. He also said that he relies on SELF-motivation to make sure he doesn't dumb down. I promptly informed him that this is crazy talk. I don't want to have WORK for my pursuit of knowledge. I want to GLEAN it from those more motivated AROUND me. Inadvertantly abSORB it. OsMOSis my progress. I want calculus and history thrust UPON me, not the responsibility of independent study. A couple years ago, I actually branched out and took a city college course for fun, and found that without the motivation of Valedictorian to propel me, I pretty much had no real reason to do my homework. Self-motivation, my *ss.

At any rate, I want other people to make me smarter by nature of their intellectual PRESENCE. The kind of person where, when you spend time with them, something interesting in your head happens, and a new synapse fires, and you just feel, when you’re walking away, like something GOOD happened there. I have a small handful of friends that do this to me, and I LOVE THEM FOR IT. And I really wish that the majority of the company surrounding me was more like THEM. Because I’m a SNOT like that. So this is my all-call for the Honors Kids Grown Up: if you're of above-reasonable intelligence, let me hang on your coattails, lurk in your hall closet, eavesdrop on your phone calls, and read over your shoulder. Much like I did with my friends growing up, who let me follow them around despite not being QUITE as intelligent as they were. If lying down with dogs means you get up with fleas (thank you, Father, for this lovely turn of phrase that has haunted me my entire life), then I want to lie down with geniuses and get up with regression lines.

(A not comprehensive list of) People in my life who are smarter than I am. These people belong in Advanced Adulthood. If you are not on this list, it’s probably because I think you’re dumb. Obviously.

Brian: I have never met anybody--and I mean ANYbody--who knows as much about music as he does. And I know coming from me that's a dubious honor because I’m still stuck on my Counting Crows c.d. from college, but really, his music reviews blow me away. And he’s a LAWYER. Who plays BASS. AND he had the good sense to marry my best friend. If all of these things don’t say “brilliant,” I don’t know what does.

Ana Maria and Treena: Yeah, I know, I’m combining two-in-one here and that’s probably cheating, but really, if you see their lit-blogs, you’ll know what I mean. I studied in the SAME English department with these girls, and we do NOT SPEAK THE SAME LANGUAGE. Ana Maria reads books in Spanish (with comprehension) and Treena can not only break down Henry James with ease, but she can beat me at chess in five moves or less. Usually less. Let’s be honest.

Caroll: You’ll see why Caroll’s a genius here. And here. And here.

Deee: Deee is like the modern-day version of the Renaissance Woman. Not only can she accomplish ANY housing-renovation just using her home depot how-to book—up to and including RE-FLOORING and WALLPAPERING—but she can draw, paint, and draw up architectural plans in as much time as it takes ME to blow my nose. And yes, I know you’re thinking, “Well, Sharona, you blow your nose an awful lot,” but really. She’s talented. She cooks from cookbooks that use ingredients I’ve never even HEARD of, and can whip together anything from Epicurious faster than I can call for carry-out. She’s also the only person I know who can legitimately wear skinnies. Oh, and did I mention she married Brian?

Leslie: There are no words for Leslie. But I'm going to try. Leslie is--hands down--the most offensive, outrageous, and hilarious person I have ever had the honor of sharing many college dorm rooms with. She's born for the stage, and while I know that's cliche to say, she really IS. I cannot say this with enough conviction. And I meet a LOT of aspiring actors/singers/writers/poets. And I secretly mock these people for their delusional hopes and dreams. But Leslie is an incredible actress/comedienne/dancer/singer, and you WILL see her with her own show one day. Mark my words. And when she does, remember that I know her and be jealous of me and ask me for a copy of her autograph so I can lord my power over you and maybe score a free lunch. Oh, and did I mention Leslie is married to Kyle?

Backup A

I don't have a Backup A. First-ranking backup status is too much for me to comprehend. And sometimes, if I can't make a decision without my head exploding, I just pretend it doesn't exist until it goes away. (Note: this also works with men.)

Oh, Betrayal Mine

Backup B just got engaged! This is KILLING me. My back-ups are dropping like flies! Okay, maybe I should have TOLD him he was my back-up, but I didn’t think it was necessary, because helllooooooo, only my BACKUP. I don’t like him TODAY, but I want the option for TOMORROW. But that’s not the POINT. The point is, he’s supposed to be WAITING. And apparently he HASN’T been. And SURE he lives in Chicago and there’s no way I’d ever move there, but STILL, I LOVE him. Sigh...since fourth grade, when he used to giggle so hard he’d fall out of his chair...and when his was the first voice to change in our class, and our teacher used to make him read out loud because “Doesn’t B sound lovely?”...Oh, cruel, cruel world.

I’ve GOT to get a better system in place. I should chain up Backups C, D, and E now just in case they get similar ideas to ‘date’ people. Hmph. Like THAT’S ever a good idea.

Mama needs a drink. And a whip.

A Coworker about an Executive

"Just because you own a Mickey Mouse hat does not make you the president of the Mickey Mouse Club."

The Thrill of Autumn

I’ve never been one of those people who feels excited at the onset of autumn. I don’t get all thrilled about The New Chill in the Air, the changing colors, the crispness of things, the blueness of the sky deepening to gray as the season progresses. Maybe when I was a little kid I got excited, at the age when I played a game called “How Many Leaves Can I Crush, Making as Much Noise as Possible,” which involved me swerving all over the road on my bike, looking like a child who just got loaded on a hidden stash of cider before leaving the house. And let’s not forget the Jump in the Pile of Leaves We Raked Right Next to the Trampoline game, one that caused our parents to run out of the house in a panic, yelling that we have to jump from GROUND level because they’re LAME and don’t want us to have any FUN. And now I live in San Francisco, a place where the idea of ‘seasons’ is pretty much up for grabs, a place where no one can REALLY agree on when the rainy season is, or the sunny one. You’ll hear all sorts of differing ideas on “the best time to visit.” (I personally think EVERYtime is the best time to visit, but I could be partial.) All I know is that right now it’s bloody, wonderfully hot outside, and somehow, in spite of the fact you’ll rarely see me out of flip flops this week, there’s something in the air that still feels like autumn. Maybe it’s a result of my upbringing, as though I’ve been conditioned to think that Stuffed Black Cats in Neighbor’s Windows = Fall, but I feel strange urges to put gourds on my kitchen table and pull out my scarves, which I would then wear over my bathing suit as I lounge around my apartment looking for air. And I’m torn every evening between wanting a hot buttered rum and a margarita. But, despite all temperature-related confusion, it really FEELS like fall right now, in a very stirring, nesting sort of way. I can’t put my finger on it, but as I search for the perfect pumpkin to carve and admire the fake colored leaves on sale at Pier 1 Imports, I can’t help but imagine the sky getting crisper and clearer and my spirit soars a little bit. And then I go home to blend myself a daiquiri and admire my tan.

Email from my 5-year old cousin Hope, as dictated to my aunt

Smell
Touch
Hear
Taste
Sight

That's the five senses. I love you!!!! You're the best cousin I have. You're the cutest cousin I've ever had. Let me tell you how many months in a year: January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November and December. 12 months in a Year.

Let me count by 5's: 5, 10, 15, 20, 25, 30, 35, 40, 45, 50, 55, 60, 65, 70, 75, 80, 85, 90, 95, 100!!!!

I'm saying that my birthday is in March 17th. You're the best cousin!
The End.
Love, Hope

Note to Self

I always know exactly what I want to write in the moment that I am not near my computer to get it out. A story will just scroll through my head and I'm not composing it, I'm just hearing it and I always panic and think, "ACK! Don't forget this! Don't forget this!" and I'll do what I can with a hasty scribble in my moleskin but then the next day, when I'm actually at my computer, alas! The moment is lost. And not even the snippet is enough to reclaim it. Storytime happens most often at parties and in the shower, two situations in which it would be slightly uncomfortable pulling out a notebook and scribbling frantically away. And even when I try that, I can barely keep up with the stream of prose racing through my mind. Times like that I wish I had a tape-recorder on my person. Because THAT wouldn't make me look like a freak, pulling out my tape-recorder over dinner and observing out loud: "I've always wanted to be in a situation where 'the talk turned to politics,' and now here I am at a dinner table full of men discussing just that: politics. And with genuine interest, not just because That's What Intelligent Men Should Do at Dinnertime. And they aren't necessarily political types like the sort you encounter frequently in San Francisco, with soapboxes and passionate viewpoints that they drill into their audiences with pounding fists and righteous blogs. These are just normal people. Discussing politics over their veal." And then I will put my tape-recorder away and join back in the conversation with, "What? Why are you all looking at me?"

I'm a Tool

Coworker 1: So...I don’t know if you’ve heard yet, but...

Coworker 2: You’ve been signed up for some committees.

Me: ‘Some’?

CW 1: Three.

Me: Three committees? I’ve been signed up for three committees?

CW 1: They want to use your technical writing background.

CW 2: And have you do more marketing stuff.

CW 1: You’re going to be writing the company’s job descriptions.

CW 2: And going to parties.

CW 1: And the other committee you’re on has to come up with non-monetary ways to appreciate employee achievement. I think you’ll have good ideas.

Me: I've got an idea, alright.

CW 1: See, the term is ‘Resource.’ The consultant said to call you a ‘Resource.’

CW 2: And we're ‘Champions.’ We lead the committees.

Me: I’m not a Champion? I’m a Resource?

CW 1: Yes.

Me: Wow. That’s flattering.

CW 1: Yeah, I know! We’re gonna have fun, huh?

Yellow Paper

Today I printed off the company phone list on YELLOW PAPER. Hold onto your seats, people! This has REALLY excited the masses. I hear buzzing over the cubicle walls: “Yellow! Hey, did you go to your mailbox yet?? New yellow phone list!” One woman made a point to come to me personally: “I just REALLY want to thank you for using yellow. It’s so much easier to read!” I swell with momentary pride in my genius before realizing that this is my life: I print phone lists on yellow paper. For a thrill.

I Think This is My Last Post from Europe!

But I could be wrong. I often am. What I mean to say is, ´this is my last day at Mama Teresa´s, where I have access to a beautiful dsl line.´ I´m returning to Madrid tonight! I´m going to spend my last two days in Spain there for two reasons: one, because the policia are taking me to a real-live Madridian club, and two, the embassy is closing Thursday afternoon until, say, November, because of some bizarre Spanish holiday similar to Canada´s Boxing Day, a holiday nobody QUITE understands but everybody wants to celebrate BECAUSE THEY CAN. As a result of which, I have to scoot my rear over there first thing Thursday morning to pick up the passport they FORGOT TO MAIL TO VIGO, or I´m stranded here for a few more glorious weeks. (hmmmm...) I will try to get online there, but that involves going to a ¨Chinese Store,¨which is not to be confused with a store that sells Chinese people (a mistake I first made), but rather, as the Spanish describe it, ¨a store that has everything.¨And they don´t mean wal-mart. They mean, ´computers and phones and lime green walls and mysterious booths covered in anime.´ These ¨Chinese Stores¨ are unmarked and you would only know them by the fact that there is one every two feet, and it has huge flourescent Chinese posters on the door, NOT advertising the Chinese people it is NOT selling. But the idea of closing myself into a lime green anime booth to get online seems, well, slightly illicit. And while the idea may secretly thrill me, it may not be enough to get me in there, purell in hand.

And so for now I say farewell, and see you all soon!

The Lovely Arrogance of the Spaniard

(And by ´lovely,´ I mean, ´occasionally irritating.´)

One of my companions here is a man possessed of the haughty pride that can only be had by one who is raised by a country that believes it is where the world began and everything else is a cheap imitation of her purity and perfection. Try to explain to such a patriot the difference between a tortilla here (a frittata, for all intents and purposes), and a tortilla in Mexico (a divine vessel for meat and cheese), and they whip out their Spanish flag and shackle: ¨No es una tortilla! THIS is a tortilla!¨ Obviously Mexico took a beautiful thing and promptly destroyed it in their xeroxing fashion. Típica.

Also, Do Not Make This Mistake

When later, you are talking to somebody completely different and you try to use your exciting new word ´nana,´do not mess up and use the word ´enana,´which means female dwarf. THESE ARE VERY DIFFERENT WORDS.

English, Spanish, or Lullaby, oh my

An (ex) friend of mine stateside just pointed out my previous spelling of ´pastime´as ´past-time,´and I realized that I must ask for your forgiveness for the faulty English of a certain number of previous posts. I can barely remember to change my clothes, let alone figure out the more complex tasks of conjugating verbs in my native language or remembering the structure of noun phrases. I have spent the past week and a half speaking a very broken Spanish and listening to others´ very broken English. Now my English is resembling theirs more and more and when alone, I find myself attempting to conjugate my thoughts into Spanish, before I realize what I´m doing, stop, shake my head, and resume them in broken English.

Also, let me point out for a moment how bad my Spanish is, despite years of study, a transcript about five years too old to do me any good: when I tried telling a friend that no, I knew no songs in Spanish but I knew one in French (Frere Jacques), I found myself in the difficult situation of having to explain why almost everybody in the U.S. knew one song in French thanks to the lullaby (whose repertoire apparently we need to expand to include a Spanish song). To explain ´lullaby,´a word I did not know in Spanish (it´s ´nana,´in case you´re interested), I said roughly this: ¨a song for babies for to sleep them.¨ That´s right, folks. A lullaby is a song for babies for to sleep them. Sra. Park, I´m sorry. I don´t know what happened to those straight A´s so many years ago. Apparently in the years since, I have been too busy with my past-times and for to sleep me too much.

The Men of Portugal

There are many Africans in Lisboa. Perhaps due to its proximity to Africa? But I am not one to conjencture. And many of the African men in Lisboa--not to generalize but to speak generally--have made a past-time of sitting on walls and hollering at the girls who pass. They appear to have the best jobs possible, as I often wish I could sit on walls and holler at men. Notably here, where the Portuguese men are beautiful. But in a fairy-esque, caramel-eyed, long-lashed, smaller-than-I-am sorta way. I fancied putting one in my pocket to take home and share with the girls. I would give him a small pet bed with his name on the top, and buy him teeny tiny pantalones (as mine would sag on his petite frame). I shall call him Hada, and he shall be mine.

Lisbon, or a San Francisco bus stop?

This old woman kept following me around my first hour or so in Lisbon, cackling madly and shrieking and trying to jump in front of me and wave her hands in my face. I´d like to think she´s a witch who sensed my powerful magic and this was her way of worshipping me. Or maybe she was just nuts.

Lisboa HOOOOOOO!

Alright, adoring fans, (and by ádoring fans,´I mean, ´mother´), I´m heading to Portugal tomorrow! This is a total impulse-buy. I figure, heck, I´m, like, half an inch from the border according to this-here map, and I can either WALK there, which will give me only the satisfaction of saying, ´I took a step in Portugal before returning,´or I can do the whole sha-bang (whatever THAT means) and head to LISBOA, baby! So I found out the time of a train--7 a.m.--and my only game plan is to show up in Lisbon and start walkin´the main drag lookin´for love or money. Or better--a place to stay. Wish me luck, and I´ll holla back with more adventures when I return in a couple of days!

Octopus

I like it. Don´t get me wrong. But it´s the NAME that freaks me out: ´puepo,´which when spoken, sounds like ´pulpo.´And I don´t know about you, but eating ´pulpo´freaks me out. Everytime it is ordered, I mentally close my ears. Then, ´mmmmm...octopuuuuus.´

And the Winner of the Bed-Making Contest is...

Oh, man. You won´t believe this. MAMA TERESA BEAT ME AT THE BED-MAKING TODAY.

So I wake up this morning, and before even getting out of bed, I pulled up the sheets and the blanket. I then climb out and tighten and smooth them. Then, pillow fluffed and in place, I go to the end of the bed to grab the bed-cover and pull it up for the finish touch. And it wasn´t there. Mama had actually REMOVED THE BED COVER. I can see my competition is fierce. This one is GOOD.

Why I Love Where I´m Staying

1. Mama Teresa´s flat is gorgeous. Parquet floors, modern green walls in the living room, and huge windows with a great view of the hillside town.

2. Mama Teresa has insisted I take the master bedroom. She also turns down my bed for me each evening, and if I make the mistake of leaving my room for two seconds to get water in the morning, she darts in and makes the bed quickly so that I don´t touch it. This is another game we play--the ¨What Can I Do Before Mama Teresa Notices and Insists on Doing It For Me¨game. I made the mistake of trying to wash my dishes, and as soon as she heard the water, she ran into the kitchen and pulled them away, tsk´ing away in rapidfire Spanish. Today I won the bed-making contest by doing it before I left my room, but it distressed her so much that I think she will probably try and beat me tomorrow morning by making the bed while I´m still in it. Sometimes when I am reading in the window, I think she wants to turn my pages.

3. Dinner! They eat dinner so freaking wonderfully late here that when I come home each night between 11 and 12, she has dinner ready for me and strictly enforces my consumption of said food. I can tell her over and over again that I had cena already, but it does not matter. You MUST EAT LA CENA. And I´m not gonna lie--after drinking wonderful wines for hours, those meals are a pretty darn perfect way to fall asleep.

4. New towels. I swear she gave me brand new yellow towels, as evidenced by one, their unnatural brightness, two, their unnatural softness, and three, the fuzzies they leave all over my dampened body after each shower. Each morning I look like a fuzzy yellow duckling. The hostel in Madrid also gave me brand new towels, so maybe this is a Spanish thing. ¨Houseguest?? SOMEONE GO TO THE STORE! WE NEED TO FUZZ THEM!¨I think it´s a way of identifying strangers in town. Residents see new-towel residue, and they know you´re not from these parts.

5. The bidet. Yes! A bidet. This is hands-down the most exciting thing I am going to try in Spain. Octopus for dinner? Small play. Shooting water at my rear? HOLD ON TO YOUR HATS! I haven´t yet had the nerve, but today--today I think I´m ready. New towel in hand, it´s gonna happen. And then me and my fuzzy yellow bum will start the day.

¿Donde Esta La Basura?

I am having a HECK of a time trying to figure out where the trash can is in Mama Teresa´s house. There isn´t one in the typical places--the bathroom, under the kitchen sink, or in either bedroom. And trust me when I say I have SEARCHED. Mostly when she´s sleeping. And every time I ask her ¨¿Donde esta la basura?¨, she insists on taking whatever trash I am holding and discarding it personally. To this day, day three here, I still have no idea where to discard my used kleenex. Now it´s like a game I play, testing to see how much she´ll be willing to take. And so far, she´s totally winning. I´ve secretly started putting my trash in a plastic bag I have in my suitcase, to be discarded in a dumpster streetside upon departure. WHO´S GONNA WIN THE TRASH GAME THEN?

What To Do if You Are Robbed in Madrid by Three Romanian Gypsies Within One Hour of Arrival in Spain

1. Panic. And loudly. As I learned quickly, the Spanish LOVE drama, and the more action they sense happening around you, the more excited they get. Like moths to a flame, so are the Spanish toward a damsel in distress.

2. If your nearest Spaniards happen to be Dutch residents, all the better. Because Dutch Madridians SPEAK ENGLISH, and that will be VERY VERY IMPORTANT. Also, these Dutch will spend the day with you and help you find a place to sleep and will give you money to sleep there. No Dutch want to see a girl sleeping on the streets because she has no money, no cards, and no photo ID. Rather, they want to take you for a beer, hand you a wad of euros, and point you to the police. Leading me to my third tip...

3. Spend hours at the police station filling out a report. Rather, take five seconds to fill out a report and then wait four hours for them to give you back what you wrote typed up.

4. Try not to cry or puke.

5. Try not to loath every punk Spaniard that you see with every fiber of your violated being. They did not do this to you. The Romanians did. Feel free to despise THEM with every fiber of your violated being. They are probably used to it. That is why they were kicked out of Romania.

6. Try to believe that God loves you even though His sense of humor is highly suspect.

7. Make friends with a sweet interpreter at la policia named Ana. She will let you sit in her office instead of on plastic chairs in the smoky lobby surrounded by similarly violated Swedes. She will also give you a free ticket to the hop on-hop off bus, and invite you to go with her and friends to an authentic Galician restaurant that night.

8. Try not to be bitter that you´re supposed to be IN Galicia that night.

9. Use the free phone in the police station to make frequent calls to the U.S. Call Wells Fargo, where they will tell you that you cannot wire yourself money with a vocal or written authorization, but you can give your FRIEND money with written authorization, who will then, despite broken leg, drive to the bank, take the check from your account, deposit it in hers, and then wire it over. Don´t forget that Western Union will not let YOU pick up this money because you have no photo ID, so pick an innocent policeman named Juan Carlos, have the money wired to HIM, and then he will bring it to you. Then, because this is your entire vacation savings, put it in your socks until you get to Vigo, where you will leave it at home and only leave the house with five cents at a time.

10. Take advantage of being left frequently alone in the private offices of the police station to take covert photographs.

11. Remember: at least you´re not a junkie in the urine-covered cell next to Ana´s office.

12. While your report is being ´processed,´go use the free hop-on pass, even though you make fun of the hop-on bus in San Francisco. Sit on the top deck even if it starts to rain a little bit. It will stop within seconds and it will feel good. From the top, you will get an hour´s worth of great photos of museums without actually feeling pressured to go inside and look at the art, feigning awe and attempting to feel cultured. It turns out you can feel cultured from on top of a hop-on bus passing the museum at a leisurely 5 mph. And don´t worry about using the earphones that tell you where you are: it is better to make it up as you go. I know I passed at least three palaces that my family used to own and a museum that has nothing but pictures of Madonnas smoking cigarettes.

13. When someone suspicious-looking approaches on the street (and by ´suspicious,´I mean, ´Romanian´), resist the urge to scream, ¨If you come any closer, I´ll rip your f*cking head off, you mother-f*cker!¨Because they may just be walking past you and then you´ve made a scene.

14. Similarly, when you are jostled on the subway, resist the urge to violently elbow jab the person who has bumped you. It could be your grandmother. Also resist putting them in a headlock and bashing their face against a handrail until blood pours over your satisfied fists, serving as a warning to others to give you a wide radius. Feel free to imagine this freqently, however, as it is curiously therapeutic.

15. Get off the hop-on bus at the Plaza de Espana, where you will be handed a tract from a local Christian about your ´nueva vida.´Once again suspect God´s sense of humor.

16. Go out with the policia to a tapas restaurant owned by Ana´s friend´s father. One, because you will be partying with the policia, the safest possible company in Spain. Two, your group will get superstar treatment because of the Ana-connection, and you´ll have some of the best food and treatment from one of the hippest restaurants in Madrid. You´ll eat smoked ham with olive oil and paprika, octopus with crunchy sea salt, fried dechamel, mussels, chorizo criollo, pimientos de padron, and bottles of Albarino so good your toes will curl with pleasure. You will also laugh a lot, as the policemen´s English gets better (and by ´better,´I mean, ´worse´) the more they drink. Eventually, everyone will be telling stories at the same time that nobody will understand, and it will be one of the funniest things you´ve ever seen.

17. Accept the offer of one of the policia to use his family´s flat in the Canary Islands anytime you want it. Start mentally planning out which girlfriends you are going to invite. Research to make sure there are no Romanians in the Canaries.

18. Go the embassy the next morning at the crack of dawn to fill out more reports for a new passport. Pay an exorbitant price for a replacement. Curse the Romanians one more time.

19. When you swear your oath in front of the consulate, resist the feeling that you are in the presence of diplomatic royalty. Despite your desire, you do not need to bow down or kiss her hand. This will make her uncomfortable. I promise.

20. Sprint to your train because the embassy will take so long you will get to the station three minutes prior to departure. And if you miss this train, you will be in Madrid one more night. Follow the person in line ahead of you, as he looks big and will help you with your luggage when he hears you struggling. He will also carry it all the way to your train car and put it in the compartment, reminding you further that all Spaniards are wonderful and not Romanian.

21. Love the train ride through green, green mountains on your way through Galicia. Sleep a lot. And when you wake, you will be home. And your shoes will still be on.

Candide on Love

¨Alas, I too have known this thing called love, this ruler of hearts, this soul of our soul; it has never earned me more than one kiss and twenty kicks on the arse.¨

A Sign in Spain

Saw a store front sign today advertising, ´Se Venden Petardos,´and for a split second I thought it read ´Se Venden Retardos.´I was like, ¨BOO YAW! Can they SAY that??¨ Then I looked more closely, and dangit, no, they can´t. Then I asked somebody what a petardo was, and I was told it meant a bomb. WAY BETTER, ESPANA. Way to rock it. He insisted they were ´small bombs,´for ´holidays,´but I´m not buyin´it. Or rather, I AM buying it and bringing it home. ¨Don´t worry, Mr. Customs Official. It´s only a petardo.¨