Glamour Don’ts

While trying to rest and recuperate from some nasty flu-like virus I’ve contracted, I’ve caught up on a lot of reading. Someone from work donated several back issues of Glamour for my BART commute to and from work each day; I’ve now plowed through all of them. Interesting reading, Glamour is.

There’s one particular feature called “Glamour asks, men answer.” Each month, a question is posted to men (not sure where the sample comes from) and they answer. The answer is always accompanied by the name and age of the respondent, and often a photo as well.

September’s question was, “What secret from your past do you dread your girlfriend discovering?”

Let’s think about that for a moment. If I were a guy, and this question were posed to me, my first reaction would be not to answer. That’s kind of the whole point of a secret. Not to be disclosed. In addition, the guys pictured look like they would be the type to have Glamour-reading girlfriends, yet another reason not to answer. Unless this is a Jerry Springer-esque plot to confront a loved one with information here-to-now known to no one.

Some of the secrets seem rather tame – the “I met someone on the internet,” the “My childhood nickname was …” But others, well, I could imagine a girlfriend, seeing her boy in Glamour, then reading his secret, getting a little upset. More of the “I made out with my best friend’s girlfriend” variety. That’s just wrong. The “I had a threesome with a married couple I didn’t know.” Hmmm. Might pique her curiosity about what else has been going on. Or the “The number of women I’ve slept with – it’s so high.” If that discussion hadn’t come up before, it surely will now. Secret’s out, loverboy.

Why I Love Craigslist

Since I’ve lived in the Bay Area, I’ve used Craigslist in many ways. To buy furniture. To sell furniture. To give things away. To get things. To find a place to live. To find a job. To meet people. It’s the one stop shop for all and any of your needs.

Today I discovered my new favorite band, indirectly, through Craigslist.

Recently, I received a table wrapped in miles and miles of bubble wrap. The stuff that’s fun to pop and snap and step on and, occasionally, wrap breakable items in to mail. After I unpackaged the table, I began sorting the bubble wrap. I made piles of 12″ x 12″ squares. I rolled sheets into tubes. And more tubes. And more tubes. My kitchen was full of bubble wrap.

I posted to Craigslist. Bubble Wrap – pop, pop, pop! Free.

Within minutes, I received an email. From Justin. He needed bubble wrap. I called. We talked. In 15 minutes, he was at my door with a friend, ready to cart away all my bubbles. Before leaving, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a cd, and said, “Here. It’s our cd. That’s why we need the bubble wrap, to mail them.” Always interested in supporting local artists, I asked, “Where do you play?” Very modestly, he answered, “The Red Devil Lounge, Tongue N Groove.” I was surprised. I’ve visited those place often, but had never heard of his band, Ten Mile Tide. I thanked them, they wished me a Merry Christmas, and I closed the door.

I turned the nondescript cd, washed in red, over. The song titles were mildly interesting. What the hell. I tore open the plastic protection, popped the cd into the player. And was blown away.

Intricate melodies. Haunting fiddle. Strong beat. Smooth as silk vocals.

Thanks, Craigslist.

Another Surreal Day in San Francisco

I was enjoying my walk through the city when it began to sprinkle. Not deterred by a little moisture, I continued along my route, down Market Street, past the Ferry Building, along the Embarcadero to Pac Bell Park then return. Except, that by the time I was walking back up Bush Street towards my apartment, the little moisture had turned into a steady downfall. Enjoying the wetness, breathing in the cleansed air, I proceeded cautiously, careful not to slip. At Bush and Battery an older gentleman passed me in the crosswalk, whispering, “Good morning, beautiful” as we crossed. More amused than anything, I smiled and continued my trek.

As I passed Montgomery a dark-haired, dark-eyed, twenty-something hipster smiled at me and purred, “You are a beautiful woman.” Again, I smiled, even more bemused, because I was feeling not beautiful at all, imagining myself to resemble a drowned rat.

As I neared Kearny, a gentleman who appeared to be homeless mumbled, “Pretty.” I walked a few more steps, stopping at the corner, waiting for the light to change. I felt a light touch on my shoulder. I looked over, and there was the homeless man, his big, sad brown eyes staring into mine. Hunched over, he pointed to the bouquet of wildflowers, dripping, in my hand. “Pretty,” he once again mumbled, fumes of alcohol wafting my way. “I’m really a virgin,” he continued, wobbling a little on his feet, “but can I have a quarter anyway?” I shook my head no, said goodbye, and walked as the light turned green.

Could You Use That In A Sentence?

While running my spellcheck today, the word “we’m” was a suggested replacement for “I’m.” We’m. We’m. We’m. My mind immediately wandered. When would that ever be acceptable? How could I make use of this new suggestion?

We’m going to the movies, yes we’m.

Em’s coming over then we’m gonna get a Christmas tree.

We’m making holidays bright, won’t you’m join us?

Street of Auto Parts Business

“Around Myeongdeok Negeori (Jct.) some body shops opened business for auto parts sale and car repairs in 1968. And then in 1978 when roads were expanded in the area, more businesses of motor vehicles gathered to the area to form a special street of 50 body shops.”

This excerpt arrived in today’s City of Daegu newsletter, the e-newsletter for English speakers living in Daegu. It’s been over a year since I’ve lived there, but I still haven’t unsubscribed from the mailings. I feel a strange sense of familiarity when I read about the highlighted tourist attraction (I remember stumbling onto the Street of Auto Parts Business and feeling as though I had entered the Twilight Zone for broken cars – you could buy nothing but auto parts for several blocks) or read the “Korean Korner” phrase of the month. Today’s phrase was “You’ve got the wrong number.” Normally the caller simply deduced that from the continual exchange of “Hello?” “Yob-a-sa-yo?” “Hello?” “Yob-a-sa-yo?” “Hello?” “Yob-a-sa-yo?” “Hello?” “Yob-a-sa-yo?” until one of the parties gave up, and hung up. Ahh, Korea.

Not Exactly The Holiday Spirit

I stood on the crowded street corner, waiting for the light to turn, surrounded by holiday shoppers and party goers. Suddenly, from behind, a voice bellowed, “And could you explain just how the hell I’m considered hostile?” Thinking it a joke, I turned. It wasn’t. A rather belligerent man had been escorted out of a bar, his friend trying to console him with shared profanities and bummed cigarettes.

While Shopping

“Ooh, girl, I *love* these pants. Check them out!”

“Mmm. Yeah. They your size?”

“Girl, don’t matter. Pants stretch.”

Not 6 sizes, I thought to myself.

Why, Thank You, Sir

I finally decided to deal with my car today. I called AAA and explained the situation as succinctly as possible. Basically, I needed a jump. Because a thief left my hazards on. “Oh, so you left your hazards on?” asked the helpful AAA lady. No. No. No. *I* did not leave my hazards on. The inconsiderate thief who ripped out my car stereo (which didn’t even work) and strew dismantled car parts all over my front seat left the hazards on. Note that please.

The AAA man arrived. I popped the hood and heard him exclaim, “WOW. You have got one clean engine…”

Even though I had nothing to do with the cleanliness of the engine, even though I had no idea to what he was referring, I felt a sense of pride.

“Why, thank you,” I purred.

It wasn’t such a bad day after all.

Almost Famous

For some reason, we thought it would be a good idea to arise hours before dawn on a Saturday, wait three hours in a line snaked around the warehouse in the sometimes drizzling, sometimes pouring, rain to gain admittance to the yearly Bebe warehouse sale. Once inside, we were allowed 45 minutes to shop the racks in disarray. Hindsight, baby, hindsight.

As we were leaving the warehouse, two of us with bags, two of us empty-handed, we were given a flyer for another sample sale. For the Sak. Not far away, only a few blocks. “I’m up for it, but only if there’s no line. I’m so over lines right now,” I offered.

The second sale was much more productive, for all of us. As I guarded our cart while the others shopped, a woman approached me. “We’re following you,” she laughed. I recognized her from the Bebe sale. “So did you find anything at the other?” I asked. “Yeah, he bought me a lot of stuff.” She nodded towards a very tall man, close to 7 feet tall. “That’s awesome. I didn’t find anything. How did you find stuff? It was such a mess!” “Well,” she began, lowering her voice to a whisper, “we went in twice.” I looked at her, surprised. “You waited in that line two separate times? Man, you must love Bebe.” “No,” she smiled demurely, “we didn’t have to wait.” “You didn’t? Why’s that?” At this point Emily had joined me, and her curiosity was piqued as well. “Well, you know, we didn’t have to wait in line, because he’s, well, because he’s sort of famous.” She nodded towards her man companion.

Emily and I followed her glance. “He is?” we asked without thinking. “Who is he?”

Just at that moment, he beckoned for her. She left us, a painstaking look on her face. I could tell she wanted to boast of her famous friend, yet she couldn’t do it with him right there.

A few minutes later she sidled up next to me. Before I even had a chance to turn around, she whispered, “Center. Golden State Warriors,” then scurried to the check-out line. I looked again. Must have been the burly security guards who let them in. I can’t imagine the petite Bebe fashionistas exclaiming, “Oh my god! It’s Erick Dampier! At Bebe! Oh my god! Don’t, like, make him wait in line!”

Those Greens Did Nothing To You

I ordered the walleye, the famous local fish of Minnesota. Co-workers had raved about how delightful it was. Having never heard of it, and not thinking I could order it in the Bay Area, I took advantage of my time in Minneapolis to try this delicacy. The menu stated it came with a side of frites, fried shoestring potatoes. “Could I get a vegetable instead of the potatoes?” I asked the waiter. He leaned over, touching my shoulder. “Sure, princess.” This in itself caused me to pause.

I was not feeling like a princess. I was feeling like a bundled up, bloated eskimo. Unaccustomed to the dry air of the skyways, I had drunk, and drunk, and drunk even more water. During the afternoon meetings, catering brought in pitchers of ice water. I had gotten up so many times to refill my water glass that at one point a co-worker simply set the pitcher in front of me. It was drained within minutes. As was the second pitcher. And the third.

So there I sat, each cell in my body stretched to maximum capacity. My swimming eyes gazed up at the hipster who had just dubbed me “princess.” “So could I get a side salad with my walleye?” “You can choose from any of the sides. Right here.” I read the list. Then read it again.

Side dishes

Frites

Mashed garlic potatoes

Candied yams with apples

Rice

Creamed corn

When had green vegetables been banned from Minneapolis? What had the innocent greens done to the people of that fine city?

“Hmmm. Could I get a side salad instead of frites?” I inquired again. “Well, you can choose from a side.” “But I want a vegetable,” I persisted. “How about mashed potatoes? That’s a vegetable.” “I want a green vegetable. Can’t I get a side salad? Or some broccoli? Don’t you have something green back there in the kitchen?” “Let me see,” he relented.

He returned with an offer of asparagus. And fine asparagus it was, the two stalks that garnished my plate.

I wouldn’t have thought anything of it except that the next day, at our catered lunch, a bowl of salad arrived. Yeah! Salad. Greens. I was happy. Until. Until I actually inspected the salad bowl. Calling it a salad is stretching the definition of said word. In reality it was a bowl of croutons, smothered in Caesar salad dressing, shreds of Parmesan cheese clumped in gobs covering the surface, simply accented with a few strands of lettuce.

“So what do you people have against greens?” I asked, only to be met with blank stares. I’m sure they were thinking, “Those damn Californians.” Only they didn’t say it.