Diary Thursdays: Mortified

Last Saturday, I went to go see a performance called “Mortified.” It’s a monthly show in which people read out loud from their old journals, song lyrics, poetry – anything that they wrote when they were a teenager and that’s completely embarrassing. One girl read erotica that she’d written at age 17. Another girl presented a Christian comic strip she wrote to ask a boy at church to the dance. She actually gave it to him too!

I actually auditioned for this show a few weeks ago, but I got the feedback that my stuff (the same stuff I’ve been posting on the blog) wasn’t “mortifying” enough. Funny and innocent, sure, but not that personal or embarrassing.

So I was forced to dig a little deeper.

I went into diary #3, 1992, the year I “discovered my sexuality,” to put it bluntly. Of course, growing up with my hippy Berkeley midwife mother, I already knew all about sex. I knew about the technical act of it anyway, and the importance of using a condom. I learned that stuff when I was barely out of diapers. However, mom never explained to me the finer points of being with boys. Phenomena like dry-humping, for example, never got taught in my Sex Ed classes.

I think that is very clearly illustrated in this entry, where I have no idea what’s going on, yet I actually use the word “intercourse.”

Sunday, May 24th, 1992, 15-years-old.

He turned off the light and we got under the covers. We kissed and sort of rolled around. We didn’t even really go that far, I mean, his hand never went beneath my underwear. But we did do something I’ve never done before.

We did, what I can best describe as, sex with clothes on. We did exactly what I would assume people who have sex do, only I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, and he was wearing underwear.

At first I thought, “My God, he’s trying to have intercourse and forgot I was wearing clothes!”

But then, I realized that no one is that stupid.

Making a difference where I can

“This new job is making me way too sensitive about the environment. I want to get ice cream, but I can’t handle the fact that this place uses plastic cups, and non-biodegradable spoons.”

“If you really want to be sustainable, get a cone.”

“But Jess, that’s more sugar.”

“What do you care about preventing more - pollution or muffin top*.”

“I’ll have that in a cone please.”

“Good choice.”

“I want you to know that I ordered beer on tap last night, instead wasting a bottle or a can. Also I plan on ordering all my soup in bread bowls. AND, next time I have a party, I’ll get a keg instead of 6-packs.”

“What about the cups for the keg?”

“I’ll make everyone do keg stands.”

“Wow, Audrey. You’re really doing your part.”

“I try.”

*For those not in my generation that haven’t heard the term “Muffin top.” Here’s the definition. If you don’t know what a keg stand is, you’re on your own.

Local Artwork

It’s hard being the new girl at the office. It reminds me of high school when I would get caught without any friends to eat lunch with, so I’d just walk around for 45 mins rather than be caught sitting by myself. Now, at least, I’m not as bothered by hanging out on my own, but with the dismal weather we had last week, it still lead to a sad lunch situation.

I was walking through the drizzly grey last Thursday, feeling sorry for myself, when I came upon a lovely mural. My office is not in the nicest area, and I think this is exemplified by the spray-painted addition. But I have to admit, not only did this beautiful piece of artwork make me smile, it made my whole day. I caught it on my camera phone and now use it to cheer myself up when needed.



I know, cock and balls, not super original. But the way that it’s placed, the attention to detail, and the juxtaposition with the rest of the composition… I just love it. So much, in fact, that I decided to make it my desktop photo.

The thought crossed my mind that, seeing as I’m new at this company and I don’t know all the policies yet, perhaps I shouldn’t have a penis and testes dangling from my desktop. After some contemplation, I came up with a solution.

Climbing the walls

Yesterday, I joined the climbing gym near my office. Yes, I already belong to other gyms and yoga studios and dance studios and running clubs. BUT, climbing is a great upper body work out, which means that this gym, unlike the other activities, has SO many hot guys.

It’s not even that I want to meet them, I just like watching them.

If I did go up and talk to them, I’d probably end up saying something stupid like, “Ya know, it’s easier to reach that hold if your shirt’s off.” Or “So, how long is your member? Ship. How long is your membership for?” or “Can’t reach that hold with your arm? Try using your penis.” (I spent yesterday afternoon at the climbing gym sitting around with my friends coming up with silly climbing gym pick-up lines. It’s much less work than actually trying to climb the walls.)

Those walls. They are challenging. I am struggling with the very beginner level bolder routes, or “problems,” as they’re called.

Yesterday, I was hanging on at the bottom of a particularly daunting BEGINNER problem. And by hanging out, I mean I was sitting. The route starts with your butt on the ground. From there, you’re expected to launch yourself up three feet to grab the next hold with your right hand.

I tried. I couldn’t do it.

As I sat there, wondering how anyone could, I was overtaken by a girl who couldn’t have been more than 8 or 9. Okay, so it’s not hard to be overtaken when your butt is still on the ground. But still, she was speedy. She was fearless. And, I kid you not, she only had one arm.

This little, one-armed girl decided that her sport of choice would be climbing. And she was pretty damn good at it. It was humbling. It was inspiring. I decided then that perhaps I would spend more time trying to climb walls and less time looking at manly biceps. Or at least split my time 50/50.

One week down at the new job

Let’s be honest, when I first accepted this job I was a little concerned that I’d be working with a bunch of dirty hippies (I know, I know, denying my Berkeley roots). I mean, of course I care about the environment as much as anyone, but when I hear the word “environmentalists,” my mind conjures up images of hairy-armpitted tree-huggers squatting in their Birkenstocks to pick up pieces of garbage off the road and replace it with a tree seed.

Perhaps I was being narrow-minded.

Now I realize that there are a lot of sustainable things I already do that help me to fit right in. Riding my bike to work every morning, for example. At past companies, I’d lock my bike away in the parking lot and unroll my right pant leg as soon as I got in the elevator. Here I take my bike right into the office and hang it on the wall next to the 20 other bikes that carry my coworkers to work everyday. At past jobs, I’d be “that girl with the metal water bottle” as I carried it back and forth to the water cooler to try and get in my 2-3 daily liters. Here, I have to label my SIGG with my name because everyone else has one too.

On the other hand, there are some policies here that will take some getting used to.

Take the bathroom, for example. Two of the stalls are labeled “No mellow yellow – pee flushing mandatory.” And the last is labeled “Hippy stall – pee flushing optional.” Other oddities include the company-wide “sit in bliss meditation every Thursday at noon. I’m not going into details about that one because I don’t quite get it yet myself. Then there is the issue that I’m terrified to head to the corner Starbucks to get my afternoon chai latte. Not because of the evil corporateness that Starbucks represents, but because I’m scared of the sneers I’ll get if I bring a disposable paper cup into the office.

Yes, this job's gonna take some getting used to. Must buy unbranded reusable metal coffee mug ASAP.

So-called Diary Thursdays

Quick excerpt today. I think this about sums up high school. And college. And life.

Wednesday, October 30th, 1991, 4:12pm, 14-years-old

I’ve decided that high school is a self-esteem rollercoaster. One minute I’ll feel pretty, popular, clever and happy and the next I’ll feel like an ugly bug (with a giant zit) being stepped by my so-called “friends.”

Times. They change.

ME: My old friend from Scotland is putting up all these horrible pics of me up on Facebook.

JOLANKA: Oooh. I want to see…

Are you wearing a sheer top in the first one?!?!?

ME: Um, I think so.

In my defense, this was 6 years ago. I was 24.

JOLANKA: Yes, in my defense, I've never worn a sheer top over a bra (on purpose). Ever.

ME: I was also up on stage for some sort of nice ass contest.

So, yeah. Um, not sure what that proves... that my classlessness extended beyond my choice of attire.

JOLANKA: Wow.

And now we are thirty.

Rejoining the work force

It’s day #2 of my new job. After a prolific 1 and ½ years of freelancing, I decided to accept a fulltime position. This is a big step for me. It means waking up early every day, giving up my morning yoga classes and my volunteer tutoring, and, saddest of all, my regular month-long travel intervals.

But, this was too good an opportunity to pass up.

Let me explain. I’ve worked as a copywriter for over four years, and for the first time, I’m have a chance to use my talents for good instead of evil. I’ve always enjoyed advertising. Getting to be creative all day is fun, and the people I work with are always cool. However, I’ve never quite been able to reconcile the fact that the end goal of my job is to get people to buy shit they most likely don’t need. Or to differentiate one brand from another, equally pointless brand. It was hard for me to stay motivated when all I was trying to accomplish was selling stuff.

But this job is different. Firstly, it’s not an ad agency, it’s a strategic outreach company with a small creative department. Secondly, we’re not selling anything, we’re working with other companies (mostly big corporations) to make them more sustainable. And I get to write about it.

Basically, I’m saving the planet… with my words. Beat that for a fulltime job.

Nature

Since San Francisco is supposed to be rainy for the next 10 days straight, let’s take a minute to appreciate the gorgeously sunny weekend we had.

On Mount Tam:



And in my own backyard:



I'm way impressed by the roses in my garden, by the way. It's January and a few are still holding strong. Hooray for our landlady's gardener.

Diary Thursday: The 8th Grade Dance

Unfortunately, from an Internet publication point of view, once I got over the Ben's and Peter's of Junior High, I moved on to have crushes on the more bizarre names of my generation – the Jamikos and Logans. The Mendels, Tashos and Harlans. The uniqueness of these names means their owners could easily find this blog on an Internet search. Damn those Berkeley parents.

So in this entry, I had to change the name to protect the innocent. This person, incidentally, recently found me on Facebook and we are now “friends.” We’ll call him "Fred.”

June 17th, Monday 1991, 12am exactly

The graduation dance was… fun, I guess. I mean, I didn't have a bad time. But considering it's the only 8th grade graduation dance I'll ever go to, it could have been better. Before the dance, I went with Julie and Ethan to Zachary's Pizza for dinner. I invited Fred but #1: he thought I was crazy, and #2: he just couldn't come. It's okay though, I didn't really want him there anyhow. At the dance before going in, we hung out together and held hands. We danced the first slow song together, got our picture taken, and then I didn't see him for a while. He danced with lots of other people and I talked to my friends. Then later, (this is the awful part), he asked me to dance to a fast song. We started freaking, sorta, and I felt really really dumb and uncomfortable and out of place. He stopped me and said, "I think we'd better wait for a slow song." I felt so awful embarrassed and hurt; he hated my dancing! It was terrible. I comforted myself with the fact that it wasn't me who was in the wrong for being a bad dancer, it was Fred for being so rude and mean. He then went and freaked with Elisa. Then, to top it off, Terri, who had asked Fred whom he liked, told me that his reply was "I don't like anyone, but I like Audrey as a friend." I find that hard to believe.

I will tell you one thing, it was the only 8th grade graduation dance I ever went to.

Views of concrete

This is my last week freelancing at the office downtown and, in true Audrey fashion, I'm starting to get nostalgic for things I never even liked that much in the first place, like the view from my window.

Foggy morning:


Sunny afternoon:


These were taken with my camera phone, so they're not the best quality. But you can still see the hustle and bustle of San Francisco's financial district, or lack there of. After working near Grand Central in Manhattan, this place feels like it has about as much energy as an abandoned mining town.

I find that downtown San Fran is best viewed from afar, like from Buena Vista Park (taken with my camera phone over the weekend):



Next week, I'll be moving to an office in the deep Mission/Portrero Hill. Now there's a SF neighborhood you don't want to be caught in alone after dark. But talk about some great burritos. Hello four-dollar lunches!

Dancing with Grandma

There is nothing my grandmother loves more than teaching people to dance. And there is nothing I love more than my grandma. This weekend, in a brilliantly planned afternoon, I got to introduce my friends to my grandma. And she got to introduce them to folk dancing, country western and a little bit of square dancing.



It was a truly memorable event – grandma had a great time, my friends had a great time, and I was overjoyed at the opportunity to meld two such important parts of my life into one music-filled occasion.



Grandma said to me as we were cleaning up, “My 95th birthday is in April and there is nothing I would love more than to celebrate it with another dance party.”

So it looks like we’re all heading out to my family’s studio again in a few months. Anyone who can make it to Berkeley then is invited.

As an added bonus. My dad came to record the whole thing on film. So you readers can share in the fun:

Diary Thursday (Friday style)

Today I picked an entry ripe with both illustrations and the sexual yearnings of a young teenager. Luckily, the illustrations were not related to the yearnings.

I can’t decide what’s funnier, the fact that the Berkeley public schools gave us International Women’s Day, or the fact that I was sad I had no one to celebrate it with.

March 8, 1991, Friday, 2:43pm, 14-years-old

Howdy. I’m bored. There’s no school today; it’s International Women’s Day [female symbol]. But I have no one to celebrate it with. I’m bored. I feel like doing something. I want to… that’s it… I want to go on a date. I wish I had a boyfriend. Right now I’m sitting in a tree in Dad’s backyard. It’s nice up here. Tomorrow night I’m going to Eli’s party. I hope I have a good time.

Last night, we watched “Earth Girls are Easy” for the 4th time. It’s stupid but good. The main alien guy is SO sexy. I can’t wait until I have a real boyfriend. Even though my parents didn’t start dating people till they were like 20, I feel like I want to get an early start on things. But don’t worry, I’m not planning on having sex until I’m at least 17. And then I’ll definitely use condoms.


The war is officially over but it doesn’t seem that great. [smiley face] [“no guns” symbol]


Cool, cool shirt I got yesterday.

And then there is a drawing of the shirt that I actually posted about a year ago here. I REALLY liked that shirt. Enough to illustrate it in my journal!

The drawings in this post cracked me up, I had to include them:

Still too shallow?

This week I've been considering, just considering mind you, doing a yoga retreat in Costa Rica. I would really love to do it if I could justify spending the money, or, more importantly, find the money.

I find this funny because a few months ago, I wouldn't even go to an hour-long yoga class, much less spend $1600 on a week-long yoga extravaganza. How much I've changed.

Although, I wonder how many of the other yogis considering the retreat looked through the online photographs of previous years specifically to see if any cute boys went? My guess is none. Some things never change.

P.S.
I forgot to bring my diary to work today, so Diary Thursday will appear on a Friday this week.

The wrong thing to say at a job interview

"Yep, poop and boners - that pretty much sums up my time in New York."

Perhaps I should have specified that I meant in my professional life.

WristStrong

I'm not sure if my forearms are sore from the indoor bouldering I did yesterday afternoon or from the frantic crossword puzzling I did last night. Either way, I'm sure that Amy's to blame. Thanks a lot, Amy, for introducing all these fun and physically taxing new activities into my life.

I hope you'll be over later to ice my wrists.

I should've never doubted you

Bad storms? In San Francisco? I scoffed at the weather report yesterday. There is no such thing, I thought as I tied up my thin sneakers this morning.

Okay, fine. You showed me, weather.

I sloshed through knee-high puddles this morning. I marveled at fallen branches and whole trees all up and down my block on the way to the office. I wrestled my umbrella in the wind and finally laid it to rest with its mangled brethren in the gutters outside Muni.

And now I'm sitting here, wet and miserable in damp jeans and soaked shoes and socks.

You win, weather.

Some coworkers and I are talking about building an ark.

Diary Thursday: W’s Daddy

Funny how somethings never change – like boy drama and politics. It was almost 17 years ago that the first Gulf war start. God, I’m old.

Monday, January 14th, 1991, 13-years-old


Hi. I don’t supposed I’ve told you anything about the gulf crisis or Saddam Hussein, have I? Well, Saddam is this guy whose occupying Kuwait. Anyhow, I can’t really explain it, but tomorrow is his deadline to get out and if he doesn’t (which he won’t) then Bush is going to declare war. Isn’t that awful! I mean, just the thought of agreeing to war. Bush is so ditzy.


Of course, in Berkeley, there are tons of organized peace protests. Berkeley High is having a walk out tomorrow. Tonight, I may go to something at Cal. Anyhow, I’m going to eat dinner. I hope I get into “Bye Bye Birdie!”

Haha, "Ditzy?" That's not really the word I'd choose to describe Bush Jr.

Staphanie

About two months ago, a strange rash appeared on my lower right hip/butt cheek. I know, you read “rash” and “butt” in the same sentence and you think STD… flesh-eating bacteria… contagious... disgusting. Maybe in a different order. But let me assure you, it’s none of these things. It’s too high up on the cheek to be sex or toilet related. Trust me on this one. It’s just a small patch of skin that’s abnormally red, bumpy, and mind-numbingly itchy.

But there is a point to this post, aside from revolting anyone that was ever considering having sex with me.

Initially I reacted to the rash like I do every ailment: ignored it and hoped it went away. But after a month, I started to get nervous. I showed it to my roommate, Molly who convinced me that it was probably a Staph infection and I’d most likely be dead within a week if I didn’t seek immediate medical attention.

I haven’t been to a regular doctor in years, if not decades, so I got a recommendation from my friend, Stephanie. That’s when I decided to name my presumably fatal Staph infection: “Staphanie.”

I’ve always hated the word “rash;” it just sounds dirty. But “Staphanie,” that’s pretty. “Staphanie’s looking awfully red today.” “I can’t stop scratching Staphanie.” “Staphanie seems to be spreading.” Pretty.

So anyway, a few days before I took Staphanie to the doctor, it miraculously cleared up. Just vanished. God bless modern medicine – you just make an appointment and you’re cured. But I went to the appointment anyway, where the doc told me that it was not a Staph infection, that it was more likely something akin to Athletes’ Foot.

I went and got the cream he prescribed just in case, but it didn’t make any sense – how could I get Athletes’ Foot on my hip/butt cheek. Again, too high to touch the toilet seat. Too low to show over the top of my jeans. Something was not right.

That brings me up to my trip to New York, on which Staphanie reappeared and with a vengeance. Red, angry and screaming. And she brought her friend - a similarly shaped and colored patch on the exact spot off the opposite cheek. Symmetrical butt cheek rashes. I was so confused. That was, until this morning.

I watched TV for the duration of my early morning flight home, including a number of episodes of CSI. They’re so clever, those scripted detectives, finding clues in every little clip or fingernail or glob of vomit. If they could figure out who murdered the waitress, I could figure out who Staphanie was and why she was on my ass.

Let’s see… Staphanie was gone for a week. Incidentally it was the same week that I dropped my favorite pair of jeans to be patched at the cleaners. She returned in New York, the trip on which I only brought that one pair of jeans that had just been patched. But I’ve owned those jeans for a year, how could I suddenly have a reaction to them? Wait a minute, I thought back to my Christmas party where I borrowed Molly’s necklace. The cheap metal had cause the skin under the pendant to get red and itchy. That used to happen to my earlobes as well until I started buying nothing but real gold or Stirling silver.

That was it!

I went to the airplane bathroom to examine the inside of my jeans. Sure enough, the metal of the divets that held the side pockets looked worn. Whatever nicer metal that had been protecting my skin had clearly worn off.

That’s who Staphanie was. Not a flesh-eating virus, not Athletes’ Foot of the Butt and not a deadly Staph infection. Just an allergic reaction to my Joe’s jeans. Once again, damn those designer Jeans. But they fit so well.

I'm just like CSI. Only rashier.

2008. Hope it's great.

It's been an interesting trip to New York. Tomorrow, I head home bright and early. It's good being back for a bit, but I'm looking forward to returning to relatively drama-free San Francisco.

New Years' Eve was fun for the most part, I got to spend it with these dashing young fellows.



Unfortunately, not all my friends are as attractive.



Happy New Year, fair readers.