Monthly Archives: August 2009

Letters From The Bay, Week 6: Carry The Weight

It wasn’t that heavy, I rationed.

I held it in my hands, weighed it carefully, shifted it from one hand to the other, hoisted it up on my shoulders for a minute, and then held it in front of me like a pregnant lady cradling her stomach.

Only in my case, I wasn’t carrying a fetus, I was carrying shoes.  Yes, it was a box of shoes, and a few other things.  From my mother.  Sent to me at work, per my own request, so that I would be there to receive it from FedEx.  As previously mentioned, I spend more time at THE AGENCY than anywhere else, so I figured it would be easiest to have the box sent to my office.

Because I spend more time at work than anywhere else, I missed the bus.

Because I am too Lutheran to take a cab when I could just as easily walk, I decided to walk to a different bus station.

And because I am a bad judge of both distance and time, I carried the box of shoes from my mother across downtown San Francisco, approximately 2.4 miles, for about 32 minutes.

My box and I made it home from a 14 hour day, at about 7:30 p.m., and I promptly fell into a heap and cried.

My job is not going well.

I wish that weren’t the case.

I wish my blog were unicorns and cupcakes all the time, but that’s just not the truth.  My job is intense, overwhelming, and very stressful, and I have some coworkers who manage to intensify all of the above to the point where I would rather do anything than go to work because all day long I teeter on the verge of a massive meltdown and consider housewifery as a viable secondary option to my current job, despite the fact that I am neither home owner nor wife.

That’s just life in the big city, I guess.

That’s what my mom used to say to The G and I when we were little.  Don’t have cable?  Tough – that’s life in the big city.  Your brother won’t play Barbies with you?  That’s just life in the big city.

Don’t like your job?  That’s just life in the big city.

And indeed, it is.  It weighs heavily upon me, my terrible job, and I feel like I may crack under the pressure at any moment.

And so, I am considering my options.  Rationing, if you will.

Because right now, it’s up to me.  I am holding my own life in my hands. Weighing it carefully, shifting from one side to the other, and hoisting myself up, not on the shoulders of anyone else, but on my own two feet.

And right now, there is nothing else to do but carry the weight, however many miles it takes, all the way across this city.


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Food for thought

On the one hand, big thanks to THE AGENCY for feeding me a lot lately.  Three meals every day, for the last several days.

We’re talking serious foodage people.  I haven’t gone grocery shopping in almost three weeks.

On the other hand – a completely different hand – maybe even on an entirely different body ? why is it that I am at work long enough every day that they feel compelled to feed me so often and on such a regular schedule?

It’s like the zoo.

Plus booze.

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Letters From The Bay, Week 5: The San Francisco Date Debate Part II

Okay, so let’s be honest: I wasn’t that into it from the start of things.

Sure, he was wearing a hat.  Hats = cute.

And sure, he owned his own company.  Owning stuff = hot.

But there is no way possible that after three hours of conversation this man wanted to get to date five with me.  After all, three hours do not equal even three dates, let alone five, just like how three plus date does not equal five plus date, or three plus five dates does not equal marriage or even a weekend in Napa, or something.

I’m not very good at math.

Or dating, apparently, because here is what went down Internet:

He insisted on date one, I said okay.

He insisted on dinner, I said okay.

We made the witty banter, it was okay.

Then we watched Shark Week at his house, and it was freaking awesome because as everyone knows, sharks are awesome.

He kissed me goodnight and said he couldn’t wait to see me again, which was okay.  I mean, a little presumptuous, but okay.

He put me in a cab and directed the driver back to my house, which was okay.

And then we never spoke again.

Which was not okay, because here’s why: three little letters.


If you are a CSU RAM or Kappa Delta, you’ll remember TPO.

If you know me even a little bit, you’ll know that I am always the TPO’er, and never the TPO’ee.

And Mr. Hat Company Owner broke all the rules and TPO’ed me.

And now I’m just PO’ed.

Because I wanted to do it first.

Have you ever been TPO’ed?

How did you feel?

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Letters From The Bay, Week 4: The San Francisco Date Debate Part I

The date began like any other.  That is to say, people were nervous.  I wasn’t nervous, because to me, dates are just free dinners and hey!  You might even get to make out later!  But I’m just easy like that.

We’d met the night before, at a bar hosting a charity event called Booze for Boobs.  He caught me staring at him, which I was (his ass, not his boobs) and he totally called me out on it.

“Caught you!” (him, triumphantly)

“I’m sorry?” (me, blushingly, fakely, obviously)

“Uh, you were staring at me?  And I totally caught you? (him, slightly cockily, yet also, explanatorily)

“Yeah, okay, maybe I was.” (me, flirtily, dismissively)

“Well, I didn’t say it was a bad thing.” (him, adorably)

And so we continued, excitedly, gigglingly, oddly into the night.

He was a skier! A venture capitalist! A Democrat! An acquaintance of a mere three hours! Possibly a felon!  Who the hell knows! The man of my dreams!

When he said he didn’t believe in playing by the rules and could we skip the three-day waiting period and go out right away, I was ecstatic.  At last!  A man who didn’t play games!

When he said he’d already planned out our first five dates, I was thrilled.  Finally!  A man who knew what he wanted!

When he called 20 minutes after we left the bar, only to say that he couldn’t stop thinking about me and how happy he’d be when we were together again, I was flattered.  Eureka!  A man who is not afraid of his emotions!

When I woke up the next morning and scrolled through the litany of text messages reading “baby” and “sweetheart” and my personal favorite “darlin” (no apostrophe – Sarah Palin must have taught him how to text) and recalled that I’d already agreed to a minimum of five dates with this man, I was freaked.

Oh God!  Is he crazy?  Like, certifiably nuts, perhaps?  Because nobody calls me sweetheart unless they’ve gone off their meds, and there is nothing particularly darling about me, except for the fact that I was once a small child, and when children are involved, that word seems to get thrown around a lot.  Especially at Easter.  And when they’re missing all their teeth at once.

But I am not a small child.  And I was not wearing a frilly dress and hunting for eggs when we met.  Also, I do have all my teeth. At least, last time I checked.   You’re only supposed to have seven of them, right?  RIGHT?

So, clearly, this man was insane.

To be continued…

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