Tag: observations

I saw a commercial this weekend for an E-Z Bake Oven CD-ROM. Two girls sat side by side giggling in anticipation over the rising cake… on their monitor.

GAHHHH! First they take away candy cigarettes, then toys that spark, and now this? Excuse me, Orwellian Overlords? The whole point of the E-Z Bake oven is to mix the tap water and pseudo-chocolate powder, spill most of the “batter” on the floor while you’re pouring it into tiny pans, and let it bake for three hours under the scorching heat of a 60-watt lightbulb. Now that’s entertainment. The day I catch my child watching an animated cake and clapping her hands in glee, I’m unplugging the Telescreen and sitting down to wait for the Thought Police to take me away.

3:30 p.m.

Walking me to work this morning, Fred kept nudging me into the parking meters. I finally asked if I could switch sides with him. He seemed frustrated and said, “I know I’m supposed to walk on the curb side, but in San Francisco all the bums are on the inside.” Good point.

10:06 a.m.

My nephew Trevor is three, and he’s a big fan of nose picking. I said, “Trevor, don’t do that, honey. People think it’s gross.” Trevor looked up at me thoughtfully with his finger buried up to his knuckle. He said in his most earnest, explanatory tone, “No they don’t, Auntie Mawget. They think it’s yummy.”

3:40 p.m.

All right, it’s true that I’m sick again for the third time in two months. But if one more chipper, healthy person tells me to take echinacea, I’m going to march into their cube and rub my cold-infested face all over their phone receiver.

Then I’m going to call to thank them for their sound advice.

11:16 a.m.

Ladies’ night was at the Rolladium last night, and someone passed around body glitter while we were lacing our skates. I�ve showered twice since then, and I’m still finding glitter in some inconvenient places. Like under my contacts.

3:47 p.m.

This morning’s commute was eventful. I was sitting next to this kid who was booming hard-core gansta rap in the back seat of the bus. Needless to say, the mostly 35-and-over crowd was none too pleased that the music was so loud, or that every other word was an expletive. Finally, someone near the middle of the bus yelled, “Turn that thing off!” The kid turned his boom box up and yelled, “Who said that?” No one answered, so he laughed and turned it up louder. Meanwhile, all of his friends were slumping lower in the kind of perfect embarassment you can only experience when you�re 15. A big, red-faced guy in his mid-50s stood up and charged through the packed aisle screaming “I SAID IT! NOW TURN THAT F—-ING THING OFF!” Whereupon the kid made some rather threatening gestures in return. The older guy yelled, “Stop the bus!” and got off. The kid grinned and turned the radio up louder so all of us could enjoy the full impact of the word “niggah” reapeated 15 times per minute on a bus that had suddenly become rife with racial tension. The kid was black, the older guy was white, and let’s just say the anger was a little disproportionate on both sides. Fab.

The music fan obviously felt big about having dominated the bus. Apparently, there’s a real sense of power in being the gangsta king of public transportation. Right. What he failed to notice was that his actions just reinforced every racist attitude that anyone on that bus ever had about black people. All his friends, who seemed like decent kids, were lumped in with him because they happened to be sitting next to him. I wanted to smack him upside the head and have a discussion about greater responsibility. However, I’m the whitest white girl that ever walked, and he didn’t seem like much of a listener, so I kept my mouth shut. Now I’m stewing about it instead.

10:41 a.m.

I don’t know what my thumb did in a past life, but the person in charge of thumb karma has gotten around to me. Apparently, I have Atilla-the-Hun thumb. Twice in the last week, I’ve burned it badly. I mean big, oozy blisters that I have to concentrate on not prodding. Ow. Accursed thumb of Cain.

11:18 a.m.

San Francisco moment: a cable car passes filled with 60 drunken, dangling voters who are chanting VOTE-AL-GORE! VOTE-AL-GORE! One dude at the back has a Nader sign.

9 a.m.

On the bus this morning, a little boy who was sitting with his sister started singing, “Where’s my funny bone? Where’s my funny bone?”
Actually, it sounded more like, “Wheres-meh-fonnybone? Wheres-meh-fonnybone?” But his sister must have understood, because after the obligatory moment of pretending to ignore him, she brought her fist down on his knee. Hard. He screamed, “AAGGgggrraaaaahumph!”

There was a four second pause, then he started singing, “Wheres-meh-OTHER-fonnybone?”

Kids are rad.

10:22 a.m.

I turn 25 tomorrow. I send out thank you notes in a timely fashion, water my plants frequently enough to keep them alive, and have a 401K. At what point does one stop feeling self-conscious when walking by a high school football team?

9:50 a.m.

I was in a cab last night when we passed a fresh accident. A very upset driver was kneeling over a pedestrian who was writhing on the pavement, bleeding from his head. My cab driver stopped to see what was going on.

Me: Oh my God! Oh my God!

Long, stunned pause.

Me: Jesus, can we do something? What can we do?

Cab driver: Yeah… That sucks.

10 a.m.

Yesterday I saw a piece of graffiti that read, “Bongo?”
I said, “Yes, please” and waited for drumming hippies to stampede out of Starbucks.
Nothing happened.

9:54 a.m.

I’m on the train this morning when I start paying attention to what I’m thinking. It goes like this, “Picante picante picante picante picante.” I must have read it on a sign somewhere.

After noting that my at-rest mental processes are those of a five year old, I start thinking of other words that stick in my head:

  • gouache
  • Donahue
  • torpor
  • punctilio
  • albondigasThat last one is the spanish word for meatballs. Albondigas, albondigas, albondigas.

    4:43 p.m.