Librarians

To make a painful situation even more painful, the press writers for President Bush threw in a joke in his long, pause-happy and monotone speech regarding his new Supreme Court Judge nomination.

And I quote: "Today, Judge Alito is joined by his wife, Martha, who was a law librarian when he first met her. Sam and I both know you can't go wrong marrying a librarian."

We all know Mr. Bush isn't the best speaker out there, and he oftentimes has a look of confusion on his face when he is talking, but this morning's speech was by far the worst that I've heard (and admittedly, I haven't heard too many of them). And then to throw in this joke that's not even funny... I don't know, I think some crazy speech writer is out to destroy the fun of a funny joke in a long, drawn-out speech or something. Or maybe just make Mr. Bush look stupid. It's not even that funny, even if a funny person was saying it, so maybe I should say it's an interesting antidote between the two men?

And what made this even more sad, was that Mr. Bush almost seemed perplexed at the statement when he said it, like he didn't get why it was there, but then at the last second realized it was a funny tidbit. Perhaps they leave inflection notes for him -- [psst -- this is a joke, so get your joke voice on] -- because when he was done saying it, he paused and stared into the cameras. Nothing but silence ensued. It was then I wondered if he was only speaking into the camera or if there was a real, live audience or staff members watching him. But then when he was finished, I'm sure I heard clapping in the background. Regardless, it was very painful.

And librarians aren't even that interesting. Unless you call the lieberrians. You know, the lieberry?

I am so disappointed

I began watching Sex and the City last year (or the year before -- I can't remember at all now). Watching them was a slow process. I was getting the DVDs from Netflix, and since a long time ago my husband and I devised a "you pick three and then I get to pick the next three" plan so no one's feelings would get hurt or I wouldn't just take over all the movie picks (probably the real reason), I had to rent Sex in the City during those times it was my pick. Sometime this summer I just gave up on that whole nice and lovely thought, and I started renting them all the time. During this last month, I was watching one DVD a week.

I knew I was getting to the end of the show, so I wanted to just hurry it up and get it over with so I could start on Nip Tuck.

Now, I must admit that I was totally against watching Sex and the City when it was on HBO (not that I ever had HBO -- so it really didn't matter). But I often made fun of others who did watch it. I also make fun of those who read "chick lit." Anything "chick-ish" is fair game in my book. Until I start to like it, then it's a different story, of course. I'm not sure why I decided to watch Sex and the City, but I did, and I really liked it and so I kept on watching it. My mom started watching it, and my sis had already finished it (she was one of the ones I made fun of -- sorry sis), so we could all talk about it as long as my sis and I didn't ruin anything for my mom who was a season or two behind me.

I was watching the 2nd disc of season 6 part 2 yesterday (and I wonder why I didn't know what was going on -- they had to make it all complicated), and I got to the fourth episode on the DVD. I was doing a marathon viewing -- trying to watch all the shows at once before my husband came home and wanted to eat dinner. He said he'd be home at 6:30 or 6:45 "hopefully," so I knew I had until after 7pm. He came home right when the last episode should have ended, but it kept going. I looked at the total time for the DVD and it was 2 hours, 15 minutes. Hmm...that's odd. Instead of watching the rest of it, I just turned it off to watch it at a later time. I even told my husband the shows are only supposed to a half hour. Verrrry weird.

Actually, the whole last episode was odd. There was a lot of this wrapping it up feeling, and it was a bit sentimental and weirdly filmed as far as Sex in the City goes. I don't want to ruin the ending for those that haven't seen it (MOM), so let's just say everyone gets what they wanted even if they didn't realize they wanted it. And I'm still very confused on why I saw Charlotte pregnant in one episode on TV (the censored re-runs) and never once saw her pregnant on the DVDs. That still baffles me, but obviously I'm the one confused. I was still waiting for it as of yesterday.

There was also a lot of weird music stuff going on -- all very dramatic, and I was thinking, wow, this is really weird. This must be the turning point episode before Carrie marries Mr. Big!! Ya, that's it!!

I watched the last 15 minutes this morning, and I'll admit, since I knew this wasn't the last disc in the series, I wasn't paying full attention to everything. I mean, I got what was going on, but I was doing other stuff while the show was on. The morning I was answering emails for my raging eBay business while the episode finished. It got to the end when Carrie's cell phone rings, and she looks at it and it says, "XXXX" (censored to protect the innocent), and I yelled to my husband who wasn't listening to me, "I KNOW MR. BIG'S NAME!!!" Wow. They never said what his name was until this point! Woohoo! The wedding must be on.

Now, my mom gave me that bit of info -- the wedding part. Actually, I think she told me one day that she "knew Carrie and Mr. Big get married." I looked at her and said, "Well, I didn't, thanks a lot." So I just knew that there was some big, fancy wedding coming up. And everyone's so happy and oh, this is just lovely.

I immediately went to Netflix to find the next disc to move it up my queue. I used the Control + F function and then typed in "Sex and the." Nothing was found. What? Did I somehow not put the last DVD in my queue? So I went to the web page for this season, and it said it was a 3-disc series. Well, where the heck is the third disc? I gotta do something special when I watch it, like drink some wine or eat some popcorn or maybe even a milkshake!

I went back to my queue, searched again and nothing.

So I went back to the web page, and I clicked on the "add them all" button to get all the discs for part 2 in my queue. I looked. There were three, but only two were the real shows, the third one was a bonus disc.

WWWWAAAAATIIIIIITTTT AAAAA MIIIIIINNNNNUUUUTTTEEEE.

("Wait a minute" for those that don't read long-drawn out type.)

I just watched the last show! And I didn't know it!!!

So I ran into my husband and cat's room (husband's "music room" that has been taken over by a litter box, cat toys, food and water) and told him I just watched the end and I didn't even realize it! This is a disaster! Soooo not fair!!!! I told him how it was filmed differently, and so-and-so did that and got that and I found out Mr. Big's name, and I just didn't get that I was watching the end!!!

(Normally I limited my use of exclamation points, but I feel for this entry, they are needed because I was pretty hyped up at the time).

Oh man, talk about a big disappointment. It's like thinking you have one last cupcake left to eat, but then you go into the kitchen and you realize you ate the last one yesterday. It just plain sucks.

Needless to say, my husband didn't know who "so-in-so" was (and I was really saying it that way because I couldn't remember anyone's name at this point) and didn't even know that so-and-so had something happen to them, and really didn't care that I just watched the ending and didn't know it.

That's okay. Since I didn't know it was the end until way after I finished watching it, I feel okay about it. I don't even want to watch the last episode again. Goodbye my Sex and the City girls and hello gross scenes of plastic surgery!

A and B

Now my husband is now onto A. and B.. So instead of "1. blah blah blah, and 2. blah blah blah" he's not spouting "A. blah blahblah, and B. blah blah blady blah blah."

When this happened today, I just started laughing.

I love the guy.

The elephant will not be getting sick this year.

Yesterday my husband and I got our yearly flu shoot at Kaiser. Even though I told him we were going that day, he completely forgot and didn't plan his clothing appropriately. He was wearing a long sleeve shirt, and he couldn't push up the sleeve to expose his upper arm for the shot.

I asked him what he had on underneath it (he usually wears something underneath his shirts for whatever reason), and he answered a tank top.

"Oh, well, I guess you're going to have to take your shirt off and scare everyone," I told him. "You didn't plan ahead!"

My husband was next in line at this point, so he had to come up with a quick decision. Either take the shirt off and scare everyone or take one arm out of a sleeve and only scare people slightly.

"I'll just take my arm out of the sleeve," he said. He started the complicated process of removing his manly arm from the skinny sleeve.

"You should have planned ahead like I did! I had it all figured out!" I like to be right.

Right then the little old man who was directing flu shot line traffic told my husband to go to the next available station. My husband quickly said, "I forgot!"

So I said, "You probably didn't even know you were coming here today, so be quiet!" The old man looked at me like I was either off my rocker or I was just mean.

I watched my husband as he was getting his shot. I guess now's a good time to explain why my husband would scare people (and fascinate small children). He's got a gazillion tattoos on his body, mostly upper torso and a lot all around his arms. By having to remove manly arm from skinny sleeve, he was showing everyone in line his "scary" tattoos, which mostly consist of elephants and angels. Oooo-- scary. Yes, I know.

The nurse said something to him right before she gave him a shot, and my husband just stared off into space. Then it was my turn, so I missed any further interaction between them.

When we left, I asked him what the nurse said to him.

"We'll give the shot right in the elephant's nose," he told me.

Oh man, I laughed at that one. Here's this "tough" guy with his "tough" tattoos getting a shot in his elephant's nose.

Now both my husband and his elephant have a fighting chance against the flu this year.

Don't go messing with me on eBay -- I'll get you kicked off!

And yes, I have been known to do it. See, I've been using eBay for selling and buying for over 6 years, and I've seen it all. I can totally be one of those people who tell the youngins "when I was a kid, I had to walk up a hill in a snow storm just to get to school -- you kids these days with your fancy cars and cell phones! Bah!"

I'm one eBay user who is not afraid to stir up some trouble and report people who annoy me. I haven't done it in a long time because I just got nicer, I guess, but the other day I felt so used and abused that I had to report a seller for selling something in a misleading fashion.

I love Laurie Notaro (author) -- I can identify with her on so many levels that it's really spooky sometimes. She has a new xmas book coming out in a week or two, and I thought, hmmm...I wonder if anyone is selling the advance reader's copy on eBay? So I searched, and low and behold -- there it was! I could get it before it was released. What a sweet deal.

The bidding was at about 3 bucks, so, I figured in what the book would cost from Amazon.com plus shipping vs. what this person was charging for shipping to get my max bid, and I plugged my bid in for $8.00. I was the high bidder. Life was good.

That was when I decided I should probably read the description (I tend not to do that, like an idiot, and I hate people like me who bid on my auctions and don't read anything and then mail me a check to pay for their auction.). So I'm reading it, and that's when I realized I just bid $8.00 on a magnet. A stupid magnet. Hello?

I went back to the top of the listing, and sure enough, this person has listed a stupid magnet in the books category. I went back down to the details, and this person even used the prefilled book information (which I did see, by the way, so I can't blame myself fully for not reading the description). And, to top it off, while selling her stupid magnet (which, I'm sorry, is not even worth the $3 it was at before I got involved), she was advertising the signed book copy she has, which she'll be putting up at a later date.

I had to think about this. Do I do the right thing in this situation, and just suck it up and pay possibly $8 for a dumb magnet I don't even want, or do I retract my bid and list an incorrect reason for doing so? Because you know, there are only three reasons, according to eBay, for retracting your bid: placed wrong bid amount, cannot contact seller, and seller changed the item description (or something like that, I can't remember). Yup, that's it. Hmm. Not too much thought had to go into this one. I retracted my bid using the infamous "placed wrong bid amount" reason. Well, yes, I did place a wrong bid amount; it really should have been 5 cents, not 8 bucks.

After that was done, I just got mad. And you don't want to be getting me mad while on eBay. After many wrong turns in eBay's land of help (which I've never thought was very helpful), I finally found the place for misrepresenting an item. Was my item listed in an incorrect category? Yes! I typed in the item number, submitted it and a few hours later the listing was mysteriously gone.

Now, this won't get you kicked off eBay unless you start doing it all the time and people report you. And eBay rarely does spot checks anymore (I've had a few of my listings moved or removed because of this -- but that was years ago and I've learned my lessons). But it's always nice to know that I continue to have the power of destroying other people's dreams.

Crotch man and tissue lady

BART was messed up today because of some track switching issue in Daly City. This meant that the Fremont train was late. Not by much, but enough to cause a normal 4:15, 9-car train to be standing room only by the time it left Embarcadero.

Somehow I lucked out. I'm not one to rush a seat when it becomes empty because there's a possibility of not being fast enough or falling over because you usually have to make your way through a sea of people when the train begins to move again. And I just don't need that kind of stress. So I usually get stuck standing half the time I'm on the train. Today a lady got off at Embarcadero and I somehow, without having to do anything fancy, got to sit in the empty seat. And I even waited a bit before making my move.

A lot of people got on the train at Embarcadero, and since I took the last free seat, everyone had to pile in and hope for the best.

That's when I became acquainted with crotch man.

One of the many things I hate about aisle seats, which was the seat I was sitting in, is that you're an open target for body parts that "accidentally" touch you. Sometimes these touches are accidental and aren't even in the touching category -- more like I'm in a hurry and you're arm is just a thing in my way. The other thing that happens is invasion of personal space. Again, I love my personal space. If I could draw a chalk outline in the air around me to indicate where my personal space begins and end, I would. And if I could use a stun gun to shock people who invade my space, I would do that too.

By now you've probably guessed that someone invaded my space and that this someone was crotch man. Yes. You're so very correct. He decided that the best place to stand was right next to me, with his crotch right next to my face. I can deal with that to some extent because what else is he going to do? What I can't deal with is him leaning towards me to make room for someone who was trying to get to the door. Nothing like having a stranger's crotch a couple of inches away from your face.

At one point, he leaned in and then must have forgotten he was leaning in because there was no one trying to get by him. I'm going to keep thinking it was forgetting and not that he wanted to do what he was doing because that's just not right. I did contemplate the thought of asking him to kindly remove his crotch from my personal space box or I would have to elbow him in his crotch, but I didn't.

By the time I was getting close to fuming and getting ready to explode, he decided to move a few inches away. Goodbye, crotch man, I hope I don't ever see your crotch again!

The guy next to me got up and left the train, so I got to move to the window seat. For some reason no one near me jumped at the chance to sit in the empty seat (maybe they feared crotch man), so a minute passed before an Asian lady sat down next to me. She squeezed herself against the arm rest, like I had some weird disease. A small child could have sat in between us. Not that this was a problem for me.

When we were at Bayfair, the train was delayed a bit for some unknown reason, and I looked over towards to platform to see what was going on. Doing this gave me a better view of the Asian lady. She had a tissue pushed against her nose. No, not too weird, not too weird until many minutes passed and she never took it away.

Oh no, I thought. She's one of them loonies that think if they're in a confined space with other people, they'll get germs and somehow a tissue will save them. Perhaps you've seen these people. They often use surgical masks instead of tissues. Nothing like seeing someone walking down the street with a light blue mask on their face. There are the mask wearers and there are the sun visor wearers, and sometimes, if you're lucky, you'll see someone wearing both!

(Sun visor wearers: Giant sun visors with green tint that pretty much cover the whole face -- more like a helmet than a visor, really. Usually worn while driving. And when driving, this person must sit so close to the steering wheel that if they got into an a accident, the steering wheel would have to be surgically removed from their chest. Are the visors for skin protection? Eye protection? Protection from someone throwing a mud ball at you? Who knows).

There's nothing like watching someone with tissue attached to their face. When she got up to leave, she proudly walked out with the tissue still stuck to her face. Not a care in the world. I would just feel plain silly, but hey, if it's going to stop me from getting the bird flu, then maybe I should do it too. And people on BART can be really nasty as far as hygiene goes.

Hmm...maybe I should have stuck a tissue to my face to protect myself from crotch man?

Number 1, and Number 2...

I know my husband doesn't realize he does this, but he does (he will now, at least). Every night while we eat dinner, I get schooled. Typical conversation:

Me: So my mom went to her new gym for the hour with the trainer, and the trainer was making my mom do more than she could, and when my mom told her she shouldn't be doing it, the lady kept saying she had to....

Husband (interrupting me in mid sentence -- I sometimes keep plowing through my thought, because I know what's coming up, but most of the time I just succumb to it): I knew she shouldn't have done that....

(and this begins the schooling -- and man, when it's about working out, he's got a lot to say)

...Number one: blahblahblahblahblah... Number two: blahblahblah...

What amazes me is that he does this every night and on other various occasions when he feels like schooling others. Perhaps I should call him school marm. The first time he did it (many, many months ago), I was like, oh, how cute. He's going to give me two reasons and he's numbering them! And then as the days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months and now it's almost November, I'm starting to think it's not so cute. In fact, it's a bit annoying. At least I know I'm in for a long lecture of why 1. this shouldn't of happened for this reason, and 2. it also shouldn't have happened this way for this reason as well. It's a warning sign, a bright red flag waving with a loud siren screaming in the background, if you will.

What's even more fun is when he does it to other people in my presence. They look at him, like, oh -- you're so wise! You're giving me a couple of reasons of why something isn't correct! School me!!

And you can't even try to stop the numbering when it happens unless you get up and walk away. He usually winds down then, but sometimes he just follows you with number 2 rolling off his tongue. I've interrupted him on many an occasion, but he just hangs on to number 2 until I'm done.

I can't wait until he hits number 3 in his reasons. That'll be like a whole half hour of nonstop talk!

For my husband who may or may not read this (he's reading my blog now and says I exaggerate): Don't be shaking your head thinking I'm a crazy loon because it's true and I'll call you on it!

Antsy Pantsy

This morning, at about 3 stops into the train ride, a man got on the train who had a laptop bag and another bag attached to his person. At this point, there weren't any window seats open, so he was going to have to sit next to someone. I, of course, was in a window seat, so I could very well be his neighbor -- if he picked me.

Instead of making this an easy process for himself, he decided to become weird antsy-pantsy man.

He stood right at the beginning of the aisle. He looked around. He put his laptop bag down. He then did something that looked like he was taking his shoes off, but unless I stared at Mr. antsy-pantsy, I couldn't tell what, exactly, he was doing.

He kept looking around at all the different seats. I told him telepathically to sit his butt down in that first seat near him and stop acting so weird. And please don't sit next to me. I cannot stand having antsy-pantsy people sitting next to me. It makes me crazy. On my way from Chicago to Boston, I got stuck sitting in between two men...oh, that's another story in and of itself. I just hate people who have to constantly move a body part around and can't just relax. Not to mention an antsy-pantsy with so much extra baggage.

He picked up his bag. No, no, no, no, I'm not here, you don't want to sit here, no one wants you coming down the aisle. He started walking, one step, two step, stop. No, no -- turn around now and go back -- back I say! He looked around again. Do not sit here, do not sit here, I may look small and the seat next to me may look like a really good spot to sit down your antsy-pantsy butt, but just breath through it and sit somewhere else. He put his bag down again. He picked it up. Uh-oh, this isn't looking good. Go away! He turned around and walked to the front of the aisle again and stopped. Phew, that was a close call... He put his bag down in the same spot as before and finally decided to sit down. In the front. Where he could have sat from the beginning and saved all of us from using our telepathic powers of suggestion.

Next thing I know, his laptop was out and he was enjoying a fun game of solitaire. Now I was really happy he didn't sit next to me because there's nothing like having someone larger than you sitting next to you who thinks it's perfectly alright and down right just dandy that they play on their laptop, and so you get elbow-jabbed the whole ride. It almost seems like people with laptops think they get special seating privileges the average person (read: me) doesn't get because all he/she is doing is reading a book. And don't forget being smaller, which means you're not taking up as much space as a "normal" person (while I am a little chunky, I'm a bit petite -- more from being short than anything else). For some reason it means we've given up our extra personal space to larger people want to sit next to us. Like we're supposed to accommodate them. Or maybe we were born to accommodate them?

Anyway. This has been one of the weirder "weird people" incidents I've had in a long time on BART. Ah, but that doesn't top the weirdest incident today: A chef was wandering around my work area. We don't house chefs here. I made eye contact and quickly looked away. Now where's the guy who wears a cape in the elevator? He would top things for sure.

Being interracial in the wine country

As I've said a few times before, I'm white and my husband is not. He's Mexican. And lovely at that. His features are very distinct if you're used to looking at people directly from Latin American vs. people who are the 2nd or 3rd generation here. He's got a little bit of a warrior inside of him.

I tend to think that people who are 2nd, 3rd, 4th, etc. generation in a Mexican family (or any Latin family) tend to get diluted somehow. This must start with someone throwing in some white genes or someone making babies with a very causasian-looking Mexican person (don't always think that the blondy sitting next to you is white -- he/she could very well be from Mexico). However it happens, there is a definite difference between generational features. My husband is 1st generation to be born in the US in his family. So he's still sporting the warrior look. And I like it.

I've been with him for almost 12 years now, so I'm pretty used to how he looks. You put us together, and we're complete opposites. He's brown (more so in the summer), and I tend to keep my pale whiteness throughout the year. Me and the sun usually don't meet each other too much now that I work in an office building. Since I'm so used to how we must look together, I hardly think about what others are seeing. It's just me and my hubby, not some interracial couple trying to start troubles with other people. Other people in the wine country, that is.

I have now crossed the wine country off my list of possible weekend getaways.

We arrived at our B&B at night, so the only people we saw were those in the inn itself. No problems there; we were treated with kindness. No weird looks or rudeness. Then we went to a nearby restaurant (one of the two) for dinner. That wasn't bad either, but that's when I noticed all the white people. And that's it. Just the white folks. Unless you counted the guys in the back.

The next day we went to River Rock (see entry below), and while we were surrounded by wrinkly Asian people, and neither one of us are Asian, we felt okay there. Just like any other casino crowd -- the rainbow of colors and ages were displayed proudly.

As we drove to the wineries in Healdsburg, we started to see more and more Mexican workers. Not Mexican people out and about on a lovely Saturday having a good time, but either working or trying to get somewhere or something. They certainly weren't wine tasting. The first winery we went to was fine as far as my husband being the only brown guy drinking wine in the vicinity, and we were actually treated very nicely by the jolly and knowledgeable man behind the counter than kept feeding us wine. We liked him, the experience and the wine so much that we bought a bottle.

We really didn't know where else to go since we're not wine drinkers enough to know who to like (although I am partial to Robert Mondavi thanks to my close pal), so my husband declared he was going to follow a couple that just left in a limo. I had overheard the guy saying their next stop was the general store, but I wasn't really paying attention to what was going on (blame that on the wine). As he was pulling into the parking area, I told him this was a general store, not a winery. We got out anyway in search of snacks, but this general store, being in the wine country, was one of those "gourmet" general stores that features twigs and nuts and organic wheat chips and nothing like turkey jerky or cheetos.

When we walked out of the store, I was looking straight ahead, which just so happened to face a table full of Mexican guys who I'm pretty sure either worked in the fields or worked in a restaurant. Stereotypes aside, this is usually the case. Suddenly my head was hit with death rays of hate from the table of guys, and I had to quickly look away to save my sight. The death rays could have been meant for me, for my husband or for us. For some reason, some people just don't like seeing the brown and the sugar mixing. And -- guess what? It goes both ways.

So we high-tailed it to our car, got in and took off. We decided to just go wherever looked interesting, which happened to be Raymond Burr's winery. Didn't know he had one, huh? I certainly didn't. I also didn't know he had a male campanion of 35 years (no mention of how seriously they were in the relationship area). When we walked up to the tasting room, we were cast into a sea of white. Again, my husband was sticking out in the crowd (as he often does sometimes). While I noticed everyone was white, I didn't stop to think how this was making my husband feel. It's not that I don't realize what's going on, but that I don't see a problem with it.

When we went outside to enjoy our wine (basically the lady inside told us to get out because the room was too small), my husband said, "I feel out of place here."

"Here? Just here?" I asked him, stupidly amazed.

"Not just here, but here," and he made a motion to show he meant the wine country in general.

I was sad. It's just sad that someone has to feel like that, especially someone I love.

"Well, next time, you can take me some place where I'll feel out of place," I told him. "I'll scratch the wine country off our list of places to go."

One after another, white people arrived and left. I think there was one non-white person at some point who wasn't my husband, but I don't honestly remember. And I kept thinking after that point, where are all the non-whites? Do they not go to the wine country to get free wine from wineries? It was just odd.

So we left and went to Healdsburg, which is nice and all money, but at least there was a mix of people. I saw one black person who was smartly dressed in a unitard and blazer. A few Asians. Mostly older white people who probably own all the wineries we just drove by.

And I still wasn't really thinking of us as an "us" and that "us" may be a problem for some people. I was really just thinking about my husband and how everyone's thinking how nice the migrant worker got out for the day. Not that the migrant worker was out for the day with whitey (aka me).

When we left the next day, we stopped in a small town about 15 minutes from Geyersville in search of gas and breakfast. We ended up going to the local Safeway to have Starbucks and a treat to tie us over until we got home. That Safeway was the stepford Safeway. Needless to say, we didn't fit in again as everyone there was pretty much white and had a kid. I mean, everyone had a small child with them -- seriously. Then there was us, young with no kid and looking like no other couple in the store.

Well, there was a weird man behind us in line that talked like a cartoon character and had no neck. He really should see about getting into the voice over business because he sounds like a cartoon so naturally.

I noticed all the whites with kids, especially this one lady we were sitting next to who freaked out because her kid licked the table. I heard "IF YOU DO THAT AGAIN, YOU'RE GOING IN THE STROLLER!!!!" I couldn't help but look. The kid gave her that "oh yeah, like I'm going to listen to you, you crazy lady" look and licked the table. She stood up, rushed to him, grabbed him and tried to jam him into the stroller. I liken this to trying to put a cat who full well knows the meaning of a cat carrier (vet) -- they're all legs and hair and claws. Her husband showed up declaring that kitty litter was on sale (ironic!). He paused and watched her trying to stuff their child into the stroller, and was trying to calm someone down (her, the kid, perhaps us), when she announced she was taking him OUTSIDE, NOW. She grabbed the poor little one and took him outside.

Talk about a broomstick jammed up someone's butt. This lady was high-strung. I hope living in the wine country doesn't do this to everyone.

And, I might mention, that all the while she was trying to jam and stuff her kid into the stroller, her other kid (she had 4 of them, I think) was jamming her finger up her nose. Now why is that okay?

I wasn't even sure the nose picker was hers because it would seem like she'd freak out over that since she doesn't believe in table germs. I thought it was just some girl that followed their daughter, who was with the dad exploring kitty litter options. I started to say something to my husband about how their daughter was picking her nose, when I thought, oh, she's not their daughter, she can't be. Then I realized she was theirs when they all lumped together, so I told my husband then. We had a good laugh.

Oh, but I digress. My husband had to use the bathroom, so we walked over to one of the employees. This is how that went.

My husband: "Excuse me, but do you have a restroom in here?

Safeway guy: "Yes."

.....pause.....

My husband and I are looking at him like, okay.....

Safeway guy: "It over in the corner by the meat department." Safeway guy waves his hand in the direction of the corner.

I told my husband I thought he wasn't going to say anything else. My husband thought so to.

We walked over to the corner, and while my husband was doing his business, I got harassed by the fish counter lady for a bit because I was window shopping.

When he came out, this lady in one of those "I'm too large to walk anymore so I have to use a go cart and I rule the road" ladies came out of the bathroom. I can't remember who, but someone at that exact same time gave us a weird, dirty look.

"Man! What was that for!" I said.

"Oh, we've been getting them. You were getting them from the Mexican people, and I was getting them from the white people."

"What Mexican people? I didn't see any Mexican people," I said. Honestly, not a one.

"Oh, they walked by us. They're gone now. They were giving you dirty looks."

"Oh, nice."

"But you know what's funny?" he asked.

"What?

"When I was in the bathroom, I noticed someone wrote on the bathroom door: White people are stupid."

"Well, they have a point," I told him.

That pretty much sums up our wine country weekend as an interracial couple. Home never felt so good.

Finally

I finally finished The Idiot. I think it's been 2 months since I started it, which is an extraordinarily long time for me to read a book. I have to say, the ending actually surprised me. You just never know what them crazy Russians will do.

To counteract my months of reading a literary classic, I am now reading The Broke Diaries by Angela Nissel. I actually started reading it this weekend in preparation for finishing The Idiot.

I read a few pages, put the book down and declared: "I cannot read this!"

My husband asked me why. Basically, if I spend 2 months reading a really weighty book, and then I try to read something that reads like a teenager wrote it, it takes my brain some time to adjust. You go from reading 4 pages just to understand how a character feels about a particular incident to someone who writes "Yo! Doesn't he know I'm broke?" This can be a bit jarring for the brain. But at least it's a fast read.

On the driving range

I've decided I'd really enjoy an hour or two out at one of them fake driving ranges with the fake grass, and the nets to protect the houses and in this case, the BART train from flying balls. And then there's the fake mini course where you can practice either avoiding sandtraps or getting out of them.

But really, what I'd really like to do, is hit the man in the cage on wheels who drives around the fake grass while scooping up the balls.

That's what I'd really like to do. I need to find out when he's working.

River Rock Casino

My husband and I have talked about taking a trip to an Indian casino in lieu of spending the money to go to Reno or Las Vegas off an on throughout the years. But there were always questions that couldn't be answered based on web sites, and the only person I know who goes to them regularly is my Grandmother, and I wasn't about to ask her if they give you free booze.

This past weekend we took a trip to the wine country -- just to get away, rest and rejuvenate ourselves to get through another couple of months of busyness. And, we just so happened to stay in Geyersville, which is home to River Rock Casino! I didn't even realize this until the day we were to leave. I knew it was close by to where we were staying, but I didn't know it was 7 minutes away. Woohoo! Let's pull out money that we really shouldn't in hopes of winning millions! It's the American way!

Now, if you visit their web site, you can tell they're trying to hide something. They really don't give you much information. And that picture on the homepage? Well, they must have borrowed someone's lawn in a vineyard because there is no lawn in sight near the casino. In fact, it's more like a giant cement eyesore in the foothills above Alexander Valley. When driving to our inn at night, when it was dark, and we both saw it before we realized what it was. At night, when everyone else is being quiet and peaceful, with minimum lights blaring (which makes it hard to drive if you don't know the area), River Rock Casino proudly announces itself to everyone within a 30-miles radius. I figured the casino wasn't very big (I got this impression from their minimal web site), so when we were on 101, I wasn't sure that what I was looking at was the casino. My husband thought it was an institution or something.

Turns out that's the parking garages. All three of them with 5 floors each.

Since the roads were so dark with hardly any street lights, we decided going to the casino during night time was not the best idea. So instead of pulling the one-arm bandit's one arm over and over until I ran out of money, we went to a nearby restaurant and had dinner.

The next morning I suggested that we go and find the casino so if we decided to go at night, we'd know where it was. My husband agreed. We turned onto 128 and drove through the country and looked at lovely wineries, and it was all twisty-turny with no obvious lighting. So I suggested we just get the Indian casino portion of our weekend trip over with. Nothing like hitting the slot machines at 11am in the morning! My husband agreed again.

We ended up missing the right turn to the casino, so we had to turn around and go back. My first impression of the casino and this whole Indian casino experience is that we were going to some military encampment. It turns out the casino is up on a hill (and no, I still didn't get the connection that the blaring eyesore was the casino at this point -- I am that dense), and the tourist busses that cart around senior citizens take top priority when going up and down the hill. We had to wait until two came down and one went up before we could go up.

We drove up the road, which was curtained on both sides by lovely country scenery. Then we got to the top, and BAM! all you can see was cement. Cement parking garages, cement parking lot for the "VIPs," and the building itself, which wasn't cement, but wasn't pretty either. Security was everywhere. It all seemed so top secret. Like we were really doing something wrong.

We parked, went downstairs to the ground level, and then began our quest to gamble.

The first question I always had about Indian casinos was whether you can smoke or not. By California law, you can't smoke indoors. There's just something about the thought of entering a casino that doesn't have that layer of cigarette or cigar smoke right at eye level that seems, well, wrong. It just doesn't seem right. Although that would save my husband from having vampire eyes, as I call them, since smoke really bothers his eyes and they turn bright red. So when we walked in, I sniffed but didn't immediately smell anything. Then I spotted this old Asian lady, who was probably about 4 feet tall and all wrinkles, puffing away at cigarette. I started tapping my husband on his side, and I pointed to her. So you can smoke in an Indian casino. That takes care of question number one.

And everyone was smoking, it seemed like. And everyone smoking seemed to be tiny, old, wrinkly Asian people with missing teeth and no regard for others who are trying to walk around.
Oh, but I digress.

We walked around a bit, looking for some interesting 5 cent machines. It's very surreal to be in a casino in California, only 7 minutes away from our inn, where people can freely smoke in the building and the majority of the population were old folks. We played Wheel of Fortune until our 20 dollars ran out, and then my husband wanted to tackle the black jack tables. Since the casino is smaller than the average Reno or Vegas casino (at least it seemed like it to me), there were limited tables. Most of them were full already except one 10 dollar black jack table. I sent my husband off with 40 bucks so he could win us a million, and I wandered around trying to find that one slot machine that was calling my name.

Wandering around took longer than I expected because I kept getting stuck behind tiny old people who walk very very slowly. I ended up in "high limit" slots area, as I usually do at all casinos. No, I don't think I'm a high limit gambler. No, I don't even take those kinds of chances. What it is is this -- I see $5 and I somehow always turn this into 5 cents. Without fail. I have even put my money into a few machines, played once and then realized what I did. It's very disarming when you look at your credits and then they just disappear in two seconds. When I was wandering around River Rock's high limit area (which only goes up to 5 bucks, by the way -- I guess the old folks don't like living large), I kept thinking to myself, wow! What luck -- no one wants to play the fun slots in this area! It took me a few minutes to realize where I was, but I acted cool about it, and I just wandered off to the dollar slots.

I figured I was going to gamble my money anyway, so I may as well do it quickly so we could get out of the place. I put my money into a simple dollar slot machine, lost a couple of bucks, won a couple back, and then cashed out. I wasn't feeling the machine.

I moved to another dollar slot machine that was really calling my name. I put my money in and went up and down for awhile. At one point I was 20 bucks ahead, and I sat there and stared at the machine. I figured if the machine was nice enough to give me 20 bucks, it may be nice enough to give me 60 or even 80 bucks, so I pushed the maximum bid button again. A few minutes later, I had no money. Always cash out! Always cash out!!

I walked over to check up on my husband, and he seemed to be winning, so I went to use the bathroom. I got stuck because of more old folks, so it took a long time to walk 20 feet. I realized on the way to the bathroom that the darn Indian casino had more slot rooms tucked in the back. So it was larger than I thought. If you're allowing that many people to park at there, then I guess you've got to make the room for them.

And then I saw waitresses with trays full of plastic cupped drinks with lids and straws. Aha! This answered question number two! They do serve free drinks (I think)! Of course they aren't going to advertise this on their web site, but I'll tell you, if they did, we would have gone a long time ago. Since I was never asked if I wanted a drink or witnesses a drink transaction, I still don't know if they give you the drinks or not. I'm thinking they do. They don't want the old folks getting crabby.

I did my business and then went back to the black jack table to see how rich we were. My husband was gone. I looked around. No husband in sight. I sat down and was going to call his cell phone to ask where he was, when he popped up out of nowhere. I told him about the hidden slot rooms while he told me how he lost all his money. I told him I watched him before I went to the bathroom and he was winning. He said it was when the tiny Asian men sat down -- they ruined everything. Who knew tiny Asian men caused bad luck. And they were everywhere.

We went to the hidden slot room and played 20 dollars each on the nickel slots. We both lost. My husband suggested going to sit at the bar for a bit.

We headed off to the bar to have a refreshing drink (aka something with alcohol in it). No one was in the bar area. We sat down and looked at the bar's offerings.

"They don't serve alcohol! Let's get out of here!" my husband declared. All along the back of the bar, where your typical fare of hard liquor would be stored, was a lovely selection of water, juice and milk.

Scratch my answer to question number two -- there were no free "drinks" going on here. Only sodas, juices, water and milk. Who drinks milk at a casino?

So we left. I was crushed. My first Indian casino trip was a wash. If I wanted to hang out with a bunch of old, wrinkly Asian folks, I could have gone to Chinatown in SF or to any bus stop in downtown SF. And that darn casino had 160 of my money! I just paid the casino for nothing.

When we walked outside, a bus was just being loaded up with some old folks to take them away. I told my husband that we were going to be those people some day. With name tags and everything.

When we left and got on 101 to head to some wineries for free drinks (also known as "tasting" and I didn't even have to give the wineries money for it), I looked to my left where the casino is located. That's when I finally got that the blaringly lit institution was really the parking garages of the casino. Ack, what an eyesore, I thought.

I'm glad we didn't go there during the night, because if the casino is filled with wrinkly folks during the day, then what's lurking there at night? My husband did see one guy there that we saw at the restaurant the night before. How did he know it was him? Because he was wearing the same shirt. And my husband said I was mean for making fun of the local yokels.

So what did I learn from this excursion? 1. You can smoke in Indian casinos, yet 2. you can't drink alcohol while on the casino floor. And old people get bussed in and out on a regular basis.

And the pictures on River Rock's web site of relatively young people enjoying casino fun is all a ploy to lure us youngsters in and to give away our money for nothing. And to think, if I was an old person who had internet access and liked to look up Indian casinos, I would be a bit put off by all the young folks in the pictures. Really, they should just advertise to those that really go there.

And make sure you read the fine print:

"Will offer regional and local wine selections at the Wine Creek Bar." (A quote from their web site, and no, this is not the bar in the casino - it's separated by doors.)

When? When will you be offering these fine wines? The year 2050?

50 dollar bill

You cannot hide things from me or keep secrets because somehow I will always figure it out. Especially if you live with me. Like my husband -- I always figure out gifts or secrets because he can't cover his trails. And it's not like I'm exactly looking for things; I just always come across stuff.

So remember when he stole my dollar bill? And insisted he didn't steal it, but just found it, so that makes it all okay to take?

Well, today I found a 50 dollar bill.

I was cleaning up our bedroom, and I was going to put his work name tag in one of his "man" boxes on the dresser. The first thing I noticed when I opened it up was that it was stuffed full of receipts. I mean, a lot of receipts. The first one was a Staples receipt. When I pulled the bundle out, I noticed a 50 dollar bill wrapped up in the receipts. Interesting, I thought. I looked at the Staples receipt and couldn't make any sense of it, so I put everything back and stuck his name tag in his man box.

I pondered if I should say anything or not. My husband likes to squirrel things away from me, and it's not necessarily hiding things, but more putting things in weird places and I have to go on a treasure hunt trying to find them. And he always hoards money whenever he sells CDs at work (he sells them to get money). He figures that's "his money," and he doesn't have to share with me. During hard times, this is very annoying. But I've gotten used to it.

He has more money squirreled away in another box on the dresser. This was only a secret to him because I took his birthday money from 2 years ago and put it in there. I only recently told him where it was. He was surprised he had so much money. I was thinking that maybe he put the 50 in the other box because he got confused. A man should really only have one maybe two man boxes.

Ah, screw it, I thought. I'll ask him about it.

I went into his room. "Why are you hiding 50 bucks from me?" I asked.

He turned and looked at me all baffled. "What? Why do you always do this! Damn you! I was saving it!" he said.

"But why're you hiding it from me?"

"I wasn't hiding it from you. I was saving it."

"What's up with all the receipts?" I asked.

"Oh....those are from gifts I bought you. In case you wanted to return them," he told me.

"Man, that's a lot of receipts. Are you keeping them for sentimental value?"

"No!"

"The 50 dollar bill was wrapped up in receipts and stuffed in a box. If that's not hiding, then I don't know what is."

"I wasn't hiding it," he said.

I walked out and went into the other room. But then I remembered my missing 1 dollar bill. That was wrapped in a receipt. Just like his 50 dollar bill.

I went back into his room.

"So, since we agreed that if money is just lying around and one of us comes across it, then we can take it and call it our own...Then I can take the 50!" I told him.

"I'll tell you what it's for! I was saving it for Christmas so I didn't have to use the credit card because you'd just freak out! Okay? You happy now? You ruin everything!"

"Oh...okay. But I just find it interesting that my dollar was wrapped in a receipt and so is your 50, and you just took my dollar...."

"I'll give you the dollar back!" he told me.

"No, I'd rather have the 50." I laughed as I walked out of the room.

He is just a man of mystery, I tell you. What gets me is that I bought one of those "I Love You" cards to give to him, but never got around to it. It was sitting in a bag on his side of the dresser next to him man boxes. And he never once looked into the bag or asked me what the card was for.

Now that's how you hide stuff.

How long do you wait before you tell someone your name isn't what they're calling you?

For the average person, right away. Or maybe after the 2nd time. For me? Hardly never.

I spent the past two days being called someone else's name instead of my own. And what's funny is that the person started out just fine yesterday morning. She was calling me by my name left and right. I'm not sure what happened, perhaps I mentioned the other name one too many times when talking to her, but by 10am, I was someone else.

Being someone else is interesting because if anything bad happens, you didn't do it. But what if someone wants to thank you or do something nice for you, and someone else's name is attached to that gesture of kindness? And how, exactly, do you tell someone you hardly know and don't even know how often you will talk to them as time passes, that they're calling you by a completely different name? Does it really matter?

Maybe it's an ego thing. Maybe it's a respect thing. Maybe it's a who really cares thing when it comes down to it.

I've been called so many different names in my life because I've been cursed with a first name no one can pronounce when reading it and no one can spell when writing it down. And my middle name is always confused with Marcia. You simply switch the placement of the 'i' so that it's before the 'c,' and you have my middle name. Go ahead, write it down. Now say it. You said Marcia, didn't you?

One time I had someone look at my middle name and announce to me, "Oh! Your middle name is sooo patriotic! Mer-eek-a!" As in, A-merica. As in, silent 'a.' Ah, yes, my parents are fun lovin' hippies who wanted to show their hippy-love of the good ol' USA. Why not go all the way and just name me America?

Then there's the last name, which I can only blame on myself for having because I married my husband and took his name. I certainly didn't have to, although there were some mumbles about not marrying me if I didn't take it.

When I first met my husband, a day after our first date I realized I didn't know his last name. He, being the sauve devil that he was (notice I said "was" and not "is" -- he's married now and not allowed to act cute with other girls) told me: It's Zarate, like karate but with a 'Z.' Now, I know why he told me this because Zarate isn't the easiest name to pronounce by people, but it's still a corny thing to say. It's probably something he said over and over and over to all his lady friends. So that's how I learned to pronounce it, and I often bring up his smooth talking at really inappropriate moments. Just because it's fun.

But now, because we're living in a more customer-oriented world (Safeway), and I tend to have to call customer service people a lot these days, I have been told many, many, many times that my last name is like 'karate." But with a 'Z.' Ah yes, you are very smart, grass hopper. I never thought of that. Now find a way to get people to pronounce my first and middle name, and I'll pay you several dollars.

And now back to my first name. I have been called Janie, Janice, Janeece (fun combo of my name and my sister's), my sister's name and other names that I can't think of right now. Some have been bizarre. No one really tackles my middle name unless they want to test their wits.

Add it all together and what do you have? One long name no one can pronounce or spell correctly. I can't wait to have kids. I want to torture them so. If I had to live through it, so will they.

Back to the beginning, I never told the person that they were calling me by the wrong name. I think they figured it out for themselves. It's more fun that way sometimes.

The Idiot is killing me!

I am still reading Dostoyevsky's The Idiot. It's been months now (or seems that way), and I'm only 60 pages away from ending (600 pages total), but I read a few pages and then pass out on BART. Sorry Mr. Dostoyevsky, but if this is how the Russians really were in the olden days, with their long speeches and weird intellectual games of tag, then I'm so glad I was not born during this time. Or born a Russian.

Half the time I don't understand why everyone thinks Myshkin is an idiot, and then the other half of the time I don't get why everyone doesn't get annoyed with him. I mean, he seems like a nice enough fellow, but he just needs to learn to shut up sometimes.

I get all the things you're supposed to get; that Dostoyevsky is examining the Russian elite, politics, religion as well as studying what a truly innocent and pure of heart person would be like when thrown amongst an amalgamation of different society classes. I get this. The plot is archetypal: Good, evil and the innocent. Much like other plots. Take a look at Star Wars.

I've heard that The Idiot isn't the best of Dostoyevsky's work. It's got its merits. Just a tough read to get through while sitting on a train at 6am in the morning.

Dollar Bill

I went to the post office yesterday and paid my 3 dollars and some odd cents total with a 5 dollar bill. I folded the dollar bill with the receipt and stuffed them plus the change in my jeans pocket.

When I got home, I pulled out the receipt with dollar bill still folded up in it and put it on top of our hamper. I admit, I was being lazy, but I figured I'd put the dollar bill into my wallet later on. And then I'd have a whopping 2 dollars to my name. You can see why I wasn't in such a rush to add it to my dollar bill collection, or lack thereof.

This morning, I looked at the top of the hamper and my post office receipt was unfolded on top of the hamper. My dollar bill was mysteriously missing.

I made my husband and I breakfast like a good wifey, and while we were eating, I posed the question about my missing dollar bill to my husband.

"Do you know where my dollar bill went?" I asked this question full well knowing he took it.

His face completely changed from that "I'm caught" face to "I'm sooo innocent and cute" look.

"What doll....Where was it?" he asked me with a goofy smile on his face.

"You know where because you took it!" I told him. "It was folded up in a receipt. The receipt is still there, but not the dollar bill."

"Oh...that dollar. I put it in my wallet," he told me.

"Why would you do that? That's my dollar, not your dollar."

"Well, the receipt was on the ground...."

"Because Sophia knocked it off the hamper," I said.

"...and I picked it up."

"And you took my dollar!!!"

"No, it was on the ground."

"Which means you took it. That's fine, if you want to take your wife's dollar so that she's left with only one dollar to her name, then fine."

"I'll give it back to you...."

"No, that's okay. But now I know that if money is left lying around, then I can just take it."

Only my husband would take my dollar and then act like he didn't and then finally fess up but still act indignant about the whole thing. He likes to play master mind with me.

Most Haunted: The Early Years

I'm sadden to say that Most Haunted was one of those shows I can't stand -- the one with weird effects and reenactments. That's just not cool.

I now know that Yvette (annoying hostess) is really a brunette, and that the parapsychologist (can't remember his name but he's got a weird crease on his upper lip) was sporting a punk rock/club scene look just last year.

And don't get me started on Derek. I don't know who was dressing him then, but thank goodness he's got his style on now.

I'm glad Most Haunted got a make over for the year 2005 because the 2004 season was more funny than scary. Did you know that when you see ghosts, the air becomes misty red? Oh yes.

Goodbye, My Dear Friend

It truly is a sad day. Today I had to say goodbye to a dear, dear friend of mine. While I saw it coming, I was very sad to realize how quickly he would be departing me.

When I got home today, I went to over the passenger side of my car to get bags out from that side. For some reason I looked up and over at my Jack in the Box Reindeer Antenna Ball. A deep sadness washed over me.

I've lost way too many people in my life, not you too, Jack in the Box Reindeer Antenna Ball.

The first thing I noticed was that his other antler was missing now. Now he just looks plain weird. I walked back to the driver side and took a good look. Not only were his eyes and mouth gone (blue and red stickers), but where an eye was on his face now looked like someone pulled his eye out of his socket and it was dangling down. His whole head was punctured by tiny little kitty teeth.

There was no reason to allow my Jack in the Box Reindeer Antenna Ball to suffer any longer. Obviously these assaults were occurring at night, when I couldn't protect him. He was left alone too often.

So R.I.P. dear Jack in the Box Reindeer Antenna Ball. I hope you find the Jack in the Box Raider Antenna Ball that was on my husbands antenna a couple of years go in Antenna Ball Heaven. We've mourned him too. Godspeed you both.

R.I.P. my dear friend.

BGWAXJB

First let me say to my mom: I'm sorry, but I had to do it.

I love my parents to death. Sometimes they surprise me and are knowledgeable about things. Hey, they watch TV and movies. They sometimes know what the crazy kids these days are doing.

Then...well, there are other times when their parental innocence strikes me like rapid wagging dog's tail.

For example. (Again, mom, if you're reading this -- maybe you should go watch some TV and wait for my next entry.) My parents have come up with two clever license plates for their past two cars. They are clever folks, I will admit that. They recently purchased a new car, and with being so clever, they would have to think of a new clever license plate for their new car.

My dad was waxing his car (which is rather big and hard to get out of and one time I almost fell on my face when exiting it and my mom hysterically laughed at me) when his clever bell started ringing. Big car....waxing.... big job. BGWAXJB.

My mom told me this this morning on the phone. My brain, being the sort that always thinks rapidly and too much and usually comes up with the worst possible scenario in all cases, quickly thought: Porn. I told my mom to not use that. Don't use that! That's not good!!!

She then told me how my dad came up with the name (see above), and told me, "It's cute."

Cute? That's not cute! That's BAAADDDD. Because if I'm immediately thinking of porn, then there has to be at least 1MM others that would too. Or more. I really don't know how many people live in our country.

I told her she may want to rethink that. My mom, being the innocent that she is, said, "Why? It's cute!" This coming from the lady that just learned what a "hummer" is.

I said, "Yah, if you're in the porn industry."

She told me it was too late, they already ordered the plate.

I pondered what my husband would think. So I emailed him and asked him what was the first thing in his mind was when he read "BGWAXJB." He said porn. I told him the story behind it, and he said my parents should think again before ordering it. I said it was already ordered. He said he hopes they don't get mistaken for porn stars. Then we laughed.

So I asked my friend via email what she thought when she sees BGWAXJB. She said, "blow job."

This wasn't looking good.

I asked someone else, and they said it has nothing to do with waxing a car....but waxing something and then she gave me a weird look. I told her about it, and she said, "Are you serious???"

Now, these are all people my age. So perhaps folks in my parent's age sector will appreciate the license plate for what it is. Not a calling out to those who enjoy big, um, porn acts, but for those that have owned a large car at some point in their life and really understand what a big wax job entails.

I just wish my parents would call me first before they do these things. While I am aging and now sport some grey hairs, I'm a bit more keen on what those crazy kids are doing. And if I don't know, I can certainly find out.

So if you see a car zooming around town advertising its wears, just know that the people inside are my parents and that I love them, so don't you dare ask for their autograph or try to take a picture of them!

PO Nazi update

Ken is truly a fabulous PO Nazi because my husband went to our local post office, and he had no problems breaking the rules and using delivery confirmation on our packages. Long live Ken. I hope Ken wins some kind of post office award for knowing all the rules and regulations for every kind of service the post office can offer.

Have I mentioned my love for this show?

I love, LOVE the show Most Haunted on the Travel Channel. Now that we have our fancy Comcast DVR, I don't miss a single episode. I make a point to watch this show with my husband, but I'm getting to the point where I may just watch it solo. I'm getting rather tired of hearing him declare how much he hates the hostess, Yvette Fielding, and that she needs attention and is really annoying. While these things are true, he really kills the spookiness of the show by exclaiming every five seconds how he hates her.

I am particularly fond of shows that aren't all dolled up and kooky when it comes to ghosts and hauntings. I like the plain facts with no fireworks and stupid monologues around a giant haunted tree that has lit candles hanging from it. Throw in a realistic-looking seance and some possessions, and I am one happy gal.

I used to watch the Scariest Places on Earth on the Family Channel (of all channels -- very weird) until it turned into a dolled-up show with kooky witches (so they say) and no more really scary, realistic shots. It was on Friday night, and my husband used to work that night. I would get worked up when watching it because I was alone and everything seemed real and it was just plain creepy.

One show was particularly spooky, and I didn't hear my husband enter the apartment when he came home. I'm usually a very light sleeper, so when he approached the bed, sans shirt, I woke up with a start and only saw a glowing, white belly facing me. I screamed like a banshee and then cried. He tried to calm me down, but I was too far gone at this point. While my husband is not white, and his belly will always be darker than my arms, for some reason it was really white that night. From that point on, I don't really like watching my favorite spooky shows without him being there. That way, if I see a white something coming towards me, I know it has to be a ghost.

So I was glad to come across Most Haunted because it featured all the aspects I love in a good old fashion spooky ghost show. We have the annoying lady hostess that always looks like a deer in headlights with the night vision (oh, yes, your heard me -- night vision!), Derek Acorah, the medium who often gets possessed during seances and has a ghost buddy named Sam who tells him things so he can pass them on to us, the other medium they sometime use who wears a fur-lined hooded jacket and kinda looks like Moby and a bunch of crew members who are just like me and you -- regular blokes who get spooked easily. And they all love to swear like sailors! Good times!

My husband and I have debates on whether everything that happens is real or not. Sometimes we think Derek is a mighty fine actor. But I can't help but believe it. If they throw in some whacked out witch doctor or a medium that wore all black and had black hair and spoke in old timey British english, then I would be concerned. Oh, and the main part of the show is giving a brief history of the place they're visiting, and then dragging Derek around to see if he can pick up on anything that really happened. While he does do this periodically, he usually comes up with things that can't be confirmed. One time he was talking to a French Queen (deceased), and the commentator guy at the end who tries to give us every reason that disproves the incidents are real was baffled why he couldn't pronounce her name correctly since he was talking to her. They played it back, and I'm thinking Derek did a fine job. The telephone line between us and the the spirits must be a bit crackly, don't you think?

The first time you watch the show, you'll be just as amazed as I was with Derek and how he figures things out. Then, just like I did, you'll start to realize that he's got to be told where he's going, and based on that information, he could just as easily research the place and regurgitate the information. But his showmanship is spectacular.

I have such fond memories of the table in the attic being thrown into one of the guy's legs. And all the books that hit people. And that time Derek almost attacked the hostess while being possessed. Oh, what fun we all have.

BART almost gave me today off

I haven't mentioned this because I've complained about it so much in the past that I didn't think it was worth the brain effort to complain again. Yes, it's the return of the "overnight stay" error on my Translink card. This happened, oh, at the end of September, and we're now almost halfway through October. I haven't seen my Translink card for almost two weeks now. Which means, yet again, that I have to put 20 bucks on a BART card every other day so that I can get to work. Which also means that I now have about 300 dollars floating around somewhere that's for my Translink card. And I can't access it. I just have to wait.

So I've spent probably 160 bucks of money that wasn't allotted towards transportation, while my Translink card is somewhere and my extra money is being stored in cyber space.

When I had mailed in my card to Translink to get it fixed, I sent it with signed letter asking them to change my address in their system. I figured along with the instructions to clear the "overnight stay" error, they could update my information because if they're reading one part of the letter, they should just go ahead and finish it. Right? Every day came and went without my Translink card in my mailbox.

I started to get worried, so I called yesterday to tell the Translink folks (who are now beginning to be my best pals) that I'm trying to track down my card and that I had asked to get my address updated, and I'm thinking it didn't happen. My card was mailed out on the 5th, she told me. I've never received it. My address wasn't changed either (go figure). So this means the people living in my old apartment now have access to a card full of money. Lucky them.

We agreed a new card should be issued to me, and my address was updated. So I have to fork over more money for the next week.

Today I tried to put more money on my BART card but the machine hated my credit card. And my ATM card. So I moved to another machine, and it hated my cards as well. So I went to another machine, and that machine hated my cards too. I gave up. Let the machines win this battle. I had 10 bucks in my wallet, so I used that to get myself to work and back today.

The whole time I was battling with the machines, the newspaper seller lady was watching me. Nothing like have a battle with a machine while someone is watching. That's always fun.

I got on my normal train. I wasted so much time with the machines that I thought I was going to miss my normal train. Somewhere in Hayward, the train began to have door problems. Which means we could get kicked off. This wasn't such a bad thought because the next train should be relatively empty. The train operator announced he was going to turn off the train's computer system and reboot. The lights would be going out and back on. This was the first step in trying to fix the door issue.

I was liking this new train operator. He speaks clearly, loudly and gives us the information we need instead of being left in the dark (literally, in this case). The door problem cleared itself and we were on our way.

When we got to Bayfair, our train operator informed us that a train at San Leandro (the next station) was on fire. You could smell the smoke at Bay Fair. Unless that was from the warehouse fire in Oakland. Oh, what a fun morning we were all having.

So our train operator left his little box and walked to the back of the train. Without saying anything. I couldn't remember if we began to leave the platform and then stopped or not. I assumed we did and he was going to move the train back to the platform to pick up all the people from the fire train (they got moved back to Bay Fair somehow). Low and behold, this was what he did. He moved us back, opened the door and all the fire train people peeked in at us and asked if our train was going to SF. Oh, of course it is, we told them. Come on in. Some hesitantly stepped in and looked around and some walked confidently and sat down. There was a lot of talk about some Fremont train. Then some people who were on the train from the beginning got up and got off. Curious.

The train operator made his announcement that cleared this all up. Our SF train was now a Fremont train. Luckily no dirty looks were thrown my way because I was one of the ones telling everyone it was an SF train. I got off and stood on the platform with, oh, about 1000 other people. Then BART stated making announcements about the San Leandro station being closed, and all trains leaving from Fremont were being turned around at Bay Fair and going back. This was what they called a "truncated" service (love them 100 dollar words -- let's use words that will make people think! Then they can't get mad at us!).

So I had to think quickly. The ultimate bad situation is BART never getting up and running again. Do I really want to hang out at Bay Fair until I figure this out? At some point going to work will be fruitless -- something else to consider. I looked around again, and I saw all the faces with that "you better not try to get on the train in front of me look," and I knew it was going to be a very bad and bloody cattle car scene. And I just wasn't in the mood for it.

I hoped on the next train going to Fremont. Why? Because when they do start running the trains again, I'll be on the first train going to SF, there will be less people and I get to sit down instead of being pressed in to by some weird man who smells of stinky man-ness.

I got off at Fremont and sat on the stone circle bench and started to freeze. It was 49 degrees. And I was sorta dressed warm, but sorta not. And my cellphone was pretty much dead. And I had to deliver something to someone at 9am this morning. And I had to figure out at what time I was just going to call it quits with BART today and go home and be warm and toasty with my kitties.

I called my coworker and told her the situation. I asked her to take care of my delivery, if she could, and that I'll let her know if I wasn't coming in, but for now I was waiting in Fremont. I called my husband and told him. He said my kitties wanted me to come home. I said I was going to wait. I really didn't want to take a day off just because of BART.

Waiting panned out because after about 3o minutes, they announced the next train would be going to SF. I got on, relaxed and waited for the cattle car to happen. It was going to be a stuffed car.

That's when the train operator told us he was just informed that the train was now a Bay Fair train.

Sigh...

So again, I had to think: Get off and still wait until they clear this mess up, or stay on and be warm. I could just go back and forth until service was restored. Then the train operator said there was a chance the train would continue through Bay Fair, but he didn't know for sure.

Ah, screw it, I'll take my chances.

Well, the train did go through Bay Fair, and I made it to SF 2 hours late. By the time we got to SF, the train was completely stuffed with people. And I got to be one of those lucky ones who were in a seat and taking a snooze while they all suffered. You know those people, and you know you hate them too.

And to think, I could have just gone home.

Mystery solved!

The on-going mystery of how my Jack in the Box Reindeer antenna ball got destroyed has been solved!

One day I noticed it was missing one of its antlers. Then I realized it had little pits all over it. I figured it was a victim of wear and tear because I've had it for almost a year. Or some mean person ripped its antler off. And in my opinion, that's just MEAN.

I was at my parent's house yesterday to drop off and pick up stuff. My dad offered to rinse off my car because it rarely gets washed. Since it became everyone's pin cushion in the BART parking lot, I sorta lost all interest in how it looked. I've got a mighty fine collection of dents and scratches.

I was pointing out all my car's scars to my dad, when he pointed to my reindeer and commented on its sad condition. I pointed to the hood of my car and commented on all the cat paws.

That's when my brilliant papa (as my husband and I call him, but never actually to his face) figured out the mystery behind the antenna ball.

We've got a ton of stray cats at our condo complex (one is currently living with us and is no longer a stray and has turned into a very smart monkey-like kitty who lives in the lap of luxury), and they tend to walk all over my car and others. Since my car is typically covered in dirt and mud streaks, you can really spot those cat paw prints from many feet away.

It wasn't a mean person who destroyed my antenna ball, it was a stray cat who for some reason decided to chew on it. And as my dad put it, "cats sure are stupid -- they'll even eat Styrofoam."
The views about cats expressed in this entry are not of my own.

Mystery solved!

Post Office Nazi

See, you should never, ever make me mad because I will never ever forget about it. And that takes up too much of my brain power.

It's been a long time since I've come across a post office nazi. Today was my day. Today I had Ken serving me.

I mail packages once if not twice a week because of my side business that will probably put me in jail for tax evasion at some point. I've been mailing packages for over 5 years. By now, I know what I'm doing and I know how to do it, and if you tell me I can't do it, then the crazy person in me will come out and spit fire at you.

I was stuck in a long line, between a man who was snorting and coughing and making really weird sucking up snot noises (I was staying way back from him – I don't know where he's been) and a lady who smelled musty and wanted to just walk over me because she was in such a hurry. So the line experience at the post office was not a fun one for me today. But I've been through it before. I just stare of into space and don't react to how anyone is acting (snorty smiled at me a few times, but I just acted like he wasn't there, and musty got right on my back, so I bashed her with my bag).

When I got to the front, I made the mistake of taking it upon myself to go the counter where the last customer left. Like some crazy magic act, the lady who was helping people at that counter disappeared and reappeared at the other end of the long countertop to take passport pictures. By the time I stepped back in line, the musty lady was in my spot, and so I had to move off to the side but in front of her so she wouldn't try to sneak in before me.

The next free worker called me to his counter.

His name was Ken.

I put my first couple of envelopes down, and then a padded mailer with a delivery confirmation slip to go with it. Ken informed me that I could not send my padded mailer first class with delivery confirmation. I would have to send it priority.

WHAT?!

So I had to inform my pal Ken that he's incorrect because I do this all the time.

He told me he was sorry that I was misinformed (about 500+ times...), but the package has to be ¾ of an inch thick.

This was my response (because I am a genius under pressure): "But it's a padded mailer!!!!!"

He told me again that he was sorry I was misinformed, but I would have to send it priority.

At this point, I lost my whole sense of control over the packages, and I began to pull out all of them from my bag to sort out the ones I could send. Ken wanted to send the first package priority, and I told him, "No! I'm not sending it priority!!! I'll go to another post office!!!!"

He said okay.

So Ken turned out to be a post office nazi – the type that reads all the mailing regulations and won't let anything slide. They are a rare breed, but they do exist. At our local post office, you can pretty much do anything you want once you get to know the people who work there. The last time I came across a post office nazi, it was a few years back when I was told I couldn't use delivery confirmation on a cardboard mailer. I had the same reaction I had today, but I stopped trying to use delivery confirmation with the cardboard mailers after that point. There is no way I'm going to make people pay for priority mail for something that could just as easily get sent first class.

So, today's lesson is this: You never know when you'll come across a post office nazi, and, always stuff some tissue paper into a padded envelop to make it ¾ of an inch.

Salmon?

My husband and I always shop at Trader Joe's before going to Safeway. Sometimes TJ's is cheaper, sometimes it's not. Plus you can get interesting food items there.

Yesterday I wandered over to the cracker section because I've been having a hunkering for something crunchy that wasn't a chip. I picked out two items that looked tasty, and right when I turned around to head back to the shopping cart, a lady came out of nowhere. Talking really loudly. To me.

"Something, something, something! Salmon!!!" she said to me (the "something" is what I didn't catch because I didn't expect some lady to come out of nowhere while talking really loudly to me.

To backtrack a bit, I was wearing a blue Pedro the Lion t-shirt. It was really warm when I got home from work, so I had to get into something less constricting. By wearing my t-shirt and Levis and boots, I kinda looked like an employee of TJ's because they also wear t-shirt (mind you, with Hawaiian flowers on it and not a lion).

I was a bit startled by this woman because she was awfully loud and very excited about the two packages of salmon in her hands. I was going to ask her to repeat her salmon statement, but I started thinking she thought I was a TJ's employee. So I hesitated a bit while she rambled on about her salmon (I wasn't catching anything she was saying except the word salmon).

I looked at her and said, "You don't think I work here, do you?"

I heard someone laughing to my right. I looked. It was my husband (who often gets mistaken for working in stores for reasons I won't get in to at this moment).

"NO! NO! YOU JUST LOOK LIKE A SALMON PERSON!"

Ah... Okay. Not sure what a salmon person looks like, but okay.

"Oh, okay, I was just making sure," I told her. I didn't want her to think I was an employee and that I was rude or something because I was going to have to deflate her salmon bubble. "I don't eat salmon."

Her face dropped. I'm serious here, she looked so disappointed in me, and I began to feel terrible. I guess I could have lied and gave her an answer to her question based on what I know about salmon: I don't really like it.

"Oh, oh...I thought you would know about salmon," she said. Man, was I a big let down.

"Nope, not a salmon person, sorry."

The whole time my husband was standing off to the side and snickering at me.

I walked over to him, and said something about my t-shirt and the confusion while the lady attacked another shopper about her salmon. I overheard their conversation, and the other lady knew her salmon, I tell you. She had salmon-smarts.

When we got out of earshot, I asked my husband, "Why would she think I'm a salmon person?"

He said it's because I'm white. White people love the salmon (he's not white).

"Oh! I've been stereotyped!" I exclaimed.

"Hey, it happens to me every day," he responded.

And what was funny about this whole situation was that I was going to buy halibut. I know nothing about fish, but I know I like halibut. So I felt really weird looking at the frozen fish at TJ's because I thought that lady was going to find me perusing the fish and accuse me of lying.

We.

"We" means "you."

For example, last night while my husband and I were eating dinner, my husband asked me, "Do we order a credit report for ourselves yearly?" When we sit at the dinner table, I can't see the TV, but he can. I tend to block out the TV noise while he watches it, so I could only guessed that an identity fraud commercial was just on because this is not something he would come up with on his own.

I looked at him and said, "Um, well, we do not order a credit report yearly, I order a credit report yearly for each of us. There is no "we" here, just I."

He got his usually "you caught me" smile on his face.

Using "we" in my relationship usually means me. "We need to clean the condo, it's a mess" translates to "I will clean the condo when I can even though I have a million other "we" things to do, and you just sit there and watch TV," or "Are we hungry?" translates to "I'm hungry but don't want to say that because you may get mad at me. And by the way, I expect you to make the food."

And I just realized lately that when there are things "we" need to think about and possible research and then setup (like "we" want to try acupuncture for pain), then I can say, "when you research it, then tell me all about it." Which translates to "I know you won't do a thing about it, and I don't have the time to figure it out because I've got a long list of other "we" things I need to think about and take care of," and I get out of having to think about it until I have the time.

The term "we" is such a tricky thing. Like, we need to change the thing in the toilet tank that controls the water flow. I announced yesterday that I was going to try to change it because the water wasn't flowing well again, but I was told to wait. We bought the replacement in May or June, by the way, and I'm not sure how much longer we should wait or what we're even waiting for.

And we need to wash the comforter because Zoe peed on it 3 weeks ago. It's been living in our bathtub since the incident because I said I would go wash it at a laundry mat, and I was told I didn't have to -- so yesterday I announced that "we" would do it next week no matter what because I didn't spend 80 bucks on a comforter to watch it live in the bathtub for the rest of its life.

See, in the first case, "we" need to change the toilet tank thing, yet, "we" have never even attempted to do it. Then here I come, and I decide to try to change it. I was told to wait. "We" aren't ready to do it yet, or we're waiting for another mysterious "we" to come over and do it, or we're waiting for the tank to completely stop filling up with water before "we" decide to do anything, or we're waiting for our first year anniversary of buying the condo (April 29th). This is when "we" goes bad.

In the second case, I made a decision that "we" would finally take care of something that needs to be taken care of. I've given us a week to plan and prepare. We will do this. We will do this next weekend. "We" in this case is really my husband. And it will get done because I'm fully embracing our "we-ness," and, well, I want it done. This is when "we" is a good thing.

Speaking of "we," I wonder what "we" will do for dinner tonight because I don't feel like cooking.

Crazy guy by Starbucks: An ode to the homeless

There's this homeless guy that stands in front of the Starbucks on New Montgomery. He's been there every morning for a few weeks. He's tall, thin, dirty and looks a bit crazy. Probably smells bad too, but I always hold my breath when I walk by him.

He's stationed at the Starbucks because, obviously, there is a lot of foot traffic -- either people walking past to get to work or people going in and out for their morning cup o' joe. Actually, this spot is prime real estate for the homeless folks, so I wonder how he managed to keep his position for so long.

As people walk by him, he's saying something to them. But since I'm always listening to my iPod as I walk down the street, I couldn't even fathom what's coming out of his mouth. Listening to music as you walk is a walkers best defense against pandering and stupid questions. Well, you may still get the stupid questions, but you have some choices: 1. act like you didn't hear them, 2. act annoyed and shake your head, 3. act like you don't understand English, 4. tell them flat out that you don't have time to answer their stupid question and keep walking (I had to do this the other day -- I was going to miss my train).

Generally people avoid him altogether because he really does act off his rocker. Not to mention the thick layer of dirt covering him. He tends to hop around from one leg to the next, and lean into people as they walk by and then hop back towards the street.

The first day this happened, I just assumed it was some weird, "two paths crossing at the same time" sort of incident. Like he was already thinking of doing this, and I just happened to walk right by him at that time. He was saying whatever he says to people while hopping and leaning in until I walked by. When I walked by, he jerked his arm towards me. I didn't really think anything of it; I was just glad he didn't touch me or attack me (I'm due for a weird walking on the street incident). I couldn't imagine anything worse than having to be taken away in an ambulance because some dirty homeless man punched me. Well, tripping isn't fun either.

Then the next day, as I was walking by him, he did it again. And again. It was on the third day that I realized he was doing it purposely. It's not so much that he's trying to hit me, it's more like he realizes I'm blocking him out. Because if I can't hear him, then I'm shutting him out completely, and unless he does try to attack me, I can pretend he's not there. If everyone listened to music while walking somewhere, then what would all the homeless panderers do? Would there be a revolt? Would they punch us so that we would pay attention to them?

I noticed that listening to music also quickly affected another homeless guy who sits on a milk crate and asks for coffee money. Every single time I walked by him, he would "honey" me and ask me for money. Once I started listening to music as I walked, he just ignored me.

And I realized another way to create "don't bother me" shield: listen to music and run around town with one of those lovely rolling backpacks. But for this to work, you must drag the rolling backpack behind you and to the side as you walk down the street. This ensures that no one can really get that close to you. Especially if you're walking next to buildings. You block all audible attacks and made it darn difficult for people to pass by you.

And, when you're on BART, you can place your rolling backpack right in front of you while sitting down. Add listening to music, and you're pretty much blocked all around. While I hate these rolling backpack people because they are very difficult to maneuver around and tend to walk a lot slower than I, I do admire their craftiness. I only have music and a mean look to defend myself. And if I forget to look mean, then that's when I get asked to go to church by random girls. Or where Union Square is.

Red-haired guy strikes again!

There I was...peacefully sleeping away when WHAM! someone sits next to me. This large man has been periodically sitting next to me, and for some reason he can't just sit down like a gentle giant; he has to drop his large body into the seat so not only do I know he's there, but the people in front and back of us know he's there too. Do I even need to state that this is the most annoying thing you can do to someone who sleeps on BART?

So when this person sat down next to me like he/she weighed 500 lbs, I just assumed it was that same man. Never once did I think it was red-haired guy. It's been months since our last silent battle of the wits. I figured our relationship was over.

But then I started to feel human overflow against my hip. The other man, even though he's large, manages to not touch me, which I appreciate greatly because I don't really want him to touch me. It's a win-win situation for everyone.

Oh well, I thought. Just deal with it.

When our train paused in the bay tunnel before Embarcadero, I started waking up. I turned to my left to see who was sitting next to me. Yes, you guessed it -- Red-haired guy. My nemesis. It was he who was overflowing onto my hip. How dare he!

He did his usual trapping thing when we got to Montgomery (his stop as well). He waited a bit longer than need be after the train stopped to get up and get off. I was already starting to stand up before he did. Stupid red-haired man. Too bad I didn't realize it was his chubs invading my space. I should have spasmed and jerked my arm to nail him good.

Don't ever be this guy.

We've all seen him. Perhaps we've all been him from time to time. Fess up, if it's true.

Have you ever walked in an elevator, and the person who enters with you or is already inside the elevator freaks out and starts repeatedly pushing the close door button? And you're lucky all your limbs are inside with you before the doors close? And they keep doing this after each stop?

Sort of makes me feel unwanted when this happens.

I've encountered the rapid button pusher guy several times this week. He was getting off after me and every time someone would get off, he would start pushing the close door button like a loon. At my stop he barely waited for me to get off before he started pushing the button.

And to think, when you are rapid button pushing, you're probably saving a whooping 10 seconds on your elevator ride, depending on how many stops you have to make.

And don't even get me started on the sighers and huffers on the way down.