Most Unappealing Name for a Business

Tan Your Hyde

Tanning bed salon on the way to Lake Tahoe. Yuck.

Spell That, Please?

Recently someone at work really helped me out. Came in at the last minute and totally helped me pull off a pretty major project, and did it with a great attitude. I wanted to express my gratitude, so decided to send her flowers.

I work in Hayward. I’m not really familiar with florists in Hayward, so I turned to the internet for assistance. The first place I called had gone out of business. Hmm. At the second place I called a gentleman answered. I explained I wanted to order a bouquet of flowers, for delivery the next day. He very slowly affirmed my wishes, and asked me what I would like to order. “Hmm. Maybe a spring bouquet. Fresh flowers – maybe pinks, yellows, whites, something very fresh – very happy.”

Silence filled the line.

I waited.

“Ooooo-kay. Spring bouquet. Lemme write that. B – O – C – A – D – E.”

I’m scared to see what will arrive.

Destination Unknown

Maybe it’s my approachable face. Maybe I carry myself with an air of authority. Whatever it is, I am constantly approached by strangers for information about how to take BART. I have finally realize my desire to be a superhero. I am BART INFO GIRL.

This morning, long before the sun decided to shine, I was at Bayfair Station, waiting for my Fremont transfer. A man got off a San Francisco train on the opposite track and wandered, searching, trying to decide who of the few of us to approach. I knew it would be me. It always is.

I concentrated on the clack, clack, clack of my knitting needles in my lap then saw them. The shoes, planted in front of me.

“Miss? Miss?” I looked up. “Which way to San Francisco Airport?”

I pointed to the track where he had just come from. “Over there.”

“But I just got off that train.” He stared at me blankly.

I stared back. I wasn’t sure how to reply. His eyes pleaded. That *couldn’t* be the train to San Francisco. He was just on that train. He had gotten off, therefore he had to take another train. Not that one.

I pointed to the destination sign. In red dot-matrix letters that pierced the dark morning flashed the words “San Francisco Airport train – 2 minutes.” “The train will arrive in two minutes. Right over there. That side.”

He stared at me in utter disbelief. “No. I just got off that train. It must be somewhere else.”

“No, really,” I countered. “This track goes to Fremont. That side goes to San Francisco. Catch the next train and take it to the end of the line. It will take you to SFO. Really.”

Head down, shaking it in disbelief, he walked back over to the opposite side of the tracks. I heard him muttering faintly, “But I just got off this train…”

It could have been a scene from a movie. Except that it wasn’t. It was me, shocked from sleep by the knowledge that someone was in my apartment. I bolted upright, screaming. And screaming. I remembered chainlocking my door. How could anyone have possibly entered? What did he want? Why was he here? I listened. The footsteps. I held my breath. I listened. There were definitely footsteps. I peered into my hallway, frozen, terrified to leave my bed. No one. I listened again. The footsteps were coming from above, the apartment above me. Or were they?

I tried to reason. I felt the blood swirling through my head. I felt my heartbeat, racing, threatening, to run away and leave me. I tried to breathe, but could only manage random gasps.

The footsteps were from upstairs.

I laid back down. I forced my breathing, long breath in, long breath out. As I turned on my side, my hands drawn up, clasped under my cheek, I felt my heartbeat, still pounding against my chest. It’s okay, I told myself. It’s only a sound. No one’s here. It’s upstairs. It’s okay. You’re safe. I repeated this, my mantra for the evening, until hours later I finally drifted into a fitful sleep.

I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that I’m about to be attacked. This morning I awoke exhausted. On BART my eyes darted up from my book, surveying each new passenger. In the deserted hallways at work I listened. In my apartment I listen.

The fear hasn’t merely lingered, a breezy, fleeting memory, like so many of my dreams. It’s strangled me. It has attached itself, gripping me like the horrible evil trees of a forgotten fairy tale.

Funniest Non-Spam Email In My Inbox

Subject: My Baby Ate My Phone

“And I cannot retrieve any of the numbers now that he successfully corroded it. Please email me your digits.”

Visual Overdose

He slowly eyed each of us as he entered the car. I felt his eyes on me and looked up, unprepared for the sight before me. Lavender fedora, with a black feather just so, diamond tie tac sparkling against his perfectly creased tie, black pinstripe suit beckoning me to follow, follow, follow those tiny stripes all the way down to his lavender and black patent crocodile shiny shoes. All of this entrenched in a full length mink coat. It was almost too much for my weary eyes at 7 in the morn.

Searching

“Life is like the search for a perfect red lipstick. In love, in work, in everything, you have to keep trying until you find your match.”

-Janine Lobell, founder of Stila Cosmetics

Knit One, Purl One

I recently took up knitting. Many of my friends are knitters. Those more proficient than I espouse the joys of knitting. The relaxing repetition of the needles clicking, clacking; the sense of accomplishment once a project is completed; the productivity of nervous energy – these were all reasons I was given as to why I, too, should try this hip, in hobby.

I am not a model knitter.

Knitting stresses me out. I find myself with my brow furrowed and my shoulders tense as I count stitches and try to keep the proper gauge. As soon as I start a scarf, I’m already obsessing over how long it will take me to finish it. In addition, I can’t knit and knit and knit as my friends do. I finish a row and I jump up to get a glass of water. I have my drink, I get situated just so and knit another row. Hmm. Did I ever answer that email about New Year’s Eve? Let me go check. I return from my computer and knit another row. I remember a magazine article I never finished. I get up to find it and finish it. I return to my knitting. This time, I will knit at least 5 rows before getting up. I do, but my hands begin to cramp, just like when I was learning to use chopsticks. I change the cd. I go to the bathroom. I return to my 2 inches of scarf that I’ve taken 2 hours to complete. I need a new hobby.

Perspective

My godson was ecstatically showing me everything Santa had left for him on Christmas morn. Included in the stash was an acoustic guitar. He gingerly lifted it out of his case.

“Nouna, check this out.”

“Woooooowwww. That’s sweet!” I replied, impressed by how attentively he was handling it.

“I gotta be real careful with it. It’s really old. It’s a 1996 model.”

I laughed to myself. I guess when you’re only 10 years old, something made in 1996 is ancient.

Definition, Please

Another jewel from September Glamour, “66% of women in one survey believe a one-night stand can turn into a long-term relationship.”

Defies the definition. Unless a long-term relationship can happen over the course of one night. Now there’s a thought…