Muni: Tale #2

On Friday, I had hit the cord to get off the bus and was patiently waiting at the door to the Masonic/Fulton stop. I grabbed the silver handles, but the doors didn't open. A 40-something woman who was right next to me and who I see on this bus quite often yelled at me to grab the handles and step down, and I finally turned to her and said "Look, the green light isn't on, and this is a handle-bar-to-exit bus, so stop yelling at me and get a clue!" One nice "Back door!" to the driver later, and I was on my merry way.

What I've come to realize is that many San Franciscans are clueless as to how to get off a bus. We have two types of Muni buses: one where you step down into the stairwell to get off and one where you have to touch the silver handle bar to release the doors. For both, the exit strategy will only work if the green light is on above the door. Seems pretty simple, but apparently it's not.

There have been countless times where I've had to tell some obvious local that they need to step down; holding the yellow handle bar does nada. The sign in front of them even says something like to exit, STEP DOWN INTO STAIRWELL. This requires you to be literate, though, and that's tough to do, especially if you've got an MBA from Stanford. or Harvard. or Columbia. or even SFSU. And you're talking on your cell phone while listening to the Black Eyed Peas on your iPod at full blast while reading both The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal simultaneously. Juggling a grande latte is optional as is tying your shoes.

There's also the problem with people stepping down when they need to grab the silver handles. Again, there's adequate signage at eye level, plus huge-ass SILVER hydraulic-type handle bars in front of you. Yet you hear some young hip woman yelling "Back door!" when the green light is on and all she needs to do is grab the bars. Learn to read. Please. Or, better yet, be observant! Don't assume that the doors will just magically open for you. They won't. This is California, not some happy-go-lucky place like Sweden.

Lastly, there's that wonderful green light. If the light isn't on, the doors won't open for you anyway. There's no reason to jump up and down and pound on the handles and cry like it's the end of the world, no matter what color those handles are. It won't help. And if you're doing this at a random corner and not even at a regular bus stop, you're just exerting energy that would be best used constructively, like discovering a cure for cancer or figuring out why we have two different methods of getting off our city's buses.

Excel-ent

Microsoft Excel is my calculator of choice. All I have to do is plug numbers into cells and boom, I'm halfway done. I can add apples and oranges, subtract the bunnies from the monkeys, and determine at what age menopause will most probably hit for me based on a random survey of caucasian women over 55 from South Florida who now live in San Francisco averaged with the results of my female relatives who have reached the age of hot flashes and irritability. I don't use Excel for pivot tables or attempt to install fancy schmancy macros, but the program is very useful. Take for example the sorting of data. I can sort it by what MY priority is, and then send it to a colleague. He can then sort it by whatever variable is HIS priority, and then the data works for both of us. I can also give cells titles to explain the data, so that you don't have to look at the formula to determine what it is. Or ask me. A thousand times. In one day. Plus, I can add links to take you from one section of information to another. No scrolling or adding calculator required. Brilliant.

Baa ram ewe

I became a vegetarian mainly because of animal rights issues. Call me a quack, but I don't think we should be gnawing on things that can't adequately fight back with the proper artillery like large metal swords and nukes. I'm not a vegan though, although I try to live a compassionate lifestyle (Matt & Nat bags are great). But I don't go overboard like some people. For example, the Yahoo! veggie email list I belong to has lately been debating whether or not plants have feelings. And today on the bus, a girl was reading Poultry Behaviour and Welfare, and it came with a CDROM. Sure, Fast Food Nation was a great, informative, and enjoyable read, but the welfare and treatment of roosters in Britain while on the bus? And if I were a vegan, I'd miss honey and S'mores and silk and Asics. Once, when I'm positive I was tipsy, I told Todd that I couldn't be vegan because then I'd have to give up wool. What was I thinking? Wool doesn't come from dead sheep. They get sheared!

ADDENDUM: Ok, now that Todd has revisited the conversation, maybe I said I'd have to give up cotton (and not wool) because of those cute little furry sheep. This comment highlights why I should not be allowed out in public after 9PM on a school night, and also why bars and restaurants with bars should include decent vegetarian appetizers on their menu (no, a plate of twigs and berries is not enough). If this overflow of vodka along with lack of veggie nourishment continues, tipsy vegetarians will be making ludicrous statements all over the place! And yes, I know that sheep are not the source of cotton. Fruit of the Loom is.

Then there was this one time, at Space Camp...

I'm so psyched that NASA launched Discovery today. I remember when I was in 4th (5th?) grade, I went to Space Camp near Cape Canaveral for a week. 'Twas cool. We ate astronaut meals for a day. And spun upside down in the multiaxis training simulator. And constructed a colony under water (eek! water). And because of my super-duper math and science skills, I got to be the commander of my team's successful shuttle simulation. Must have pulled the wool over somebody's eyes there. Really, when I grow up, I want to be an astronaut. Or a Trekkie. Wait, I'm already one of those...

There's a communication GAP in my shirt.

I'm finally taking some vacation days and going home to visit my mom and sister next week. The weather in South Florida is, as can be expected for mid-late summer, hot and humid. Think100 degree steam sauna minus the door to the air conditioned gym and juice bar yet includes elderly people behind bus-sized Cadillacs. In order to prepare, I thought I'd go to Old Navy and get some el cheapo tank tops that can take all the sweat and washer/dryer abuse that I can give 'em. I found a few cute basic ones in decent colors and thought that trying them on might be wise. What if the arm holes were constructed for Shrek? Perhaps the vertical stripage will be a detraction? No worries about this stuff because the shirts were crapola. Why is Old Navy making cute tank tops and tees that go to my mid-thigh? My shirt should not be an ill-fitting dress. What is this, 1983? And don't get me started on the Bermuda shorts craze. Really, there are shorts, capris, and pants... What, did a pair of shorts wine and dine some capris, and poof, 9 months later we got Bermudas running around all over the place?

Only in San Francisco

So Todd and I were walking back from the Haight Saturday night after listening to jazz (complete with organ) at Club Deluxe. Wonderful mojitos... Anyway, we're strolling down Clayton towards the Panhandle, staring at the Big Dipper, when all of a sudden we hear a deep, loud dog bark, like a big rottweiler or a pit bull, and we both jumped backwards. We stopped, trying to see in the dark where this big dog was, but we couldn't tell, and the barking and growling continued. I kept scanning the street, the whole time gripping Todd's arm like it was a life or death situation, knowing he would protect me if some wild beast came at me (as I'm obviously cuter and tastier). After awhile, we finally realized it wasn't a dog barking, but a homeless man snoring, all wrapped up in his sleeping bag underneath a big tree on the sidewalk! So there you have it, kids. Forget about paying rent. The streets of San Francisco are so comfy, you can happily snore your night away on a big slab of taxpayer-provided cement.

Three clicks and you're home!

I have the world's most boring shoe collection. 89% of my shoes are black. When I go shopping, I block out shoes in bright, bold colors like lilac and seafoam. Instead, I decide between black suede, black patent leather, or just plain black. It's atrocious. Sure, I have an orange pair of Enzo's and eggplant mary janes... but what I really need is something bright and inspiring to jazz up my wardrobe. Like these (originally) $450 shoes. I've always wanted to pretend I'm a hooker. Just need to get me a shiny patent leather trench, some bright blue eyeshadow, and a pimp.

Run for the Border

At Border's during lunch today, a sales guy was putting some books back on the shelf, and he tried one of the lamest pick-up lines ever on a nearby shopper.

"You have really great toes. Not many women have great toes, you know."

Um.... huh? Later, when I went to check out, there he was! As he was scanning my book, he told me that he and his sales buddies pretend that shoppers are on Punk'd even though they're missing Ashton Kutcher + camera crew. They do strange things and then laugh at the shoppers. Beware the Borders at Union Square. Or at least have a sense of humor.

Things that make you go purr.

A few years ago, I volunteered at the SF/SPCA as a cat socializer. I spent every Saturday for 4 months playing with kitties: big cats, small cats, furry cats, hairless cats, timid cats, angry cats, and cats that went purrrrrrr. There came the time, though, when I decided to get a cat of my own, and Todd reluctantly gave in. My dad swore by his Maine Coon (see right), who is 25 lbs, bright orange like Garfield, and supposedly didn't shed. So when I found a timid little grey furball with huge green eyes that was part Maine Coon in a room with Taz, the strung-out short-haired tabby who tried to claw up my pants leg, I knew I had found my kitten. It was time for me to save this kitty name Alphie from the terrors of the Tazmanian devil (Cue Superman theme).

Alphie hid under the bed for 3 days straight and had to be coaxed to eat baby food for a week before he'd try anything else... But once he started eating regular cat food, it was like we had a whole different animal in our apartment. He began to talk. A lot. And shed. A lot. Where did our kitty go, and why is this little lion so playful?

Alphie at age... 5?

Lessons learned...
Maine Coon mixes:

• Shed like there's no tomorrow.
• Anxiously await your arrival home, then yell at you for being 3 minutes late.
• Could host their own talk show. Topics to include: why your wardrobe is sooo bad ("I sleep in your closet all day because it's so dark. Add some color, woman!").
• Think the backyard birds look tasty.
• Follow you around like a shadow, but get upset when you step on them by accident.
  
• Use their paws like hands. Good Patty Cake partners.
• Wake you up via licking and head-butting at 5AM. and 6AM. and 6:13AM. and 6:29AM...
• Bestow presents of large clumps of fur when happy, excited, anxious, and scared.
• Enjoy wheat thins, brie, sweet potatoes, vanilla Tofutti and any green plants except special kitty grass.

Some grandmothers pinch your cheeks...

I'm guilty, I admit it. I dread visiting my grandmother. She's a well-meaning woman, really, but my grandfather seems to always make the trip better. Example A (slightly elaborated upon for blog-worthiness):

Grand Jack (aka da' grandfather bomb): Here, Becca. It's Thanksgiving, and since you're a vegetarian, I'm sure your grandmother will be force-feeding you turkey soon. She's even got duct tape hidden up her sleeve. Have more wine, you'll need it.

Becca: No, I'm fine. 2 glasses is enough. Your gingham prints are already making me dizzy, and why is there a stop light in the bathroom? Anymore wine, and I'll be playing frisbee with your massive collection of antique irreplaceable china. Wanna join?

Grand Jack: Let me mix you a drink first. (Pushes secret button. *SWISH*) Check out my liquor cabinet, yet? It's pretty sweet.

Becca: Um... Cabinet? More like your own underground secret lair complete with wine cellar, lazy boy, and plasma tv. Cool!

Yeah, Grand Jack exudes greatness, and he's a saint in my book. The thing that drives me nuts about visiting them is that ever since I can remember, my grandmother's pinched my butt. Everywhere. Like IN PUBLIC. Even when my friends and enemies were around. And, *gasp*, people I didn't even know. Maybe it was cute when I was 3, but when I was 21? She would do it at home too, like when she was just walking by and I was in the kitchen holding the knife of all knives. One quick outstretched arm and PINCH! Grrrr. But I held onto that knife and endured a booty-full of humiliation. I think my emotionally scarred ass deserves a gold star.

It's NOT a good thing.

In my office, my window faces north. I get lots of sun, a view of blue skies (or lots of fog, depending on the time of day and month), and a sneak peak at the men's dressing rooms at the neighborhood gay strip club. Last week, some hombres came to paint the non-brick exposed parts of one of my main viewable buidings. They painted the roof, the A/C tubes, the emergency stairs, the window panelings... and they did it in this dispicable color! You'd think w/gorgeous red brick, they'd pair it with a deep brown or a nice grey or a really light peach. But no. They pick something that looks like runny dog poo, and now I have to look at it all day long. Please people, have you never heard of a color wheel? I think I'd rather look at the strippers adjust their g-strings and boas...

The Grammar Police

I've done some reviewing and interviewing for an online dance forum. One of the great plusses to this is that I get free tickets. FREE! Nothing in San Francisco is free, well, except homeless people. Their chatter and suggestions about how you should go fuck off is free. You have to pay them just to shut up... what a system.

Recently one of the moderators asked if I'd be interesting in doing some editing for their monthly magazine. Ooooh, sounds like fun. I did PR for a year, and I've worked for some pretty bad spellers and writers whose letters and such I turned from mush into downright exceptional. So, I figure I'm familiar with proofreading and such, why not. The other day, I got my first assignment, and attached to the document was a note saying "Oh, we use AP style here." Um... AP? What are we, the San Francisco Chronicle? Guess it's now the "San Francisco Chronicle." Chicago Manual of Style is sooo much better, and it's my firm belief that the comma is truly necessary when separating items in a list. For example:

"To my parents, Ayn Rand and God."

Just think about it. And:

At the party, Anna kissed Bob, Tommy, Frank and Paul and Joe.

With the comma missing between Frank and Paul, it might appear that she kissed them AND Joe together., when in fact it was only Paul and Joe together. We don't want to imply that! Or do we?

It's Huston, not Houston. Get it right.

There once was a pitcher named Street.
Oh swoon, he makes my heart beat.
His team is the A's.
Maybe he'll play on Root Beer Float Day.
This closer is one great athlete.

Be excellent to each other. Party on, dudes!

Last night, Todd and I checked out the Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince party at Booksmith on Haight. Very interesting crowd of people. Too bad I forgot my wand, cape, hat, broomstick, robes, black cat, pet spider, and fairy dust. I did, however, remember to take my marbles.

There was a line of devout fans waiting for the doors to open. The two girls in front of us seemed very excited. Too excited, perhaps...

Booksmith posted great informational materials, both from the local store and Scholastic.

I won a bouncy purple "magical" ball in a raffle. It made it all worth it.

Who doesn't love Goblet of Fire Quidditch and Diagon Alley Bowling?

Booksmith hosted such a rocking party, the SFPD came to make sure everything was under control. I'm glad they were there because I think someone spiked my Mug root beer.

School (and house) spirit!

I'm not sure what this guy was wearing. The girl had HP glasses on, complete w/masking tape.

As midnight approached, people started crowding the registers. You'd think this was a Coldplay concert or something.

West Wave Dance Festival, Program 2

THE WAVES COME CRASHING IN
West Wave Dance Festival
Program 2 at ODC Theater
July 14, 2005

The West Wave Dance Festival has returned to San Francisco for its 14th season. Composed of nine programs over two and a half weeks, the Festival presents new, emerging, and established Bay Area choreographers at the ODC Theater and the Cowell Theater at Fort Mason Center through July 31st.

Program 2 included three world premieres and two additional works. Definitely a standout, John Kloss’ toe-tapping Measured Response combined crisp sounds with varied rhythms to create a build-up of melodious energy that burst at just the right time. Lisa Townsend’s choreography always embodies structure, originality, and freshness, and can i want it? is no exception. With music composed by Piro Patton, the six dancers moved with speed, purpose, and agility, and Townsend’s sense of choreographic maturity was the highlight of the night.

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Just thinkin' about tomorrow, clears away the cobwebs and sorrow...!

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince is almost here! Time to whip up some Butterbeer and Pumpkin Pasties, grab some floo powder or a port key, and make plans for a HPHBP party!

I can't wait. My Amazon confirmation email is taped to my wall, and I have the HPHBP countdown on my desktop (shhh, don't tell IT). On my way home tonight, I'll stock up on enough fizzing whizbees, chocolate frogs, and other food necessities to last up to 48 hours. This way, I won't need to leave the apartment (namely, the couch) until I've finished Book 6. If there's a massive earthquake or rioting in the street, and you try to call but get no answer, don't worry. I'm fine, I just don't want to be interrupted by some trivial matter. Send an owl instead. Alphie will appreciate it. He loves birds.

Muni: Tale #1

Today's post is all about our beloved MUNI. With new bus schedules, unhappy drivers, single fares being raised, you know something's bound to happen to make MUNI not the ever-lovable ride it used to be. Yesterday morning, I had to wait almost 50 minutes for a 43 bus. All I wanted to do was go north about 9 blocks so that I could then go east. Simple, right? No. After waiting for the bus, which is supposed to magically appear every 12-15 minutes, for 40 minutes, I call 673-MUNI. It's even programmed into my phone for these "must get to work TODAY" occasions. After listening to the "You're on hold" message in English, Spanish, Cantonese, and gibberish, I get a brisk woman who informs me that five 43 drivers called in sick today. OK, so why didn't you (MUNI, not the info line woman) replace them? Apparently, MUNI doesn't replace drivers, they just abandon riders on street corners filled with fog and Starbucks. Grrr. I asked if I could charge my cab ride to them, and she hung up on me. Hmpfh. Once the 43 came, it was so packed that the driver could only fit 5 of the 8 people (the other 18 had either started to walk, hopped on some other bus line, slit their wrists, or grabbed cabs) on the bus. I felt so safe standing in the front stairwell of the bus smushed against some woman balancing two low-fat half-fat mocha frappa-whatevers and an elderly man with two backpacks and a walker. Had we swerved, I could have been tossed from the moving vehicle covered in commercialized low-fat high sugared iced coffee beverages and disappeared down some rolling hill for eternity and a half. But let's not cry over spilled milk. The positive thing about this whole experience is that I got to work, technically 30 minutes late (as I'm normally early anyway), and I was still the 2nd person out of 11 to arrive. Bonus.

If you can imagine it, you can achieve it. If you can dream it, you can become it. -- William Arthur Ward

Tue Jul 12,10:53 PM ET

Mystery 'sex change' has curious flocking to Myanmar monk-to-be

HLAING THAR YAR, Myanmar (AFP) - Thin Sandar, a chicken seller in Myanmar, had always dreamed of being a man. When she inexplicably grew a penis last month, the 21-year-old treated it as an awe-inspiring omen -- as have the thousands of stunned villagers who have traveled to a pagoda to see him.

"On the morning of the full moon day of June 21, I noticed my thing (sex organ) was not the same as before," Thin Sandar, who now goes by the male name Than Sein, told AFP in an interview at his home.

"And my breasts disappeared," Than Sein added. "So I called out and showed it all to my mom and dad. It was very strange."

More.

I'll Have Nun of That.

When I was younger, I went to Hebrew school for a few years (I think Hebrew school was mandatory for all South Floridian children), but it just didn't work out. We only went to temple for high holidays. My dad, whose family is Jewish, rarely observed any of the customs associated with Judaism. Plus, I was too scientific-minded ("Rebecca, please stop asking questions" still rings in my ears), and the temple was pretty much a money-grubbing open checkbook for the rabbi... And ever since my final Amen, I've filled out the religion section of questionnaires or US Census Report with "None." Being a "nun" (lame pun) was as close to religion as I got.

The other day over those tasty margaritas with 100% agave tequila, Cousin Cat informed me that because my mom converted to Judaism for a brief period of time, I am supposedly Jewish, and therefore I've earned a trip to Israel. It's my birthright. Uh-huh. Education, health care, equal rights, and fuzzy pink bunny slippers are all (ideally) birthrights, but a fully-paid 2-week trip to Israel and back, complete with meals, hotels, and gas mask? Not a birthright. Was I born into Judaism? I would like to think that I have the right to choose my religion, and that because of my "birthright" I'm not designated for life as one original religion or another. Plus, if it's a birthright to visit the lands of my ancestors, then shouldn't I get free trips to Russia, Germany, Italy, and Switzerland? My gratis trip to Israel is either a complimentary gift without purchase but includes a tinge of guilt and attempt at conversion OR an expensive effort to connect me with a land that I've never felt connected with in hopes of building some kind of connection that will connect us for a life-fulfilling connection. Think I'll just stick with the bunny slippers.

It sounds like... he's sleepy? Yeah, that's it.

Todd's cousin from Southern California was in town last night, and we all headed to Tommy's in the Richmond for decent enchiladas and margaritas deliciosos. Mmm good. We hadn't seen his cousin in years, so we snacked on tortilla chips and muy spicy salsa while catching up. Cousin Cat used to be a sign language interpreter in Washington, D.C., and she talked enthusiastically about being able to use her skills again in her new job as a graveyard-shift sign language interpreter for a telephone company. My initial (unspoken) reactions included "Um.... how do you interpret sign language over the phone?" and "Is this for insomniacs who need sign language interpretation?" But as these were very un-PC preguntas, I held my tongue and downed my 'rita. Turns out there's a free, government-funded program called Video Relay Service (VRS) that's available via telephone companies to assist deaf and hard-of-hearing people communicate with those who can hear. For more, you can check out Sorenson's information-filled website.

Jesse Curtis/Gravity at Yerba Buena, June 2, 2005

This was published in the most recent edition of Ballet-Dance Magazine.

______________________

Touched but not quite touché

by Becca H.

June 2, 2005 -- Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, San Francisco

Using modern dance, theater, acrobatics, and live music, Jess Curtis/GRAVITY’s "Touched: Symptoms of Being Human" explores the literal, cultural, personal, and political ramifications of contact between individuals and among people. Jess Curtis founded his company, Jess Curtis/GRAVITY, in 2000 “as a research and development vehicle for very live performance.” San Franciscans were treated to the company’s newest work at Yerba Buena Center for the Arts with the world premiere of GRAVITY’s "Touched" which was presented in the Forum as part of the San Francisco International Arts Festival.

Staged in an in-the-round setting with overhead lighting, the atmosphere immediately felt intimate and personal. With a swirl of clothespins protected behind a museum-type “Please do not touch” sign, I felt like I was viewing an exhibit and not about to watch a performance piece. The seven performers included Curtis, Ulrike Bodammer, Mattias Herrmann, Lea Martini, Maria Francesca Scaroni, Mark Stuver, and Andrew Wass, and Curtis played each of them to his/her strength. Live music is always a treat, and Herrmann, composer and musician, incorporated multiple instruments while using electronic samples of his work to create an eclectic score. Bodammer, who specialized in partner acrobatics at the L’Ecole Supérieur des Arts du Cirque in Brussels, created inventive lifts with the other dancers, and her use of levels and space added an element of surprise and wonder to Curtis’ choreography. Curtis also employed nudity and bareness to good effect; the naked body was not an erotic element, but an additional boundary of being human. Also, the use of text added humor and dimension to the theme.

After awhile, though, the work dragged. Perhaps it had to do with the length of the work (1 hour and 15 minutes or so without an intermission), and the fact that all of the performers remained onstage for its entirety. There were also times when I felt the same concept was being rehashed over and over and over and over and over again to the point where I lost interest. Lastly, there was no final hurrah, which perhaps was my own expectation’s fault. But with a work of this length and exploring such a magnitude of emotions, I hoped that Curtis would have incorporated some semblance of resolution that would have somehow said “Ta-da” in the closing moments.

"Touched" definitely has its high points, including incredibly talented performers and a well-intended focus. Curtis’ choreography dares to investigate how we control contact with the world around us while exploring the sensory elements of the humanity of touch. Yet while Curtis achieved some hits, he also weathered a few misses that kept "Touched" from reaching its potential.


(c) Becca H. for Ballet-Dance Magazine

Blogging 101

I've never blogged before. Can you tell? Yeah, it's obvious that this is a whole new arena for me. I've written long-ass papers analyzing how a teacher can assess a child's learning of the arts, reviewed naked dance performances and jello theater, and sent timely adjective-filled thank you's to my grandparents. But I felt I needed an outlet for all my non-existent creativity. Sure, there's spray-paint public wall art (aka graffitti), but the City and County of San Francisco might not approve and neither would my neighbors. Last Friday, as all one or two of you know, I wrote my first blog post. Todd came home this weekend, and he read my blog on Sunday. His comment was something like (paraphrasing) "Have you done research to see what people actually put on their blogs?" Yeah, that helped me. So, to aid me in becoming a better blogger and to waste the work day away, I'm going to start researching blogs. Good blogs, bad blogs, blogs with frogs... I'll read them all.

Who Ya Gonna Call?

"Yes, hello? Crisis counseling? I didn't know it would be so damn cold and windy on the bridge. Would it be wise of me to buy an 'I love Frisco' sweatshirt, or would I just be branding myself a clueless mid-western tourist indefinitely? HELP!!!"

These signs are posted all along the Golden Gate Bridge. Never saw one being used, though.

This is your first overdue notice...

Yesterday Mary* was telling me about this new guy she's seeing. Now, Mary hasn't dated anyone in months, so I figured that if she's gone out with this beau several times in one week, it must be special. Wonderful. Magical.

Cue that hair-raising music from the old Dracula movies and such, because yesterday she said something like "And I don't find him nearly as creepy as I did when I met him." Hmmm. I've always thought that first impressions meant something. Not everything, as hopefully there's more to people than what initially surfaces. Creepiness, though, normally sets off warning signals, like giant exclamation points circled in red, crazed alarm bells, and hot fireman clothed in only yellow fire-retardant pants and suspenders saying "Let's get you out of here, Miss." Sigh... Anyway, the American Heritage Dictionary defines creepy as:

1. Of or producing a sensation of uneasiness or fear, as of things crawling on one's skin: a creepy feeling; a creepy story.
2. Annoyingly unpleasant; repulsive: the creepy kids next door.

I had an experience with a creepy guy once; in fact, he general fit the categories of creepy #1 and #2. John* and I met in high school. I was young, naive... O.K. Honestly, I was clueless. But I still felt there was something "off" about him. He frequently twitched his shoulder and pulled at the crotch of his jeans in the car, at TGI Friday's, in front of my mom... And he thought that by calling me and using a deep, raspy, almost psycho voice on the phone, that he was wooing me. Mmm-huh. He also followed me everywhere; to class, lunch, home, etc. I had a wonderful Great Dane named LuLu (real name), so I didn't need some psuedo-puppy minus the shedding. Generally, though, he seemed nice. He took me out places, belonged to a similar circle of friends, didn't have multiple tattoos or a rap sheet (that I knew of). The pros, however, didn't even come close to outweighing the cons. I finally broke it off, which I think relieved my mother to some degree. At least her oldest daughter wouldn't run off with some stick-thin, crazed maniac who gave everyone the shivers and heebee jeebies while sounding like Barry White. Elated with happiness, I wanted to run through the streets yelling "I'm free! I'm free!"

Yeah. Everything was fine for awhile. There was no lunatic with his polo shirt tucked into his jeans hiding in the bushes, only my dad frequently interrogated who I was going out with and how many 7-Elevens we were going to rob, and the sole goosebumps I got were from the A/C in the AMC10 movie theater. That was, until my 16th birthday, when John broke into my housing development, found an unlocked door to the house, snuck past my mom, pushed past my sister, and just about barged in on me as I was all sudsing with H2O body wash and wrinkled as a raisin in the bathtub, just to give me a small token of his affection on my birthday. And the gift? A tin of Jelly Bellys. Btw, this gift totally ruined me, and I've never been able to eat these amazing flavor-filled treats since.

Now, there should be some moral to this story, like "Don't date creepy men." Or "Keep your bathroom door locked at all times." But I'm hoping Mary's guy turns out to be misunderstood and not creepy. Moral: Don't judge a book by its creepy cover. If you've read a chapter or two, and the book still has a crazed look in its eye, maybe re-think your decision and return the book to the library.



* Names changed to protect identity and potential embarrassment.

Invoking Cathy's words of wisdom , this is my first blog. EVAR.

I'm not witty, but for some strange reason, I have an urge to blog. About nothing. So here it is.







My big





FAT




piece of nothing. In the future, I'll write more nothings about nothing, I promise. Perhaps I'll even write sweet nothings about nothing in particular. I will not, however, write about everything. Must maintain tiny shroud of mystery. But this is a start for now.

Enjoy!