April 15, 2006 | Filed under: Uncategorized

My Evil Safeway has a Starbucks nestled in it, right near the front door, which makes it convenient for those times when I haven’t managed to make coffee before leaving the house. (And by “convenient” I mean “slow service and sucky baristas are better than no caffeine at all.”)

Last week I stopped at the Evil Safeway and found myself at the end of a rather long, slow-moving line. As I was waiting, I spotted a man drinking tea and eating his breakfast of what looked to be cooked chicken and a baguette at one of the little round tables near the coffee counter. His general appearance was unkempt and I couldn’t help but wonder if he is homeless. I tried to look for signs to confirm or deny my suspicion. At one point he stood up to adjust his jacket, and I noticed that his hands were definitely swollen and extremely weathered, leading me to conclude that, yes, he is in fact homeless. That being the case, I wondered where the breakfast came from. If it was Safeway leftovers, I love them for that. If it was donations from others, then I love them for that, too.

Homelessness is a “thing” for me. I don’t really understand why, but it is. Other social ills are sad and worthy of our attention, but the issue of homelessness just gets to me in a way that other issues don’t.

I’ve lived with homelessness since college. First in Madison, then in DC, now in Sacramento, I see homeless people daily. A decade later, I still don’t know how to deal with those situations. Most of the time I end up ignoring people, which mostly makes me feel like shit. It’s not that I don’t care — I contribute both time and money to organizations that help the homeless and the hungry — it’s that I don’t know how to handle these one-on-one, face-to-face situations.

I stood in Safeway wondering how I could help this man. I knew it was not enough just to feed him, I needed to do so in a way that treated him with dignity and humanity. How, exactly, to do that was not apparent. Can I offer to buy him breakfast or a snack or food for later? But what if I’m wrong and he’s not homeless and is offended and it’s some horrible “oh-when-is-your-baby-due?” moment with someone who’s not pregnant? We were too far away for me to make such an offer discretely, and I didn’t want to broadcast this kind of information. Do I just pick out a pastry and give it to him on my way out the door? Is that condescending? What if I select something he doesn’t like or can’t eat? Then what? It’s a nice gesture, but that won’t keep one’s stomach from growling at lunchtime. I went round and round with these thoughts as the line crept forward, realizing how lucky I am that I can spend $3.00 on a cup of coffee without a second thought.

In the end, I did nothing.

I was in tears before I reached the automatic doors. I cried because no one should be homeless or hungry, and yet so many are, and I can’t possibly help them all. I cried because eighteen years of school and plenty of social consciousness didn’t teach me how to react to these situations. I cried because that’s what I do when I am hopeless or powerless and don’t know what else to do, because if I knew what to do, I’d be out there doing it already, now wouldn’t I? I cried because I’m a girl and I can. But most of all, I cried because I still have no idea how to treat this man with the dignity and humanity he deserves. I cried for half my commute, until 7:58, when I had to pull myself together for a conference call.

And when I got to work, I wrote another check. It is but a drop in the bucket toward solving the problem of homelessness. It does not assuage my guilt in the least over my interaction (or lack thereof) with this man. It is not enough, but it’s something.

April 12, 2006 | Filed under: Uncategorized

If I were to call each one of you personally to get caught up on my life (which is, among other things, what this blog is for) it would sound a lot like this: Hi,Can’ttalk,workcrazy,missyou,loveyou,bye!

People, I left my house this morning at 6:30. SIX THIRTY. In the morning. With no stop at the gym, just straight to my desk. Mine was the third car in the parking lot, for which I think I deserve some kind of prize. Or at least a nice cup of coffee. Delivered, please, as I don’t have time to go get it myself. (Grande nonfat misto, one Splenda, please. Maybe with some white powder from the vanilla shaky thing. If you’re procuring this for me, I won’t worry about using my personal cup. Paper will be just fine.)

The day was going mostly according to plan, right up until lunch, when a glob of guacamole jumped into my lap. No, it wasn’t Chipotle guacamole, it was homemade (thanks, Mom!) from the fajitas I made the other night. (Yes, I cook! Amazing!) Anyhow. Guacamole + lap = bad news. Naturally, I swore. And then thought of my father, from whom all things klutzy emanate (thanks, Dad!).

[Aside to my unborn children: I AM SORRY. Please accept my many apologies for all of the entirely-avoidable klutzy things you will do, or witness me do, in your lifetime. I know firsthand how mortifying such moments are and I swear to you, I am trying to select for you a father whose genes do not bring with them such a liability, but I've got to be honest, the list of requirements right now is pretty long and there don't seem to be that many qualified candidates, and at some point something's got to give. So, while I place a high premium on grace, agility and general non-klutziness, those might not make the cut over, say, no felony convictions. You might just have to get used to tripping over things, spilling food and drink, and the fact that you see the ER staff more frequently than your grandparents. In short, please remember that I'm sorry and I love you. PS--I do not recommend backyard flag football, as it is fertile ground for broken collarbones, but it is entirely possible to catch a softball with your face and come away from the experience with your nose intact. But I wouldn't push your luck.]

So, if any of you have a tried-and-true method for getting guacamole out of my 73% silk, 23% cotton, dry-clean-only dress, I’d love to hear it. Otherwise, I may have to ask my mother for help, and something tells me she’s quite happy to be done with doing my laundry.

Finally, indisputable proof that The Wheels Have Officially Come Off: I’m filing for an extension on my taxes. Because, despite the fact that the IRS already knows it’s sending me a sizable check and that my taxes have been 90% done for the past three weeks, there are these two little tiny pieces of information I need from the DC government. Which they will be mailing to me in the next week or so. Grand. Oh, and the fact that I haven’t even looked at those pesky state tax forms. So much so that I almost had a panic attack when I realized I hadn’t even opened the booklet and then immediately went to investigate how, exactly, one files for an extension on her state taxes.

Must work now, so I can feel less guilty when I leave at 5:30 tonight, after having put in a 10 ½ hour day.

UPDATE: I arrived home last night and was greeted by piles of clean laundry. MY clean laundry. So apparently I was wrong about that Mom-doesn’t-want-to-be-responsible-for-my-laundry-anymore thing. Also, this morning I was the FIRST car in the parking lot. Ha! Take that, people who have more exciting lives than me!

April 7, 2006 | Filed under: People I Like Even More Than My Job

From an actual conversation:

Are you going?

I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking you.

I thought I’d go, but haven’t made any plans. You’re going, though, right? Because I’m not going if you’re not going!

Well, that’s why I’m asking — I’m not going if you’re not going!

Ok, well let’s plan on going.

Sounds an awful lot like high school to me! Can you believe they graduated a decade ago?

April 4, 2006 | Filed under: Uncategorized

Gah! You’d think that after four years of being a morning worker-outer, I’d have the system down. But, no. Luckily it rained all day, so hopefully anyone who saw me credited the weather for my less-than-perfectly-coiffed appearance. Over which I, of course, have no control, and therefore cannot be blamed.

It’s an exciting week of Spring Cleaning here. Not so much because it feels like spring (seriously, enough with the rain!), but because my parents arrive this weekend for six fun-filled days in the greater Sacramento area. (Also known as Spring Break Without Any Chance of a Girls Gone Wild Video Being Shot.) There may, however, be margaritas. Mom and Dad are crazy like that.

Keepin’ it short tonight so I can get some housework done. I think there are dust bunnies under my bed that need some attention. Now if I could just order up some sun…

April 3, 2006 | Filed under: Boys Are Dumb, I Write About My Feelings, Is She Still Talking?

So there’s this guy. He is nice and smart and funny and liberal and has a good job and plays soccer on the weekends and carries pictures of his niece in his wallet and takes excellent care of his aging dog and is just the kind of person you’d want to marry someday and have cute little kids with.

Except that I don’t.

A few years ago we dated, but that ended when I committed to someone else, and then he moved and I moved and blah blah blah. We e-mail on rare occasions. We see each other even more rarely. But when we do, things are nice and pleasant and I always leave him wanting more (the way it should be, right?). I think the last time there was even a hint at a proposal. Not really a topic I wanted to pursue, so I changed the subject. My, this Diet Coke is delicious. Mmmmm.

I e-mailed him this week, just a quick “Hey, how are ya? I still exist, do you miss me?” kind of e-mail (of course without actually asking “do you miss me?” because that would be, well, just plain mean). And he replied, appropriately missing me and wondering when he’d get to see me again. I demurred, because I don’t have a good answer, other than it probably won’t be any time soon.

A friend and I were having a lengthy discussion about relationships and aging and life and whatnot. I mentioned that, while I was quite all right with the notion of turning thirty, thirty-five is the birthday on which everyone around me should be prepared to duck and cover. (You’ve been warned.) But I had to clarify, that, actually, thirty-five in and of itself doesn’t scare me. What scares me is turning thirty-five and being single. Not technically single, as in “unmarried,” but really single, as in “without a prospect in sight.” You know, like my life today. And it’s not even the potential singleness that’s worrisome; it’s that being thirty-five and single-without-a-prospect-in-sight greatly diminishes my chances of having children. Forty may be the new thirty, but when you’re talking about bearing children, it is decidedly not.

In this discussion, this guy came up. My friend inquired as to why I wasn’t pursuing something with him. After all, he has all these wonderful qualifications (see above) and there’s clearly some interest, so…? I explained that, while we could date, and hell, even marry, and it would be “good,” it would never be “exceptional.” And I could love him, the way you love anyone who’s a major part of your life for a decade, but I wouldn’t be in love with him. Ever. Sure, there’s a spark, but that’s not enough. I leave our encounters feeling empty, like a hollow shell of me. And I’ve experienced enough to know that’s not what I’m looking for.

Naturally, the follow up question was, “If you don’t want to date him, then why bother e-mailing and getting together?” (Damn my friends for asking such probing questions! If I wanted to be grilled like this and held accountable for my answers, I’d agree to talk to Morley Safer. He’s been hounding me for years.) It’s a fair question, especially directed at me. In general, I don’t keep people around once our relationship has run its course. Time is valuable. I don’t like it when people waste mine, and I try not to waste theirs. If we’re not meant to be together, fine, let’s move along. Separately.

I laughed, and said, “Well, I have to have someone around when I’m thirty-five, single, and hitting the Panic Button.” (The Panic Button? Is JUST LIKE the Easy Button — you push it and the good people at Staples will ship a spouse to you. Expected delivery: one business day.)

And while I meant it as a joke, it occurred to me that there might be more truth in that statement than I care to admit. Here is where I qualify for Terrible, Awful Person status. (Similar to Most Favored-Nation status. Which apparently no longer exists, so perhaps they’re not all that similar.)

I ought to do better by him. I ought to live up to my own standards for me. But instead, I choose to play the game that seemingly everyone else plays. A game of hedging bets and being willing to settle for less than “exceptional.” A game that nobody wins.