Happy Fourth of July from San Bruno, CA! I can hear the fireworks, so I know they exist, and the Fourth celebrations go on, but darned if I can see them through this fog…
And today started out as such a clear, hot, July day…
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Category: Nonfiction
I recently became the proud owner of a smartphone. Until that fateful day last week, I identified myself as a hardcore texter and an occasional phone conversationalist, but I didn’t have the luxury of Google-mapping my way out of being terribly lost, or being able to check the weather in any part of the world with a single swish of my finger (85 degrees and thunderstorms in New York!).
I’m one week into smartphone ownership, and I’m still deep in the honeymoon phase. That is to say, I like to have it on me at all times, in case someone asks how to say “grapefruit” in French (the answer: “pamplemousse,” although I can’t pronounce it), or someone needs a timer for a quick game of Charades.
Last weekend I used a Fandango gift card, purchased tickets online, and took my confirmation number to the box office. No cash involved; no printing of tickets. That is what I call: a miracle of the times. Super convenient. And yes, it’s fun to be that “linked in.”
One thing I haven’t yet conquered: my fear of taking this brand new, very-expensive-to-replace toy into the bathroom with me. I have heard a thousand stories of people dropping their iPhones and their Androids into the toilet. Why on earth would you take that risk, people? My phone stays on my desk, where it belongs, until I come back from the bathroom, hands clean, and resume playing Words with Friends. (Which, by the way, is completely addicting. I’m sychela. Feel free to start a game with me.)
I want to go on record as saying that I do also manage to accomplish work things on it: for instance, right now I’m involved in a big social networking push as part of my job, so it’s nice to be able to have Twitter and Facebook and “checking in” places at my fingertips…something I couldn’t do on my little old regular cell phone.
But – there’s always a but – but, at the same time, I worry about my newfound dependence on this. I hear of people importing their entire calendar into their phone, their contact lists, their lives. What happens if it disappears? The good folks in charge have provided us with a contingency plan if the phone happens to become lost or stolen: simply sign into your account online, lock the phone, leave a message asking for its safe return, or if all is lost, you can remotely wipe all your data and give up the thing for dead.
But what should happen if the entire world, grown reliant on our handheld devices that are really no more than grown-up GameBoys that can also make phone calls, was suddenly struck by some kind of disaster? Unrelated to phone ownership, I’ve been reading a lot of Young Adult, post-apocalyptic books lately, and they’re always finding themselves in situations with no electricity, or no connectivity, or worse.
For the time being I have to just keep crossing my fingers and praying that an EMP doesn’t explode over the United States. If it does, I assume I’ll have worse problems than not being able to download the latest Angry Birds app. In the meantime I’ll just enjoy this phone, which, by the way, takes better pictures than some of the cameras I have owned in my lifetime.
And there’s probably an app to locate the nearest Costco, so I can stock up on canned food, bottled water, and paper products, just in case.
7/1/11 in the Lake County Record-Bee, available here for a limited time!
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Another clue that I’m an adult now
Here’s the latest way I’ve realized that I’m truly a grown-up:
I’m no longer averse to eating overripe fruit.
In my younger years, I would choose only perfectly ripe (or possibly under-ripe) strawberries and bananas, pears and peaches. Brown spots were to be avoided.
Yes, I know fruit gets brown because of sugar and therefore should be yummier. But honestly, have you ever peeled a banana and been delighted to find bruises? No. Because it looks (and feels) gross.
Overripe bananas are really good for two things: smoothies, and banana bread. Where you don’t have to see the soft spots.
Over the weekend we went to the farmer’s market in San Francisco, and as usual, I got a little too enthusiastic about buying fruit. This morning, when I opened the fridge, some overripe strawberries were staring me in the face. But since I’m an adult now, I cut ’em up and brought ’em to work in a tupperware. And then I covered them with vanilla yogurt (still can’t see the soft spots) and devoured them.
Just another mature, responsible, fruit-filled day.
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Let’s get some (diversified) shoes
One of the grown-up things I’ve done this year is set up a 403b account (basically a 401k for a nonprofit). I’ve been paying into it for about 6 weeks now (I know right?) so I wanted to check it out online and see what kind of massive numbers I’ve racked up. So I called up my financial representative so she could help me set up my online sign-in.
She decided to walk me through some of the account. I felt pretty adult and was comprehending everything, but then she decided to explain the diversifying of funds by saying, “It’s like you’re buying several different pairs of shoes, and you want to collect as many different kinds of shoes as possible. You want a whole closet full of shoes!”
I kind of wanted to tell her she could give the shoes metaphor a rest – I mean I do admire shoes, but I don’t buy them the way other girls do (if I’m to believe other girls shop like Carrie Bradshaw).
But then she moved on to talking about the mid cap index and foreign value and other stuff, and she totally lost me, and I sort of wished she’d go back to the shopping metaphor.
Soon after that we got off the phone and I was just grateful that someone has taken the reins of my money and set me up with what will hopefully turn out to be best for me.
Here’s to a long and profitable relationship with my 403b! And to retiring at a reasonable age!
Categories
Treasured Whatever
If I had 15 minutes to break into a stranger’s house and ransack it, looking for valuables, I’m not sure I’d know where to start.
I’ve been thinking about a place to hide a large amount of money – not that I have any, but it’s part of a story I was reading, and it got my mind wandering.
It’s not the same thing to try to figure out the good hiding places in your own home. Because I think: sure, I could hide this treasured whatever in the box of old Babysitters Club books which is under my laundry basket. Or I could cut a hole in the bottom of the couch and stuff it up there. What about in the towel closet, on the bottom shelf, inside the Disney Monopoly box?
I guess I have to get a better handle on what exactly it is that I’m hiding.
If I had to find something hidden in my own apartment – Christmas presents, perhaps – I could probably find them, given a little time to search, and no moral compass to tell me “don’t do that.”
But I wonder how long it would take for me to find, say, a big stack of cash, if I had to ransack a strange apartment for it. Could I do it in 15 minutes? A half hour, even? I imagine I would start by pulling open drawers and cupboards and just sweeping things out. But how time consuming would it be to have to search through every piece of luggage? Or open every box and start pulling out old papers to check underneath them? And what about secret drawers, or false bottoms to things? Forget it; I’m never going to find that money.
I think I’ve stumbled on a great concept for a new reality game show! An extreme, vaguely corrupt game of Hide & Seek. We’ve hidden a duffel bag full of money somewhere in this 2-bedroom townhouse, and you’ve got 30 minutes to find it. Some people would be alarmingly skilled at this – slitting open box springs and tapping the walls for hidden compartments. But what about when the townhouse just has too much stuff? And the duffel bag is hidden somewhere between the box of childhood drawings, and the suitcase of heavy jackets that have never been unpacked because this is California and they’re not necessary here?
There’s a movement I’ve been hearing about: people jettison all the “things” they’ve collected in their lives, and get down to owning only 100 things. You count every single thing. One toothbrush. One laptop. One car. One pair of socks equals two things. It adds up quickly. I haven’t even tried to make a list of the 100 things I would own, because the idea of me doing this is so farfetched. I could probably limit the number of items on my desk to 100. (I said ON, not IN – let’s be clear about that.)
I’m not advocating breaking into and searching random homes for hidden caches of goodies. I’m also not advocating getting rid of nearly all of your worldly belongings. I’m just a 20-something girl, with a relatively small apartment that is rapidly filling up with superfluous stuff. I’m looking at two more boxes of childhood stuff from my parents house, wondering how there could possibly be any more boxes there that I’m not aware of. I mean, if I didn’t realize I didn’t have it until now, how important could it be?
But I’m an optimistic person so I take a deep breath. Tonight I will crack open those boxes and, surely, discover treasure.
To view this column online, click here.
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Cute shoes; good husband
Recently my BFF Megan was visiting California from her now-hometown of Washington, DC. Megan and I have a complicated history (not bad, just detailed): we were dorm roommates our first year at UC Davis, the only two English majors in a building filled with 70 computer science, physics, math, biology, and engineering students.
We lost touch after that, and while I was doing theatre stuff and moving to New York, she was going to law school and spending time in Africa. In the winter of 08/09 she wrote a Facebook note about Prop 8 and I read it, and realized that the Megan I remembered had changed a lot. She talked about being on the “No on 8” side of a protest and looking across at the people on the “Yes on 8” side. It was a very personal, fascinating note. And very long. I emailed her a response regarding the religious implications of Prop 8 – and then didn’t hear anything for a couple months.
When she wrote back, we started talking again, and shortly after that Drew and I got engaged. Then Megan said she’d be coming to New York (from Sacramento) for a visit and we should get together. I was nervous (maybe she was too) but it ended up being the greatest idea ever. We started out at Vynl on 9th Avenue for dinner and drinks, and ended up at Juniors for cosmos and cheesecake.
She moved to New York and we spent the summer of 09 walking around Manhattan, presumably for exercise, but it often included lots of gossip, girltalk, and ended with shopping, either for groceries at a chic store (no ghetto Key Foods here) or for clothes…more often for clothes.
So when Megan came out for a visit this month, we had to shop. And shop we did. The week before she came, I told Drew I didn’t have extra money this month for things like lunches out and buying shoes. He said (and I quote), “Please promise me you’ll use credit cards so you can have a good time with her. Just use them responsibly.”
It turns out we may have different definitions of “responsible” credit card use – this became apparent when I came through the door on Friday loaded down with shopping bags. “They’re not all mine!” I said before he could say anything.
But I needed everything I bought. The work clothes – for work! – I mean, I only had so much stuff I could wear to work without feeling shamed. And with summer coming on I definitely needed some warm weather clothes. And the Bare Escentuals stuff – I mean, come on, I had been saying for weeks that I wanted to buy moisturizer and eye shadow. So that’s all fair. And the shoes? Well, the flat sandals are obvious, I’ll wear them all the time when it’s warm enough. The platform heels? I love them! Where will I wear them? I’ll figure it out.
At some point during the day, when I was throwing down my credit card yet again, I did stop to think that maybe this wasn’t what he had in mind by “use them responsibly.” Maybe he meant to say “sparingly.” Oh well.
That he didn’t even give me a hard time about any of this is a testament to how nice he is. I mean, ultimately I was still medium-responsible. And the weekend was so fun that it was totally worth it. But I am grateful that he didn’t grill me about my purchase choices or the final cost of the weekend…he’s a nice guy. So here’s to Drew! And to his understanding nature, and his strong sense of the importance of friendship.
And seriously, these shoes are so cute.
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Letting my Id out
On Friday morning I stopped to get gas on the way to work, and while I was waiting I trimmed my nails. It was earlier than usual so I didn’t have time to do it at home, but they were getting grossly long so I wanted to take care of them immediately. I was standing outside my car so I just let all the clippings fall on the ground. It felt very free, very primal. That’s how life should be – not collecting them in a paper towel, or trying to get them all into the sink. I think later I’ll go outside and clip my toenails too.
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Female Driver
New Year’s Resolutions I have accomplished:
– Get off unemployment
– Get a real job
– Submit at least one play to the Samuel French OOB Festival
And now!
– Submit a “guest commentary” piece to my hometown paper
This isn’t my first appearance in the Record-Bee: In 8th grade I was the school “historian,” and wrote a little weekly piece about what was going on at the school. Around Christmas I apparently got bored of seeing my name in print, and I started writing under the pen name Ginger Brett. I had completely forgotten about this until I was going through some old stuff and found the clippings. But if there was any doubt, the writing is undeniably mine…you can take that however you want.
I was the historian again during my senior year of high school, when my most noticeable column was about the end-of-the-year school trip that a bunch of the seniors were taking to Mexico. I casually and thoughtlessly said something about how the drinking age in Mexico is 18 and I wondered whether the parents of all those students had thought of that yet. The next day I was accosted in the halls by tearful girls from the soccer team saying I ruined their senior trip. I spent the whole morning waiting to be called to the principal’s office and reprimanded.
Now I realize that those girls may have overreacted, just slightly.
My latest column will hopefully not offend anyone. It will be printed in tomorrow’s paper (yes, I asked my parents to save me one), and it’s already available online. But for your viewing convenience, it’s also right here.
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FEMALE DRIVER
“I don’t think I’ve ridden in the car with you driving in a long time,” my husband Drew remarked casually the other day on a middle-of-the-day trip to Target. And it was true; usually whenever we go anywhere I make him drive. I like sitting in the passenger seat and commenting on things out the window, and I also like not feeling judged for my driving. Not that he would do that to me.
But I have seen his foot touch the imaginary brake pedal on his side of the car, plenty of times.
“You’re right,” I said, “it has been a while.”
“I forgot how fast you drive.”
What?! I don’t drive fast. I drive the speed limit – particularly in places where the speed limit is 35, it kills me to watch those cars all cruise along at 30, all in their individual lanes, not giving me a chance to go around them. Don’t they know the light’s going to the change and we’re all going to get stuck behind a 4-wheeler?
I put on my left blinker and try to move over so I can turn, but the crazy driver behind me seems intent on edging me out. I speed up a little and manage to squeeze in.
“Just promise me,” he said, as we turned into the Target parking lot and were faced with 4 speed bumps, “that one day when you have a car seat and a baby in the back seat, you’ll take the speed bumps more gently.”
“Like this?” I asked, slowing to a complete stop in front of one and then very, very carefully guiding the front wheels over, and then the back wheels, both pairs in perfect harmony, and landing back on the ground with barely a thump. The way I’ve watched the cars in our apartment complex do it when I’m sitting behind them, urging them to “Go, please, just go!”
“Yeah, like that,” he said. “That’s actually the way people do it when they care about their car.”
Well, I care about my car! I have been through a lot with this car – it was my first car, I got it for my senior year of high school, and it’s waited for me all the times I’ve been away: my first year of college when we weren’t allowed to have cars, and the three years we lived in New York when it made zero sense to have a car. Always patiently waiting behind…and then allowing me to drive it the way I drive it when I come home.
On second thought, maybe it’s not patiently waiting. Maybe it just keeps thinking (hoping?) that this might be the time I don’t come back.
I love you, car. And I promise to treat you better.
I fulfill the first part of my promise when I finally – finally! – get around to asking Chuck, my father-in-law, to help me with putting on the new windshield wipers my brother gave me for Christmas, and to change the rear left turn signal, which I’ve noticed has been out.
(For how long? Surely that’s the reason I’ve noticed drivers reluctant to let me merge left. They weren’t the unrelenting jerks – I was the non-signaling lane-changer. Sheepish, I tried extra hard to leave lots of room when I merged, between the moment I figured out the problem and the moment I got the light bulb changed.)
When Chuck pulled out the bulb he turned it toward me so I could see how black it was. “Been out for a long time, hasn’t it?” he asked.
“Um…” I’m divided between what’s a worse answer, “Yes, quite a while” or “I have no idea.” I settle for “I guess so.”
He’s very nonjudgmental though, and the rest of the bulb changing passes without incident. And now I have 4 functioning blinkers and windshield wipers that actually clear everything off the glass, instead of leaving two streaks across my vision. Which is nice.
Actually, now that that’s done, it’ll probably stop raining in the Bay Area. When this week brings spring and sunny weather, you can thank me! And Chuck of course.
Categories
Perspective
Yesterday I got paid. A mid-month paycheck, as most people will know, is a special thing, since you don’t have rent looming over you.
Last night I went crazy paying bills, paying credit cards, I paid off my Macys store card (who knows when the last time THAT had a zero balance was). I even bought myself Microsoft Office which I have been coveting for years.
This morning at Starbucks I got charged an extra $1.40 for my decaf latte, and after checking my receipt, I got back in line to get that mess refunded.
So I guess there are some things that even feeling flush with cash won’t change.
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“Is this real life?”
Two dentist appointments this week. I’ve always rated dentists as the second-best doctor’s appointments in the lineup. I don’t usually get too chastised (except for the ever-present “FLOSS”) and there’s usually a little bit of an ego boost regarding the fact that I’ve never had braces. So I like the dentist.
In 2009 I had a cavity turn into a huge cavity, turn into a broken tooth, because although I had great health insurance through Samuel French, I didn’t have dental. I spent probably 2 weeks crying with frustration because I would feel fine all day, and then as soon as I laid down my head to go to sleep, my face would throb with pain. I could sort of comfort myself to sleep by chewing on Orajel numbing swabs, but the worst part was knowing that something was very wrong.
A friend recommended a dentist who would take a personal check and cut me a little slack for not having insurance. That dentist – while very nice – immediately sent me to a endodontist in Queens, who would also take a personal check and cut me some slack. Almost immediately after the root canal, which was a relatively easy procedure with a very nice older Indian doctor, I moved back to California. (But not before finding out that Samuel French was in the process of switching to another insurance provider, one with great dental coverage – oh the irony.)
In California I got a crown put on – again, uninsured – and by this point I had racked up more charges than I even want to think about right now. All because I went like three years without regular dental checkups, and I ignored telltale signs that something was wrong. (Actually, I remember exactly when the tooth broke – I was eating baklava with Drew and Erin at a Greek restaurant in Morningside Heights.) Oops.
Now Drew has great dental and I have access to it, so this week I took advantage of that. On Tuesday I went in for X-rays and a consultation so they could schedule a cleaning (I guess they like to know what they’re up against with a new patient). I had a super uplifting experience, with a great dentist who hit all my ego buzz words and said that I don’t need to floss every day, but I should aim for once a week. That’s amazing advice! I’ve never ever had a dentist say that before. Love her.
On Friday I went back for a cleaning, and the hygienist just did not start off the same way. She basically started by saying, “Have you ever noticed how yellow your teeth are?” which I think is one of those tricky questions. I mean, what’s the right answer to that anyway? Yes? No? I opted for “Um…yeah?” and she basically talked the entire time about why teeth aren’t white. Even though she kept saying that teeth aren’t supposed to be white, but everyone wants white teeth. I don’t know.
Then there was this little gem: “I mean, you’re so pretty, and then you smile, and people are going to be like, oh, look at those red gums!” For the record, I don’t think you even see my gums when I smile. But whatevs. I know she didn’t mean it like that, but still, a far less positive way to start your day. She gave me that blue rinse, that shows you what you miss when you brush, and then she kept telling me over and over again that I should buy the store stuff: Agent Cool Blue, it’s at Walgreens right now, it’s usually like $5.99 but right now it’s on sale for $3.79. I’m like, that is plenty of information, thanks.
She was also the messiest hygienist I’ve ever had. Water kept splashing out of my mouth and into my face, and I’ve never ever dribbled water out of the corner of my mouth before during a cleaning. She said she was sloppy but that seems a little ridiculous. She also said it was only her third day there, and Ima request someone else for my next cleaning.
BUT, the important part is I walked out of there with clean teeth and a total feeling of accomplishment, and a clean bill of health… and I was about 80% sure that there would be at least one cavity in there. So overall, a good teeth week! It’s nice to be insured and be able to take care of things like that.
So. Not the best story I’ve ever told. But a story nonetheless. Also a lesson: take care of your teeth. Because if you don’t, you will end up with astronomical credit card balances.
The Cameraphone Diaries 