So there I am on the 22. The bus is packed, and I am fresh off a shopping trip to Safeway, which means straddling one bag so it doesn’t fall over while carrying another in my arms like it’s a baby. I get the feeling that this is what it must be like to have twins, except I’m pretty sure you’re never supposed to set your child down on the floor and straddle it, or even think about doing that.
At the next stop, a young man gets on followed by even more people, and they start moving toward the middle of the bus where I’m stationed with my bags, and there’s about as much likelihood that I’m going to move aside for them as there is likelihood for anything to move that is definitely not going to move.
I think he must have seen the fear in my eyes, because as soon as he gets to me he says, “Don’t worry this is fine.” Bus equilibrium has been reached. I smile at him, as though he had just saved one of my twins from an alligator and say, “Thank God.”
I look away to check the status of the floor twin, and I hear him say, “Do you live on Oak?”
“Yes,” I say, and then because it seems like the right question to ask, “Do you live on Oak?”
He answers in the affirmative. “I feel like I know you,” he says.
I’m wondering if he might be the father of my twins (!?) and I look down at the one on the floor and smile in a benevolent way that I think says, Daddy’s home! But what I really say is, “Oh?”
And he says, “Were you looking for a roommate awhile back?”
“Not that I know of,” I say. (as though I am so nonchalant about looking for roommates that I might be doing it right now and not even know about it).
And he says, “Oh.” And then we both get off the bus. “So,” he says, “Do you live with a lot of people?”
“Two girls,” I say, “Do you live with a lot of people?” (these are the questions that define your life)
“Two guys and two girls. But we’re actually looking for another roommate.”
Is he asking me to move in? “Well I’m spoken for,” I say. And then he looks at me like I had just told him that he was the father of my twin grocery bags, and I have the paternity test to prove it, and I realize that maybe he thought I meant that I have a boyfriend who speaks for me and he needs to stop being so fresh and asking me to move in, so I immediately launch into, “I mean, I’m spoken for by my roommates. My roommates speak for me. Already have roommates. Not moving out. Hahahahaha. Roooooommmmaaaaaaaaaates!”
He looks at me, and I look at him and then he says, “Good luck,” and it might seem like a weird thing to say, but you wouldn’t think so if you had been there.
My mom told me she’s cleaning out my closet. I told her not to read my diary, but what I meant was DO NOT READ MY DIARY. Everyone laughs, but someone’s not laughing and that person is the person whose diary that was. One time I reread my diary from elementary school, and it was literally the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever read besides Twilight. Like Twilight the events were described in an incredibly sentimental manner. Unlike Twilight the events were things like: whether X was really going to try to ditch on Friday, the fact that J, the new girl, wore clear plastic high heels to school, and the fact that my friend had played Spin the Bottle at lunch, which I took as a personal attack on my character and the character of life in general.
The more I thought about how embarrassing that diary was the more I wanted to tell my mom: that’s not my diary, but you still shouldn’t read it, even though it’s not mine. I mean, who knows whose it is, but this is how horror movies start, with the reading of a diary that doesn’t belong to your daughter even though it’s in her closet.
Everyone knows that what you write in diaries is mostly fiction anyway. In fact, it was maybe this person’s (whose diary was in my closet) first try at fiction, and really shouldn’t be interpreted as memoir or even as English. Which is something James Frey should have considered. In fact, it’s quite possible that what you’re holding, mom, is James Frey’s diary, and in that case you should definitely not tell Oprah what you read in there, because she’ll just make James go on national TV to apologize for the inaccuracies of his own recollections. I guess what I’m saying mom, is that I know James Frey a lot better than you thought. He left his diary in my closet like 10 years ago, and if you find a diary it belongs to James, and you shouldn’t believe all the things he writes about me in there, and if I were you I wouldn’t even believe most of the things he implies about me. I would never refuse novocaine during a root canal mom. That’s just not how I was raised.
A lot has been made lately of the double tap, a shooting technique in which two shots are fired quickly at the same target. The Mafia is a fan, as are those involved in counter-terrorist combat units, and pretty much anyone whose job description includes the words special forces. Some might think it’s overkill (literally) to shoot someone in the head more than once, but we’ve all got that friend who double clicks the mouse when one would really do.
Don’t own a gun? Here are some other ways to double tap:
Tap: You hurt someone’s feelings, Double Tap: and feel so guilty about it that you stop speaking to her.
You eat your roommate’s second to last Oreo, and then throw away the rest of the box in the hopes that she will forget she had it in the first place.
You de-friend your ex on Facebook, and then text him to let him know that you de-friended him.
You call your girlfriend 30 times in a row at 3 am, and then you start ringing the doorbell.
You’re concerned about money so you pass on dinner with friends, but meet them for drinks later and feel so bad about missing dinner that you buy a round of Patron for the bar.
You tell him you’re not going to stay over, and you follow it up by staying over that night and every other night for the next 10 years.
Kate tells you how she saw a man get hit by a car while she was on the bus. Then she tells you that he was actually hit by the bus and a car.
You never could leave well enough alone.
When I got on the 21 last night, all hopped up on Zombieland, I immediately saw a woman whose face was painted to make her look like a ZOMBIE. There I was, a newly accredited Zombie Hunter, and here was my first test. I turned to Alex and said, “Zombie!!!!!” Then we loaded our shotguns, and took her down like an insane combination of Woody Harrelson and that nerdy kid who stars in the movie.
Actually what we really did was chuckle quietly to ourselves, but what I’m saying is that it’s easy to take the Halloween thing too far, as in it’s okay to dress up as a Zombie Hunter, but it’s not okay to open fire on your fellow passengers, no matter how much you claim that Halloween is your favorite holiday.
Other ways you can take Halloween costumes too far are, in no particular order:
Getting a bunch of your friends to do Aryan Nation with you.
Any costume that involves anyone who was ever involved in a hate crime. Do not go the Matthew Shepard route.
A slutty bumble bee/cat/tomato outfit that you then wear while selling your services on a street corner. This is Halloween not a method acting class. There is no need to venture deep into the psyche of your slutty bumblebee.
Mormon on a bicycle is okay. Mentally disabled Mormon on a bicycle is not.
Unless it’s Sarah Palin, I would stay away from all costumes that parody the mentally disabled.
Slutty Joe Biden is funny. Slutty Hitler is not.
Slutty anything is pretty played out, but if you must channel prostitute, Prude Hooker is a fresh take on the theme.
Navy Seal is good. Bloody Sea Lion that was just shot down at the wharf is not. Save it for a parade.
Any costume that involves live ammunition.
Unless that costume is Zombie Hunter, because killing zombies never gets awkward.
There’s someone I really think you should meet. He’s epileptic too. Oh you’re not? Then what were you doing over there on the dance floor? Oh I see. Yes, I do see. He does that too, but they don’t call it dancing. Perhaps something to take up with your doctor?
But regardless of whether you have epilepsy or not, he is seriously the greatest guy. Unless you’re one of those people who has a crazy thing about molars. Well, it was an unfortunate hunting accident. I suppose it wasn’t really an accident as the officers had been instructed to shoot to kill, but still very unfortunate to lose your lower jaw that way. You know what they say, “Crime don’t pay.” Which isn’t really true all the time, but in his case it definitely was. But that was years ago, and he’s a good example of how people can change so much that they aren’t even a glimmer of the person they used to be, and are actually not really a person at all anymore.
I’m not saying he’s like a robot or something. He’s a real estate developer, really successful. He’s got this great place on Chestnut. Well I guess it’s not really “his” place, but his mom said he could stay there as long as he needs. No, she doesn’t live there. She’s in Marin now I think, not really sure, but that would be a good conversation starter between you two. Him and his mom are super tight, and you know how they say you can tell a lot about a guy from his relationship with his mother. No, no nothing Oedipal, well Oedipal-lite maybe, but what isn’t these days? Well, I guess I see your point there, but I’m not here to judge him, just to set you guys up on a date.
He is really good looking though. There’s something about losing half your face in an accident and then having it rebuilt with bones from your foot, that is so rugged, but like futuristic at the same time. Have you ever seen Will Smith in I Am Legend? Yeah, like that. No, he doesn’t really look that much like Will Smith, but he has this very Will Smith essence. Pretty hard to describe really, but you’ll see what I mean. Yeah, I do think that’s part of the reason he hasn’t had a girlfriend in awhile. Weak women just don’t know what to do with him, which is why I thought of you, because you’ve always struck me as more like a man.
I’m not saying he’s like gay gay, but you know how it is.
My air mattress is sinking. I see that it might not last forever or even the winter, which is okay, because the hilarity of watching people try to sit on the corner only to find out there is no corner is growing thin. All but three of the seams have popped out in a way that is difficult to explain, except to say something wicked this way comes for my air mattress. The main result of these loosened seams is that it’s getting bigger, expanding across my room, and my sheets won’t really fit on it anymore. I slept on my friend’s bed a few weekends ago, and I had forgotten how nice a real mattress is. I had a boyfriend who slept on the floor of his closet, so his band could practice in his room. I understand the possibilities for the bed-less. It is no huge problem, just a small one that is expanding across the floor.
In all honesty, I’m going to be reading excerpts from this blog, and other people’s blogs that I pretend are this blog, and talking about myself in the second person during the LitQuake LitCrawl. This will happen on Saturday at 6pm at The Lab in the Mission.
Come as you are, if you wish.
Obama isn’t the kind of person who needs to actively promote peace in order to be a peacemaker. I mean that feed the orphans stuff was fine for someone like Mother Theresa, but it’s like play to your strengths. Orphan cuddling just isn’t for everyone. Obama’s peace strategy is a little more academic, and does that really surprise anyone? I’m not saying that Obama invented the word chillax, but he might as well have, and obviously someone on the Nobel Prize committee agrees. The question isn’t really why should Obama win the most prestigious award on earth, but why didn’t anyone think to award it to him before this? And I hope that this is going to send a message to other awards committees that it’s time to start giving Obama the recognition that he deserves. Have you ever asked yourself why Obama hasn’t won an Academy Award yet? It’s not that he’s done any great acting this year, but think about all the great acting he probably inspired. We can only hope that the people who decide who gets nominated for a Grammy will think of Obama when it’s time to hand out the award for Song of the Year. It’s not that Obama sings that song, but he probably inspired it. Has anyone ever even listened to the words of “Single Ladies. (Put a Ring On It)”? That song was completely inspired by our President. Nothing slips by Beyonce. Speaking of Beyonce, the next time Kanye West gets wasted and leaps onstage during Taylor Swift’s acceptance speech he’s not going to be screaming that Beyonce should have won for Best Female Video of the Year, but that Obama should have. Let’s all be honest and acknowledge that Taylor Swift’s music videos pretty much can’t hold a candle to the videos that Obama hasn’t even made yet.
My friend L and I were in Paris staying on her grandparents’ sailboat anchored on the Seine. It was December. The heat was turned off for the winter. We had spent a long day walking around The Pere Lachaise Cemetery, thinking about literature and how cute everything in Paris was. The word cute was used and abused to the full extent of the law on that trip.
We had settled into bed in the bow of the boat, and I was just dozing off when I heard L’s disembodied voice in dark, “Are you awake? I was just thinking that I might start parting my hair on the other side. No seriously look.”
She turned on the flashlight and pointed it at her crown as she rearranged her hair so that it was parted on the other side. ”What do you think?” she asked, “No, no wait.” She moved one more piece to join its brethren, “Now, what do you think?”
Two years later, I don’t remember if the new part stuck, and honestly who cares? What did stick was the thought that letting your hair lie in another direction every once in awhile could change your life.
Today, I parted my hair on the other side. It looked hideous, and I instantly went back to the old way, but it might have been a revelation, and it actually kind of was. It proved that I’d been doing it the right way for my whole life without even knowing it, which proved that there is something inherently right about my hair, and my life, and the world.
The day I lost my phone I found myself on the 7 headed downtown, and getting jealous of all the people with their phones. A phone rings, and I wish it were mine, someone asks someone if they got his text, a friend tells me to call her. How could she be so cruel? For several hours I didn’t know what time it was, and found myself staring in a blank way around my room, wondering how to find a clock. I had no alarm now, and realized I might never be able to wake up again. I suddenly understood how Sleeping Beauty might have slept for 1000 years. I saw the possibilities of my life closing in. Who might be calling me right now? Whose calls had I already missed? Who hadn’t called who I could wish would have called? I feel vibrations in my purse, and see how it might be to lose an arm, and still feel the excruciating tingle of confused nerves firing at nothing. I look at a picture of my phone on the internet. I imagine it lying on the grass of Civic Center. I called an hour ago, and it rang and rang, but now the call goes straight to voicemail, and I fear the worst, a slow death in the dirty grass. The picture of Steph and me on the screen fading to black. The numbers carefully gathered for two years. The people who I would never have called again anyway, and now never could. I look for my phone in the crowd. Josie is waving to me from across the intersection, she calls my name, but we are stranded on opposite sides of the street and the traffic is moving too fast.
