Why do this?

Why must some people be "walk on the wrong side of the sidewalk" rebels? Or is that idiots?

I hate you! I want to push you in the gutter!

Why didn't I do this sooner?

My internal wireless whatever it's called pretty much died a couple months ago and came back to tease me and just died again. So today I went to Fry's and bought myself a Netgear Wireless PC Card.

What's annoying about this is that I have made pals with our LAN Admin at work (he scratches my back, I scratch his aka I post alerts for him -- OH, if my boss is reading this post, ignore that I just wrote that), and the first time this happened, he asked if I had an internal or external card. I said internal. He gave me a wire connector thing and said I could keep it. Never once did he say to go buy a wireless PC card. I'm an idiot, he should know this. Anyway, the line worked okay until I broke off the little tab that keeps it into the jack in the back of my laptop. So then I just dealt with it by not moving much. And then one day, WHAM! My connection came back on its own. I had a good month or two, but then Friday it died again.

I was over my sis's house on Saturday, and I was talking about it, and her husband pulled out a USB wireless plug thingy and told me to buy one of those. What do you mean? I asked. This is news to me! So I did some research and realized I had a slot for a wireless PC card and I could buy one and then I would be set -- again. So I went to work, told my LAN pal (his nickname is XX, master of all things LAN), and he said yeah, go buy one of those.

So I found some one CNET, sent him the link, and he wrote back and said, Bingo!

I went to Fry's tonight and bought my wireless PC card with 20 buck rebate and couldn't be happier. It sucks being a techie idiot and knowing techie pals who don't steer you the right way when they should. Whatever happened to unsolicited advice???

Amazon Gold Box Predictions 11/29/2005

Wow. That's all I got to say about what my pal Gold Box has in store for me. Apparently I'm going to have a heart attack and need a defibrillator. My blood pressure is also a concern, so I must strap a blood pressure monitor on my wrist. Perhaps this is because Gold Box knows I get a little high strung when playing video games, such as Bejeweled 2 (which I have played and it does get me riled up) and mahjongg (still loving that game). Well, at least I'll be using a black light bike light on my nonexistent bike (perhaps that's a hint to what's to come for me). And still, I need to lose weight, hence the smattering of healthy cookbooks.

Doing a "me" on me

So yesterday was the first real cold and rainy day for us here in good old California. This morning I declared it was scarf-wearing time. Since I started working in San Francisco, I turned into a scarf wearer. I was never before. I hardly ever wear clothing accessories, like hats and gloves and...well I guess that's all there is. But scarves are a must-have to keep out the cold.

Two years ago my husband bought me a Paul Frank Julius scarf, which I love not only because one end has Julius embroidered on it, but also because it's very thick and long and warm. It usually lives on our coat rack, but since we moved, it was displaced. Somewhere.

My husband took it upon himself to try to locate said Julius scarf for me.

I was in our bathroom hallway that connects to our bedroom, and I started hearing dresser drawers opening and closing. I've pretty much taken over the whole dresser, so I knew he was searching for the scarf. What he didn't know was that I hid one of his xmas gifts in the very back of one of the drawers. Why? Because there is no reason for him to be searching through my drawers that much, and it was highly unlikely that he would, and even if he did, he wouldn't have found it because if it was right in front of his face, he wouldn't notice it. He's just like that. If he's even getting in my drawers, it's to put clothes away, and they go on top of the other clothes.

He was on his third drawer, which is where I think I hid his gift, so I bumrushed him and told him to get out of my drawers. He looked at me like I was crazy. I pushed him away and told him not to look in my drawers. He looked at me like I was still crazy. I told him he was doing a "me" on me by looking through my stuff when he shouldn't be doing that and he's going to find what I was hiding. That's when he got it.

I asked him if he saw anything, and he said no. Now I have to trust him or just hide it somewhere else. I finally got a taste of my own medicine (I already ruined one of my xmas gifts this year by being on his computer the past few days cause my wireless PC card died and I need to be on the internet all the time for my many fruitful businesses). Xmas is fun.

To tie up this lovely story, he found my scarf in the hallway closest, which was where I was going to look after I got done getting dressed and beautified.

Picking up on the ladies

I knew something was up with this guy in the produce section at Safeway tonight. My husband ran off to buy us a venti soy chai (my hands were cold, his belly wanted soy chai), so I was left alone to defend myself. Maybe he thought I looked at him, but if I did, it was only because he was wearing those brown denim overalls construction workers wear. Not sure why I was looking at that, but that was all it was.

I moved around the display of onions, gourds and potatoes in search of sweet potatoes. Let me described what I looked like today before I get into the smooth talking. I was wearing running shoes, Levis, a tshirt, zip-up sweatshirt and my wool overcoat (buttoned up because I was freezing). I'm sure my hair was a bit ratty. And let's not forget that I look like I'm 15 -- especially when I'm dressed the way I was today.

So there I was, fondling the sweet potatoes, when I heard someone saying something to me. At first I thought it was about sweet potatoes because that was what I was looking at, but then I heard something about jelly.

Of course it was that man.

"I just realized I forgot my jelly for my peanut butter! Can you believe that? I got to have jelly with my peanut butter!" he said to me. Rather loudly.

I looked at him and smiled. What else could I do? Rarely do men try to talk to me, and if they do, then they're usually the most geekiest of all geeks (One guy tried to pick me up in Vegas -- I was waiting in the bathroom hallway for my husband to get done doing his business when this techie guy tried to start a conversation with me. This is all I attract.) or need BART directions/info. Oh, and I did make friends with some wannabe gangsta guy from Oakland at our old pool hall. Me and him hit it off for some reason. Later I realized he was being another guy's "muscle." I'm just too oblivious.

Since all I did was sorta glance his way and give him a half-hearted smile, he moved on to the next relatively young women who did not have a man attached to her in some way. I stayed planted by the sweet potatoes, hoping my husband would show up with his soy chai. I needed my muscle. I heard him talking about his jelly to another lady who actually responded to him.

When I felt it was safe, I continued on to the next aisle. That was when my husband decided to show up. I told him what happened, but nothing fazes him even though he should always be concerned that I'll be swept off my feet by some charming weirdo in the produce aisle. I told him I had a weird feeling about the guy too -- and low and behold, he decided picking up women in the grocery store was a good way to go.

It reminds me of those shows where dating coaches teach people how to meet others. But see, it doesn't work. It's just weird. And I really didn't think men tried to pick up women in the grocery store. That's just a bad joke.

It's tough being a cat

Bedkill!

And a close-up:

That's some goooood sleepin'.

The pub is open!

All you men out there should wish you had me as a wife because I am one cool chicky!

Not only did I get the made for my hubby, but I actually like that fact that it's outside our door.


This is also what happens when I'm left waiting outside our condo while my husband is changing his shirt.

Happy Turkey Day!

Gobble gobble!

Amazon Gold Box Predictions 11/24/05

Oh dear Amazon Gold Box, your predictions for me today are a bit puzzling. It seems I'm supposed to live outdoors with my wind proof lighter and foldable solar charger. While I'm in the woods fending for myself, I should read books on a wide range of subjects, such as dogs, raising kids with physical ailments, chick lit (gotta stir it up a bit) and a book about a midlife adventure (perhaps I need to learn some more about adventure sports). All this while brushing up on my Adobe Acrobat skills.

Amazon Gold Box Predictions 11/23/05

Today my Gold Box is trying to tell me through its various suggested Yoga DVDs, CO2 tank, low carb cookbook and all-weather band radio, that I shouldn't eat as much as I planned to tomorrow. But my Gold Box knows I love to have some fun, so it wants me to play a few games of solitaire and mah jong (and I love both, so I'm glad to know my Gold Box knows me so well). Pal Gold Box wants me to sit on a big blue exercise ball while I play my games.

Fun BART times tonight

Two of my least favorite things happened to me tonight. And before my mom starts thinking I "ran my mouth" to someone, I did not. I stated what I needed to state, and I let the situation take care of itself. With the other incident, I just gave up because I wasn't in the mood.

First thing:

I was standing in my usual line behind two men who were for the most part standing next to each other although in one line. How did I know this? Because I was directly behind one man, and the other man was just sort of milling around next to his friend in the center between the two lines. People do this all the time, and while I find this annoying, I don't let it get me down.

So there I was with my earbuds in and book in hand. Then, out of the blue, this lady walked from the escalators (my left) to the right side of me. I had a small gap in between me and the two men; more in case the one man in the center decided to stand in line for some reason than for anything else. He was technically in front of me, so who am I to close the gap and kick him out of line?

I eyeballed the lady to see what she was going to do. Some confused people will stand next to the line to figure out where they need to be and to decide which line they need to be in. She stood and then moved closer the guy in front of me. I looked around thinking, Am I invisible again? Do I not exist? Why is this happening yet again?

When I looked around, I noticed a man behind me, so I knew I was in line, and he was in line, and the guys in front of me were in line, so what the heck was she doing? So yet again, being sick and tired of people thinking they can do anything they want, I decided to say something. I learned my lesson from the last time, so I was only going to inform the lady that I was in line and then let it go. If she moves, dandy, if not, then I get to accidentally kick her.

"I was in line," I told her.

She looked at me and started stuttering her five million excuses for just getting in front of me like I wasn't there. When she hit on five million and two, which was "I thought you were in a different line," I had to set her straight.

"I'm in this line, the other line is over there," and I pointed to the line near the escalator.

"Oh! I thought you were starting a new line! Oh! I'm sorry! Oh!"

She walked to the other line and the guy behind me started saying stuff to her. I tuned that out because if I heard anything that was going to get my blood boiling, then there was going to be crazy white chick trouble. I did hear her state several more times that she thought I was starting my own line, and that I was curving the line, and this and that. Then she said she's from New York, and in New York, they don't believe in lines. Good to know. They don't really believe in lines in Boston either, but you know what? I adapted! Why fight the crowd? Which was what I really wanted to say to her since she just decided she was a New York frame of mind (thanks Billy) and was going to jump in front of me even though clearly there was someone behind me and in front of me.

And whatever happened to just politely inquiring if someone is in line or not? That would clear this mess up quickly.

So that was the first thing. Not too bad, but a bit annoying. Luckily she doesn't freely swear because I wasn't in the mood to be called an obscene woman again.

Now to the second thing.

The Fremont train was pretty busy, mostly due to holiday shoppers leaving SF. I had several people sit next to me and then get off. By the time we hit Bayfair, no one was next to me. In fact, the car was pretty empty.

So there I was, listening to my music and reading my book and minding my own business. The train pulled out of the station. I was near the connecting doors, so I saw from the corner of my eye someone walk into our car from the car behind us. Since there were so many empty seats, I felt pretty safe from being sat next to again.

I was wrong. I'm always wrong.

The man who walked into our car slid his gigantic 300+ lb plus body into the space between the seat in front of him and my bench, then slid is gigantic 300+ lb plus body downward. That's how our larger BART pals try to squeeze into smaller spaces.

I thought, no way. NO WAY. This cannot be happening to me. The car's almost empty. In fact, he could have sat in the seat in front of him, which would have been much more comfortable because it had no seat in front of it. Tons of room for his huge body to rest. But no. NOOO. Instead he decides that sitting next to small and apparently even more invisible girl was a better choice.

As soon as his big thigh pushed against my leg (which was tilting towards the wall of the car as it was -- giving more space than a normal sized person would need), I decided there was no way I was going to let this gigantic man do this to me. Right near us was an empty handicap bench, so as soon at the train stopped at Hayward, that was where I was going. That's where he should have sat, if I had my way.

As the train began to slow down, I grabbed my lunch bag and closed my book, which was his cue to get out of my way, I'm leaving. He unfolded his body from the seat and stood out of the way so I could get out. I walked to the completely free bench and sat down. Never once did I look at him. He moved into my seat (window seat).

What really killed me was that after South Hayward, he got up and went to the car behind us -- where he came from. Presumably to torment another small girl in that car. Or to get off. I don't know and I don't care. I ain't putting up with big man nonsense no more!!!

Amazon Gold Box Predictions 11/22/2005

My Amazon Gold Box is telling me that I should start taking up adventure sports, such as snowshoeing (if that is such a thing) or electric scootering while carrying my Swiss Army Knife with me for protection. I should also be thinking more about women's liberation in other countries, such as Latin America, Asia and the Middle East. My health is yet a concern for my dear Gold Box, as it wants me to steam more foods and to use wooden cutting boards instead of plastic.

Sewing Maven

I have started my quest to become a sewing maven. I hope one day I can be like Wendy, an employee of some web site I found that sells patterns:



And you wonder why I don't have a picture of myself on my blog, or anywhere else for that matter (unless it's a glamour shot -- I do have one of them posted somewhere in cyberspace but I'm not saying where). I'm not going to be someone's fair game to poke fun of. You rock, Wendy!

Flock of Seagulls Guy

There is this guy that walks towards me at the Montgomery station, and the first time I saw him, I sorta looked at him, but not really because it was the most bizarre thing I've ever seen. He was dressed in cheap businessman clothes (from Old Navy or Mervyns or something), and he is about 22-25 (although I'm not good with ages at all). He's a bit chubby, walks like he's trying to prove something to someone and obviously knows he's not as tough as he thinks he looks, and has a look on his face like he wants to kill everyone in his sight.

Now this is all fine and good and to each his own and all that fun stuff, but the guy has hair very similar to the Flock of Seagulls guy. The first thing I thought when I first saw him was, How the heck did he get a job where he needs to be dressed the way he is with hair like that??? Perhaps it's his style, though. He likes the fake business man look and the Flock of Seagulls hair. But there aren't too many shops around where I work that I can see him working in. So that leaves a corporate setting.

I know, I know, some of you don't even know who I'm writing about. Remember the 80's tune "I Ran"? No? How about this guy:

Yes, that's Mike Score from A Flock of Seagulls, and yes, for some strange reason, the guy thinks this is the best hair style ever and has decided to fluff up his 'do to look just like this.

I saw him yesterday again, and I told myself over and over and over until it finally stuck in my brain to share him with everyone because it's just totally bizarre to me. Is the new wave look coming back? What the heck is going on? Does that mean I have to fall in love with Robert Smith of The Cure all over again?

I just don't get it. I know some of the crazy punk kids are trying to make the 80's 'look' cool again, but this guy's got to grow up a bit now that he's dressing in his Mervyns' finest. Save it for the weekend. And stop stomping around like you're going to punch small children as they would be your only fair fight.

Just call me information

I give up. I officially give up. I am the one and only information booth at the BART station. I must have "information" painted on my coat or something.

Yes, it happened again.

I got to the BART station earlier than I have in a long time this morning. So when I headed up to the platform, and I heard the train operator yelling that the doors were closing on the SF train, I took my time. I didn't want to be that early, and I really hate being one of those people who bumrush the train. Since I didn't need to be on that train, I just moseyed along. I think I annoyed the train operator while I moseyed because she couldn't tell if I was an idiot and walking slowly to get to the front of the train and that I expected her to wait for me of if I was just a moseyer.

All of a sudden this man rushed off the train and runs to the other side of the platform, where the Richmond train was. I kept walking. But I smelled trouble.

The SF train took off, and I continued to wander to the beginning of the platform. Since the platform sign was saying the next SF train was only 4 cars long, I was trying to place myself in the best spot just in case it really was that small of a train. So there I was, milling around, looking at the head lights of the coming SF train, when I heard someone yell, "Excuse me!!!"

I turned around and looked, and low and behold, there was the guy who rushed off the train. He was at least 15 feet away from me and walking my way.

"Which train goes to Oakland first? Which one should I get on?" he asked me.

Here we go again. Yet another confused person who needs to get to Oakland and instead of talking to the station agent down below or figuring this out online before arriving, he assumes I'm giving out free information this morning.

"Take that one," I yelled back while pointing to the Richmond train. I really wanted to tell him he's an idiot for running off the SF train since it goes through Oakland as well, but that made me think of the other day when I was trying to figure out which station that other lady needed to get off at. I couldn't just assume he was getting off at the Oakland stations both trains go through.

"Wait, which station are you getting off at?" I asked him.

"Oakland," he told me, and then I guess he had a moment of clarity, and included the key information I needed to know, "Oakland Airport/Coliseum."

"Yah, take that train," I told him again.

He thanked me and was on his way. It's too bad he didn't ask my doppelganger on the SF BART train he was on earlier. Because there's got to be another information person at every station and on every train that looks like me or is me or just acts like me. I simply can't be the only one.

Amazon Gold Box Predictions

Instead of viewing my Amazon Gold Box o' daily goodies as suggested items for me to purchase at a discounted price, I'm going to view these goodies as predictions for my future. Today my Amazon Gold Box is telling me to try the whole vegetarian thing again (tried last year for about a month -- was not successful), to work out more and to take a trip back to Boston and go to non-touristy places (whatever they may be).

Tomato

It's funny how certain things stick in your head. Like, I can't remember climbing up a pile of cut wood and almost knocking my teeth out, but I can remember my mom's tomato pin cushion and being completely fascinated by it. It is an icon. Whenever I see one of these, I think of its smell (it smelled weird, what can I say) and I think of my mom and I think of my mom sewing.

Yesterday my mom and I went to the fabric store so she could help me buy sewing necessities and to help me figure out what I need to buy from sewing pattern instructions. I have a few things, but not really anything that's specific for sewing with a sewing machine. She wanted to find a sewing kit that had all the necessities inside of it, but since there wasn't one, she started at one end of the wall and moved down, picking out things I needed. The first thing I saw and knew I had to have it because she had one was the tomato pin cushion.

I was so happy to see it because I knew that once I bought it, I would be a real sewer even though I haven't sewn yet (I figure it'll take me a week to make one bag -- I'm taking my time).

"I know I need this!" I told my mom.

That's when all my hopes and dreams and fond memories were crushed. She basically said that the tomato pin cushion is stupid. I can't quote her because I don't quite remember exactly what she said, but that's what she meant. I'm sure of it.

I loved her tomato pin cushion. I don't know why, but it made the whole idea of sewing a bit more interesting because if you sew, you could have a tomato pin cushion. Like it was some secret rite of passage for sewers. Now, I did have a little sewing machine as a kid and a sewing basket with sewing trinkets, but never have I had a tomato. That was for the serious sewers.
And for some reason hers smelled. It wasn't a great smell or even a bad smell, it just smelled. So that in and of itself was fascinating.

"Yours smelled," I said.

"It probably had catnip in it or something," she offhandedly told me. I realized that unless I wanted my memories and good feelings crushed, I had to drop the tomato pin cushion talk.

Right after that we had a slight child abuse incident where I was getting really excited about buying stuff, and so I was pointing out various things I remembered that she had, and I was asking if I needed it. I got barked at after doing it for the third time.

"Would you stop! I'm trying to look at all this!" she said to me.

"You shouldn't yell at me. That's child abuse!" I told her.

"You're not a child," she said.

"I'm your child, so it is child abuse."

So not only did my tomato memories get picked up, shook and thrown against the wall, but she was also being verbally abusive to me.

Later I found out she hid scissors all over the house because "us girls" (my sis and I) apparently had a scissor fascination and ruined her scissors all the time. So she hid them from us and when we moved out, she found them all over the place and realized they no longer needed to hide. Except from my Dad, but that's another story altogether.

Despite having my tomato memories crushed and being barked at in the fabric store, I still have high hopes of being a fabulous sewer like my mom. And every time I pull a pin out my new tomato pin cushion, I will think of her.

I hope you feel bad now, mom. You owe me a Coldstone sundae!

Shameful plug

Yes, I do believe it is shameful, but I'm going to do it anyway.

You must check out my terrific jewelry shop, Zoesoph Jewelry. I will be adding several keen pieces this weekend. I can also make custom jewelry as long as you're willing to pay for the components (not too expensive unless you're all fancy-like, which I tend not to be because I can't afford those freshwater pearls or real gold items).

I'm going to be expanding my shop to include totes and bags and maybe some other crafty things I come up with. I first need to learn how to use my donated sewing machine (donated by my pal at the pool hall -- I will miss you, Cue Connection and the Millas -- thanks for the 14 years of memories). But don't fret! I am crafty and I know what's cute and my momma is going to lube and oil her up and get me ready to become the sewing maven that I am deep down inside.

This is mean, but I can't help it.

I was perusing the Kaiser Permanente chat boards today, and I came across this message:

I would like to know if I can purchase an alarm to wear around my neck in case I fall and can't reach a phone. I live alone.

I can tell you all the many thoughts I'm thinking about this, but I'll just leave it at that.

Starbucks

Before my husband and I bought our condo, we both enjoyed a Starbucks drink each morning. That was when we had money flowing from our ears, eyes, fingers, wallets (or so it seems now since all I have in my wallet is a ceramic frog I bought at the Japanese Tea Gardens in Portland and some dust bugs). I was a venti coffee gal and he was a venti soy chai guy. My coffee habit cost about 10 bucks a week (40 bucks a month). My husband's was about 25 bucks a week (100 bucks a month). The man loves his soy chai, what can I say.

When we bought our condo, we both had to go cold turkey and stop buying Starbucks in order to save money. I now drink work coffee or home coffee and on very rare occasions Starbucks coffee, but only as a treat. My husband, on the other hand, still buys Starbucks but not as much as he used to. I honestly don't know how much he spends there, but I do know he's found crafty ways to get extra money for himself and he still gets his Starbucks every week. Whether it's more than once, I don't know for sure. All I know is he's paying cash and not putting it on the credit card, and so I can't complain.

However, he insists on hiding his habit from me, which only sparks a tremendous amount of teasing from me when I find empty cups in our condo or in the trash or in his car. He says he doesn't go "that often," but with the amount of cups I find, I would say that "that often" equates 2-3 times a week. He says he goes once every couple of weeks.

We went to Starbucks last Friday morning after a fun 45 minutes at the gym. I used to collect the Starbucks bearista bears they put out for almost every holiday, but now that I'm older by a few years (this started a few years ago -- I'm 31), I've decided to get rid of my stuffed critters for the sake of gaining some money. In other words, I sell them on eBay. They actually go for a lot for some weird reason. My husband noticed that the Halloween bear was now on sale. I went over and looked at the price, which was half off the normal price, so I decided to buy it and put it up on eBay next year.

When we approached the counter, the two girls working at the registers got all happy and smiley and acted slightly like they've seen my husband many times before. There were no hellos by name as was the case with the Starbucks close to our old apartments, but they sure did seem happy to see him. Or used to seeing him.

I put down the bear, and the girl tried to ring it up. For some reason it was ringing up at $2 million some odd dollars, which is not a deal in my book, and so she asked the shift manager how to fix it. He looked and said he couldn't figure it out. That's when I knew fate was telling me to not buy it. I just wish fate had told me the same thing when I spent 7 bucks on a Starbucks finger puppet collection with collector's tin while in Healdsburg a few weeks ago. Apparently the thought of a good deal and the resell value was tops in my brain -- not how the item actually looked or that it was not even new (not new as in the finger puppets aren't attached to the tin any longer although I'm fairly certain no one played with them).

So I told them that I didn't need to buy him, it was okay.

"Are you sure?" they said at the same time.

"Yes, it's okay," I told them.

The shift manager looked directly at my husband and said, "I could save him for you. I'll talk to my manager about it and you can come back -- you come here all the time."

'You come here all the time,' I thought to myself. Like a gun, this bit of ammo was locked and loaded in my brain.

My husband looked at me, and I said no for the final time. I didn't need the bear, and it was saving us 7 bucks. Who knows if I would get that much next year. And who knows if I'd even remember I had it next year.

I walked around the shop and moved over to the side where the drink are delivered to customers. My husband walked over to me.

"So," I began (gun cocked and ready), "you come here all the time, do you?" (bam! ammo released!).

His faced changed to his little boy look, with his squirreled up "I've been caught" eyes and smirky smile. I knew his brain was rapidly flipping through its excuse booklet that's stored in the left side of his skull (this is the direction his eyes eventually go to before fluttering back to me).

"I wish I could describe that look better," I told him. By now we both had our drinks and walked out.

By the time we left, he had enough time to find excuse #20 in his booklet: I don't come that often. I haven't been here for a long time. I haven't been here for 2 weeks!

Now, I know this doesn't sound like an excuse to you, but it does to me when my husband is concerned. Instead of coming up with some fancy, "I was driving by, and my car just took over and parked itself in the parking lot and told me I had to go inside and order a venti soy chai tea or I could never drive it again" excuse, he just comes up with non-excuse excuses. If I say he's done something only once (like changing the toilet paper roll), he'll say he does it all the time. If I say he always leaves his socks on the ground, he'll say he hardly ever does. That's how his excuses work.

So I said "uh huh" and let it go. For the moment. I got to use my ammo all day, which is always fun. He still denies that he goes to that Starbucks enough for them to know him. He thinks he's memorable. He's memorable if memorable means being a habitual venti soy chai drinker.

Ode to the flip flop

The other day I eyeballed some gal on the escalator in front of me. I think she just looked strange to me to begin with, so I wanted to check out her style. Her hair was pulled back into a bun. She wasn't really thin or big, just normal and very pale (worse than me, and that's really bad). She was wearing a women's blazer with either a tank top or t-shirt underneath. And a big pink skirt -- knee length. Big as in full. I moved my eyes down and saw the biggest fashion mistake for working women and men and just a general bad fashion mistake unless you're running around the beach or it's 100 degrees outside -- the flip flop.

What bugs me even more about her wearing this very inappropriate footwear while being somewhat dressed up for something (she could very well be an art student since the Academy of Art is right down the street -- those crazy kids have been known to be creative while expressing their uniqueness. I personally enjoy toting around and wearing my Paul Frank items whenever I can.) is that it was almost 7am, in San Francisco, and it was cold that morning. And white people, very pale white people, should never allow the cold air to hit their skin because what occurs when this happens is not very pleasant. White skin turns into blotchy pink and sometimes red skin. And veiny. And it's just not good looking. Add the flip flops to the mix, and you've got flat feet and blotchy skin to scare us all.

While on some level I am glad there are people in this world that just don't care about certain things (blotchy skin and showing toes) because it just shows a very healthy (or misconstrued) body image; on another level I wish I could run up to them, grab them by the shoulders and tell them to change whatever it is that's offending my beautiful brown eyes (so I've been told -- that's as far as I go with my body image).

There are few people in this world who can pull off wearing the flip flop. These people are usually well-manicured, tan and thin with no blotchies or veins popping out on their legs. Why is it then that everyone seems to think they can wear the flip flop? I know better -- I do own my own pair of flip flops that are about 2 inches high but have a neat criss-cross across the top instead of a lame single strap. But I only wear them when it's really hot and I'm not really going anywhere special. I know my feet aren't the best looking. I don't attend mani-pedi parties or try to file down my big toe nubs that just get larger and drier and grayer as I get older. I really could care less if my toenails looked perfect or had a french manicure (which just makes your feet look like bizarre hands, in my opinion) -- as long as they aren't all scraggly and scratching up my other toes, I'm good to go.

And I would never, ever, EVER cross the line of bad fashion and where a flat, lifeless flip flop with a skirt and show off my white and blotchy legs. Offer me a million dollars, then maybe, but I don't see it happening anytime soon.

I don't like feet at all. Feet have always grossed me out. My feet are fine, but if you go sticking your feet on me, then forget it. I will get away from you as fast as I can. I avoid all naked foot contact. If you slap your stinky skis in socks, then maybe our feet can mingle, but it depends on how long your skis have been sitting in your socks.

Hey, I'm realistic. I know small, flat shoe ware does not look good on me. And it doesn't really look good on most women. And men? Please. Every time I see a man wearing flip flops, I just cringe. They look stupid. The only man that can get away with a flip flop look is a well-manicured man who is wearing a pair of breezy trousers with his 100 dollar plus flip flops. Not the 5.99 special at the grocery store -- No. They've got to be leather and look stylish. If you can't do that, then stick to running shoes or something that covers up your gorilla feet.

This all leads me to another shoe phenomena that I do not, will not and cannot understand.


This is the stupidest creation ever made. The only person who can wear these shoes and look remotely good in them is a thin, petite woman. With a tan. But what I see more often is ladies with the big monster feet wearing them. With pants, okay, maybe. With capris, I can live with it. But when they slap these babies on while wearing a skirt....well, it pretty much turns my stomach. Come on -- obviously these things were made for small feet, so don't go cramming your giant chubby feet into them so that you have foot overhang. It doesn't matter if your toes are all painted cute and ready for the summer. It just doesn't look good. And it certainly doesn't look good when you're in a full on power suit (skirt -- not pants), and you're trying to keep up with the men in their power suits wearing comfortable yet stylish Rockports. Yes, you're feminine and that's great and blah blah blah, but if you're about ready to fall every five seconds because you're teetering on a skinny 1-inch platform for the sake of femininity, then you're just an idiot.

So I don't really know which one I hate the most -- the offending yet casual flip flop or the offending yet dainty heeled flip flop. It's too hard to decide.

All I ask is that if you must wear them, please leave the rhinestones at home. The bedazzler went out of style 20 years ago.

What is it about me?

I don't know what it is about me, perhaps I come off as being confident or that I know what I'm doing, I'm not sure, but I seem to be the "go to" person when it concerns BART.

Last week I was walking from my car to the station, when this maniac of a man drove through the stop sign at the pedestrian intersection as I was just about to walk across it. While I was giving him a dirty "pedestrian is very unhappy at his maniac driving" look, this lady in her car pulled up behind me. I figured she was just driving through the parking lot.

When I crossed the crosswalk, she pulled up right next to me and yelled, "Excuse me!!! Can I ask you something!!!?"

Since someone was just blatantly rude to me (maniac driver), I decided I should be friendly and stop and help her.

"Sure," I said as I walked to her car.

We then had a few minutes worth of confusing conversation regarding the parking at the BART station. I didn't get what she was saying when she kept telling me the spaces were "marked" (which they are) and she didn't know where to park. I thought she was talking about the reserved parking spaces in the back, where we basically were now, but it turns out "marked" meant "numbered," and I told her not to worry about it – just don't park in the reserved area with the signs.

She zoomed off.

Today, when I was on the escalator going up to the platform, I saw this Asian chick standing at the top and looking from one train to another. Bad news, I thought. Don't make any sort of eye contact, keep your head down and walk like you've never walked before.

When I got to the top, she had moved near the SF train. Where there were several people waiting for the doors to open. I mention this only because I don't get why what happened, happened. I walked to the front of the train, stopped at my usual door and proceeded to freeze while taking my iPOD out. For some reason when the cold weather hits, the train operators are less likely to open any train doors to let us on the train. It's some cold trick of theirs.

I glanced in the direction I just came, and I saw the Asian chick walking towards the front of the train, so I turned around quickly and stared off into space, hoping she wouldn't come over to me for whatever reason. It's not like the train door was open or anything. There was no reason for her to be coming over here.

About 5 seconds later, I feel repeated hard taps on my shoulder.

Guess who?

Yes, it was she.

I pulled out my earbuds and looked at her like, "what the heck do you want and why are you bugging me?" It's better to come across annoyed from the beginning because these are the kind of people that will stick with you if they get on the same train. Like you're their tour guide or you work for BART or something.

"Which train goes to Oakland?" she asked me.

"Both do."

"Excuse me, which train goes to Oakland?" she asked again and then pointed to the sign above us that stated SF/Daly City Train and then pointed to the other side that said "Richmond."

Now, I could have taken the easy route at this moment, but I don't get why she followed me, of all people. And especially me who was listening to music, which is the international sign for "don't start up a conversation with me because I'm not too friendly and don't liked to be bugged." So I thought I'd be annoying. Why not? She's pointing at signs like I don't know what I'm doing and obviously don't get her point that neither sign indicates the train goes to Oakland.

"They both go to Oakland," I said again and just stared at her. You'd think that if she were completely confused on which train to take, she'd ask the friendly station agent when she was downstairs. He's nice, he likes to talk to people. He's one of the few that actually stand outside the station agent box too seem approachable (and he is!). And he's always concerned when I don't use my Translink card.

She looked at me again like I was saying, "Blah blah, blah blah blah, Oakland, blah."

Then I realized that this could go on forever, and I would be forever stuck with her because she wasn't getting what I was trying to tell her. So it was either, figure this out for her and get her out of my sight, or continue to play the "both go to Oakland" game. Then I realized that not all trains go to the same Oakland stops. So if I told her to get on the SF train, and she needed to go to 12th Street, she'd have to transfer, and she may dump the responsibility of her getting on the correct train on me, which is something I did not want, so I had to ask her what station. If she said Coliseum, then we could continue the game until she realized I was evil and wasn't going to help her.

"Which station are you going to?" I asked.

"12th Street," she answered (good thing I asked).

"Oh, then take that train," and I pointed to the Richmond train hoping I was correct that Richmond goes through 12th Street. I knew SF didn't, but I couldn't remember about Richmond.

She looked at me like she wanted to believe me, but wasn't sure if she should, and said, "that train?"

I said yes. She thanked me.

Good riddance.

On a side note: Since I gave that maniac driving man my dirty look of pedestrian annoyance and he actually stared back at me instead of acting like he didn't know I was there, I think he remembered what I looked like. The next day he ended up walking in front of me towards the station, and he actually waited for me to get to the door so he could hold it open for me. Which then made me have to say "thank you" to him against my better wishes. Maybe I should have run in at full speed and knocked him over like he almost did to me in the parking lot.

Ken

I had to go to the post office today to mail some items. Guess who helped me. Yup, the PO Nazi aka Ken. I think he remembered me, but I can't say for sure. I certainly would remember me if I was working on the other side of the counter. I thought for sure we'd have a smooth transaction because I no longer bring certain packages to the SF post office because of my incident from a few weeks back (and yes, our local PO does take the "questionable" items without questioning a thing -- I showed you, Ken!).

But no, since I got Ken, something had to be messed up. He went PO Nazi nutty about a zipcode I wrote down. I'm not even sure if I messed it up or not, but instead of refusing to mail it because it may be incorrect, he went and got the Bible o' Zipcodes to look up the city, state to see if the zipcode I wrote down was in there. I almost said I didn't need to send it today, that I could take it back and check to make sure I wrote down the correct zipcode, but this was Ken I was dealing with and, well, I became indignant about the whole thing.

So I told him that was the zipcode given to me, so I didn't know anything about it. Instead of repeating the same scene from before, Ken humored me and said that maybe the computer wasn't updated yet. I just shrugged.

What's lame about this whole thing is that my stupid pride got in the way, and I think I did write down the wrong zipcode. So who knows when the package will arrive. And yes, this was a monetary transaction, so basically I should have taken the package back and figured it out.

But that Ken sparks something in me that makes me want to prove that everything I'm doing is correct and he's the wrong one.

Stupid Ken. Actually, stupid me.

Tweedle Dumb & Tweedle Dee

I have two new nemesis's on BART. I have named them Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dee. Tweedle Dee is actually the tissue lady -- I just didn't realize who she was the day she sat next to me with the tissue pushed against her face because Tweedle Dumb wasn't around. A few days later, I realized she was Tweedle Dumb's partner in crime.

They've been taking the same train as me for about a month now. And I think, but I'm not sure, I was always getting to the BART station before them, so they were never an issue to me. Now they're getting to the station before me, which makes my blood boil.

What they do is this: They desperately want to sit next to each other on the train, and for some reason, the only section of the car that they're interested in is the same section I'm interested in -- the end portion, where there are fewer seats. So the little one (Tweedle Dee aka tissue lady) bum rushes the door with Tweedle Dumb trailing (she's taller and fatter and I guess slower) to get the only open bench at the end. Which is what I'm always trying to do so I can get a window seat. So now I'm in constant competition with them to get the choice seat on the car. But since Tweedle Dee acts like a bullet released from a gun, and then Tweedle Dumb in on her butt, I can barely get in the door.

Tonight I was first in my line while they were first in their line to get on the train. They technically, if they knew how to follow the unwritten rules of standing in a BART line, should have headed to the center of the car because they were in the left lane. Since I was in the right lane, that gave me full rights to the end of the car.

As soon as the train pulled up, Tweedle Dee move to the center of the door.

Oh no, HELL NO, you're not getting in front of me, I thought.

A man was waiting on the other side of the door to get off the train, so I kinda moved to the right so he'd have to leave by walking down the center of the two lines, which then pushed Tweedle Dee out of the way a bit, and I darted onto the train.

Unfortunately, there were two open seats, one with a man sitting behind with his arm draped over the back of the empty seat (no thanks -- I got whapped on the head the other day by some stupid man who didn't understand that people like to sit in their sits and so that doesn't mean he can wave his arms around and snag people's hair), so I headed to the other empty seat. Tweedle Dee and Dumb bum rushed my reject seat, cutting off several folks who were headed in that direction.

If only there was one empty seat. If only. So now I've got to deal with these two every night.

Sarcasm is my middle name

My husband emailed me this morning. The title of his email was "how's it going?" His email said, "I just wanted to make sure you made it okay to work."

To which I responded, "I fell down a hole and got all dirty and ripped my pants. My hair's messed up, and I'm bleeding. But other than that, I'm just fine."

About 5 minutes later, my phone rang.

"Blah blah blah, this is Janine," I said.

"Did you really fall down a hole!?" my husband asked.

I laughed for a bit and then said, "NOOOOO!"

"I don't want to talk to you anymore," my husband told me.

End phone call.

Overheard conversation

Sometimes when you're a waiting for the BART or on the BART train, you get to hear some really fun conversations. One time I listened to this one girl talk to her friend the whole way home about how she lost it at work and was going to get another job and she'd show them all. I was just glad to know I wasn't the only crazy gal that's lost it a few times at work. However, when you're listening to someone else talk about their craziness, and how desperately they try to justify it because you know at some point when he/she is repeating, "she knows she shouldn't mess with me, she knows I don't like her, I just had to tell her what I really thought of her," and he/she is really thinking, "Uh oh. I wonder if I have a job tomorrow. Perhaps I shouldn't have said those things....it's not like it's hard to find someone who can learn the database. I mean, it's only typing, and it's been proven monkeys can get lucky and type a word or two after a point...," it makes you think twice the next time something happens at work and you really want to tell someone how you really feel about them, and perhaps you should just bite your tongue for once, become humble and walk away.

If I had a dime for every time my mom has told me, "You need to learn to shut your mouth!" I'd be one rich gal. Sometimes she says it repeatedly, and that's comparable to double coupon days! In fact, my mom uttered these same words last week after reading my entry about the man who thinks I'm an obscene female. I spent a minute or two trying to convince her I was justified.

But at least I don't take my daughter to the ghetto and then run a red light. Ooo! I knew I'd get that in my blog some day.

Anyway, I'm digressing again. So last Friday, while I was standing in line for the BART train, two fellows were chatting loudly behind me. Right at the point a song changed on my trusty iPOD, one of the guys said, "Stewart was probably kissing some girl."

Stewart was kissing a girl? I must hear more. I turned down my iPOD (my iPOD and I are like one, I can do this without much thought -- it's called being sly) and waited for more.

"Yeah, so I figure it went like this: Stewart was kissing some girl, and then someone was smoking pot, and so that turned into everyone was smoking pot at the party and having an orgy."

Of course this was when my train arrived, so I didn't get to hear more details about Stewart or the pot smoking orgy. But guess what -- that same girl that spend the whole train ride complaining to her friend about her job sat next to me. I was hoping for some juicy tidbits, but instead she spent the whole time next to me writing in a notebook. I guess she has learned to channel her anger.

Hey, me too! It's called a blog!

Gifts in the mail are great!

Yesterday we received a letter from a local Baptist Church. Stamped on the envelope was a message stating: Baskin Robbins Gift Certificate Inside!

What a lovely ploy to get people to eat Baskin Robbins, I thought. Because the average person, especially those who already go to church, will only open the envelope to find the gift certificate. And that's exactly what I did.

Without having to pull out any other enclosed items, I found the gift certificate, pulled it out and exclaimed, "They really did give us a gift certificate!" My husband thought there was some catch -- like we had to show up on a certain day at a certain time and listen to a whole service before they passed out the promised gift certificates. But no, my whopping $2 gift certificate was in the envelope.

I just hope it's real because I don't know of any establishments that sell $2 gift certificates. What a fine way to use God's money!

Comforter that lived in the bathtub

Yes, you read correctly -- lived. Not lives, but lived. Finally our comforter is being cleaned. Not by us, but by a dry cleaner. Why? Because it's not machine washable.

Which means it sat in the bath tub for over a month for no real reason.

My husband took it to the Laundromat today to wash it (it's getting colder at night -- go figure), and when he got there, he read the tag. Not machine washable.

So he calls me and says, "I thought you said it was machine washable."

When have I ever been known to read labels on things? I can barely wash clothes on my own let alone know to read a label before allowing our comforter to live in the bathtub.

Good thing we saved up all those quarters for the Laundromat. Now we can turn them in, get the cash and pay our $38 dry cleaning bill.

Chivalry is definitely dead.

The line I always stand in was rather long when I got to it this evening. I took my place behind a lady who was kinda standing off to the side, but I knew she was in line. I think she was trying to make it easier for the people getting off the escalator to begin their walk through the station.

The next train was Dublin/Pleasanton, so I started getting my iPod out of my bag so I could listen to it while waiting. I was untangling the earbud wires when the train arrived, and I started moving up and to the side like all the other people who weren't getting on the train including the lady in front of me.

I was still messing with the wires when everyone was getting back in line. Next thing I know, some man that was in the line parallel to my line was in my place. I stood and stared at him while thinking this can't be happening. He line jumped! He was totally acting like he was behind the lady from the beginning. I guess he got frustrated with how his line was moving, and thought my line was better, so he moved right in.

I had two obvious options: say something or continue to mill off to the side until I gave up and stood behind him. For the first time in my 6 years of BART riding, I decided I wasn't going to put up with a stupid person doing something stupid and assuming everyone else will just let him/her do it because he/she doesn't care. I got fed up.

"Excuse me," I said in a very polite manner (and this is true, I don't care what anyone says who knows me), "I was behind her."

So I'll tell you what I expected to happen. I expected some sort of acknowledgement if not an apology for being so thoughtless. Then I could say no problem, it happens and be on my merry line standing way.

But no. Instead, I got completely ignored. I became invisible girl again. Well, only to the man because when I continued to stare at him thinking, now what do I do? the lady in front of me moved up to create space for me to get back in line. Right on, lady! Fight the power! Death to all men who don't care about us gals!

"Oh!" I said. "Thank you."

The lady acknowledged my situation in slight disgust (at the man, not me, of course).

I moved back in line when the man said, "Oh my god! I can't believe this!!"

Can't believe what? That I and this lady do not think that you're special and deserve to cut in front of anyone at anytime? Perhaps you should have cut in front of the man in the other line and see what would have happened. Or better yet, why don't you just move to the front because you must be one of them special people I've always wrote about.

I turned around and said to him, "You must not take BART a lot, do you?"

Snappy retort to his "oh my god," if I do say so for myself. I've wanted to say that to someone at some point before my BART days were over.

Little did I know this man hated women.

"Are you always a cunt?" he asked me.

Whhhaaaa-aaaa-tttt? What did he just say? Woah, nelly, where was all this hostility coming from? I don't even get using that word to put someone down. It's the stupidest word anyone, especially a man, could use. Since times have changed so much, the word "cunt" is in the dictionary, and I quote:

"1 usually obscene : the female pudenda; also : coitus with a woman 2 usually disparaging and obscene: woman"

So let's see, I'm obscene? Or I have sex with a woman? I'm an obscene woman who has sex with other woman? Can I start with Angelina Jolie? I think she's purty.

The absurdity of him saying this to me was overwhelming. It's such a stupid word. I mean, come on, ask if I'm a strong person who doesn't put up with line jumpers or someone who can spot an idiot from a line away. And, so, by my power of deductions, he was a stupid man.

"Cunt, huh?" I said while smiling.

"Yeah!" he responded.

"Wow. Such a big word for a big man."

I started to turn around, but then turned back and finalized our little conversation with, "You must have a mother."

I wanted to say, You must have a wife, daughter then mother, but I was pretty sure he was gay based on how he talked. He had a little tiny lisp. Could mean nothing or it could mean everything.

I think most women hate the word "cunt," so if I am correct that he is gay, then he's got to have a few women friends who have told him women hate that word. Because I'll be damned if any man who is married or loves a women in that way would say that out loud in front of her because she would vehemently tell him to stop saying that.

At least, that's what I do when my husband calls women that.

When I turned back around, the lady in front of me was giving the man dirty looks and telling me slightly to stop, he's not worth the time. No, he's not, but he does make a fine blog story, doesn't he? I gotta make it worthwhile.

When I got to Fremont, I called my husband to inform him that I am a cunt, in case he didn't know.

He said, "What happened?" (I heard a silently thought "now" at the end of that question.)

So I told him what happened, and he insisted that I wasn't a cunt and that the man was stupid.

I told him, "So now you won't ever use that word anymore when you're mad at some lady driving, will you?"

He said, "No."

I think I made many points today. Gotta fight the power!

Goodbye Halloween and Hello Turkey Day!

The best costume this year (out of the handful of kids who Trick or Treated at my parents house) was a rooster costume worn by an small child. Didn't quite look like this, but I just wanted to get the image across. This is what happens when kids are still in the age range when they don't care what they wear. It's all about the parents weird sense of humor.

So we say a fond farewell to Halloween and hello to Turkey Day and Christmas.

I now know for a fact that stores begin to display their holiday wares on Halloween night because I was at Safeway that night, and that's what the store manager was doing. You walk into most stores or visit an online e-tailer and what do you see? Snowflakes, a lot of red and white, and silly less than $10 gifts you can buy for just about anyone! You know you went shopping November 1. Admit it!

On a side note, I will be selling fabulous jewelry on a new site I just found named etsy (see link to the side for quick and easy access as the days get closer to Christmas). Feel free to support my hobby and get me on Oprah so she can yammer on about my fabulous jewelry!