Bio

A press release included this statement:

“… earned her BA from the College of St Scholastica.” I read it twice, laughing aloud. Just seems a bit redundant.

Going Home

The air on the Muni bus in the evening is heavy, weighted down by the exhaustion of people done with a long day at work, ready to be home. Some people read, some people talk quietly on cell phones, most stare blankly into space or out the window, not really seeing anything.

As the bus was stopped at a light, a long not quite in pitch, but none the quieter for it, chorus to a popular song was heard. A large woman was strolling down Market Street, singing as if that was all she was meant to do. She didn’t notice the strange looks from people passing by; she continued to belt the words as she walked.

From the silence of the back of the bus came these words, softly spoken, but magnified by the silence of the commute. “You go girl, you Miss American Idol.”

Overheard

Teenage Girl 1: So, like, why does Iraq hate us?

Teenage Girl 2: Because we’re all in their country.

TG1: No we’re not.

TG2: Well, we’re in the Middle East.

TG1: But, it’s not like the Middle East is connected to Iraq or anything.

TG2: Then I don’t know why they’re, like, so upset.

TG1: Yeah. We should be all 60ish and stuff. You know. Peace and love.

Survey Says

I’ve been conducting some research about violence in the workplace. Somewhat of a somber subject, but I came across a piece today that made me giggle.

“… 1993 study found in many cases employees don’t report threats, harassment, or physical attacks. For example, between 1992 and 1993, 58% of those employees being harassed, 43% of those who were threatened, and 24% of those who were physically attacked did NOT inform anyone.”

So, how were these statistics gathered then?

One Of These Is Not Like The Other

I regularly receive emails from the mother of the little Russian girl I tutored while in Korea. Sometimes I receive short memos about what they are doing, travels they have taken. More often than not, she simply forwards me pictures.

Today, after downloading the pictures of the first snow in Daegu, the little girl eating Dippin’ Dots, and their newly coiffured dog, I curiously studied the fourth picture. Four small, bronze busts, the type sold at cheap souvenir stands that line the pathways to the temples. Buddha, Buddha, Buddha, and, … Lenin?

sigh…

I received a quarterly statement for one of my 401Ks today. After sighing when seeing how much my account has depreciated, again, I began to peruse the slick, brightly colored newsletter that accompanied my statement. The front page story featured a story about bull and bear markets, advising investors not to worry, that there have been worse markets than the current one. The example given was the bear market of 1929-32. Considering that the one example they cite is known in history as The Great Depression doesn’t comfort me.

Go Figure

While walking down Market Street tonight:

Homeless Man: Got a dime?

Me: No. Sorry.

Him: How about a dollar, then?

Talk about an upsell.

It’s All In The Name

My friend is applying for jobs. Today he told me he just applied for a job at Genetic Savings & Clone. I’d want to work there just for the name.

To Pee, or Not To Pee

“We accept the terms of your counter offer. We’d like to offer you the job.”

I restated my counter offer to verify that’s what they accepted.

“Yes, that’s what we’re offering you.”

Great, then, I accept. I gleefully offered.

“You have 24 hours from right now to complete your drug test.”

Huh? Are you serious?

This didn’t upset me because I was worried about not passing the drug test. It upset me because, ever since I was a little girl, I haven’t been able to pee in front of other people. While on road trips, driving from North Carolina to Florida to visit the grandparents, my mother would run the faucets at rest stops along the way, thinking that would somehow inspire me to finish more quickly. I’ve never been subjected to a drug test before. But, I did want this job. How bad could it be?

I BARTed to the drug testing center in Oakland with my sterile paperwork. I took the elevator to the lab and informed the young, hip receptionist with braids cascading down her back that I was there for a drug test, offering my paperwork. She shook her head. “Oh, no, we don’t do that no more. You gotta go across the street, 4th floor, room 407.”

I crossed the street and entered the dilapidated medical building. As the elevator doors creaked closed ever so slowly, my only thought was, This seems like the setting for a horror movie where a crazy intern slaughters everyone.

I walked down the narrow hall, void of any decorations. The blah beige walls didn’t welcome me, didn’t make me feel comfortable about being there. Maybe it was the color of the carpet, blah beige as well, but it seemed dirty. I wasn’t feeling any love.

I entered room 407. There, in a small window, was a sign in roster. I printed my name and looked around. The barren office decor mimicked that of the hallway. I saw a man, hunched over, beyond the window, in a corner of the main office, perhaps completing paperwork. I tried to make as much noise as possible. He didn’t budge. Maybe he was a victim of the crazy intern.

I sat down, smoothing my skirt, fidgeting, not comfortable in this stark environment. An ancient, dusty plastic ficus stood beside me. I didn’t realize leaves could droop on fake plants, but these did.

I heard my name called. The man from the corner was at the window. I met him with a smile and a good morning. He stared stoically at me with mad eyes. His black wiry hair protruded from his head in all directions. His beard was uneven. And he stared. That uncomfortable feeling of constantly being watched.

He took my paperwork without words. He asked for my drivers license. Upon receiving it, he studied it, studied me, stared at it, stared at me. “This doesn’t look like you.” I smiled. It is. I used to have short hair, I cheerfully offered. My response was met with a grunt.

He walked from the office into a smaller, narrower hallway. “Follow me.” I followed him into a large room, stark. Nothing but a table with handiwipes on it, a large box full of unused specimen cups, and 20 jugs of bottled water. I glanced around. “Do you know why you are here?” he barked. Surprised at his abruptness, I answered a weak Yes. I’m getting a pre-employment drug test. “Take off your coat,” he ordered. I panicked. Insane thoughts raced through my head. I can’t pee in front of him. And I can’t pee in this room. Surely he’s going to let me use a restroom. ohmygodohmygodohmygod.

I slowly took off my coat, folded it neatly, and placed in on the floor beside me. He eyed me, up and down. I nervously shifted from foot to foot. “You got any pockets?” No, none. “Take a wipe and clean your hands.” I did as he instructed, getting more and more nervous. He’s not going to let me leave the room. “Pick up a container.” I did as he said and stood there, waiting. He took the container from me and drew a blue line on it. “Fill it up to at least here. Here,” and he thrust the container back at me. I stood there for what seemed like an eternity. He stared at me. I stared at him. Finally, I said, Excuse me. Is there a restroom I can use? I don’t feel comfortable here.

He led me further down the uninviting hall and pointed me to a tiny bathroom. “Don’t flush.” I entered the room. The faucets were covered in duct tape so that they couldn’t be used. The handle on the toilet was taped, rendering it unusable as well. There was no lock on the bathroom door. My anxiety was building. I tried. I really did. He yelled at me a couple of times, wondering where I was and what I was doing. I offered a meek I’ll be right out…

I finally did exit my own personal torture chamber, handed him the cup, and recollected my belongings. He glared at me as I picked up my driver’s license. “What are you doing?” he demanded. I’m getting my driver’s license I explained, somewhat redundantly. Is there somewhere I can wash my hands? He pointed to the container of handiwipes on the table.

I exited down the narrow hallway, back to the waiting room. When I had arrived, it was empty. Now, however, there appeared to be a Teamster’s meeting taking place. Big, burly men in worn work clothes occupied every chair, some standing by the dusty plastic ficus. “WHAT’S TAKING SO LONG BACK THERE, BUDDY?” I heard one of them holler. The room fell silent as I walked through. I smiled, offered a Sorry it took so long fellas, and flitted out the door, never before so happy to be back on the streets of Oakland.

And Why Am I Here Again?

I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea. I mean, one of the main reasons I moved from the south was the hot, humid summer days that made me wilt as soon as I encountered one.

Yet here I was, in my first bikram yoga class, attending with my neighbor. I’ve heard her exaggerate the benefits for weeks. As I walked into the room, the temperature hovered in the high 90s. By the end of the breathing exercises, during which the teacher encouraged us *not* to drink water, it was at least 100. Well into the main postures and poses I was battling breathing in the 108 degree room, all windows shut.

The teacher saw me put my head in between my knees, challenging the dizziness that attacked me from every direction. “First timers, you may feel dizzy or nauseous, but that’s to be expected. Just remember, everyone in this room felt that way at one time and got through it.” I glanced up at the 40 funky, sweaty bodies surrounding me. I was startled by the haggard, perspiring reflection staring back at me from the mirror. I coaxed my stomach back to its proper place from the temporary position it occupied in my throat. And this is fitness?