People on the Bus

Dear Lady that Got on the Bus Today and Immediately Started Bitching about not Getting a Seat:

When you huff onto the bus, with your grandson in tow, and not look at or make eye contact with anyone sitting there, and then start bitching to the bus driver how none of the young people on the bus are getting up to give you a seat, well, you make me want to offer my seat even less. I mean, look at me, and maybe ask. Or give me the opportunity to offer. Don't just launch into how your grandkid has a blister and can't stand for the 6 blocks you have to go. Don't go on and on and shake your head even AFTER you were offered a seat by someone who was nice enough to get up.

Please don't assume that there isn't a reason people are sitting in those seats. Looks can be deceiving. Recently, I was on the bus with a friend who had just had foot surgery. She had to sit down and I stood in front of her to protect her foot. She is young, healthy, but at that point was disabled (temporary, thankfully) and using the seats correctly. We both got a lot of dirty looks (her because she was sitting, me because I wouldn't move further back). You can't always see peoples' disabilities, so don't assume that I don't need that seat. I won't assume just because you are old that you'll be a harping nag. Promise.

Kisses,
The girl who would have offered the seat (well maybe, if she weren't in 4 inch heels)

In other news...
- Greatest.news.ever. If it's true, that is. Beverly Hills 90210 first season DVDs are being released. Laugh if you want, but I love that show. I grew up with it. And according to what I read, they will be released right after my bday. Whoo-hoo! (really, folks, simple pleasures)

- DAMN. I just saw the preview for JT's new video, and it looks good. Which means I have to sit up and wait now until it premieres at 11pm. It didn't sound like him singing, but it sure looked like his hot butt in the video clip!

We're Having Heat Wave

At 8.15am today, the temperature was already 68F. In SF proper. According to weather.com, our average temps this time of year are 55-71F, but anyone who lives here knows it sits near the 56-61F marker. It is usually chilly.

I am not complaining...aside from the stupid sunburns (stupid on my part for forgetting to put sunscreen on), I am loving it!! We are actually experiencing what summer is like!! It makes me use copious amounts of exclamation points!!

Last night I was heading home around 11.30pm, and I was in a cami type top and was not the least bit cold (the alcohol may have helped, but still...). NO JACKET IN SF? Almost unheard of.

I can't wait to spend the weekend outside (with sunscreen, I hope).

My Bed....

is where the magic happens. (can't...stop...laughing...)




Whew, now that I have composed myself...last night as I was falling asleep, I got to thinking about my bed. I like my bed, it is cozy, the bedding is nice (although maybe due for a change), and it is big. What really got me wondering is how the hell I, a not very big person, can manage to take up my entire bed, and what will happen when I have to share the bed.

As a queen, it is big enough for two people. Easily, I would assume...but I really do take up the whole thing. I usually wake up smack dab in the middle. Like I said, I don't take up a tremendous amount of space, but on the occasions I have shared the bed, I feel like I am the biggest person in the world and no space will be enough. I curl up on the side, so as not to disturb the other person, just in case I take up too much. It is ridiculous. I need someone stat to teach me to share.

Whoops, did I just say that? Well, now you know.

Most pointless entry, I know. Too bad.

(no, that's not my bed up there...but it looks comfy, doesn't it?)

Looking Back...

About a year ago (probably a year ago yesterday or so), I was traveling in Argentina and lost my passport. I was in a job that was completely stressing me out, wasn't happy at how things were going in general in my life, and was extremely high strung. Losing my passport was something I could normally handle ok, but at that point in time, it caused me to just snap.

I had flown back from Mendoza to Buenos Aires, and know I had my passport at that point. My assumption is that it either fell out of my pocket on the plane or in the cab on the way back to the hostel (I had already had a long morning, which included leaving my jacket in my hostel room in Mendoza, and having to jump in a cab, get back to the hostel and back to the airport before my flight left...the jacket was my brother's). At some point a day or two later, I thought to myself that I probably shouldn't be carrying around both my passport and license, just in case I lost my purse.

Back at the hostel, I reached into my purse to hide my passport in my suitcase. My passport wasn't there! Deep breath, ok, maybe I already hid it in my suitcase. Nope, not there either. Still not quite panicking, I went through all my pockets. Then through my purse again, and through another bag I had. When I couldn't find it in any of those, my blood pressure shot through the roof and I started freaking out. Re-searched through everything, separated all my clothes and belongings throughout my room (thankfully, it was a single), looked over everything in my room. When I realized it was gone, I freaked out.

The nice people at the embassy were very patient with me, although through the crying I don't know how they understood a word I said. My family sure didn't when I called them, and when they tried to calm me down, I freaked out further. How stupid was I? I am an experienced traveler, how could I let this happen? My passport, the lone souvenier of all my travels, was gone. Why didn't I check earlier? It was now Friday night, the embassy was closed over the weekend and my flight home was on Sunday. It would only take a day to get a new one, so I could leave Monday night, but what would that cost me? Would I get in trouble at work? I held it together enough to organize my flights, arrange my hostel, etc. I tried to find the friend I was supposed to meet at the opera (and even now, a year later, I have no way of getting in touch with her and owe her 20$), running all around Buenos Aires and coming up empty. The poor lady at my hostel tried so hard to help; I was a mess.

I got home in one piece, but it really showed me how tightly wound I was. And was the first hint that I was really unhappy with things. I mean, I was gone for two weeks and never felt like I was away from work, I remained stressed the whole time about projects I had going on. I am still sad about my lost passport stamps...my new one is completely empty (they issue you an emergency one, then when you get home you have to get a new real one. At least my emergency one has a stamp). I wonder if someone is using mine. I didn't get to go to Uruguay because the day I was planning to go, I had no passport.

Looking back, I am in a totally different place than I was a year ago. I am not as stressy about work (although I am pretty new...maybe I'll be more like that next year, but I sure hope not!), I feel like I am in a better place in my life. Some things have gone on this summer that weren't the best, but I am handling it much better than I would have in the past. Life is in no way perfect, but it is better. And I have a new passport burning a hole in my pocket, asking me to take it SOMEWHERE!!

I Hurt Myself

Nothing turns me into a bigger baby than being injured. Especially when I cannot for the life of me figure out how I managed to do it.

I woke up Sunday morning with my left leg feeling like it was broken. It hurt to move it, hurt to put any weight on it, just plain hurt. I laid in bed and ran through the events of the prior day and evening. I went on a run in the morning, where, at some point, I did manage to trip over a pothold, but it was my right ankle that twisted, not my left. I wore a pair of shoes that did not belong to me (on the Saturday runs, Nike lets you try out their shoes), could that be the culprit? I am still hoping not, because those shoes fit my foot perfectly. I drank a lot during the day, but at no point remember falling or tripping in a way that would have hurt my leg. Night was easy, I came home and napped then went to bed early.

So it makes no sense. Yesterday it became obvious that I strained something, still with no rational reason. As the day progressed, the pain became more localized in my ankle. Definitely a strain, no swelling or anything but tough to put weight on it. Of course, I didn't wear the smartest shoes for an injury yesterday, but I looked cute and needed cute, not functional, shoes to complete the outfit.

I am giving myself this one last day off. I need to keep training and I don't want this to throw a wrench into things too much. I have worked out/played on injuries before, but things don't heal the way they used to so I need to be more careful. Mainly, however, I want to lay on my couch with an ice pack, taking Advil, whining to myself and trying to figure out what the hell I did.

Baseball...I Like It

I like baseball.

Anyone who knows me, knows this. I have never quite figured out why I like it so much-- it is kind of slow, action is sporadic, usually rather long games-- but I do. I understand it better than I do almost any game I have ever played; my first job was keeping score for my brother's Babe Ruth League. Maybe that's why. I spent many a summer up in the score booth, deciding if someone committed an error or if it was a 1B of FC. Getting yelled out by grown men because they didn't agree with my decision. Being lauded by the cuties that benefited from my decision. (disclaimer: my calls were never based on someone I thought was cute, although it is tempting) I associate it with being the decision maker, with human subjectivity, with cute boys and hot summer days.

I also think it provided one common ground with my dad when I was a teen. We didn't get along well at the time, but we could always talk about baseball. It was the one thing my grandpa could watch, complain about, enjoy when he was confined to his house or hospital room. It brings people together-- from the little kid who goes to his or her first game with the harried father buying everything the kid wants, to the adult child and parents who go to just enjoy and drink a beer or two.

Soon after my grandmother passed away, we celebrated by grandpa's birthday in a skybox at the Oakland A's game. It was the first game he had attended since he had a stroke about 7 years prior. It was a coordinated effort-- he couldn't walk up and down all the steps and to and from the car, so we had to get a little assistance-- but it was worth it. We were all together, and he was happy. We sat in the front row of the box, ate popcorn and hot dogs and nachos and whatever other food we wanted, and watched Barry Zito pitch a hell of a game. Unfortunately, he pitched so well, it was the shortest game in Oakland's history (up until then), way under 2 hours. But it was a fun time, and one I like to think my grandpa, and the rest of us, really enjoyed.

I spent this last 4th of July holiday at the ballgame with my dad. We have spent several of these holidays together, bonding over the A's and how they are doing (depending on the season, awesomely well or incredibly sucky). We had a few beers, sat in the sunshine, and enjoyed the game. This year, it went into extra innings and we left at the end of the 9th inning, but the A's ended up winning. Watching it at home, we celebrated. Baseball.