Saturday, December 22, 2007

Alcoholics Anonymous



Things that get better after drinking:
1. Karaoke
2. Pool
3. Conversations with Strangers
4. Ability to Blow Smoke Rings
5. Role Playing
6. Writing

Things that get worse after drinking:
1. Karaoke
2. Sex
3. Conversations with Friends
4. Ability to Play Scrabble
5. Walking in Stilettos
6. Ability to Stick to One Kind of Alcohol

Things we think get better but actually get worse:
1. Dancing
2. Sense of Humor
3. Conversations with Boyfriends/Girlfriends

Thursday, December 13, 2007

I have to come to terms with it...



I am an Old Married Man Magnet.

Last night, before going to the Metreon for a scary movie, Erik and I stopped in for a drink at the sports bar across the street. I was telling him about the latest developments with the pervs at work and he turned around to me and said:

Erik:
I’m going to be one of those guys. Old, committed, and harassing pretty young things (boys).

Me:
Why are you in a committed relationship anyway?

Erik:
Cause I need to be committed. (He points to his head).

Me:
You’re not old. And you’re cute. You could harass me anytime.

Erik:
But I’m thinking… you really do have a problem.

Me:
I know. Is it something I do?

Erik:
I don’t know what you do but you do it everywhere you go. Remember J--- Adams?

My vendor, when I still worked with Erik, was always flirting with me, coming over to see me, wanting to take me out to lunch. Now that I’m working across the street from Erik, at another architecture firm, I still see J Adams every once in a while. Erik went into vulgar details about J Adams and what he probably dreams about doing to me and I “Ugh”-ed and “Eeewww”-ed, freaking out the crowd of after-work happy professionals around us. Then, satisfied by having captured the attention of our immediate neighbors, we went to see our movie.

This afternoon I got a call from him:

Erik:
Ok. Guess what you conjured up.

Me:
What?

Erik:
I got a call from the receptionist saying she had J Adams on the line for me, and I’m thinking of course. Of course you have J Adams on the line.

Me:
That’s funny.

Erik:
It gets funnier. He asked about you and wants to take Enrique, Tyrone, myself, and YOU out to lunch. And you get to pick where.

Me:
Aaaaggghhh!!! What is it that I do?!!!

Erik:
I don’t know but if I had even a quarter of your magic, I’d be in heaven.


(As I was writing this, my HR friend came over to tell me she had to talk to me. Apparently, my manager had complained to HR on my behalf, about the other day’s incident with the perv.)

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Absinthe is Legal!



Oh yes, it is. And tomorrow night Lele and I are going to Elixir where they're serving it again after many, many years. The plan is to have some "fun" with the other Absintheans. He he! But depending on how much "fun" we have, I may end up calling out sick Friday...

...and having some more drinks with Dr. Joey? Hmmm... There's also pool. Not the diving kind, in which I'd probably drown after all that alcohol (especially considering I don't swim), but the shooting kind. The one that gets better the more alcohol you've had.

Seriously, though. I'm not an alcoholic.

Really.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Crossing the Line...



When it comes to flattery, at what point does it shift from innocuous and amusing to creepy and uncomfortable?

Today, the pictures from our office holiday party were finally posted. There are two pictures (well... three) of me, with a group of friends. An hour or so after the receptionist sends out the announcement that they're now available for viewing, one of my perv-y, old, married admirers e-mailed me:

"Where’s that red dress I had picked out for you???!!"

Later, passing through the kitchen, on my way back to my desk, he called out to me and said, "But you were still a babe in black!"

And my managers heard. They were shocked. Amused. Creeped out. Concerned. And they talked to me about it.

Hmmm...

Friday, December 7, 2007

El Patron



Ahhh… The office tequila bottle. Comes in handy sometimes. Especially on the last day of the beloved office manager/friend.

Pour me a Prosecco, please!



Met up with Dr. Joey on Wednesday evening for a few drinks at Bar Bambino- a cute little wine bar on 16th Street, close to Mission. It seems they have a little outdoor patio, too, but lost in our conversations, I forgot all about it and didn’t get a chance to check it out. We also forgot the “Cookie Plate”.

How is it that some people you meet for the first time and you can have great, absolutely wonderful, fun conversations with for hours on end- and then some people you are constantly stumbling, thinking of things to say to? I guess we did have our blogs to talk about, and everything about us that relates to our blogs; Narcissism, Voyeurism, Crazy Exes. We decided that our exes should meet. They might find they have quite a bit in common and end up falling in love and getting married and having little psychotic kids… or maybe not… we don’t need any more crazies in this world. At least not the psychotic type.

Anyway. One thing that Dr. Joey did make me realize (besides that I’m not really a narcissist- because that would require a certain level of unhealthy competitiveness that I don’t have) is that I have no obligation to be nice to Doug. There were BIG, HUGE reasons that I left him. I don’t need to continue to watch out for him any more and protect him from my own happiness. I’m done placating him. I’ve made attempts to be friends, but I realized that I have been the one constantly going out of my way to make sure he’s ok, being careful that I don’t upset him by bringing a guy to the baseball game, wondering if he’ll be upset if I talk to him because he’s not ready to talk to me yet… Yeah. Don’t need to do any of that anymore. Done. (phew!)

Thanks for the permission Dr. Joey. Now where’s that champagne flute?

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

Magnetic Poem of the Day


today we tear pages
as emotions play silently
and broken hearts ache
exposed to the truth

Saturday, December 1, 2007

"The Fire in My Loins"



From: clele75
Date: Mon Nov 26
Re: The fire in my loins

is all but extinguished. I’m a 75 year-old man with a large heart, and an even larger bank account.

I find you very attractive and want you to be my mistress. All you really have to do is bite me. Yes, that’s correct. I’m so old (been there done that) the only thing that gets me off (and that I can feel anymore) is when young hotties sink their teeth into my flesh.

As long as you don’t mind my wife (she sleeps most of the day) I think we have a win-win situation.

Your truly,

Geriatric and Jonesing


- – - – - – - – - – Original Message – - – - – - – - – -
From: LaPoette
Date: Mon Nov 26
Re: The fire in my loins

Being an extremely gorgeous woman in my twenties, I have received several similar proposals from men like you. One even had a Scrabble fetish. And liked to be molested in the middle of the street. Shrug. But you know, whatever gets you off. I am, after all, a very loving woman.

As you are well aware of, I am big on biting. My only concern is that men of your age tend to bruise very easily. And I suppose if I bite and you scream, and we wake up your narcoleptic wife, I would have to run really fast in my stilettos, and run the risk of (oh look, a pun) breaking an ankle or my jaw or dislocating my shoulder. Because of this, I think it is only fair that I be taken care of financially and be included on your will. (Your sleeping wife won’t need anything since she’ll probably sleep until she’s ready to die, and then probably die in her sleep). I also think that a car (a brand new hot pink Lexus will do) as a gift, would be very thoughtful of you. That way, it will be waiting for me on my way out. A private chauffeur would also make things smoother. For that, I will take a young, good-looking man, with hair on his head, and a thick wallet in his back pocket. Another thick… uh… wallet in the front pocket should be part of your selection criteria. In fact, I could make things easier by selecting him myself, if you’d like.

Do you have a big bed? I like big four poster beds. And do you know your cuff size? This will be part of my gift to you. It’s a surprise.

Also, how fast do you run? (uh… you know, just in case… it’s good to know how much energy my man has.)

Only yours,

Chrystale Diamante


- – - – - – - – - – Original Message – - – - – - – - – -
From: clele75
Date: Tue Nov 27
Re: The fire in my loins

Look I’ve had a completely unfilling life. If you do half of the things mentioned in your naughty little Email, I’ll knock off my wife so you don’t have to.

Cuff size? Hell, I want you to strap one on. Damn it! Why not just fasten my ol’ Lousiville slugger around your waist and have a homerun derby on my ass.

That’s right my azure-coiffed siren. I still got a lot of howl left in this bark. Bite off a piece of my sagging man boob if you have to. As long as you keep it fresh, you can have two flamingo pink Bentleys and the man toys to go along with it. But you must promise me you’ll let me watch when you use the Lousiville slugger on these unsuspecting hunks. (Gotta to relive them Army days.)

And one more thing—I’ve always wanted to be molested while playing Scrabble. I say we do it right in the middle of the fucking road.

Mercy, I already feel two decades younger. Now I just got to find that bat.

-Your Roaring Lothario

(but you can call me Grampkins!)


- – - – - – - – - – Original Message – - – - – - – - – -
From: LaPoette
Date: Mon Nov 28
Re: The fire in my loins

Dearest,

Well… now I’m not so sure. I like my men servile. In your previous e-mail, you sounded like the sweet gentleman who would gladly do as I asked, whatever I asked, if only I nibbled a little here and there, bit your lip hard, your neck, drew blood maybe a couple of nights… the submissive man who would open up his heart (and his checkbook), shower me with diamonds, and please my every whimsy, my every caprice. The kind of man they call “whipped”- but without the leather.

Here, you sound like a demanding tyrant. The kind of man who deserves to be whipped- with leather. Chained up to posts and slapped a few times, have his Louisville piece ground into him until he cries out for his mama. I already got me one of those.

I am, however, a respectful woman, with honor and will not agree to anything until a bank account is opened up in my name with a couple hundred grand deposited. I also think that before we begin this venture, we should have an agreement that you will not come anywhere near my property (which you will buy for me) on nights that I am not with you, i.e. you will stay away from my “man toys”. I will gladly film our… liaisons… for you to enjoy while you lie in your bed next to your ever-sleeping wife. (Have you checked her breathing lately? Is she alive?)

I look forward to hearing from you- and before that, I look forward to the little package that will arrive on my doorstep tomorrow morning from Tiffany’s, holding a beautiful watch- so that I may be on time to keep our appointments. I like this one: Watch

Until then.

Yours, C.D.

But of course the night didn’t end there...



After the obligatory hour of face time at 111 Minna, Sara, Rohna, and I headed off to District, again. I have to say, I really do like the place a lot. But I think I was tired, and distracted by earlier, and just kinda not really in the mood to schmooze with strangers.

And another thing, and this may be a bit un-PC, but hey, I gotta say it: I get tired of Sara getting all worked up about the Black issue. How no non-black person can ever relate to her, how her experience is so totally different than everyone else’s, and so much more important. It bothers me. I feel like, as women, we have a lot in common- and as women-of-color, even more. All three of us are single, so we’re all in the same boat, then why does she feel like it’s so much harder for her to find the right guy?

Whenever the conversation starts going there, I feel like tuning out. I get pissed because of what ensues. We actually got into a pretty heated argument once at a bar, a few months ago, and since then, I feel like I can’t even say what I’m feeling or thinking when this conversation comes up. Sara is extremely offended when she sees black guys with white girls. She says there aren’t enough “good” (meaning educated, cultured, ambitious, career-minded) black guys to begin with, and the few there are, should be more loyal to their race and date/marry black women. She feels that black guys are disrespecting black women by dating white women, after what all the black race went through. It implies they think white women are more beautiful, and that it’s a status symbol for them, to have a white chick hanging off their arms. Sara thinks that black guys should only, ONLY, date black women. "Or women of color," she adds as an afterthought (Rohna, from Trinidad, is still dating, and madly in love with, her black ex-boyfriend), though I know she’d really rather they just date black women.

My problem with that is that I believe everyone should be able to date whoever they want- whatever their color, race, religion, etc. I guess because that’s my battle. My family strongly insists that I be with a Muslim guy, but I don’t remember the last time I met a Muslim guy who I was interested in. The last one I dated was back in college. It’s not that I refuse to date Muslim guys, it’s just that I don’t meet any who are my type. I feel like my personality, my likes and dislikes, are more easily matched in the larger pool of non-Muslim guys. Those are the guys I relate to,

So when my own friends start saying that people should not date out of their race (religion, culture, etc.), I feel like maybe I’m making friends with the wrong people. I feel like they’re disrespecting my decisions to date whoever I want to. Especially, since it turns out the last few guys I’ve dated have all been white.

So when this conversation took off once again, when we were sitting with a large group of good-looking (one in particular was extremely hot), smart, intelligent black guys, I started feeling really out of place. Plus I was distracted by my first real interaction with Doug- my white ex-boyfriend- and needed some time to ruminate. The guys were really, really nice, insisting that I go with them to their next destination, Swig, instead of calling it a night. But I did, anyway.

It turns out the next destination ended up being their apartment, not Swig, as they had said. So when my friends called me this morning at 9 am to say that they were in a cab, just on their way home, now, I was glad I had dished out the $15 for a cab home, last night.

Happy Hour (a.k.a. An actual, whole conversation!)



It was the proper etiquette. I knew him and had always really gotten along with him, so it would have been rude not to say hello. So I stood in the main room at 111 Minna talking to Steve, Doug’s friend, who looked lost in a sea of people from my office; people he didn’t know. Doug had stepped away to get them drinks. A couple of minutes later, when a hand reached past me and placed a glass of beer in Steve's outstretched fingers, I realized Doug was back, and that I was now standing between him and Steve. After an awkward minute or two, there was nothing I could do but turn around to face Doug.

Me: Hey Doug. How are you?

Doug: I’m good, Uzma. How are you?

Me: I’m doing really well, thanks. How’s the writing going?

Doug: It’s going ok. I’m doing Playground again.

Me: Oh yeah? What month are you guys on?

Doug: This will be the third month. We’ve had two topics so far. I thought my last play was really good and was hoping it would get selected, but it didn’t.

Me: Oh, I’m sorry.

Doug: How about you? Are you still working on the novel?

Me: No. I’m writing a lot more poetry. And also working on some non-fiction stuff, trying to be funny. I always wanted to be a funny writer.

Doug: But you’ve always been a really funny writer.

Me: You think so? You mean the e-mails?

He gave me a blank stare and then nodded. I guess I had ventured into the territory that was too raw, still. The e-mails were the foundation of our relationship. The funny, long, ranting, raving, mad, philosophical discussions about poetry and literature and Stein and the idiosyncrasies of writing dialogue and how many syllables there are there in ‘hour’ or ‘iron’. The trespass ended the conversation. There was nothing more to say in a bar full of people. I casually turned around, after a minute, and walked away.

Later, I saved Steve from death by boredom when our weird new IT guy was holding him hostage in a conversation about rats and chickens. Steve had given me a look across the room, which screamed, “Save me!” When we got to talking again, Steve told me I looked really happy.

“I am,” I said, smiling. “I am really happy.” And with that I said goodbye and walked out of the bar.

Friday, November 30, 2007

“Absinthe makes you crazy and criminal…”



“…It makes a ferocious beast of man, a martyr of woman, and a degenerate of the infant, it disorganizes and ruins the family and menaces the future of the country.”
- 19th Century French Critic

Funnily (yes, “funnily”), absinthe is now legal in the US, and is being served at only one place on the West Coast, which is a restaurant/bar called Absinthe. They’ve been around for years, but I bet they’re going to get tons of business now!

Guess what Lele and I are planning for this weekend?

You’re smart.

She found a place!



The roommate from hell is moving out Decmber 1st!
Maybe I’ll have a party for New Year’s, after all!

Maybe.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Magnetic Poem of the Day


exposed through time
how will the story go
sweet funny light
or sour mouth cliché

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Coming Soon: Are All Writers Narcissistic?



Work in Progress. To be posted by the end of the week.

Bohemian:



"One with artistic or literary interests who adopts manners markedly different from those of the majority of society."

-Webster’s II Dictionary, Third Edition

Rohna is very diplomatic...



Last night, I was shopping with my friend Rohna, and we were having a conversation about our weekends, just catching up. My weekend, a major part of it, was spent with Lele, and Rohna thought it was really weird that we can spend hours playing game after game of Scrabble. So I was telling her about all the “shit talking” we do when we’re playing and I jokingly said that Lele is narcissistic (which I have told him many times- also jokingly) and she turned to me and said, “Well so are you!”

I was surprised. And then amused. And then intrigued. Really? Well, yeah, I guess I am. But is that how I appear to others? To my friends? She didn’t seem to mean it in a bad way, either, and I asked her to explain herself.

Rohna: You like being the center of attention!

Me: (laughing) Well, I can’t help it if I am.

Rohna: I guess we all like getting attention. But you’re kinda different. And you’re such a flirt, wrapping men up around your little finger. All giggles, and batting lashes. And there’s that thing you do with your wine glass. You pretend to hide behind it when you say something naughty or when you laugh.

Me: I’m a girl. I’m supposed to flirt.

Rohna: But you’re very ostentatious about it.

Me: Huh.

Rohna: And you dress kinda out there.

Me: But that’s my personality!

Rohna: Exactly.

Which got me thinking. Is it cause I’m a writer? Or am I a writer cause I’m a narcissist? Are all writers narcissists?

Slowly...



Today I got a, "Hey, Uzma" and a wave.
While wearing the sweater I gave him for Christmas.

A wave of Nostalgia washed over me.
But then Memory kicked in. Hard.

I waved back.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

On the other hand:



My manager, Lynn, came up to me with a sheepish look on her face, kinda nervous, and said she had to ask me something.

Me: Sure. What’s up?

Lynn: But I’m not sure if I should ask you and you can totally say no, because I feel lame asking you.

Me: (Build the suspense, why don’t you) Lynn, it’s ok. Just ask.

Lynn: I have to burn a CD.

Me: Oh. (Uh oh)

Lynn: And I realized maybe I shouldn’t ask you to come with me.

Me: Oh. (Cheeks burning)

Lynn: But I don’t know how to burn the CD.

Me: Oh.

Lynn: So I feel really lame.

Me: It’s ok. I’ll go with you, but I won’t go by myself.

The CD burner is right next to Doug’s desk. Luckily, he wasn’t there. Lynn grabbed a couple of Twizzlers from his desk and tossed me one. It landed by my foot. I picked it up, realized what it was, and almost dropped it again, thinking, Are you crazy? I’m not going to be seen with a Twizzler from his desk! What if he returns? So I hid it in my boot. (Yup). But then, Lynn realized she didn’t have the files she needed to burn in the right folder, so she had to go back to her desk. I managed to sit there, looking around, panicking, biting my nails, hoping he wouldn’t come back before Lynn did.

He didn’t.

“I can tell that we're going to be friends” – White Stripes



Slowly. Surely? Not quite. But yesterday, for the first time since we broke up, we wrote a couple of personal e-mails back and forth. Non work-related. Well, it started with me asking him something work related, and then turned into him asking me something personal.

Nothing exciting, but it’s something.

Saturday, November 24, 2007

Ugh.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Poetic License



It’s a word, if I say it’s a word.
End of story.

"The District Sleeps Alone..." - Postal Service



Friday night my friends Rohna, Sara, and I went to District- a really cool NY-style wine bar that my intern/assistant Blake (yes, the one I was talking about at the end of The Blake Paradox) had been raving about for months. I hadn’t expected what I found. I was thinking chichi, mellow, wine bar with expensive drinks and rich men buying rounds at their tables kinda deal. No. This was entirely different.

Blake said it’s the kind of place he’d take a date. Would I take a date there? No. Besides the fact that I usually want to be able to hear my dates, it’s also too crowded for anything but single people who want to bump into that hot guy who’s drink is totally going to spill as he tries to squeeze past you. And I’m not really the bar date type, anyway, unless there’s some familiarity with the other person. And the guys I date are usually not rich (this fact NEVER changes), but rather, most likely starving artists. Really.

But. I was there with my single girlfriends, and we were totally that threesome who took advantage of all the bumping, squeezing past, drink spilling. It probably also owed to the fact that we were the only women-of-color (ok, that’s a bit too PC for me) at the bar, that we got more attention than we wanted. One guy, pretending to be the owner (there’s one of them at every bar), thought he was so cool he could grab my hand and pull it to his chest even as I stood, deeply engrossed in my conversation with some other guy. (His other hand always seemed to graze my back as he smiled and slloooowwwlllyyyyy walked away, facing me, crashing into everyone behind him).

The guy I actually ended up talking with the rest of the right was one of the guys whose couch we took over when we first walked in. He and his friend scooted over to the chairs, to make room for us. He had a British accent and Sara thought he was cute. I thought he looked older. But he was staring at me while I twirled my legs, made space for the plate of roasted almonds on my knee by lifting up my whitewhite skirt, giggled, and sipped at my wine with my redred lips. He was also the guy who volunteered to babysit our coats when my friends and I decided we weren’t going to meet anyone sitting down and so went off to flirt with other guys. When I came back to check on our coats, an hour later, I stayed for the scintillating conversation.

On the other side of the room, my friends were having their own fun little time, acquiring free drink upon free drink. By the end of the night, Sara had consumed seven drinks! And that is probably a big part of the reason we lost her. (One other, insignificant detail being that there was this suited, fedora-ed, african american guy who’s ear she’d been nibbling on... but that’s a very insigificant detail). We did eventually find her, but it was… uhhh… a little too late.

Overall, it was a very unexpected, surprisingly fun evening. A little too much excitement than we’d planned, but we’d definitely go back.

Oh, and the guys were definitely not starving artists, because I didn’t pay for one drink. Does that mean that there was no one in that room I would have made out with? Hmmm...

Monday, November 19, 2007

Sometimes It Rains, Sometimes It’s Sunny…



It’s that time of the year again. Already.

Last year, I was worrying about what to buy certain people for Christmas. At least I don’t have to worry about that, this year, so I’m concentrating on finding a dress for the holiday party, instead. Even though I’m already not looking forward to it cause I think it will be really pathetic. No dance floor, not enough space for people to do anything but sit at their dinner tables. No DJ, either, so they’re putting together some music to play on the sound system. At least we’re still having an open bar- not that I can even allow myself to drink much. And at least it’s just a few blocks from my house, so I can leave whenever I want to. And at least it’s in the Mission, so my friends and I can go somewhere else after we leave. And… well… I’ve been meaning to try out Farina.

But the dress. It has to be something nice. And not black. I’m thinking green. Unless that other older co-worker buys me one of the red dresses he’s been pointing out to me. (Kidding). Yes, I know. You want to hear all about my perfect-dress-hunt. (Kidding, again).

Anyway. Ho hum. It’s that kind of a day.

Magnetic Poem of the Day


people ask in whispers
so I confess silently
my truths

this is me

obedienter than you

Sunday, November 18, 2007

The Blake Paradox



A few years ago, to get out of work for a couple of days, I told a lie. Sure, that’s how it’s done. You say you’re not feeling well, your basement flooded, your car broke down, there’s been a family emergency. Some even say there’s been a death in the family. I went one step further. I called my manager one morning, sobbed into the phone and said, “My best friend, Blake, got into an accident last night and died. I’ve been at the hospital all night.”

Two days later, when I finally went back to work, everyone came up to ask me how I was doing. They asked me what happened, if I wanted to talk, assured me that they were there for me if I needed a shoulder to cry on. Tears readily sprung to my eyes, and surprised even me. The story rolled off my tongue without me having thought it out. There was an accident. My friend was driving home after dropping me home on our way back from a movie. It was late. Some guy, drunk, ran a red light and swerved to avoid hitting a parked car, landed into the wrong lane, and crashed into my friend.

The HR Director called me into her office to ask me if I was ok. She told me about her ex-husband who’d recently passed away, and who’s death she only found out about one day as she was browsing the Internet. She asked me if Blake’s family had been notified and I told her his dad lived in New York and I didn’t know how to get in touch with him. I said I had keys to his apartment, and she suggested that, difficult as it may be, I had to go back there and see if I could figure out a way to get in touch with Blake’s dad. She asked if I had someone who could go with me. I wasn’t sure what to say, so I didn’t say anything at all. She took it to mean that I was in shock, took my hand, and said, “I want you to go home. Take some time off. But please tell me if there’s anything you need.”

It struck me then, that they really believed me. I realized the implications of this big lie I’d made up, and would be compelled to continue making up for as long as they remembered.

Though no one had ever heard me mention his name before, Blake was a close friend of my main character in the novel I was working on at the time. I knew my characters really well, very intimately, having been the one who created them. Two months later, when my computer inexplicably crashed, I lost my novel and this Blake character. I realized that I had lost this fictional best friend, once again.

This time when I cried, there was no one I could share that loss with. My co-workers thought I’d lost him a while ago, while my friends outside of work, didn’t know he existed. My nostalgia was implacable. On top of that, was the guilt of having plunged Blake into non-existence; I felt I had killed him.

My conscience nagged at me, so I constantly recreated Blake, by making him a recurring character in my writing. But in every piece that he appears in, he is lost to me. He is the best friend who dies, the lover who leaves, the stranger who comes into the main character's life for a brief tryst that is never consummated, the friend who’s ashes a character is bringing back to his family.

Now, years later, I have a co-worker/intern/assistant named Blake. Every time I speak to him, I feel guilty. When I say his name, I feel like I’m lying. I’ve become friends with him but every time we have a conversation, I’m thrust back into my fictional world, the only place Blake actually exists, if even for short periods of time.

Friday, November 16, 2007

Perv Alert



Why is it that old married men seem to think it’s ok to tell younger female co-workers that they are insanely attracted to them? What is it about me, that I attract such nuts? Do they really think, that I will smile and say, “Yes, I think you’re hot, too. Let’s forget about your wife?”

An older co-worker, who is definitely a bit socially challenged, a creeper (not just a creep), has been asking me to go get coffee with him for a while. We have a Peet’s downstairs in our office building, and any of various combinations of people from the office go down for a cup of their preferred poison, on any given day. This fellow has, on another occasion, tagged along with some of my other co-worker friends and I for a coffee, uninvited. I didn’t think much of it, except that I couldn’t be bothered to spend my coffee breaks with him, so I kept ignoring his requests and appeared to be busy when he dropped by. Thursday morning, though, none of my usual coffee buddies were around and right before I got into the elevator to go to Peet’s alone, I decided to give him a call.

On our way over, he started his nosiness:

Old Co-Worker:
So, are you and Doug still an item?

Me:
No. It’s been a few months.

Old Co-Worker:
Really? How come?

Me:
Oh, it just didn’t work out.

Old Co-Worker:
Why? What happened?

I was incredulous. Did he really think I was going to tell him? I ignored his question and he started prying more into the previous office romances Doug had been involved in, while we waited our turn in line for the barista. He obviously hadn’t been on the office rumor mill but was dying to get on. Eventually, it was my turn to order.

Old Co-Worker:
I can understand why. You’re a very attractive woman.

Me:
(To Barista) Uh, yes, I’ll have a small Masala Chai Latte, please. (To Old Co-Worker) Thanks.

Old Co-Worker:
I have to fight myself all the time, when I see you.

(I almost dropped my change. The barista smiled. Do you want your receipt? I shook my head, no.)

Old Co-Worker:
But I’m married, you know.

Me:
Yes, I know. I’ve met your kids.

This was the… fifth such incident? Sixth? I forget. Of course, this is besides the other older, married co-worker who constantly suggests various sexy red dresses that he’s seen at stores, or in magazines (he brings me pictures), that he thinks I should go buy for the holiday party.

I should smile sweetly and ask him if he’ll pay for it.

Thursday, November 15, 2007

Magnetic Poem of the Day


strange
that
every old man must feel
compeled to confess
his desire for
the girl
without understanding
it is
better he ferment silently
and she never know

Monday, November 5, 2007

Another freak along the way, down the roommate hunt path...



A young woman, in response to my ad on Craigslist, e-mailed me a link to her Facebook profile instead of writing to me about herself. So I, a little surprised and definitely amused, attempted to check out her profile. I couldn’t see it because, of course, I’m not friends with her on Facebook. I e-mailed her back and asked her to tell me more about herself and how old she was etc., because I couldn’t look at her profile.

She wrote me again and said that she’s going to be 24 on Thanksgiving (when I specified an age range of 26-34 on my posting), and that I should “poke” her or send her a message on Facebook in order to gain access to her profile.

So I did. And I got to see her profile, and guess what? She is sooooo 24.

Her “About Me” section says:
“1 story that sums me up: i didnt want a surprise party for my bday. but someone threw it for me anyway. 100+ people showed up. i found out. so i decided to skip my own surprise bday party, to hell w/ everyone. lesson here~~ i mean what i say.”

Would this make me want to live with her?

Sunday, November 4, 2007

Roommate Hunting... Will it ever end?



Well, after 2 months of not cleaning and refusing to unpack her 20+ boxes, we've finally had to ask Renu to move. I'm tired of looking for new roommates, though. I'm starting to wonder if I really have it in me to really read people well. I can think of too many examples where I've failed...

On the contrary, I am looking forward to finding another person who Sabba and I mesh well with. As much as I was hesitant about living with girls, it's actually been fun, over all.

(Gasp!) Could it be that I am, for once in my life, finding it easier to get along with gals than guys? Maybe it's just that I'm not bothered with men lately... I'm tired.

C'mon already. Perfect Roomie, aren't you out there?

Thursday, October 25, 2007

(Sigh…) Just What I Needed…



...Another addiction:

www.urbis.com

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Magnetic Poem of the Day


climb into
the vacuum of sleep
confess to the conscious night
your dreams
and
give furniture a memory
of grace

Sunday, October 21, 2007

IQ: 136



So I was on the internet the other day (as I am now...) on one of those internet networking/community/social circle things (not as I am, now) and I was checking out this guy's profile. Half way down, in his "About Me" section, was a mensa question that had me stumped:

Bill and Ben have a combined age of 91 years. Bill is now twice as old as Ben was when Bill was as old as Ben is now. How old are Bill and Ben?

I lost sleep over it that night, and spent at least 2 hours at work, the next day, trying to solve it. I got home later that day, though, and figured it out. But since then, I've been looking to torture my brain some more and today I took two IQ tests. Turns out, I'm somewhere between "Highly Gifted" and "Genius".

I know. Who'da thunk?

Girls will be girls!



Last Wednesday, Sara, Rohna, and I went to Americano for a drink after work. I had just gotten back from the east coast really late the night before and I was exhausted. I should have just gone straight home after work but, alas, I was dragged to the bar, instead. So, needless to say, I wasn't feeling up to socializing with strangers the way I usually would.

After some appetizers and a glass of wine, we were about ready to leave- bill paid, coats on, bags on our shoulders. Luckily, each of us have our contacts at the cool SF bars :O) and Sarah's friend Tessa insisted on getting us some "bubbles" before we left. So we stuck around to sip away at our ridiculously expensive, but giddily free glasses of Moët & Chandon Brut Impérial Rosé. I was laughing about something when I turned around and saw him. Tall, dark-haired, he was a better-looking version of John Mayer. He was with a bunch of other guys, all of them wearing suits, and he was watching me. I saw him say something to his friend, who turned to look at me and smiled. I smiled back. Every time I looked up the John Mayer look-alike was looking at me, but he did not come up and say hello, even as I passed right by him on my way out.

I had pointed him out to the girls earlier but I must've said something again as we were walking out because Sara asked, "Do you want me to go talk to him for you?" (since I'm always doing that for her) and I shook my head, vehemently so. I continued walking but the next thing I knew, Sara had disappeared. When she reappeared, she brought John Mayer with her.

I felt kind of silly, having had my girlfriend go grab a guy for me, but he was nice.

Sara:
(After introducing us) He's from Texas.

Me:
Really? I didn't hear an accent.

John Mayer:
(Raising his glass of wine) A couple more of these and I won't be able to hide it.

I laughed and asked him what he was doing in San Francisco and he revealed that he works for the Warriors. That, in fact, he and his co-workers had just gotten off a season kick-off cruise, which is why they were all so dressed up.

John Mayer:
Have you been to a game before?

Me:
Umm... I've been to a few Giants' games...

John Mayer:
(Smiling) The Warriors play basketball.

Me:
(Sheepish grin) Oh. In that case, no.

John Mayer:
Well, then. I guess we'll have to change that!

We talked for a few more minutes, he gave me his card, and then we said goodbye.

I had no intentions of calling him. I'd rather they call me, but I didn't have my card on me and I didn't give him my number. But once again, Sara stepped up and told me I HAD to at least e-mail him.

But I decided he wasn't that interesting after all. (And a little too young- 25, maybe). (I looked him up on Friendster, the way my roommate Renu always does). Even if he could have gotten us great, free tix to see the Warriors.

Sunday, October 14, 2007

Oh, and did I mention...



...I will have gained at least 5 pounds (probably all on my face), by the time I make it back home?

Yeah. At least.

Brrrrr (*shiver*)



Boston is also cold, as ever. And it's not even winter, yet.

Last night, in fact, over the last few nights, I have been shivering in my bed. And I had a heater on! I dread the idea of stepping out of the house in the evening. Especially, if I have to take the train. If I drive, it's not so bad (though it's pretty awful for everyone else on the road), but then again, if I'm going to have a drink, there is no way I'm getting behind the wheel. I'm too paranoid about driving since the fiasco last year (Oh, I didn't write about that? It's probably a good thing) as it is.

How will I ever survive here after 4+ years in San Francisco?

It has, however, been wonderful to see everyone. Parents, sister, friends, cousins, the entire eeexxxttteended family. And Eid was fun, even though I had to wake up at 6 in the morning on a Saturday and head to mosque- something I haven't done since I left Boston.

Tomorrow I get to leave the semi-bitter cold, in exchange for the year-round mild cold of SF. But first, I'm headed to New York to see Hina, my other sister, thanks to whose miles I made it to the east coast for Eid :O)

Saturday, October 13, 2007

Boston is...



... no different than before.
Suddenly, I'm not so sure I'm ready to move back right away.
Am I done with San Francisco? Have I had enough craziness?

Hmmm....

Monday, October 8, 2007

Magnetic Poem of the Day


boy is randomly funny
makes girl full of play-
matching genius
that muse

Thursday, October 4, 2007

Magnetic Poem of the Day


read by shadow
the lines sleep
fire burns
beneath the silent page

Wednesday, October 3, 2007

The Examiner Horoscope: October 3, 2007



Let it all unfold without your control. Adventure winks at you. What happens after that is juicy enough to retell in the future. You could even write a book. Hey, why don't you?

Monday, October 1, 2007

“Remember those happy days when you swore you’d love me always?” –Delilah






Why are opera singers, specifically female opera singers, always so fat? Now if Samson and Delilah were live at the ballpark, I'd understand. After all, who can resist garlic fries? But alas! This was just a live simulcast from the Opera House. I don't know what they feed 'em over there.

I almost didn’t go because it was cold and it had been raining for a bit earlier in the afternoon, ok, drizzling, ok maybe it was just mist- it is San Francisco, after all. It didn’t rain again, but it was fuckin’ freezing and I can’t believe I didn’t think to bring a blanket. But then again, I also wore a white satin skirt, stilettos and fishnets to work that day, having forgotten all about the opera. Luckily, just before I stepped out of the house, I remembered, and threw a sweatshirt and jeans into my bag.

My bag is sometimes a bottomless pit, there's a lot of room in there. You can fit quite a bit in there and then forget all about it (and maybe that's why opera singers are fat- it makes for that perfect depth of voice). I found a pair of socks in there. And gloves. A Cliff bar. Oh, and the camera I borrowed from David, my Office Manager/friend. We sat in middle of the field, on the baseball diamond, something you’d otherwise never get to do. Our hot mayor was there (Hey there, Gavin!) (Oh wait, he’s never going to read my blog), looking smokin’. Must say, I’ve lived in both NY and Boston for just as long as I have here in SF, but I’ve seen Gavin (and I even went to an art show at Matt Gonzales’ office, during the campaign) at least 4, 5, maybe 6 times. Never saw Giuliani. Don’t even know who the mayor of Boston is. “Eat your heart out New York!” as Gavin said.

ANYWAY. The highlight of the night was garlic fries, and the guy at the garlic fries stand telling me I look like Rosario Dawson. Oh, and Gavin.

Friday, September 28, 2007

Thank God it’s Friday!



But I still want it to be over. Well, not the Friday, just the work part of Friday. Friday, starting 6 pm and onwards, is actually my favorite day of the week. Saturdays are nice, too, but Fridays give me the glass-full outlook. And, oh hell!! If there’s ever such a thing as glass-empty, it’s Sunday. I hate Sundays.

Though this Sunday might be more exciting than others. Leather, whips, chains, buttless chaps, all kinds of fun at the Folsom Street fair with Lele! (Which reminds me: I need to find a whip). I borrowed a cool digicam from my friend (cause mine sucks), mainly at Valancy Jane’s request (hey there, Valancy Jane!), but I suppose Sascha would like to see Lele and I getting arrested, too. Or at least handcuffed...

(I forgot about this entry for a couple of hours and am just returning to it.)

I now have work sitting in front of me, but I’m choosing you (and that means you). I’d rather bore you, than bore myself. I need to stay productive-looking, so I will keep these stacks of papers in front of me, waiting to be dealt with, until about 45 mins from when I get to leave. Then I will deal with them.

And after that, I will meet my friend Rohna, and we'll walk over to Opera in the ballpark, where it will rain and I’ll freeze my ass off, but I’ll feel cultured. Who knows, I might even run into a cultured guy (maybe even straight, next-to-impossible as it might be). I’ll feel all high and mighty for about 42 minutes, after which I’ll want to fall asleep but I won’t be able to cause it’ll be so goddamn cold. But hey, I’ll be doing something other than just going to a bar with friends on a Friday night. I’ll just bring the bar to the Opera. In a clear plastic container.

Magnetic Poem of the Day


my precious
pickled genius
you ferment me

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Uh… umm… uh oh.



So apparently Doug is coming to the lunch for the Marketing Manager this afternoon. It also happens to be at Samovar, a place we both went to together for the first time and loved. Hmm…

I swear I’m over him. Even if it may not always sound like it.

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

Ha ha ha!



Jacob/Guillermo’s name is actually Alejandro. Or Alex.

On the other hand, I may have actually convinced Lele to let me take him to the Folsom Street Fair on a leash. You know, to make up for the other night.

Magnetic Poem of the Day


understand my translucent mind
manacle conscious grace
break experience
confess memory
and prostitute new thoughts

Monday, September 24, 2007

Magnetic Poem of the Day


she desires silent grammar
a strange play of words
a certain full-page voice
the dictionary heart
the manuscript brain


he is almost a poet
but finite
clichéd

Sunday, September 23, 2007

"Are you still pissed at me?"



So last night, my roommate Renu convinced me to go out to Medjool with her, our other roommate Sabba, and some friends. I was kind of in the mood to stay at home and read my book (Love in the Time of Cholera) or watch rest of Season 4 of The L Word. I was just not really in the mood to go out, but then I got all dolled up, put on my brightest red lipstick, and walked the 1 1/2 blocks from my house to Medjool, just so I wouldn't be a party pooper. It was, after all, a Saturday night.

It turned out to be a great night for Medjool. It wasn't cold at all, and of course, the heating lamps were on. I was being social, talked to a bunch of random people, some of the crowd I was there with, and even a really cool couple who were visiting from New Zealand. I was having such a great time being out on the roof deck, in fact, that I had no desire to join everyone else downstairs, inside the bar, where the dance floor is. Medjool turns into a massive club on Saturdays and I've only been there once for it. Usually, I stay upstairs, but this time, Sabba convinced me, more so because I was trying to avoid a guy (Renu calls him a "cock-blocker"). Every time I run into this guy, anywhere in the city, he does not leave me alone, and acts like he's my personal body-guard, if not my man. Needless to say, I have absolutely NO interest in him.

Sabba and I got down to the mezzanine, where the rest of our crowd was, and we were standing, overlooking the dancefloor, and then at some point, I'm not sure why since I wasn't planning on getting another drink, I headed over towards the bar. I was doing whatever it was I had walked over to the bar for, when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around. It was Lele.

Lele:
Are you still pissed at me?

Me:
Yes.

Lele:
Why?

Me:
Why do you think? You should have called when you said you would.

I told him all over again about what a jerk his friend was to me the night of the game, after we dropped Lele off at the Caltrain station, and he told me all about how he's been really sad because he thought he'd met a really cool girl and now he'd screwed it up. He had screwed it up, I told him.

Lele:
But I e-mailed you to apologize.

Me:
(Rolling my eyes) Really? Cause I didn't get it.

He gave me the rest of his spiel about how he sent me this e-mail from NY and apologized for being a dick, but of course I didn't believe him, since I never saw this e-mail. He told me how his friend, Jacob/Guillermo, finally called him after ten days and said he forgave Lele, but that Lele had better never pull something like that again.

Lele:
I thought when you wished me happy birthday on Facebook the other day, it was your way of saying you forgive me.

Me:
No. It was my way of saying you lied to me about your age. You said you were 32, but Sascha said you're 27.

So he pulled out his license and of course, dark as it was in there, I couldn't see it. I tried to get into the light and finally he found a perfect spot and pointed to where it said DOB: 09/19/1975.

Lele:
See? I wasn't lying. So will you hang out with me again? Please, please, pretty please?

Me:
I don't know. I'll think about it.

Lele:
C'mon I've been feeling really awful.

He says this with a very extremely fake, extremely pained look, which I can't help but laugh at. He clasps his hands in front of me, dying for forgiveness.

Me:
You're a dork.

Lele:
What? Why am I dork? That's not nice.

Me:
Well, you are.

Lele:
Ok fine. I'm a dork. Will you hang out with me? Please? Give me a hug.

So we hug and make up.

Kind of.

Not really, but kind of.

For now.

Saturday, September 22, 2007

Sascha: Here's the thing.



When other people don't understand me, you do. When other people don't understand you, I do. But when I don't understand you? I know you're just being a girl....

Boxes, Boxes, Everywhere



So, I recently had two new roommates move in. Two chicks. It's been a long time since I've lived with girls. It's not as bad as a I thought it could be. Just that I realized that sometimes guys, who are notorious for not being clean and tidy (sorry, guys), can be cleaner and tidier than women. The girls have now been here for two months, but neither seem to be a big fan of unpacking their boxes or cleaning, and our place still looks like they JUST moved in.

I guess it's partly my own fault, because in my posting on Craigslist, I said I wasn't looking for clean-freaks. I didn't realize those words would attract all the people who hate to clean. I mean, after all, I never thought of myself as a clean freak. Until now. My last roommate, the clean freak, who prompted me make a point to say I wasn't look for another one, was seriously obsessive.

Brad:
(While vacuuming) Oh hey. So the cleaning lady is coming in an hour. It'll be about $25 each. Cool?

Me:
(Confused) Uh... ok.

Brad vacuumed, mopped, scrubbed, wiped all the way until the cleaning lady came. Then, the cleaning lady (who probably thought we must have way too much money to throw around if we hired her to clean a place that was already clean), vacuumed, mopped, scrubbed, wiped, and left. Meanwhile, I was out chain-smoking on the patio, drinking my coffee, reading my book, basking in the sun. When I came back inside, Brad was again vacuuming. When he saw me, he smiled and said:
Didn't she do a great job?

Me:
(Confused) Yeah...

That was one extreme. This is definitely the other. My new roommate, Renu, said she thought it would only take one of us to clean the entire place in two hours, tops. I looked at her incredulously, and said:
Ummm... I don't know about you, but it would take me two hours just to clean the kitchen.

Renu just looked at me, and I suddenly realized, to her, I was Brad.

A Little Bit Louder Now!



As if they could fucking get any louder now.

Yes. I'm up at 3 in the morning cause my neighbors are screaming their heads off singing along to that song.

Friday, September 21, 2007

Did I mention the Tracking Device?



Yes. Tracking device.

So, Stantec, the daddy firm, even though it's 6000-people stronger, for some reason has a higher premium for the same insurance we had as Chong. Not that anything about this acquisition has been "convenient", but here's what they did: They increased my salary by the $450 more I will be paying for health insurance being a Stantec employee, so that there would be no difference in cost to me. But here's where they screwed me (and every other sensible person in the firm):

The $450 they added to my salary only covers the cost of the health insurance premium if I join their wellness program. If I don't join the wellness program, I will be paying twice as much. Now, you're probably thinking, "What's wrong with joining a wellness program?" Nothing, if all it entailed was trying to stay healthy. But EVERYTHING, if you don't want to live in A Brave New World.

To join the Kersh Wellness program, you have to let them test your blood, weigh you, take your blood pressure, etc., AND consent to wearing the Kersh Activity Monitor (KAM), a.k.a. tracking device, that you must keep on your body at all times to measure how many calories you're burning, your level of activity, etc. (so basically, the next time I have sex, they'll know)(though, if I'm not wearing anything, I'm not sure where I'd attach this KAM). Then, there is a docking device that comes with this KAM and you sync your device to your computer and it automatically loads your latest points to their website. You must keep your activity level within certain parameters to keep your premium down.

Bush. Patriot Act. KAM devices. What's this world coming to?

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Magnetic Poem of the Day


she will take over your words
and whistle away disgrace
again and again

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

I could be nice…



...and ask him how he feels about both of us going to the farewell lunch for the Marketing Manager. I could offer to skip lunch if he’ll skip the happy hour. I could be nice and care about whether it makes him uncomfortable...

But I won’t. Apparently I’ve been too nice to him, lately.

Monday, September 17, 2007

Magnetic Poem of the Day


release steam
burn friend down

Magnetic Poem of the Day


my obedient elaborate genius
better manipulate the dictionary
plant a word
wrench grammar
imagine how strange the poets manuscript

Sunday, September 16, 2007

"The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things" - J.T. Leroy



I saw a movie tonight with a new friend, Urmila, who my roommate introduced me to. The movie was called, "2 Days in Paris," and it was directed/produced by Julie Delpy who was also in the "Before Sunrise" and "Before Sunset" movies. We figured it would be somewhat similar and since we had both liked those two movies, we were excited to see this one. It turned out to be entirely different from the other two (which were directed by Richard Linklater, who also did "Waking Life" and "A Scanner Darkly"), the only similarity being they all took place in Paris.

The movie was hilarious. The entire audience was laughing out loud throughout the movie. It was crude, it was funny, it was endearing, it was frustrating, but really, above all, it was realistic and it made you think about relationships and how misunderstandings come about, out of insecurities, leading to failed romances. The last scene, though, showed the two main characters having their big blow-out, that one big relationship-breaking blow-out, where you say everything, EVERYTHING, and which is the turning point for many couples. It goes one of two ways only: You either break up, or you stay together. The part that really hit home, was how people, when feeling vulnerable, act out of defensiveness and end up ending a relationship they didn't really want for to end. How, even at that last moment, we can push someone away who we actually really intended to pull closer.

The last time I had one of those big blow-outs, however, I ended up getting back together with someone when I shouldn't have. All that honesty can make you feel closer to the other person. But really, what's the use of honesty when it comes so late in the course of a relationship? You can shock a dying person's heart and manage to revive him/her, but you cannot use last-minute honesty to revive a dying relationship. He cannot say, "You don't laugh with me the way you do with him (insert male friend's name here)." You cannot say, "I never felt like I could say whatever came into my head, the way I can to him. He doesn't judge me." He cannot nod slowly, in understanding, and say, "You mean, I never accepted you for who you are." You cannot say these things and think that now that you've put them out there, things will change. They don't. We tried.

There are certain things that should come naturally in a relationship. We have to learn to recognize it when they don't, instead of dragging on a relationship that will never work. It's just that it's too easy to let your heart lead you instead of your brain. We have to be honest with each other, because if we leave it to our hearts, they'd really rather be duped.

Saturday, September 15, 2007

Acquisitions Suck!



My company, a once-prestigious architecture firm, one of the largest in Northern California, owned by three-time president of AIA, Gordon Chong, is getting bought out by Stantec, a Canadian engineering giant, and will cease to exist as of Monday. We are not happy. Suddenly, we have dress codes (me and my miniskirts were frowned upon this past week when their HR was visiting us), there are rules as to what we can swap over e-mail (apparently not drawings of urinating penises, and certainly not conversations about blow-jobs), and what sites we can go to on the internet (they block Facebook- and even eBay, much to my manager's dismay). They're screwing with my paychecks, making me pay more for insurance, and rendering me ineligible for bonuses. They're taking away six of my vacation days, and giving me five sick days, instead. We're told this is all very exciting, yet none of us seem to understand exactly how or why.

At the end of the day on Friday, my manager, as he was walking out, waved to me and said:
See you on the other side!

Me:
Or not.

Manager:
(Laughing nervously) How're you gonna manage that?

Me:
Hey, (I stuck out my palm, fingers outstretched) I've got five sick days!

Friday, September 14, 2007

"I'm going to pretend I don't know you."



At Momo's, the favorite spot for Giants' fans, before and after games, Lele and I stood trying to figure out what kind of a practical joke to play on his friend who was about to join us. At the last minute, just as Guillermo or Jacob or whatever-his-name-is walked in, I pulled away from Lele and said:

I'm going to pretend I don't know you.

I sat down on a barstool and started talking to the fat guy behind me who seemed a bit incredulous that I was speaking to him. So incredulous, in fact, that he stared at me like I was out of my mind and stopped talking mid-sentence. But I guess I wasn't even paying attention, because I don't recall what he was saying before he stopped. Anyway, that got really boring, really fast, so I turned around to face the bar again just as Jacob/Guillermo turned to look at me. He smiled. I smiled back.

He walked up towards me and said:
Are you here by yourself?

Me:
Yeah, I was at the game with my friends, and we were supposed to meet up here. (I turned around to look back at the entrance) But I guess I lost them. And my phone's dead.

Jacob/ Guillermo:
That sucks. So you can't even get in touch with them. Well, you could hang out with us.

Me:
(Shrug) Ok. So, were you guys at the game, too? Awful game, huh?

Jacob/Guillermo:
Yeah.... (uncertainly)

He bought me a drink and we proceeded to flirt; he honestly, me not so honestly... Meanwhile, I ignored Lele, who was being all manners of narcissistic. I threw a couple of dirty looks at him as if he was out his mind, raised my eyebrows, and basically put forth that I did not find him charming. Jacob/Guillermo started to ignore Lele, too, as he realized I was willing to talk to him.

I don't recall that we talked about much other than Lele. How he was a writer, too (this, when I told Jacob/Guillermo that I was a writer), and how he looked like a frat boy, and how maybe he'd done a line or two of coke earlier, because he was just a little too hyper.

Then, Jacob/Guillermo said:
Let's go somewhere else.

Me:
There's nothing around here.

Jacob/Guillermo:
I've got a car. Let's go to 111 Minna.

Me:
Yeah right. I don't even know you guys. I'm not getting into a car with you.

Lele:
(Jumping up and down) Lets go lets go lets go! (Pulls out his cell phone for the 17th time) Dude. That homo from the bathhouse keeps text-messaging me.

Me:
Why did you give him your number?

Lele:
I gave it to him before I realized he was a fag.

I stare at him. Then I turn to look at Jacob/Guillermo:
Are you guys gay? I mean, are you a couple?

Jacob/Guillermo:
No! I mean, I don't know about him, but I'm totally straight. Do you want me to kiss you to prove it?

I glance at Lele and say:
No. That won't be necessary.

Lele:
Come on! Lets go! (Turns around in circles).

So I get into the front seat of Jacob/Guillermo's two-door and we get on the road. We even find parking right in front of the bar, but Minna's closed. I suggest Harlot, which is just a block away, and, agreeing, Jacob/Guillermo takes my hand and starts walking. I turn around to look at Lele, who seems to be having a good ol' time, laughing, jumping up and down. But it's just a dead night, because even Harlot's empty.

Jacob/Guillermo:
I have to use the men's room.

After he leaves, Lele says:
Ok. We have to tell him now. As soon as he comes out. Because I have to go. I have a flight at 8:30 in the morning.

Me:
WHAT???

Lele:
(Jumping up and down) We have to tell him, we have to tell him.

Jacob/Guillermo:
Tell him what?

Lele:
Umm.. I have something to tell you. (Glances at me) We have something to tell you. (Pauses) We know each other.

Jacob/Guillermo:
WHAT???

He turns to look at me and I shrug sheepishly.

Jacob/Guillermo:
So this was all a joke? This whole time, you guys knew each other?

Me:
Umm... yeah. He's the friend I went to the baseball game with.

Jacob/Guillermo:
(Eyes ready to pop out, turns to Lele) She's the girl you were with earlier??? The one you were at the game with?

Me:
(Slyly) I thought you guys were at the game together.

So we laugh. He still can't believe he was punked. He offers to buy us more drinks for getting him like that, but once we get to the bar, he starts sulking.

Jacob/Guillermo:
Wow. I can't believe this. I though we had a connection, you and I. I really thought, wow, this is happening. She's cool.

Lele:
She is cool.

Jacob/Guillermo:
Yeah... but I guess you two are an item.

Me:
Umm... (I laugh. But it's more like a snicker.)

Lele:
Well, I have to go now. But you guys hang out. Have fun.

Now I'm incredulous, thinking You want me to hang out with this guy I don't even know, who's half interested in me and half pissed, while you jump on a train to go home? But I'm quiet.

We get into the car again. At the Caltrain station, Lele jumps out of the car, gives me a hug and runs to catch the train. I'm not so sure how I feel about being in the car alone with Jacob/Guillermo, but I give him my address and we get back on the road.

Jacob/Guillermo:
Wow. I still can't believe it. I thought you were into me. (Shakes his head.) How would you feel if you were in my place?

I think about it and say:
I guess I would be pissed.

That seems to be enough to give him permission to start getting pissed at me. I apologize profusely. I tell him he seems like a great guy and I had fun hanging out with him. But he's having none of that, he's just seething. I can almost see the smoke coming out of his ears and his nostrils and his eyes start getting all crazy and bloodshot and I think I need to get the hell out of this car.

He slams the door behind me and drives off. I pull out my phone and call Lele, who says:
Hey, I got on the train. I'm happy.

Me, upset, practically in tears, (and just a wee bit inebriated), I can't even begin to tell him so I just hang up.

But he calls back and I do tell him. I have several words for him, a mile a minute, while he says:
but, but, but...

And I say:
I don't know why I trusted you. I don't even know you.

0 to 60 in 5 seconds and then BOOM!



Wow. I don’t even know where to begin. The last few days have been a mess.

Monday, September 10, 2007

Chong Night at the Ballpark Revisited



So I got tickets after all.

This morning, the Office Manager told me he had a pair for me. I told him I'd decided it was a better idea for me not to go. I thought that was the end of it, until an hour later when he e-mailed me and a couple of other people to say he had some cancellations and he was holding tickets for us if we still wanted them.

So I invited Lele to go with me. I figured he'll keep me distracted. And then I wondered if it was cool to do that. Would it hurt Doug to see me there with another guy? After much pondering, I asked the advice of another co-worker/friend who said, "You don't owe him anything. Besides, he's got a pair, too. How do you know he's not bringing anyone?"

Hmmm.....

Magnetic Poem of the Day


funny boy orchestra
plays electric girl night
transgresses music
and sparks inspiration

Sunday, September 9, 2007

Perpetual Indulgence Vs. Decadent Mercy



Sunday Afternoon:
"...Uh... no. It's Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence," I tell Lele for the 5th time, as I walk him down the stairs of my flat. He prefers to call them Sisters of Decadent Mercy. I suppose decadence and indulgence are related, which can cause the confusion. For example, indulging can be decadent. You can indulge in drinking, decadently. And some drinks can be decadent in themselves, like my drink of choice: champagne. Either way, last night we only indulged ourselves in our greatest pleasure: absurdity. (Well, we did drink, too, but not enough to have brought on any moral decline. It’s just that we don’t have any morals to begin with.)

Saturday Night:
Dressed in our evening attire, (Lele: Baby pink ruffled buttondown shirt, supporting a belly made up of rolled up towels, tucked into his jeans. A cowboy hat, sunglasses, pink polka-dotted tie, flung over the shoulder. Me: Tuxedo-style black miniskirt, white button-down, black vest, fedora, sunglasses. Bright red lady-bug slippers.) we pour ourselves some wine in coffee cups and step out, arm-in-arm, to go to dinner at my favorite neighborhood Vietnamese restaurant.

At the restaurant, while we wait for someone to acknowledge our presence at the door and seat us, Lele stares at the food on the table next to us, asking the diners:
Are those caterpillars?

Me:
Really, Darling, I can’t take you anywhere.

Lele:
Darling, I take you everywhere.

Once seated, Lele orders our food, and the waiter, looking at me, asks:
Anything else?

Me:
(Leaning over to Lele) I would like another napkin, darling.

Lele:
(To waiter) She would like another napkin, darling. I mean, please.

The waiter glances at me, nods, and leaves.

Me:
(Loudly) You lie. You told me you were taking me to a French restaurant. (I look around, glare at Lele.) And this is not French.

Lele:
But Darling, the French came, turned the Vietnamese into slaves and made them cook. So here we are. It’s practically French. (Points to the two Vietnamese guys sitting next to us) Don’t they look French to you? I mean, gay, but French.

The Vietnamese dudes give us a dirty look and get up to leave.

Me:
(Exhale angrily) I can’t take you anywhere.

Lele:
And I take you everywhere.

On the way out, the waiter comes over to shake Lele's hand, telling him he must be a celebrity and thanks him for coming.

Later, as we walk up to what is probably the most well-known and popular karaoke bar in San Francisco, The Mint, all eyes are on Lele, who has by now bagged the pink ruffled shirt, cowboy hat, and sunglasses. He is only wearing his gray tank and jeans, and sports "nobbly" goosebumps from the cold, but of course, being Lele, he is not about to put on his shirt. We are greeted at the door by one of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence (www.thesisters.org). I give her a big hug and the next thing I know someone's cupping my boobs. I'm a little discombobulated for a few seconds, thinking, Gee, that's quite forward of Lele, but actually, it's the Sister. The gypsy dress I’m wearing (I had pulled a Bollywood, and changed my outfit mid-evening) apparently gets me attention from guys, even in the Castro. Though, on second thought, I'm not sure if a Sister counts as a guy. Anyways, at some point I lose Lele, who can't wait to get inside where all the action is.

Sister:
Is he gay?

Me:
Nope.

Sister:
Are you sure?

Me:
Yup.

Sister:
Is he bi?

Me:
Nope.

Sister:
Could you ask him to come back out and take off his shirt for us?

But it's cold and it's hard to get Lele to come back out, so I join him inside. We sit down, order our drinks, pick our song (Sweet Caroline), and Lele goes up to put in our request. Meanwhile, I take a sip of my Cab, scope out the scene, check out the two bartenders performing their own version of the dance from Night at the Roxbury to a very unmemorable song. I check to see if there are any other straight folks here besides us, but since I have no idea about these things anymore, I give up and swivel my barstool to face the stage and almost choke on my wine. There is Lele, tank top pulled up to his shoulders, smiling as the Sisters rub his six-pack abs.

An hour later, our song still hasn't come up and Lele excuses himself to go to the men's room. I decide I can't swallow any more of my wine and stay sober enough to actually read the lyrics on stage if and when our turn comes up. So I'm waiting, waiting , waiting... waiting… Where the fuck is he? I look up and... oh yes. Of course. There he is, donning the ruffles and cowboy hat and belly again. Of course.

On the dance floor, I'm busy trying to make sure my gypsy dress doesn't flash anyone. I'm only half-dancing, pulling and tugging at my top self-consciously (Note to self: This dress is not made for dancing. Or really anything besides standing in one place, looking pretty) and suddenly everyone’s laughing and I turn around to see that he's done it once again. Lele is standing there looking at me, grinning, his ruffled shirt untucked, the pregnant belly lying very dead and very fake on the dance floor in front of him. So I walk up to him and start undressing him, as it seems that’s what the crowd wants. After all, this night isn’t just all about us. Everything's swell, until the boys of the Castro go beyond the hoots and whistles, and start coming up to the dancefloor towards us. At this point, Lele and I glance at each other, scramble to pick up all his clothes, and make a run for it.

Sunday Afternoon:
Ready to part ways, Lele and I stand at the bottom of the stairs, recounting our crazy adventures. We laugh one last time, he gives me a hug and turns to take a step out onto the sidewalk, and suddenly, one foot hovering over the doorstep he grabs my hand saying:
Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Where are my shoes?

Friday, September 7, 2007

Magnetic Poem of the Day


expose the random whisper
publish that precious mouth

Thursday, September 6, 2007

Chong Night at the Ballpark



He wins tickets. I don’t.
Oh well. Not like I wanted to go anyway.

This marks another milestone:
We hooked up after the ballgame last year, thanks to Erik.

Wednesday, September 5, 2007

Saw it coming...



In e-mail dated October 30, 2006, before meeting at the Metreon to watch SAW III:

Erik:
As I just realized, these movies have all different landmarks for you. Saw 1 you were with Deon...Saw 2 you were single...Saw 3 you're with Doug.

For Doug's sake, I hope there's no Saw 4 planned. ;)


(SAW IV in theatres October 26, 2007)

Tuesday, September 4, 2007

I can't help it...



Office Manager/Friend:
What’s up with your hair? You look so Gone With the Wind.

Me:
I took the ferry to work to this morning.

OM/Friend:
But you live in the Mission.

Me:
Yes.

OM/Friend:
Alright, what’s the story?

(I tell him the story. He looks at me a few long seconds. Then-)

You know, I don’t even want to hear it.

Me:
You asked.

OM/Friend:
You have an uncanny knack for getting yourself into the strangest situations. I don’t even think I believe you any more.

Monday, September 3, 2007

Sascha: Will.



WILL LADY NIGHTSHADE EVER GET BACK TO AN ANXIOUS SASCHA?

WILL LADY NIGHTSHADE READ HER EMAIL?

WILL SAN FRANCISCO TURN INTO A GIANT MOUNTAIN?

-*-*stay tuned*-*-*

Strangely enough...



In the middle of being sad, hurt, and crying, I suddenly become aware of how nice it is to be crying about something other than failed romances and boys. Until I realize, that in a very indirect way, I still am...

Friday, August 31, 2007

Are we there yet?



Apparently.

Bissap Baobab on Speed



I cross the street over to Bissap Baobab, wondering if he's the one standing outside, next to a bike. So not Sascha's type, though, I think. Luckily, as I get closer, I'm pretty sure it's not him. So I walk into the restaurant, and there, sitting at the bar, is Lele.

He's having a fit and half because:
I was at a cafe earlier and got myself a coffee. I liked it so much that I got up to buy another cup and I was told there were free refills, so I figured why not. But by the time I finished it, and started coming off the caffeine high, I was like, hmm... we haven't eaten anything, today.

I think to myself, This is you coming off your caffeine high? But I say:
We? You mean you and yourself? The Le and the le?

(The waitress comes with our food, practically before we've even finished ordering.)

Lele:
That was quick.

Me:
Umm... yeah, she was probably worried you might fall off your chair.

We move onto Medjool, because it's a beautiful night to be out on the roof deck, and we sit there talking about books and writing and cannibalism.

Me:
So if you could have your pick, who would you eat?

Lele:
(Looks around)

Me:
In a non-sexual way.

Lele picks a random man and then it's my turn but I don't see anyone I find appetizing so we move onto another bar.

After one more drink, Lele asks the waittress:
Can I dance on the bar? If I take my shoes off?

She says no, justifying it with some story about the last time a woman tried to dance on the bar and knocked over everyone's drinks. We decide that it's his turn to dare me to do something and then we leave leave the bar, get him a slice of pizza down the street on Valencia and walk around some before he walks me home.

Me:
Well this is me.

Lele:
Can I come upstairs for a glass of water?

(to be continued...)

From 28


"i read today
almost two full pages
of a mystic poet
i laughed til i cried muito"


"You're Alright Looking, for a Slut!"



Me:
dude.

Sascha:
dude, what?
you have fun w/ lele?

Me:
lol.

Sascha:
tell me!

Me:
yes.
and then we made out.

Sascha:
haha! i fucking knew it.
if you hurt the man i will kill you and if he hurts you i will kill him.
just saying.

Me:
how did you just "fucking know it" ? cause i'm a slut?

Sascha:
(blah, blah, blah) and I know what he wants emotionally plus you're alright looking....for a slut.
I'm so happy i'm gonna be one of those grandmas pushing it along.
or maybe not.

Me:
(blah, blah, blah) Btw, you know that if I have kids, it wouldn’t make you a grandma? It would make you an auntie.

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Because I said so



Me:
no matter what you do, you must not add ---- as your friend before consulting me.

Sascha:
ah...ok...

um....sure.

ah......why?

Me:
well cause i said so, of course.

Sascha:
why didn't you just say so.

Me:
i just didn't want to make a big deal out of it.

Sascha:
right.
obvious.

Saturday, August 25, 2007

Plenty of Nuthin'



Sascha:
a bunch of stuff happening that i need to tell you about..
but i need to wait for the smoke to clear.

On another note my good friend lele is moving back to california
and i'm very sad about it.
however i think you should take him to besop beobop as my loss is
your gain.
l8r fel8r.

Me:
what's goin' down yo?
:O)
I hope everything's cool.
I emailed lele. he hasnt written back yet.

Sascha:
plenny my friend.
plenny.
all very entertaining.
;)

Me:
tell me the plenny
i will give you a penny
my heart is paining
and you find it entertaining
i'm insaning
what are you gaining?
the words are menny
let one or two be raining
i'm insaning
boy, i'm insaning

Sascha:
lol!
dude i have to talk to you.
maybe i'll call

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

The Onion Horoscope: August 21, 2007



You will fly into a psychotic, alcohol-fueled rage this Thursday moments after sobering up a bit.

Thursday, August 16, 2007

Sleepwalking really does happen



Erik:
I had another sleepwalking incident last night. Weird. I woke up fully dressed at 3am (after I had gotten into my pajamas when Jose left).
I had put my hair up with product, turned on a pot of water for tea, set out some pistachio nuts in the living room, then waited in bed for my company to come. (I'm pretty sure I called my sister and told her to come over - that the snacks were ready). So I woke up to a hot apartment...went to the bathroom and I noticed the stove was blasting and I had evaporated all the water out of the teapot and it was pretty close to stuck on the burner. Then I realized that I had gotten dressed and ready to go somewhere.

Wednesday, August 8, 2007

Between Heartbeats



Make no sound, poet
you forget
I am one, too
we can read hearts
even as they lie
locked up in chests-
we can hear the truth

in a pause

Saturday, August 4, 2007

I was looking for some desi roommates...



JoAnn:
I am not a desi chick, but my parents are from Taiwan (is that close enough?) and it sounds like we may be compatible roommates.

James:
If you have any interest in meeting Luna and I please feel free to give me a call anytime, 415-513-6409. Attached is a picture of Luna and I so you can have a glimpse of us. Thanks for your time, hope to hear from you.

(He forgot to attach the picture of Luna, his dog, and himself. I didn't even get a glimpse, to figure out if they might be desi.)

Geoff:
Alright so I'm not a desi chick. I can't really even imposture a desi chick though I'm good with walks and facial expressions.

Lisa:
Hi. I'm not sure what a desi chick is, however, I'm a responsible woman looking for a roommate situation.

Sunday, July 29, 2007

Another Poet?



Wow. I'm a a poet, he's a poet, we're both poets. Life will be wonderfully poetic- and poetically wonderful...

Until we both realize there's more to life than making poetry. Together or separately. I say, "I'm just a hopeless romantic, and you're a cynic." He does not like that. "I'm a romantic," he says. He is pissed. And then uncertain. He thinks about my comment again. He wishes he was a romantic.

But he's just a poet.

Saturday, June 23, 2007

Sascha: I just saw "Bend it Like Beckham..."



...And if you ever want to do something really really awesome for me is to invite me to your wedding (i know i know you will do this) but make it like an old school desi wedding that goes till the next day.

If I'm employed I may even travel to Pakistan for it!

Just sayin'

No pressure!

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Leaves


The room is dark except for the bleak late evening moonlight struggling to seep in through the thin curtains billowing into the room. There is a desk against one wall, with a window overlooking the untended backyard. Sheaves of paper cover every inch of the surface of the desk, and on top of them all, at the center of the desk, sits a 1941 Royal Quiet Deluxe, its keys collecting dust, a ribbon broken. A pair of glasses rests on a stack of black and white photos with scalloped edges and a grainy finish, browning with age. In the corner, on a stand, is an old gramophone. Yes, it works. In fact, at this very moment the stuttering static fades into the first few chords of a sitar. The air is warm. The notes sweat, glisten. Listen. A tabla joins in. The song rises.

Across the room, the only other source of light is the soft orange glow of a forgotten cigarette burning away in an ashtray, next to a rocker where a man, his head falling to his shoulder, is sound asleep. In front of him, on a low table, an abandoned game of chess waits. The man snores.

On the pale blue walls around him, canvases hang; empty, white. Each has taken him a few weeks to finish. He’s stood at his easel by the window everyday the last few months, transfixed, unable to pull himself away, struggling to grasp an image, a memory and turn it into something real. Something more tangible. Each time, the finished painting is very slightly different from the others. A breeze ruffling through her hair. A subtle up-turn of her lips into a barely detectable smile. The eyes, crinkling in the corners. Just the eyes alone take him hours to get right. In the end, there she is, looking at him from every corner of the room, from every angle. Through the hair over her eyes, that he itches to brush away. Peering up through her thick lashes. From the corner one eye in a profile. And in one with a look on her face as blank as the canvas it sits on.

A breeze from the open window blows the ashes of the cigarette towards the sleeping man. He wrinkles his nose, his forehead creasing, but then his face relaxes. He shifts. Places his feet on the table, precariously close to his ivory queen. And he opens his eyes.

Fingers grasped tightly around the teak armrests of the rocker, he pulls his torso forward and peers out through the sheer white cotton drapes out past the straggling strangers lost in thought at they cross the street to the other side, or walk along the sidewalk, their faces hanging. Across the street at the bus stop, where a young couple stands side-by-side, leaning against a tall tree, looking straight ahead. Once every few minutes, the boy leans out to check if the bus is coming. The girl taps him on the shoulder, and when he turns to look at her, she points to her cheek. He leans over and kisses her. A few minutes later, she taps him again, he turns around, she points to the other cheek and he kisses her again.

The old man stares at the barren tree, bereft of the warmth of its leaves, of all but one. That one leaf, resilient, faithful. The tree, holding on. The leaf, its edges turning orange. The tree, holding on. The careless young couple leaning against it. He worries. The young man walks back into the street, craning his neck for an approaching bus.

“You still got some time,” the man says out loud, his voice gruff from a lack of use, closes his eyes and leans back in his chair. Against his chest, a pocket watch ticks. The second hand makes its rounds. The minute hand takes a step forward. The man’s fingers tap the front of the armrests. The polish has worn out at the ends, leaving the wood soft and familiar to his touch. Sweat pours down his back. He rubs the wood, carefully massaging it, tenderly. He rocks back and forth and the rocker creaks. Back and forth. The tabla beats. Listen.

Outside, the bus comes. The couple gets on. The last leaf on the tree breaks free of its branch, flutters and soars dizzyingly towards the pavement. Inside, the old man clutches at his chest. His forehead creases. Then relaxes. His foot lands against the ivory queen. She falls.

Outside, the leaf lands softly. It shivers in the breeze. Stills. And then gets swept away to join the rest of the old, dried leaves across the sidewalk. When rain comes, minutes later, it clings to the bottom of a shoe and disappears down the street.

Inside, the needle on the gramophone rises.

Monday, March 12, 2007

Trombone



The Trombone desires breath
Fresh air
Everytime
New Lips
To curve
Around his mouth

Full lips
With curves
Around his mouth

New Lips
Until
The old ones desire
A Flute

Monday, February 12, 2007

Palak Paneer Recipe

Sascha:
Dude, can I please have your palaak paneer recipe?

Me:
I don't really have a recipe for my palak paneer. The magic is in my hands. And I don't think I ever put cheese in it cause I don't know how to make it without the cheese melting. But as for what I made that one time that you liked, read on:

In a pot, put in desi-sufficient amount of vegetable oil. (Hint: That means a lot of oil. At least enough to drown the base of the pot in at least ½ a centimeter of oil.) Add either half a bag of frozen onions (chopped) or 1 ½ big onions finely chopped. Torture them a while. Let them turn slightly brownish-reddish (DON'T BURN 'EM!).

Then, add about 2 huge tomatoes, chopped (not necessarily finely; semi finely will do) or 3 medium-sized ones. Salt to
taste (half teaspoon should be ok for one bag of frozen spinach. I don't do fresh spinach so don't ask me about that). Lots of red pepper (umm... to taste). You may, at this point, add ½ a teaspoon of garlic paste and ½ of ginger paste, or 1 teaspoon of garlicandginger paste. But only if you feel like it. It will add some zing to it, but you'll survive without it, too). Soon you will start smelling the yummy-ness. At this point, add your spinach. (Hopefully it's frozen spinach so it already has some water
content to it.) Stir. Close the lid and step away. Not too far. Is the stove on too high? It better not be! Go take a piss or something. Wash your hands. Peek into the pot (not the one in the bathroom, the one in the kitchen). Depending on how much moisture the spinach gave out, you may or may not have to add some water. (Don't put in too much. Maybe a 1/2 cup to start). (Oh, and if you're using fresh spinach, its probably not going to give out much moisture so you should add 1 cup of water. That's my guess.)

Stir the thing for a while, then shut the lid again and again, make sure the burner's not flaming like the gay men of SF. NY-ers will do. Taste it once it starts getting soft (the spinach). You want it to get pretty soft- we desis cook the hell out of our
vegetables. When it's done, you'll know. And don't be afraid to add a little more water every now and then if you feel like it might be needed.

Enjoy!

Saturday, January 27, 2007

The Eternal Question



She:
How much do you love me?

He:
As much as there is sand on Ocean Beach.

She:
Just Ocean Beach?

He:
All the beaches in the world.