Side Effects

And my new job titles are:

• Dream Interpreter
• Psychic
• Mind Reader
• Mystery Girl
• Direction Giver
• Therapist

And I don't read palms, but someone read mine today.

Either that, or my hands were just red. I think it's the weather.

Racist in San Francisco

I knew San Francisco was racist before I got here. Every white person I ever met who had been to SF said, hey, it's great, I love it, you should go there! The only black people I met who had been had not only had a horrible time, they had managed to get beaten in a fight over a trivial argument, and they all lobbied highly in favor of never going to the city again - or ever.

Being here, it is easy to see that most Black people, African Americans, or "People of Color" are in either service jobs, or subordinate positions of some kind. The people you see going to work in an office or some such are predominantly white. With all the social activism in this city, you expect a different standard, but apparently not.

The real shame of it, I think, isn't just the white-on-black (or other), it's the Black-on-other. Or even other-on-other, whatever kind that may be.

Maybe people are inherently racist. I like to think not. But I do think that we are primed to suspect people who look different from us. And I may even be subject to it at times, too, making generalizations - some of them based on repeated experience, but nonetheless.

I have a story about this, but more later...

Dress Shopping

It is astonishingly difficult to find a decent dress in San Francisco. My assumed reason for this is that Women in San Francisco don't generally wear dresses. For the most part. It's not like Boston, where people sort of somewhat dress up for work on a regular basis. Here, people pretty much show up in jeans no matter what, and if they are nice jeans (or at least not horribly ripped), and you wear them with a nice shirt, that would be considered dressing up. I am pretty sure the women I see walking around in heels and skirts on weekends are in town for a wedding, or for the opera, or something, and they don't actually live here. Because if they lived here, they wouldn't be dressing like that.

But maybe the problem is not so much the dearth of dresses per se, but in fact the lack of dresses that are wearble. Most of what I saw was either balloony, or boxy, or strapless, or too short, or all of the above. What does it take to find a normal, below-the-knee dress that has a waist? Apparently, a lot.

I am convinced the 80's are not merely returning, it's like a zombie episode. It's the undead of bad fashion disguised as "designer" stuff. But just because it has the labels and a silhouette not quite like some other dress does not mean it is going to look good when you wear it.

You are probably better off wearing jeans. But do not - I repeat, DO NOT - peg the legs. Please.

There was one store that had both an acceptable number of dresses, and a high percentage of them that were wearable and/or interesting, and that was Anthropologie. Not that I could have necessarily worn them all, but at least I could appreciate the consideration someone took to make them look nice, rather than just stick some rayon on a hanger and call it a dress. I mean, because if I am going to spend money on something, I would like it be more or less stitched together, thank you very much.

So anyway. I did not find my dress at Anthropologie. But I did manage to find a dress. And I liked it even more when I brought it home than I did when I was at the store. Mission successful! I guess sometimes good things are worth the effort.

New Job

All's well that ends well. The darkest hour comes before the dawn. Why do these platitudes have to apply to my life? Why I can't I just live normally, without all these ups and downs and ridiculous interruptions to what it is I am trying to get done?

Why the drama??

I guess I'm used to it. When you come from a family that can't go out to dinner without some kind of dramatic sequence, I suppose it becomes part of your life pattern. I might even go looking for drama where there isn't any, which is stupid, because I actually hate drama. I was always the one calming everyone else down. I was always above the fray. And now it's like people keep fraying my ends, and I've about had enough.

So I have to promise myself this year, NO DRAMA.

Right. Like that will happen. Because even if I'm not dramatic, it seems like everyone else is. Sigh. But what I find really ridiculous is how everyone hates drama in their own lives, but they regularly engage in it, and love watching it on TV. I guess that's not so surprising. We've all got morbid attraction.

As for me, well, my story is not over yet. But at least things are "looking up," as they say.

I have a new job. I have a place to live and a very sane landlord, and nice neighbors. August was pretty rough, but I figure it's worth it sometimes to go through a bad spot to find the good thing at the end that was worth waiting for.

View from the (almost) top

Here is the view from the balcony out the window of the ninth floor office of the James Bong building, where I work. Yes, it's called the James Bong building. I hate to think what we would do in an earthquake. Which is why I tend not to think about it too much. But we do have a nice view of Market Street.

Extreme Ironing

Well, I had been thinking of taking up a new sport.
Too bad I hate ironing with a passion.

My Game Plan

If I had a chick-rock band with five members - three women and two men, who would be the drummer and the bass guitarist - I would call it "Emergency Third Rail Power Trip." That is what the obscure yellow sign in the BART station I saw this morning read.

Slip 'n' Slide!

My friend and I were sitting in her kitchen, eating a snack and drinking coffee and admiring the flowers on the table, when the text came. Slip and slide party? Of course we wanted to go their house right now, despite my friend's needing to get to the lab. In ten minutes, we had our bathing suits on, and were driving up the street to where her friends had set up in their back yard a three-laned Slip-n-Slide that was about ten feet long, with little pools and bumpers at the end. It was barely longer than an adult person's body. But it was exactly what I think we all needed. Or at least I did.

It was like therapy, actually. Because I was traumatized by a slip-n-slide at a very young age. My mother had dropped me off at a daycare one day in perhaps early summer or late August. They had set up a slip-n-slide outside in the back yard, which was conveniently on a hill, so to facilitate the sliding motion for our slipping pleasure. It was one of those old slip-n-slides, back in the 80's, which was barely more than a strip of yellow tarp with a perforated tube along the side to keep it damp. I was probably about 6 at the time. The slip-n-slides they make these days are pretty high-tech. They've got bumpers, arches, multiple lanes. All kinds of things. Back then, we had our plastic, and we were happy. So we'd go down the thing, and get grass-burned at the end, since there was nothing to stop you from keeping going once the plastic ran out.

I probably had a few successful runs. But I don't remember much except giving myself a good running start, and then, as I prepared to glide gracefully down the hill, stepping on the yellow plastic, and instead of launching myself forward into an athletic and perfectly formed slide, my feet slipped out from under me, and I landed backward, right on my head. It was a bit surprising, and disappointing, mainly because I didn't get to go down the thing. I don't remember much until my mom came to get me. I wasn't too fond of slip-n-slides after that. I did go on them occasionally, but always with great caution, and never on a hill.

So here I was, facing a three-lane, tri-color slip-n-slide, where, for some reason, the owners of the slide had decided to place at the beginning of it, a big green tarp covered with soap and water. The theory was that it would help you slip and slide more. It did, but only if you wanted to slip in slide in place, as one guy found out. I knew better.

They were yelling at me as I moved the tarp aside, but I didn’t care. Thoughts of potential head injury haunted my brain, and as the ground underneath was basically dirt, I didn’t want to mess with it. I needed my approach to be clean and non-soapy. It was. And it was great. I got a couple steps of a running start, and I conquered all ten feet of that glorious plastic. And I conquered it backwards. And back again. I conquered my fears. I took back my pride. And I am no longer afraid of wet, slippery plastic. I just won’t set one up on a hill for my kids.

What I would like to know is, how did they know I needed a Slip-n-Slide party? Who knows? That’s the way things go in San Francisco, or so it seems.

Earthquake

We had our first earthquake! Okay, well, not San Francisco, naturally. But I did. It was a 4.0. It wasn't very strong. More like a low rumble that you feel in the floor in waves. And, much like people say, it sounds a lot like a passing truck. But more like a truck that comes from everywhere and goes into nothing. Like Large Marge. It's kind of freaky actually. And then I hear the neighbors talking about it out the window. "Did you feel that?" That's the only confirmation I have that it really happened, but I know what it was. It's pretty unmistakable. Because at a certain level, when you realize that everything is shaking, and that there is no possibility there is a truck that big passing anywhere, or for quite that long, it begins to feel out of control, and you wonder what you're going to do if it gets worse.

Running for President

I think I'll run for president. Why not? If Sarah Palin can get elected as VP, with five kids, one Down Syndrome baby, and a pregnant teenager, surely anything the pundits can dredge up against me can't be that bad - or, better yet, can be spun to my advantage. So she's got a pregnant teenager? She's got Family Values. McCain fought for our country! In the Vietnam War... I think I can do better. I can do Obama AND Palin, and use my lack of experience as my key defining feature and attribute, making me exceedingly qualified. And I'll be the youngest President ever. I'll fly in my private jet and go everywhere and not wage wars. TaylorM 2012!