Meccanized

I’ve been thinking too much lately.  It’s time to get back to some actual Meccanization.

A few minutes ago, I began putting my newly-washed clothes into “Quentin,” my favorite dryer at my nauseatingly-cute laundromat.  I was about halfway through my load when a woman stalked over and told me she was already using “Quentin.”  I pointed out that there had been no clothes in it before I began putting in my items.  She then responded with “Well, I claimed it, and my washer is almost done.”

Wet sock clutched in hand, I stared back at her.  Here was a 45-year-old woman basically calling “shotgun” on a dryer.  There were at least 5 other open dryers that she could have used, and a critical mass of my clothing had already taken up residence inside “Quentin.” (That sounds so pervy.)

Now, normally I would have been nice (you say pushover, I say nice) and would have just moved my stuff to another dryer.  But, as you know from my last post, first impressions don’t mean that much to me, and this woman and her sense of entitlement just pissed me off.  So I stood up tall (stop laughing), threw my Bounce sheet into “Quentin,” hit start and said “Sorry, I’m using this one, but I think ‘Peter’ is open.”

Not quite the razor sharp remark I had hoped for, but on the spot it was the best I could do.  I walked out of that laundromat – head held high – to the woman leaning over to her companion and muttering something about “no apology” and “selfish.”

Meccanized…though I’m a little worried that when I go back down my clothes will have met some terrible fate in payment for my insolence.

In the last few weeks, I feel like I’ve made more inaccurate first impressions than I ever have before.  Normally, I would lump them in the “can’t be everything to everyone all of the time” bucket and forget about them, but the stream of them has reaffirmed my belief in the importance of second chances.

I, like everyone else, have off moments.  I also have a long list of things I wish I had done, not done or done differently, some significant enough to evoke a twitchy, squirmy, grimace-filled gesture when thoughts of them fly through my head.  I probably tend to dwell on these more than the average person, but usually they become lessons or funny stories pretty quickly.

As a direct result of my propensity for awkward, I make it a point to shelve my opinions of other people until I get a crack at a second impression.  (This obviously doesn’t apply if the person is clearly a nutjob based on the first encounter.  ”Nutjobs” include anyone who threatens me or makes awkward comments on a date like “Yeah, my ex-girlfriend accused me of physical assault, but I’m totally over that bitch.”)

I’ve had off first meetings with a lot of people.  One or both of us seemed boorish, rude, slutty, obnoxious, boring, shallow, whiny, etc.  About 50% of those impressions ended up being totally accurate in my opinion.  The other 50% and I now laugh about those awkward initial encounters right before we have some sappy moment where we talk about how happy we are that we didn’t let iffy first impressions become non-starters for our relationships.

Do I care that the woman at the laundromat thinks I’m selfish for inadvertently taking her dryer?  No.  But, in general, I do care about presenting myself in a positive light that at least in most ways matches my own self-perception.  Of course, the accuracy of that self-perception is pretty subjective, but that is a subject for anther post.

I was huffing and puffing up the Fillmore St. hill today, when a guy rolled up next to me in a BMW.  In as non-shady of a way as possible, he asked me if I wanted a ride to the top of the hill.  I was thrilled for the after school special moment, but I politely declined.

As I continued on with my huffing and puffing, I had a thought about city living as a female — no matter the city, no matter the female, most decisions are made based around one key criterion: the likelihood that the scenario you are considering will become a rapey/stabby situation.

It’s not a conscious thought most of the time.  Take the common (ego alert) scenario of a guy asking to buy me a drink.   Each decision I make seems to be based in evaluating circumstances in the immediacy.  If I’m attracted to him, I’ll accept the drink.  If I want to keep talking to him, I’ll accept his invitation to go to another public venue.  But the subconscious question accompanying every move I choose to make is “will this night turn into an homage to ‘The Accused?’”   Asking this question is no different from weighing the safety pros and cons of any situation, but I think the rapey/stabby benchmark is especially relevant for ladies.  

Of course, it isn’t foolproof.  It’s easy to lose focus for one reason or anther (usually sleep-deprivation, alcohol, the euphoria of an epic trivia win, or some combination of all three), end up in what could be shady situations and then have to retroactively take steps to protect against potential rapey-ness and stabby-ness.  Usually, this involves a phone call or a text message to one or more friends saying something along the lines of “I’m getting into a blue Ford Taurus license plate 507-PLU.  The driver has dreamy eyes and a winsome smile.  If you don’t hear from me in 24 hours, please alert the authorities.”

I think spinning the bad decision wheel on occasion, especially at this age, is healthy and often leads to the most fun, memorable times and the best stories.  But the key to having this result as opposed to…well…you know…is being able to read situations, and I would argue that a sensitive, well-tuned rapey/stabby-meter is the best tool for this.

Fortunately, living in a city like San Francisco, you can’t help but fine-tune your sense of the rapey and stabby.  And I have total faith in mine.  So the next time I find myself wandering the Tenderloin at 6 am, I’ll know I’ll make it home safely.

It’s late on a Thursday night, and I’m in a McFlurry haze.  Introspection time.  Not even repeated viewings of “Kitten Mittens” can pull me out of my own head.

I found out last week that a friend from college passed away.  Very sad and also very jarring.  Whenever anyone dies — especially someone so young — it inevitably leads to the rolling “am I living my life right?” thunder.  It seems like all of a sudden, it becomes clear how much time and energy are wasted on comparatively insignificant things.  Then, come the promises of no longer sweating the small stuff.  Then, some variation of “I’m going to do it…really, finally, I’m going to…”  It all has the feel of a movie trailer — a brief, few poignant scenes, capped with a euphoric moment where everything seems to fall into place.  Set to, of course, Solsbury Hill.

The scary thing is how fleeting those thoughts are.   About a day after I heard about my friend, the mental masturbation began.  There were broad, generic questions:

-       How can I invest so much of my life worrying about silly stuff?  (Not to overstate my readership, but I am saddened by the number of people who are likely reading this and nodding in agreement that I do, in fact, obsess about silly stuff…and all thinking of different examples.)

-       Am I living my life to the fullest?

-       Will I look back on this time in my life and feel like I should have done anything differently? 

And then came the equally broad, generic resolutions:

-       I’m not going to waste one more second or iota of energy on silly things that I can’t control.

-       I’m not going to take anything or anyone for granted.

-       I’m not going to regret anything – if things work out, great.  If they don’t, they are still learning experiences.

It took all of 24 hours for me to toss my lofty ideals out the window.  Actually, as far as the “not taking anyone for granted” ideal, at least I can sort of follow through: Thank you to all who have been willing to listen to me prattle on about one stupid thing for the last week.  I appreciate it more than you can imagine.

I’ve always thought that life realizations that come neatly packaged in moments of clarity are bullshit.  No matter what the movies tell us, you rarely just “get” something…and even if you do, the resultant change in behavior rarely sticks.  But it still bums me out how quickly I lost sight of two-thirds of my goals that not long ago, in a fairly significant moment, seemed both logical and tangible.  

Nothing to Meccanize here.  Just needed to vent.

This made me so happy.  It’s like a glorious little game of “Who Should I Hate More?”

To my left is Michael Bay, who I used to think was the world’s shittiest director.  Then, I discovered Matthew Barney (who I’ll count as a director for his horrible forays into art-films) and McG, both of whom suck infinitely more than MB.  I actually enjoy MB’s movies (I’m a total sucker for mindless action), but I’m stubborn and feel the need to cling to my thirteen-year dislike for him for the sake of consistency.  

To my right is Megan Fox, world’s dumbest woman.  Nothing she says makes sense, and when she does manage to string a few words together properly, it’s usually pretty offensive.  But not offensive in a fun “best team name at trivia” kind of way; offensive in a “I’m rock stupid and really don’t get it” kind of way.  

I think I have to give this round to Megan Fox, if only for the pyramid quote.  I also re-watched “The Rock” late last night and was so into it that I’ll give Michael Bay a bye for today.

Let me preface this by saying that you all know how I feel about dog clothes.

Yesterday, I exited the Metreon (saw Extract — meandering but appealing story, kind of a softer, nicer Coen Brothers movie.  Not worth $11 to see it on a big screen) and made it 3 feet before a woman asked me for change.  

Now, it doesn’t inherently bother me when people on the street asked me for money.  I don’t usually give it, but I don’t Meccanize panhandling.  And I would have just walked on by en route to the Container Store to salivate over organizational devices when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the “dog” she had with her.

It was a runty, sniffly, wimpy chihuahua…and it was wearing a t-shirt.  Not just any t-shirt, though — a fitted, designer t-shirt.  Yes, I stared long enough and closely enough to see.  No, that does not make me the weird one in this scenario.

For starters, this dog was not a homeless person’s dog.  HP dogs are mangy, scrappy little pieces of shit that just want to be loved.  This dog clearly wouldn’t dane to rest its un-shoed paws on old newspapers gingerly laid down over the cold, dirty sidewalks of SF.  

The questions began flying through my head:

- If this woman an afford to dress her dog, why does she need a handout from me?

- Are her priorities so out of whack that she spent hard-panhandled money on dog clothes instead of alcohol or drugs, in which case, do I really want to reward that behavior?  

- Even if she rooted through trash to find that t-shirt (which, she didn’t, because it was gleaming white as if brand new…ok, so I really looked closely…), she was willing to put the energy in to fashionably clothe her pet but not to pop into a homeless shelter for free food?  

Taking a step back, I was also annoyed that this woman doesn’t seem to get how to be a successful homeless person.  If you want people to have sympathy and give you money, you don’t do things that make them think you don’t need it.  It’s a tough game out there — on the world stage of homeless, this woman is up against singing blind children in Mumbai, teenagers in Buenos Aires selling homemade bracelets in the subway, and girls in Vietnam forced to turn tricks for food.  If I were going to give money, I’d look for utter helplessness and despair — missing limbs, leaky eyes — not a well-groomed dog cloaked in a $300 piece of fabric.   I don’t think this woman takes her job seriously. 

Meccanized.

Ever since I was hit by a crazy person outside of my apartment, I have been noticeably jumpy around people who look…well…crazy.  Whenever someone lurches towards me on the sidewalk — a move that is often accompanied by one or more of the following: arm flailing, screaming, urinating, swearing or throwing things — I tense up.  In writing, that actually sounds pretty normal.  That said, I often just get nervous when I walk alone and see someone in my path who looks even remotely shady. 

This morning, I was out for a stroll in the gray, wet mist of an SF September, and I found myself in the gaze of  a homeless person lounging at the edge of Lafayette Park.  When he got up and started moving towards me, fight or flight kicked in.  I’m all flight, so I got ready to run and reached for my giant whistle, which until this point has only been used (very successfully, I might add) to herd friends at birthday bar crawls.  

But then…

In a move that truly surprised me (and I’m not easily surprised)…

The man told me I was very pretty as he handed me a flower that he had picked from a nearby bush.  It almost had the sweet feel of a mid-80’s John Cusack movie (”Say Anything” comes to mind), if I were Ione Skye and John Cusack were a grizzled homeless guy named Barry.  

Just when I am ready to give up on this city, something like this happens.  Seriously, made my weekend.

Someone reminded me today that my birthday is around the corner — I’m roaring towards my late-20’s at an alarming speed.  And I think I’ve officially hit an age where each birthday is preceded by weeks worth of sentences starting with “I’ve been thinking a lot about…”

There was a time when I willingly risked broken toes to KY Jelly wrestling (explaining that to my parents was my first foray into public relations).  When I crawled through steam tunnels.  When the drummer from Guster saved me from being accosted by a homeless person outside of the Warfield.  When I ate an entire Vermonster from Ben and Jerry’s by myself.

I was a wild woman.  And though I’ve had my fair share of idiotic adventures in San Francisco, I’ve mellowed in my old age.

I’m pretty happy with life at the moment.  I have a job I love (and the start of a career I am really excited about), fantastic, incredibly supportive friends and family and the energy and time to work on hobbies that really make me happy (writing, kicking ass at bar trivia…and uh…something more substantive and socially acceptable than that last one).

Especially with regards to writing, I see this being a big part of my future — that’s something that has become abundantly clear to me over the past few months.  I’m not sure I have the wherewithal to make a career out of it (which is really just my way of saying I am insecure about my ability to be creative, ambitious and…well…crazy enough to go for it), but  I can’t imagine being happy if I couldn’t write in some creative, opinionated and maybe vaguely snarky capacity.  That’s part of the reason I love this blog.

Not really sure what the point of this post is.  I guess this is what happens when you combine two days of fever with three episodes of Dexter and way too much orange Jello.

I guess I should Meccanize navel-gazing..

In college, I was privileged to be a part of a small group of innovative, enthusiastic students who purchased a deep fat fryer on eBay and went to town on any food we could find in the dorm. Twinkies, Oreos, cheddar Goldfish (surprisingly, delicious) — you name it, we probably fried it up and chowed it down.

I wouldn’t say I’m a pinnacle of healthy eating now — anyone who has ever been lucky enough to have a weekend breakfast in my apartment (wink, wink) knows my favorite Saturday morning meal is a ham/cheese/tomato omelette, cooked to excess, rolled in a tortilla and smothered with apple sauce — but I care a little more about maintaining a healthy lifestyle than I used to. That said, I love fat as much as the next person.  Probably more.

Which is why when I saw this, I was caught somewhere between revulsion and glee.

I can’t decide what makes me happier: the possibility of grape-flavored fried butter or this quote:

“An order of fried butter will get you three or four pieces of piping-hot dough in a little cardboard boat.  ‘Any more than that and I think it would be a little bit too much,’ Gonzales said. ‘A little bit too rich.’”

Oh, Gonzales, your sincerity and seeming lack of irony makes my tiny heart go ‘a pitter patter.  [Insert obvious joke about arteries here.]

I’ve never been one of those “rules are made to be broken” types, and I understand that sometimes it is necessary to follow rules to a T. You bet your butt I’m the first person to turn off my electronics before takeoff and landing, and I return my library books on time. However, I think there is a time and a place for thinking for oneself even in the face of rules.  That time was this week, and that place was a Bank of America in Tampa.

As a former B of A patron myself (’twas a glorious year where I flirted with the cute bank teller each month when I went to deposit my rent checks into our apartment’s joint account), I am very familiar with their regulations and requirements.  That said, I’m pretty sure having no real thumbs (by way of having no arms) is just about the best possible excuse for not being able to provide a fingerprint.

This guy’s life is likely challenging enough without having some mid-level staffer hassle him about fingerprints after he was clearly able to prove his identity.  And I know, I know, it’s a dangerous precedent to set to say that “differently abeled” (urge…to…make…offensive comment…so…strong…) should get special treatment, but it’s not like he was asking for a unicorn. He proved his identity — all he asked was for someone to think for himself and realize that sometimes the word of the law fits a little too snuggly for comfort.

I bet my cute B of A teller would have let an armless man cash a check.

B of A, Meccanized.