Noticing our humanness, Christmas 2012.

It started at a tree lot.

Micah and I actually went to a Christmas tree lot this year, instead of our usual grab-the-smallest-tree-our-grocery-store-has.

It was a weekday night, a week before Christmas, and the lot had only a handful of other customers. The little trees were up front, but we wandered to the back just to take in the sight of the big ones. They towered above us. I imagined the million dollar houses and fancy building lobbies that those big trees would end up in. They seemed as though they were created for greatness.

As we made our way back to the small trees, we were met by one of the tree lot associates. He was kinda rough around the edges, his sweatshirt worn, his pants dirty. His hair was a little unruly.

He was friendly though and offered his tips on what kind of tree we should get, and whether or not we should get a tree stand. But, as he did, snot streamed down his face. S.t.r.e.a.m.e.d. I tried to look away politely, not wanting to seem rude, but not wanting to look either. I really wished I had had a kleenex to offer him, although he eventually found something that took care of the job.

But, there was something that stood out to me was....he did not seem to care a darn bit. I mean, he was doing his job and colds and snot are probably just a natural part of it. And although I felt a twinge of sadness or maybe it was guilt, or perhaps it was some sense of pity, I also felt inspired. Here was this guy, working with his hands, in the cold, selling trees on an urban corner in San Francisco, with snot running down his face, and he was just doing his thing.

And, we talked and I purchased a tree, and while the interaction was mundane, I think it meant something. And not in a it's the holidays, so let's care about others kind of way, but a we're all human and interacting is something we do way. It's mundane and human interactions don't have to be life-changing, but they can be meaningful when we stop to notice the humanness of another person and the humanness of ourselves.

It started at a tree lot.

It started at a tree lot and has kind of stuck with me.

This noticing of my humanness, of other's humanness.

My client's kid literally speechless and hiding when he saw his Christmas toy: a new bike.

Hard conversations with people I love.

Rubbing my high school friend's pregnant belly.

My neighbor sending me a picture of my cat on Christmas.

Laughing with people I love and sharing food with people I love.

The American Airlines representative who told me he had been cussed out nine times that day.

The girl on the plane with the barking dog.

The homeless man selling the paper Street Sheet and looking him in the eye.

Seeing that our interactions mean that we are living, perhaps not joyfully all the time, but living.

It started at a tree lot.

the dreaded DMV.

Warning: Lots of complaining ahead.

Ok, so my years of escaping the complete misery of the DMV have caught up with me. It's not as though I've had good experiences at DMVs, but they've never consisted of almost four hours of mean people, torturous waiting times, and unhappy customers. This experience is exactly why I had dreaded going and why I had put off going the entire summer.

Perhaps my first mistake was that I did not make an online appointment. In my defense, I tried to make one on Monday, but there wasn't a single opening for the rest of the week. And, given that I am starting a job next week, this one was my last opportunity to make a CA driver's license happen. My plan was to get up early and arrive when it first opened. But, then the weather decided to be uncooperative and pour. And, I didn't really want to arrive to my death at the DMV sopping wet. So, I waited until the rain let up and then went.

I stepped into the non-appointment line and immediately heard the lady manning the desk barking orders at people. And, yes, I do mean barking. I was terrified and I wasn't even near her yet. She was yelling at people for not filling out forms correctly, not moving fast enough, standing too close to her desk, etc., etc. But, let's pause for moment, why is it that at the DMV employers are allowed to wear whatever t-shirt and sweatpants they want to work? That sounds really condescending (and it probably is), but they are government employees and I can't think of other government offices that are allowed to dress so casual to work. I mean, how do you even take your job seriously when you're wearing a t-shirt with an ironed on wolf howling at the moon? When did I transport myself to Gatlinburg? Ok, back to the story, when it's finally my turn to approach scary lady at the desk, I'm trembling. I'm here to get a California license. PASSPORT! Um, Yes, I have it, here it is. FILL THIS OUT, DON'T SKIP ANY. Ok.

G126. It's my number. I filled out the form, extra careful that I didn't skip any questions. Unfortunately, I unwisely chose where to sit down to wait, because there were two teenage boys sitting next to me playing games on their cellphones. Ever heard of silent mode? Fast forward an hour, and I'm still listening to the beeps and high pitch noises of who know's what game. G126. Finally, my number is called.

I got through that phase quickly and pain free, and moved to the picture line. Dead halt.

Another almost hour of my life down the drain and all I have to show for it is a terrible picture where I'm half smiling.

{Getting bored yet, get up and stretch.}

I moved to the written exam area. I thought things were starting to look up. I finished my test, and guess what, got in another line to have it checked. Tick tock, tick tock. Oh, that's just another hour of your life. I approached the desk, I'm in the clear. The guy checks my test. 100%! No wrong answers, take that! He prints out my temporary license and hands it to me to sign. I glance it over and my last name is not hyphenated, it's one word. Hold up! I ask him about it, to which he replies that there is nothing he can do. I'll just have to come back when I get my license in the mail for them to fix it.  What?!?! You, at the last minute, mess up my name and you're not going to fix it? My name was printed correctly on all the other paperwork!

Recap: I didn't have an appointment, their was a crazy mean lady manning the intake desk, waited an hour to get called to the first desk, waited 45+ minutes to get my picture taken, took my written test, waited an hour to have my test reviewed, and then had my last name misspelled just when I thought I would finally be freed from the life-sucking, windowless hole that is the DMV.

The guy forces me to sign the piece of paper that has my incorrect last name, so I stop holding up the line. By this point, I almost felt like giving up. But, the thought of having to return to this hell hole gives me the strength to keep fighting.

After waiting, then having someone tell me she can't help me because she's going on break, then some more waiting, then talking to a manager, then some more waiting, and then finally talking to probably the nicest person that works at the DMV, I got the problem solved. I had to take another picture (thankfully I escaped having to wait in the line again). Oh, and I'm going to be receiving not one, but two licenses from the DMV, one with my name spelled correctly and one with it not. How that works I'm not sure. It's a hyphen people, it's not that hard to figure out!

Four hours later and I felt like I was running from that place, I could not get away fast enough!

Some good news. My friend Shely flies in tomorrow! So excited to see her!

the twilight zone.

Gather round everyone, it's story time again.


First, let me give you some background. I've been needing to get my hair trimmed for, oh let's say, two months. And I'm not exaggerating, I really needed a trim. You know you need one when the person sitting next to you on the bus notices and tells you to jot down the number for their stylist. (ok, ok, that didn't actually happen, but it could have.) However, one of the major reasons, maybe even the only reason, holding me back was the hefty, associated price tag. The last salon I went to for a "dusting" (yes, a hair dusting, that's what the stylist kept associating it as) charged me $65 + my first born + tip!

But, it was time for me to cave to the great hair oppressors and pay my dues. Don't worry, I wasn't going down without a fight.

I yelped my way to Danae's doorstep (quite literally). She owns the prestigious salon Progressive Cuts, which just so happens to operate out of Danae's very own house. I know, this should have been my first clue that only bad things and awkward moments were barreling my way, but alas I pursued her. I tell you it was her price that sucked me in, $30? $30 for a hair dusting? It was sweet, sweet music to my ears. Music my pocket book couldn't resist.

I set up an 11am appointment and she emailed me her address, for privacy sake let's say it was 11 twilight street.

So, I got up yesterday morning and meandered the few blocks up to 11 twilight street. I approached a 3 flat apartment building, each flat door clearly labeled "11," "12," "13." Door number 11 was open and I checked and double checked, and re-checked again that I had the right address, so I went in. There was no doorbell to ring, so I assumed this meant to come on in.

I went in.

Flat "11" happened to also be the third floor flat, so I had quite the amount of steps to climb. Each step seemed to push my insecurity further. Is this it? Did I just enter into someone else's apartment? I don't know where I am? Turn around, turn around. My brain was shouting, but my curiosity and my $30 hair dusting pulled me further. I made it to the top of the steps. There was no clear direction. I didn't hear anyone, not a peep. I hesitantly chocked out a barely audible "hello?" as I rounded the corner to the first doorway.

Oh, no...no, no, no. I've made a horrible mistake. This can't be right.

There sitting on an orange furry couch in front of me was a burly, bearded man wearing plaid pajama pants and a scraggly shirt. He was holding a mixer sized bowl and from it he was eating his healthy dose of cocoa puffs.

No, no, no. I turned bright red. What do I do? What do I say?

I could think of nothing else than to question, "Is Danae here?" knowing in my heart of hearts this has got to be one of my most embarrassing moments ever. He didn't miss a beat though. Oh, yah, she's cuttin' someone's hair. Go ahead and have a seat.

My brain had stopped functioning some time back when I first rounded the corner, so I did nothing other than what I was told. I sat down, sat down right next to burly, bearded man. He had just popped in a DVD of an episode of The Twilight Zone, so I inwardly cursed myself for arriving 7 minutes early to my appointment. We sat there, he and I, soaking up every little detail of how the aliens had landed in a small Mexican pueblo and the government would be arriving shortly to investigate the slaying of one of town's police officers.

Oh, goodness, is seven minutes really this long?

Eventually out pops Danae through the kitchen door, leading her client out. She's friendly, she smiles, thanks me for waiting, and beckons me to the hair salon (I mean, the kitchen). There was actually a legit hair style chair (what's that called?). And, for all those out there completely grossed out by the thought of a stranger's hair floating anywhere near a plate of piping hot mac n' cheese, it was at the very least somewhat stationed apart. The rest of the story really isn't all that eventful. She trimmed my hair, nothing fancy, nothing disastrous, and sent me on my way, just $35 poorer.


Would I do it again? Maybe. I mean, it was only $30.



[photo credit: tshirtgurus.blogspot.com]

Latin Bridal

Gather round everyone, it's story time.

So, while I was hard at work today, I took a quick glance at locations that sell a particular shoe that I will hopefully be wearing for my wedding.

I was in luck. There just happened to be a shop a mere (albeit long) 5 blocks away. And this shop just happened to be named Latin Bridal. Some of you may not know (note sarcastic tone), but I am not Latina. However, I assumed that even though I was not, I could still as easily walk down to the store, talk a little Spanish if the need arose, and try on the shoes before I purchased them.

I hopped on the 49 bus, rode for 4 blocks, and was dropped off at 22nd, just across the street from Latin Bridal.

I entered a shop of flowery, puffy, organza filled dresses and I knew I was in the right place. There were bridal gowns, quinceanera dresses, fake flower bouquets, and sparkly tiaras in abundance. I walked up to the counter and the sales lady greeted me in English. Now, in almost all circumstances, I don't respond to someone in Spanish who speaks to me first in English (this would 1) be strange in the case the person knew no Spanish and 2) could be interpreted as condescending). So, I proceeded to explain my shoe searching perdicament in English. The sales lady got out a catalogue to look for the shoe, and lo and behold it was there. She then proceeded to the big wall of shoe boxes to see if they had a pair in stock.

Alas, they did not have the shoes. BUT, they had another pair from the same company that I could try on so I would know what size to get. Here's the point in the story where my luck drasically changed. The sales lady that was helping me passed me on to another sales lady, so that the first could help another customer. Sales lady 2 talked as though I was such an inconvenience to her, although she didn't know I understood her because she didn't know I spoke Spanish. How rude!

Sales lady 2 got a pair down for me, but they were strappy shoes and not ones with a closed heel, so how was I supposed to gage the size? Oh, well, I tried them on anyway. I'm usually a size 7 (may a 7.5), but this shoe was a 6.5. I could squeeze my foot into it, but it was STRAPPY, how could I know how it was going to feel with a heel? Her nails-against-chalkboard replies that I should definitely get the 6.5 were oddly not reassuring.

I then asked the oh-so frustrating questions of how long it would take to order and if they had color swatches from the company to choose from. I don't know if I offended sales lady 2 in some way, but her attitude was short and not in the least amiable. I don't know if her lack of customer service is a daily occurance or if I had just gotten lucky (again, note the sarcasim).

As I turned to leave, I overheard (not that she was being quiet) sales lady 2 tell sales lady 1 "how strange" (in Spanish).

Oh, no you didn't!

Again, I did assume that even though I wasn't Latina I could still go to Latin Bride, but come on!

I turned around and replied, "si, es raro su comportamiento conmigo. y sabes que, ya perdio esta venda porque nunca se sabe cuando alguien habla espanol. Pero, ademas de esto, no debe tratar a una persona como usted me trato a mi. buen dia"

Translation: "yeah, your behavior towards me is strange. and you know what, you already lost this sale because you never know when someone speaks spanish. But, more than that, you shouldn't treat a person like you treated me. good day."

Sales ladies: blank, suprised stares. Me: walking out of Latin Bridal, feeling proud and justified.

the ants come marching...

As I was getting ready this morning, I noticed a small, black ant crawling on my bed. My first thought was, "Wow, I don't think I've EVER seen an ant in San Francisco." My reaction was: kill it and throw it away in the trash. I continued getting ready.
...
Approximately 4 minutes later, I see another ant. My thought, "How strange." My reaction: kill it and throw it away in the trash. I continued getting ready.
...
About 1 minute later, I saw 3 more ants spastically running around on my bed. My thought, "What is going on?" My reaction: catch all three, kill them, and throw them in the trash.

After throwing their smooshed bodies in the trash, I turned around and saw about 8 ants crawling on my bed! No thought, except for "FREAKING OUT, THE ANTS HAVE INVADED MY ROOM!" I rush around picking them up, while simultaneously squishing them. Gross!

The entire time I was getting ready, I continued seeing little, black ants. I searched and searched for a source from where they were coming, but found none.
...
I then arrive to work, but alas found no solace because the ants had followed me there too. I know, I know, it's TOO bizarre. Where are they coming from? I searched my bag to see if they were in there, but I found nothing. Either I'm going insane and imagining the ants, or the ants have decided I am their new queen and are coming out of the woodworks to find me. Neither of these options are good.

Waving goodbye, Welcoming hello

Valentine's Day: I slept in late and enjoyed a rainy morning inside. It was wonderful. I love the sound of rain falling. It's methodical. It's calming. I love it while sipping hot tea. By late afternoon, Micah and I took over the living room with pilates. We stretched and worked our "core." Then, we rushed to get ready for dinner. The wonderful attorneys I work for gave me a gift certificate way back in October to Medjool (up-scale mediterranean tapas). I made reservations about a month ago and we ventured into the cold, wet night's air.

Dinner:
Carafe of Sangria
Crispy Sweet Potatoes, Goat Cheese, Harissa Powder, and Honey
Coffee Marinated Beef Tenderloin with Potato Cake
Seared Sea Scallops and Mushrooms in a Crab Sauce
Fried Calamari, Red Onions, and Lemons with Aioli
Hummus and Pita
Dessert:
Bittersweet Chocolate Mousse with Strawberries
Ginger Cake with Almond Ice Cream and a Orange Carmel Sauce
Cup of Coffee
Glass of Port
2 Chocolate Covered Strawberries

Dinner was fabulous. The ambiance was hip, but romantic (and I'm not even a mushy Valentine's day person). I even got to take home a red rose (there was one placed on every table). It was fun and relaxing, however without the gift certificate it would have been nigh possible.

Sun-Day: Once again, slept in late, listening to the rain pitter, patter on the window. Micah and I ditched church. We went to the gym. Lately, I've been trying "Intervals." Anyone have a ganter as to what that is? You guessed it, alternating between sprinting and brisk walking...and boy, is it a killer. In the afternoon, I just chilled and chatted around my apartment kitchen table with Daniel and Amanda. For our last hurrah, Micah, me, Daniel, Amanda, and Elisabeth all went out for pizza and drinks. I had never been to Pizza Orgasmica on Clement, but it is hip and fun. It is complete with fireplaces, funky pictures, and a bright, eye-numbingly pink bathroom. We braved the rain back to the apartment, and here's a good story. Elisabeth, Micah and I took the bus. About a quarter into the ride, on comes two marina chicks and their marina boy. I'm usually nauseated just at the site of such marina people (aka yuppies), but this particular night was even worse. One of the girls got on with her "ghetto blaster." Oh, you don't know what a ghetto blaster is? Let me tell you..it's a gold, flashy purse that also doubles as a stereo! Sounds fun, doesn't it? Well, I'm usually quite the city person when it comes to the bus, i.e. you do your thing and I'll do mine. But my limit abruptly ends at 30+ year olds getting on the bus with stereo purses blasting "ghetto music" (otherwise known as rap). I, one, find this social economic sterotype offensive. And two, find it utterly mind-blowing that there exists a white, 30-yr old female that finds it socially acceptable to play her "ghetto blaster" on a public bus! My blood slowly started bubbling and by 3 stops later it was at a full boil. My blood boiled over when the song "Ass and Titties" came on. I stood up in front of the trio and stated it was completely inappropriate and forcefully requested that it be turned off. The bus driver reiterated my pleas and the girl shut off her "ghetto blaster." However, the sneers and giggling did not stop. I was floored. I hear by state, "Bloggers, if you own a ghetto blaster or know someone that does, stop reading my blog because I hate you."

We eventually made it home to celebrate Daniel's birthday with apple pie and ice cream. Minus the bus incident, the roomies' last night was one for the memory tank.



[i'm going to miss this group hanging out around this kitchen table]

President's Day: I once again lazily woke up. I made some tea and toast and watched animal planet for half an hour. I then grudingly said farewell to Daniel and Amanda. They departed for a long road trip to Daniel's parent's house in Mississippi, where they will stay for about 3 weeks until they eventually begin the Appalachian Trail. Good luck guys!

After fighting back tears (I don't like good-byes of any kind, I'm a bit of a pansy in that way), I cleaned up some stuff in my room and then went downtown to meet up with Micah for lunch. My poor fiance (second time I'm using that word in a blog post, still freaking out about it) had to work even though almost everyone else in his office took off. He decided he could take a little bit longer of a lunch break (who's going to notice), so we jumped on BART and went to the Mission for Mr. Pickles. If you haven't experience a Mr. Pickles' sandwich, I promise to take you. I don't have it often enough, but it is scrumptuous! After lunch, I went to the Paper Source, another of my favorite places. I bought some paper (shocker) and some stamps for decorating escort cards and a different wedding favor I'm working on. I bought some hangers at Walgreens and then on my walk back to my apartment I found this (see pic below):

How great is a grey and green polka dot umbrella..ella...ella? I'm prepared if it rains on June 20, 2009!

At around 6pm, Bean showed up. She's my new roommate. She's itty-bitty, artsy, and plays the drums (let's hope at resonable hours). She moved in some stuff, and then moved in some more stuff, and then she moved in some more. Basically the apartment looks like a bomb blew up, scattering the floor with paper boxes.

In conclusion: Daniel and Amanda, you will be greatly missed from 1056. Bean, I'm glad you moved in and I'm excited for fun roommate times ahead!

joint account

micah and i have a joint bank account. it's kind of wierd, but even wierder the experience we had getting it.

maria works at ** bank and she just happened to be working the day micah and i went in to open our account (lucky for us!). micah was on his lunch break, so there was a bit of a time crunch, little did we know how lengthy of a process it is to set up a joint account at ** bank with maria helping us. maria asked us some questions. we told her where we work, how much we make, how much we have in savings, etc.. then, she asked for two forms of i.d. we both presented her with our driver's licenses and our debit cards. she took them and continued filling out the forms on her computer.

as the conversation progressed, it was quite clear that maria was never destined to be a short term information memorizer. i say this because no matter how many times we told her our names, she never got them right. micah was "me-kel" and i was "gracie" (god knows where that came from). seriously, maria, you are LOOKING at our driver's licenses. can't you read our names straight of the cards? even after verbally annoucing our names a good 4 times each it was still unclear to her who was sitting in front of her.

maria comes to the find out that she forgot to enter some vital information way back when, and her co-worker explains she will need to start over. omg! when will this end?

we continued. finally, we got to the part in the process where we needed to sign away our lives away to ** bank. none of this paper signing anymore, its all electronic. micah signs first. then it's my turn...i picked up the pen to sign my name below my printed name. it read "clara gracie farr." maria, really? gracie? can you not read? can you not hear the words coming out of my mouth. my name is clara GRACE!! where did you get gracie from? i proceed to tell maria that my middle name is not gracie...once again. she apologizes, tells me to sign anyway and then tells me she will change it and have me sign again.

jump forward like 27 minutes, i sign my name under the correct spelling of my name. i enter my password (like 2 times, because for some "odd" reason the computer just couldn't process it on the first go around. micah leaves after already being 30 minutes past his lunch break (whoops). i stay until the bitter end.

i wait for the final papers and i bid maria farewell (good riddance).

but, hey we have a joint bank account. mission accomplished.