I Weird Myself Out

I was trying to figure out how to spell blogosphere (I originally had it as bloggosphier), so I typed it into my Google bar. Lo and behold, as I typed it in my fingers came up with the correct spelling. I should learn sign language so I can better listen to my hands.

And last night I had a frustrating dream where I was trying to kiss my girlfriend. (It was a dream, I don't really have a girlfriend.) The kissing was hindered by the fact that her orthodontia* included a metal model of the solar system with all the planets orbiting around her head. Jupiter kept defending its sun against the onslaught of my lips. What an irritating gas-ball.

*She was of appropriate age. 23 to be exact, as she seems to be somebody from Yahoo Personals whom I've never met.

Medium Rare

I think I may have sun burnt my face. I'm not sure when I managed to do it, as I've hardly spent any time outside. I did drive to and from Portland over the weekend, so maybe I was beset by the suns rays while I was cruising down I-5.

On the bright, but somewhat premature side, the holiday season is coming up and I'm hoping it'll bleed over and improve my dating possibilities. My red face in combination with my green eyes is kind of festive. I'm hoping there's a lovely lady out there who's in the market for her own, personal, affectionate Christmas ornament.

Norbert AKA Snowball Update

The AKA seemed appropriate for I've just found out that Norbert is on the lam. Well, on the lamb might be a bit extreme since it sounds like the authorities have called off the search.

While I had Norbert she was an indoor only cat. She was most interested in the goings on outside my window, but she never yowled to get out.

When she moved to Novato and changed her name to Snowball, the person to whom I gave her decided she'd like to be an indoor outdoor cat. And indeed, she very much enjoyed being an indoor outdoor cat. But after a while she decided that indoor wasn't all it was cracked up to be and she's switched to being a 100% outdoor cat. Apparently she has a loyal network of apartment dwellers who leave big bowls of food and water out for her enabling her to completely stop visiting her original Novato apartment.

She started out life eating bugs and living in the bushes, and I guess she's going to finish it that way too. I guess if she's going to be a feral she might as well be a spayed feral cat. Cute as they may be, we certainly don't need any extra little Norberts running around.

Folgers in my cup would have been preferable

Today I woke up with my mouth open and my face perilously near the wall. I don't usually sleep with my mouth open, nor do I normally sleep right up next to the wall, and now I know why. Every time I exhaled my morning breath would ricochet off the wall and end up in my nose. After who knows how long I woke myself up.

Perhaps I should Listerine before bed.

Dating for the Science Minded

I've decided that I may be a little too science minded to date. I operate by coming up with theories, testing them, and either deciding I'm right or moving on to new theories. This is, I've discovered, not how dating works at all. In dating you try something, and if it doesn't work you try the same thing over again. And in all probability most of the time things won't work. I need more positive reinforcement than that.

I want some easy to follow, concise instructions as to how to find a girlfriend.
1) Take to first impression beverages, if all goes well, move on to dinner.
2) Meet for sparkling conversation in the park followed by a trip to X21 Modern.
3) Stay in for a movie, moves are made, relationship becomes official.

Instead the equation seems to go: X + Y + random personality mismatch or early-bird other guy = no relationship. And since all dates are relatively the same, it becomes increasingly difficult to put myself through them in hopes of a different result.

Doctor, it hurts when I do this.

Don't do that.

And, when I can see a way to improve my chances, I bump up against the immutable laws of physics. In the case of my last two dates I would have been in the clear had I started dating them a month or so before I started dating them.

I just finished a gargantuan book on tape where the main characters achieved faster than light travel by having a sentient computer program that lives in the relationships between people wish their space craft in and out of existence.* It seems to me that faster than light travel, at least in this instance, works on roughly the same principle as dating. Regardless of how many times you've managed to not wish yourself someplace else, as long as you keep thinking positive thoughts and trying your best, eventually you'll wish yourself out of rush hour and into a relationship.

Now if I can figure out how to make a sentient computer program that lives in people's emotional attachments to each other I'll be all set.


* After I finished the book, Xenocide by Orson Scott Card, I discovered that it was in fact half a book. Yep, it was so long that he made it into two books. But I've given up on Mr. Card, and now I'm reading Youth in Revolt, the Journals of Nick Twisp by C.D. Payne. I unabashedly checked it out from the teen fiction aisle and enjoying it almost infinitely more than Xenocide.

Relationship Osmosis

My last two first dates have ended with a budding new relationship. But not with me and my date, they've been with my date and the other she's been dating. I have two theories as to why this might be:

The Good Example Theory - The other guy decides he's going to have to make a commitment to stop his new lady friend from seeing other worryingly alluring men like me.

The Bad Example Theory - The girl realizes that the person she's been seeing is probably worth while if other dates are going to be like this one.

I was talking to my sister tonight and she was saying the same thing used to happen to her except she'd make couples get back together. We have some sort of a self-effacing relationship mojo. It's both a gift and a curse*. I'm thinking we should start some sort of relationship catalyst service.



* It's just a curse.

Do not, under any circumstances, listen to a book on tape for 15 hours in 2 days. It makes your brain feel murky.

For What?

Today I delivered a hospital bed to a guy who wasn't expecting it. His wife knew it was coming, and his son had arranged the whole thing, but nobody had let the guy in on the secret. From what I could gather, the man is not a big fan of change.

As a lugged 275 pounds of stuff up the stairs (why does nobody live on the ground floor?) I could hear the guy spouting fury from his bedroom.

I set the foot section down and, "What they hell are they bringing up here, God damned sons of bitches!"

The head section goes into place: "What's all this stuff?! Are they trying to build a new house?! Stupid bastards!"

I set the mattress in the hall and, "Why is he doing this now? God, damn him! God, damn his soul to hell!"

When somebody tells God to damn me, and really means it, I see that as being a little mean. And I know where he would like God to damn me. I'm not assuming he means that I should be damned to Dairy Queen. But even so, to carry the thought to conclusion, to damn my soul to hell out loud, that's just uncalled for.

Though to be fair, all this yelling was conducted inside the bedroom while I was stacking bed parts in the hallway and while he was struggling with his pants. When he finally achieved a full state of dress and made it outside to the hallway, he didn't seem to hold any malice toward me. "Who's that?" He asked. "Somebody you've hired to do something?"

Maybe he's just in a bad mood in the morning until after his first cup of pants.

All the News that's Fit to Print

I've been sitting here for 5 minutes trying to come up with a publishable tid bit. But I can't make anything come to mind.

Sure there are things I'd like to write about. I had a great Sunday that I don't really want to get into. I heard an extremely entertaining story involving a celebrity croquet tournament, Joan Rivers, and the Cheshire Cat, but it isn't my story to tell.

I can, I suppose, tell you that if you see somebody who is just so cute that you need to say hello, but because you are a San Francisco male and are too much of a woos to do it, myspace is always an option. Sure it may seem creepy to look somebody up and send them a message when you've chickened out mere hours beforehand, but what's the worst that could happen? She could set her profile to private - there are far worse fates. What's the best that could happen? You might get a first date with an awesome somebody. Or so I hear.

In a totally unrelated note, somebody one floor up from me is singing a song from their native land and they are waaaay off key. And it's distracting enough that I'm going to give up writing this post and go brush my teeth.

Beef, It's What's for Breakfast

I came home tonight to find all my stuff where I'd left it. The Cantonese speaking, PG&E impersonating, landlord's mother's name knowing con artists have been thwarted yet again.

In an unrelated development, I've decided that most quick breakfast food is overrated and I'm not going to buy it anymore. I can't find any cereal that piques my interest. I've never told anybody to leggo of my Eggo. They're welcome to it. Bagels still hold some gastrointestinal motivation, but my toaster oven is mostly on the fritz. So instead I've decided to each dinner for breakfast. Last night I made some chicken and put in the fridge. When I got up this morning I nuked it next to a bowl of peas - Breakfast of champions. Then on my way to my first delivery I stopped for a mint cookie ice cream sandwich - Breakfast of champions part II. I really need to quit with this ice cream sandwich/cookie business.

And lastly, the San Francisco Public Library refuses to deliver the book I requested to my sullen local branch. I requested both it and it's sequel and only the sequel has arrived, which, as you can imagine, does nothing to help me pass the time during lunch. So while I wait for my book I chose to reread something I own. I'm currently reading The Watermelon King, by Daniel Wallace. I've read all the Daniel Wallace books, and they are all excellent. But it's stuff like this, stuff that makes me laugh out loud (which I rarely do), which makes me hope he'll write something else soon.

"And Zeus, well, you know how it happens. He seduced her behind the barn. The pregnancy was mystically accelerated, and you plopped out of her a few weeks later. In the old days that would have made you a demigod, but unfortunately all the traces of any kind of supernatural power were eradicated in the public school system."

So good.

Super

My landlady just called to tell me that somebody posing as a Cantonese speaking PG&E guy called to say he'd be coming by for an inspection tomorrow. She called PG&E and they hadn't scheduled any inspections.

So not only do I live someplace with obvious* drug deals going on up the street, but I have oddly informed con-artists trying to inspect the house.

I keep perusing Craigslist for other apartments in this price range, but I apparently have the best deal in all of San Francisco. So if there's no blog post tomorrow, you'll know that PG&E came by and stole my computer. Or I was struck by a debilitating attack of lazy.

Maybe I can write a letter to the city requesting some immediate gentrification.

*And I do mean obvious. A car stops right, smack, in the middle of the street and somebody walks over to it. Window goes down, baggy goes in, money comes out, window goes up, everybody goes on their way. For goodness sake. Could you guys at least pull over so I don't get stuck behind you on my way home from work. Jerks.

Enough with the Help

Today I was plagued by the overly helpful. It's a nice gesture when people decide they are going to help me carry whatever it is I happen to be delivering, but usually they are less helpful than they expect to be.

My first delivery today involved setting up a hospital bed in the Mission. A little, tiny, woman in her 70s decided she was going to carry the mattress down to the room where I was to set up the bed. I rolled the bed frame down to where it was going to go, and when I walked back to get the mattress the woman was still trying to wrestle it off the ground. Gravity showed her no mercy. When I picked it up she marveled, "Oooooh, you are veeeeery strong!"

After my delivery I went to pick up a bed frame and the same thing happened except with a woman of more average size and age. She decided she wanted me out quick, so she chose a portion of bed frame and tried to carry it outside. She couldn't get it off the ground either.

On my last delivery, also a bed frame, the patient himself managed to actually help me carry things up the stairs. I tried to communicate that I had it covered, but he only spoke Spanish and I only speak English. His deep and productive coughs, however, were in the universal language of yuck. He carried 40lbs of handrails up the stairs at a speed slower than a slinky, but just fast enough so I could see that he was making actual progress. It's nice to not have to make another trip, but then again I had to follow him up the stairs holding 50lbs of headboard. And his coughing and wheezing made me worry that we were all going to end up in a pile at the bottom of the stairwell.

I think I need a multi-language card I can pass out that says:

1) Tell me where it goes.
2) Sit back and relax while I carry things in and set them up.
3) I'll come get you when it's time to show you how it works.

Thanks for not hurting yourself with our products.

On a mostly unrelated note, I went to a guy's house today who sounds exactly like Morgan Freeman. EXACTLY. I kept expecting him to say something along the lines of "Let me tell you something my friend. Hope is a dangerous thing. Hope can drive a man insane." But he kept saying stuff like "Call me when you get here and I'll buzz you in." And, "thanks for being on time." The disconnect between what I was seeing and what I was hearing was kind of disconcerting.

Eyeball Exfoliation

Have you ever had your eyes open when taking off your shirt? Have you ever rubbed an open eyeball on the inside of a polo shirt?

If you have, I share your pain. If you haven't, I'd try to avoid it. It's kind of unpleasant, even if the shirt does say "Participation Committee 2004."