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?

Feelin’ Good

“I’m running late. I’m so sorry. I should be there in about 15 minutes.”

No problem. I’ve got a book; I’ll just sit on a bench here on Shattuck and wait for you. Call me as you’re closer and I’ll come to the curb.

It’s been a long time since I’ve hung out in Berkeley. I found an empty bench, right at the Downtown Berkeley BART station entrance. There were people all around. Students, homeless, people just hanging. Boomboxes blaring, people sharing their lunches with one another. As I read my book, I smelled a slightly acrid, yet slightly familiar smell. What was that? I sniffed, still not recognizing it, and continued my reading.

She called again. She was a block away. I stood up. Then quickly sat back down, my head spinning. That smell. I was second hand stoned.

The Crazy Man

He’s a San Francisco institution, known simply as “the crazy man.” He sits at the California Street cable car turnaround, right in front of the Hyatt Embarcadero, shouting meaningless quibble. Same bench, same squatting position, everyday. I noticed him when I moved to San Francisco in 1992; he’s been there every time I’ve been there since, rain or shine, weekday or weekend. And he was there today. I’ve listened to him occasionally, just to see if any of his ramblings make sense. Never have. Random words, never complete sentences, rarely even the least bit coherent. As I walked by today, rushing to the BART station, he waited until I was right in front of him. A brief silence, then, “NORTH CAROLINA!” then his usual utterances, louder then softer, a harsh crescendo fading to a whisper. I stopped in my tracks, turned around and stared. He paid me no notice. Maybe I’m the crazy one.

Happy New Year!

Almost There…

Maybe it’s the start of a new year. Or maybe it’s because I’ve suddenly become (more) neurotic. For some reason, the thought of growing older preoccupies my thoughts. I can truthfully say this has never happened before. I’ve been the one to really look forward to birthdays – another year older, another year wiser. But lately…

I’ve noticed I need more sleep than I used to. For a while there I functioned, quite well, on four to five hours per night. Now I need a solid eight. My joints creak when I rouse from the bed in the morning.

I ran to the Golden Gate Bridge the other day, probably six or seven miles round trip. My knees hurt afterwards. It took me two days to recover.

Last year Emmy and I took an on-line questionnaire, the “Real Age” test. Amazingly, our “real ages” were 11 years less than our chronological ages, probably due to our diets, our exercise habits, we wear our seat belts, etc. We took the test again last week. In one chronological year, we aged eight “real years.” Oy.

The worst, though, was when I was walking to work. I passed by a Ross department store. In the window there was a sign that said, “Tuesdays, Senior Citizen Discount. 10% off 55 and older.” The realization struck me like a bolt of lighting, making every hair on my body stand on end. Oh, my god. I am so much closer to being a Senior Citizen than not. By far.