Disclaimer

Call me a racist. Call me a xenophobe. Call me a tim buck howdya do. But I really don't think I could ever be in a relationship again with someone who spoke English as a second language.

My feeling is that you meet someone and start something off because there's a spark. They're hot, they have a compatible personality, and things begin to take off. But surely down the line when the spark has faded to a fine ember and the physical part of the relationship has, if not slacked off considerably come to a halt altogether, you just want someone to reminisce and laugh with. And I can tell you as someone who dated a non-native speaker of English, and whose English didn't improve over the course of our three years together, it was no shock that the relationship did not improve either, but rather quite deteriorated. They do say communication is key to a successful relationship.

Sure there are exceptions. Some people can learn and if not become proficient, actually master multiple languages. Most, though, cannot.

School daisies

Usually when I have dreams about college, I dream that I actually didn't get all the units I needed to graduate. Last night, though, I dreamt that I went back to college (I know not why), and not only re-matriculated, but decided to live in the dorms.

I'd signed up for a room early on to ensure I would have a place, but when welcome day arrived, I got there quite late. And one of the soccer/PTA/stage moms running the orientation day said, "I'm not sure if we still have a room for you." She led me to one of classroom buildings on campus which had this odd door that you had to duck under, then to a medium-sized lecture hall with part of it cordoned off to store supplies.

"Here's your room!" she said.

Besides the fact that it wasn't in fact a room, but some storage area, the makeshift walls separating it from the seats in the lecture hall were clear, so anyone could see into the room clear as day if I were nekkid and changing.

"Where do I sleep?" I squealed.

She then showed me to some room behind the podium, which was like a professor's office with a bed.

She noticed my appalled look, so we headed back to the orientation area to find the Resident Director. Unfortunately, the Resident Director was not only of no help, but didn't want to deal with me. I can remember in the dream trying calmly to explain that I'd reserved a room in advance and I couldn't live like this, and she hit back saying that if I didn't want a room in the residence halls I could just forego my little storage room dorm, which made me panic because I had no where else to live.

The saving grace of the whole dream was the hot football player type guy who, as I was going to talk to the RD, stopped me in the hall to kid around with me, then full on hit on me. Which was hot. And nice.

And I only wish THAT had been the main plot point of the dream instead of this dorm BS.

Weak week

It was destined to be one of those weeks that just bugs the crap out of me, but in all truth, I'm glad it's here. Sometimes my life is just too cozy and quaint that I just keep waiting for the other foot to drop or ball to drop or whatever the saying is.

'Tall began Monday night when a big storm hit the Cali coast. I said my nighttime prayer, and right after I said, "Amen", a great wind struck the window like Satan himself was tossing boulders at my room. From there, it was a more or less constant stream of rain--loud rain--and a massive thunder clap every hour, one of which jolted young Sugar from her careless slumber. So I began my workweek on Tuesday after a cheery three-day weekend on virtually no sleep.

Today, I was meant to awaken early to get to work, make my little fake-on (fake bacon) and English muffin, and eat it before our monthly staff meeting. Well, when I stirred my sleeping beauty eyes to look at the clock, it was well past the time for me to wake up, and I jolted from the bed to get ready. Apparently, I'd set my alarm at a later time instead of an earlier time. And, true to form when you're in a hurry, I showered, moisturized, tinted, dressed, and just as I was putting my belt on, the fucking buckle broke.

Sexy on some. Not on my vodka gut butt.

Then I had the sheer pleasure of boarding a bus driven by The Slowest Bus Driver in San Francisco. I've taken the bus when it's been driven by TSBDISF, some old fuck stretching out the day 'til retirement probably, but today, because of the rain, he notched up the slow-ass factor, and went extra slow, stopping at green lights and waiting for them to turn red. Stopping at bus stops for passengers that weren't there. Going slowly and carefully 'cause he just don't care. The I got to work just in the nick of time and sat starving for an hour and a half through the meeting.

So not only do I have to trek out to buy a new belt, but also need to buy groceries and Sugar's overpriced cat food. Keep your fingers crossed, and maybe a great big wallop of rain will crash down on my head, wreck my umbrella, and douse the lot just for ambiance. Fun!

It's all a Blur. Like the band.

I am having a rough go of it today. It didn't help that I had to send one of my "Please use a more professional tone in your email communications" email to an employee this morning (which translates to "Please don't be an asshole to me or I won't fucking help you, bitch").

I shirked and YouTubed on Saturday day before heading out to Esperpento near Valencia for Dascha's birthday at night. It was tapas, sangria, and good times, but it wiped me out, and I came home and crashed.

Sunday, I trekked out to Dog Patch, which sounds like some podunk horror of a place, but is actually a quaint suburban-like patch of Frisco that affords a gorgeous view of the downtown skyline. It was one of those days where it's bright but not sunny, and crisp without being too cold, and it made me happy to be alive. I picked up a few new work clothes at Van Heusen (I know it's terrible that the economy sucks, but for those of us still gainfully employed, these crazy 50% off sales are sssssimply delicious), and later on in the evening, chatted with LM about her "All About Eve" moment at work.

I've been tinkering with the idea of moving. I say tinkering because I'm not fully toying with the idea whatsoever. I just figure, if I'm going to move, now would be the time while rents are down. And I could possibly find a place with a view. It seems you can't walk down a block in this city without seeing a For Rent sign. But I hate moving more than anything. I had to move my senior year of high school and every year in college. I've been at my current place for over four years now, the longest I've ever lived in one apartment since I moved to SF. And I pay next to nothing in rent.

It's a bit of a debacle to deal with, yes.

Gym gin

I'm one of those people who's a little neurotic about how I smell at the gym. I don't go so far as to take a shower before I go to the gym, douse myself in Axe Body Spray, and lather my arm pits in deodorant, but I always wear a newly washed set of gym clothes and change into new briefs. I make sure they I don't eat anything with onions during the day so my breath doesn't smell as I'm huffing and puffing away at the elliptical, and I down four or five mints before I go and gulp down some water so the mintiness is coated down my throat. I spray my face with some Vitamin C Re-energizing facial spritz, cross my fingers, and head on over to the gym.

When I am on the mats stretching next to someone, and they get up to leave, I wonder if it's because I smell bad. Or when I get one of the bicycling machines and the person next to me gets up to go a minute later, I wonder if my breath smells something ungodly.

I have to say, true to form, it's the women who manage to smell the best. They all cover themselves with body cream and forget-me-nots, and are sure not to bear a bad odor, no sir. But I do not want to smell of apricot or berries, so I will not be doing the same anytime soon.

I just go, work my shiz, and get my farty self out of there at my earliest convenience.

Me steaks

I hate it when I make mistakes. And I make them quite rarely, but I become enraged and humiliated when I do. This pertains mostly to work, but rather well applies to regular life as well. I think very highly of myself--I've gone through a lot of blood, sweat, and bullshit t0 get this far--so it's not a happy time when I err.

I like to point out when other people make mistakes. And I make a spectacle of it as well. It fills me with joy to march over to someone's office with a jacked up personnel action form or printout of an erroneous entry, and begin, "I think you might have been a little bit on crack this day, but ya see this?" or "I don't know exactly what's wrong with you, but...." or "I know that you're gonna have an attitude because you do have one, but I want to point this out to you." I even created a wall of emails from one co-worker who would always respond to emails saying, "Thanks fro the update!" and called it "Jackie 'Fro' President!"

It is for this reason, and many more, that I know I'm going to hell. Amen.

Not for all the t-shirts in China

My New Year's was spent with Kathy Griffin and Anderson Cooper in Times Square since no one was available for End Up-ing. Aaron ended up canceling his trip to SF due to boy problems, LG was working, and Mandy actually said to me, "You know I don't stay up that late!" No worries, though, as a minute after the new decade rolled in, Mr. Alterhausen called me half in the bag, and we had a lovely chat while listening to his CD of '50s diva songs well nigh until 3:00.

Friday was one of those misty, rainy days where the sky is a deep periwinkle, and it almost looks like heaven in the evening time. I ventured out to the outer Mission, where I hadn't been in some ten years. Nothing terribly special, except the area is sort of raised above the rest of the City, and has a great view of the skyline.

Saturday, I texted Mandy for a power walk along the Presidio, always a fun time.

But mostly, my four day weekend was spent chillaxing and checking out YouTube videos with a courtesy cocktail nearby. I'm all up on the "My Little Pony" and "She-Ra" series.
Sugar, envious of my new toy, has expressed her displeasure by not once, not twice, by three times a lady taking a shit and piss in my room. Totally nasty. But I've exacted revenge by playing videos of kittens meowing, throwing her all into a tizzy as she looks for the meowing youngsters all about the room, though she eventually caught wise and has since stopped responding.

I sat behind the Dutch Tranny today on the bus, and she smelled like stale Ritz crackers.