This is a good one...

I made a friend yesterday in a neighborhood called Bon Pasture (I think that's how it is spelled) As I mentioned before there is a serious lack of cats in this city, so I was stoked. I picked her up and she let me hold her a bit, though she was a bit more of a rambuncuous young cat who wanted to play than a docile lap cat who wanted to be held. She bit me a little and pawed at me to get down, although rather gentley, and I think now that I think about it I didn't feel any nails scratching me so either she was very gentle or didn't have claws.

When my group rounded the corner, I picked her up and started walking with her in an attempt to see if I could get her to follow me a bit. I think I forgot to mention before that the area that we were touring is a low income neighborhood where they are doing a lot of rennovation. As I was walking with the cat, a man from one of the houses came out to me, and told me that I couldn't take the cat, because it belonged to someone, and trying to communicate to him that I wasn't intending to take it I said "No me tocar, no me tocar" I said this several times and then said Lo Siento. He didn't seem angry, but he also didn't seem completely with it either, so he didn't really respond to what I said.

When I caught up with the group I told them that I had gotten in trouble for cat-knapping, and they asked me the story and I told them what I said to the man. Two if the girls who speak Spanish said that tocar does not mean take, it means touch and that I had actually been telling the man not to touch me over and over again. If you couldn't already guess, everyone had a really big laugh over this- including myself. I try really hard with the language, but sometimes funny mistakes like this can make my day.

Update on nude swim...

No pictures for this one.

I am proud to say that after much struggle with trying to narrow down when I could actually do this, tonight I was one of two women who attended the nudist swim night in Barcelona's indoor pool that was used for the 1992 Olympics. I am kind of at a loss for understanding why this event it only attended by men, but all of the people working as the pool told me that this was normal, and one of the naked men in the hot tub with me told me that it was always similar when one went to a nudist beach...

I think the main thing that we learned from going was that it was not a particularly well attended event, and it was definitely not a tourist affair. However I did find it totally fun and freeing, and pretty wonderful to do it. I feel like I could personally be down with a nudist movement, and it's hard for me to understand how it is that we became so prudish in the United States. It's just the human body, right?

Anyway- one notable part of the time we were swimming was that several spectators walked by to see the Olympic pool, and I dont think many of them were expecting what they saw. Amy said that it was one the craziest things that she has ever done in here life... I might have to agree.... I wish that my swim in the Mediterranean had also been nude...well not really, but a little bit. = )

I am hoping to catch up on blogging this coming week. I have needed to put the computer down and get some rest at night, so I have slacked a bit.

Puedes nadir desnudo?

t(Picture taken at local daycamp in a municipal courtyard with an amazing looking pool that surrounds a water tower. The counselours eventually blocked me from taking any more pictures of the kids, because I think that they thought it was a bit creepy.)

I have been reflecting today on how many people here ask me if I speak English when I try to speak to them in my poor Spanish. I am trying to understand why and whether or not this has anything to do with the fact that Catalan is spoken here and English is their primary second language, but anyway here is a good story to go along with my use of espanol.

So just incase you don't know the Olympics were held in Barcelona in 1992, and because of that they have two official olympis pools that you can pay a fee to swim in. I was told that Tuesdays was the day for nude swimming, which my friend and I really wanted to participate in. However, we didn't want to go all the way there without bathing stuis just to find out it was the wrong day. So I decide to pick up the phone and call the pool with my limited english. I decided to try and use the room phone and when they answered I said something about la piscin, to ask whether or not I had called the pool, and I thought they said yes, so I proceeded to ask them what time the pool closed and then I asked if I could swim sin ropa or without clothing. They said in English a few times that they didn't understand, so I hung up and looks up the word for naked, beccause I thought then I would be able to ask more easily. I called a second time, and they said that they didn't know what I was talking about, and that it was the reception desk at the residence where I am staying, so in other words I basically called the residence desk twice and asked them if I could swim naked, despite the fact that they don't have a pool. As if this wasn't bad enough someone knocked on my door a few mintues later and asked me what the problem was- I explained that I had been trying to call a pool, and she explained that they didn't have a pool and that if I wanted to place outgoing calls I needed to come down stairs and pre-pay. Luckily this encounter with the reception worker was with my friend Amy rather than mysef, but Amy is only going to be here for a week, so it works out because now every time they see her they will think she is the one who kept calling the desk to ask them about nude swimming, when really it was me the whole time.

Eventually we used skype to call the real pool and I said "Puedes nadar desnudo?" and the lady told me en Sabado- not Martes, so it's a good thing that we didn't go today, because even though I'd be happy to swim their con ropa I'd also love to swim in an authentic Olympic pool nude, just to say I did it... I have several Saturdays ahead of me, and if I am not in Rome you might just know where I will be.

Mircoeconomics and Sex

Today in my Micro class the teacher was telling the class how it would be really difficult to work out a certain problem that he had given us and that it was going to take a substantial amount of time and effort, and that we might find this to be an annoyance, but it is what he likes to call learning.

He then proceeded to say that the first time it would be long and difficult, but all the following times you could get it done much more easily and a lot faster. But he reiterated the much easier and faster thing several times.

I started laughing a lot, and someone looked at me like I was crazy, but all I could think of from his explanation was sex.

I mean I guess the first time doesn't always take a really long time, but it could be really difficult, no?

Hmm. I don't know if you see a parallel, but I definitely laughed in my micro class today, which is a rarity, so I was happy.

I needed a good laugh

This article if written by David Sedaris and published in the current addition of the New Yorker. I was going to post a link, but it's to good to to copy and paste.

I saw Sedaris tonight at the Long Beach Convention Center and this story was by far the star of the show.

I don’t know that it was always this way, but, for as long as I can remember, just as we move into the final weeks of the Presidential campaign the focus shifts to the undecided voters. “Who are they?” the news anchors ask. “And how might they determine the outcome of this election?”
Then you’ll see this man or woman— someone, I always think, who looks very happy to be on TV. “Well, Charlie,” they say, “I’ve gone back and forth on the issues and whatnot, but I just can’t seem to make up my mind!” Some insist that there’s very little difference between candidate A and candidate B. Others claim that they’re with A on defense and health care but are leaning toward B when it comes to the economy.
I look at these people and can’t quite believe that they exist. Are they professional actors? I wonder. Or are they simply laymen who want a lot of attention?
To put them in perspective, I think of being on an airplane. The flight attendant comes down the aisle with her food cart and, eventually, parks it beside my seat. “Can I interest you in the chicken?” she asks. “Or would you prefer the platter of shit with bits of broken glass in it?”
To be undecided in this election is to pause for a moment and then ask how the chicken is cooked.
I mean, really, what’s to be confused about?
When doubting that anyone could not know whom they’re voting for, I inevitably think back to November, 1968. Hubert Humphrey was running against Richard Nixon, and when my mother couldn’t choose between them she had me do it for her. It was crazy. One minute I was eating potato chips in front of the TV, and the next I was at the fire station, waiting with people whose kids I went to school with. When it was our turn, we were led by a woman wearing a sash to one of a half-dozen booths, the curtain of which closed after we entered.
“Go ahead,” my mother said. “Flick a switch, any switch.”
I looked at the panel in front of me.
“Start on the judges or whatever and we’ll be here all day, so just pick a President and make it fast. We’ve wasted enough time already.”
“Which one do you think is best?” I asked.
“I don’t have an opinion,” she told me. “That’s why I’m letting you do it. Come on, now, vote.”
I put my finger on Hubert Humphrey and then on Richard Nixon, neither of whom meant anything to me. What I most liked about democracy, at least so far, was the booth—its quiet civility, its atmosphere of importance. “Hmm,” I said, wondering how long we could stay before someone came and kicked us out.
Ideally, my mother would have waited outside, but, as she said, there was no way an unescorted eleven-year-old would be allowed to vote, or even hang out, seeing as the lines were long and the polls were open for only one day. “Will you please hurry it up?” she hissed.
“Wouldn’t it be nice to have something like this in our living room?” I asked. “Maybe we could use the same curtains we have on the windows.”
“All right, that’s it.” My mother reached for Humphrey but I beat her to it, and cast our vote for Richard Nixon, who had the same last name as a man at our church. I assumed that the two were related, and only discovered afterward that I was wrong. Richard Nixon had always been Nixon, while the man at my church had shortened his name from something funnier but considerably less poster-friendly—Nickapopapopolis, maybe.
“Oh, well,” I said.
We drove back home, and when asked by my father whom she had voted for, my mother said that it was none of his business.
“What do you mean, ‘none of my business’?” he said. “I told you to vote Republican.”
“Well, maybe I did and maybe I didn’t.”
“You’re not telling me you voted for Humphrey.” He said this as if she had marched through the streets with a pan on her head.
“No,” she said. “I’m not telling you that. I’m not telling you anything. It’s private—all right? My political opinions are none of your concern.”
“What political opinions?” he said. “I’m the one who took you down to register. You didn’t even know there was an election until I told you.”
“Well, thanks for telling me.”
She turned to open a can of mushroom soup. This would be poured over pork chops and noodles and served as our dinner, casserole style. Once we’d taken our seats at the table, my parents would stop fighting directly, and continue their argument through my sisters and me. Lisa might tell a story about her day at school and, if my father said it was interesting, my mother would laugh.
“What’s so funny?” he’d say.
“Nothing. It’s just that, well, I suppose everyone has a different standard. That’s all.”
When told by my father that I was holding my fork wrong, my mother would say that I was holding it right, or right in “certain circlesWe don’t know how people eat the world over,” she’d say, not to him but to the buffet or the picture window, as if the statement had nothing to do with any of us.
I wasn’t looking forward to that kind of evening, and so I told my father that I had voted. “She let me,” I said. “And I picked Nixon.”
“Well, at least someone in the family has some brains.” He patted me on the shoulder and as my mother turned away I understood that I had chosen the wrong person.
I didn’t vote again until 1976, when I was nineteen and legally registered. Because I was at college out of state, I sent my ballot through the mail. The choice that year was between Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford. Most of my friends were going for Carter, but, as an art major, I identified myself as a maverick. “That means an original,” I told my roommate. “Someone who lets the chips fall where they may.” Because I made my own rules and didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought of them, I decided to write in the name of Jerry Brown, who, it was rumored, liked to smoke pot. This was an issue very close to my heart—too close, obviously, as it amounted to a complete waste. Still, though, it taught me a valuable lesson: calling yourself a maverick is a sure sign that you’re not one.
I wonder if, in the end, the undecideds aren’t the biggest pessimists of all. Here they could order the airline chicken, but, then again, hmm. “Isn’t that adding an extra step?” they ask themselves. “If it’s all going to be chewed up and swallowed, why not cut to the chase, and go with the platter of shit?”
Ah, though, that’s where the broken glass comes in. ♦

Talking to yourself

So the other day when I was in Trader Joe's I noticed that like four people around me were talking on their blue tooth headsets, which I think, makes them look like they are talking to themselves.

When I was checking out I said something to the cashier to the effect that it must be weird to be servicing all of these people who just seemed to be talking to themselves. When he didn't say anything I got a little bit self-conscious and said that maybe I just couldn't get used to it.

He never responded to what I was saying at all. He just gave me my bag and told me thanks and have a good night.

As I walked out I wondered if he didn't agree with me or if he just thought I had been talking to someone on my own bluetooth the whole time I was checking out and that's why he didn't respond.

Hmm. If nothing else I laughed while entertaining the thought.

Househunting

I don't know if I have mentioned this as of yet, but D happened to move into a pretty yucky place in San Diego. Their kitchen has to be a health hazard, and the people there are not so nice, so he is looking for another one...

After he thought he had found a place earlier this week, and it fell through, I decided that we were going to search high and low and find a place by the end of the weekend. We saw a total of 10 places in two days, and between seeing these places and just corresponding with people via email (through craigslist) we got some real entertainment for free...

Some of the highlights of the house hunting included

• the girl who had a bong in the middle of the living room when we got there (and this actually one of the places that looked really good, and made it onto D's list of acceptable places)
• the lady (who had a three year old) and followed us out to the car saying that she just wanted to make sure she knew that room came with a key, so that D could lock the door to his room and be the only one who had access to it
• the man who told us that I could come over as long as I didn't spend the night because 'they were not set-up for that'
• the lady who emailed us and said that he'd be sharing the place with her and her 16 year old daughter, and they were both 420 friendly
• when David mentioned that one reason he was moving was because he roommates left out dishes of rotting food for weeks at a time, one guy told him that that kind of happens sometimes are the place he was seeing
• the trailer for rent in someones backyard for only $600 a month-this was advertised as a studio

I know that there were other funny things, but these are the few that I can remember after all of this. It was actually kind of successful though, and I think there are many good options on the table, which is a great thing. I hope to be moving stuff next weekend, and not meeting a million people again, but I guess we shall see...

I just wonder about ALL the people who specifically state that they are 420 friendly. I mean is it a craiglist or a San Diego thing?

Odd Jobs, and Some Really Odd Jobs

I have been working since I turned 14 (which was totally legal in Maryland). As I have been spending the past few days looking at different part time employment opportunities, I have been thinking about some of the funnier and weirder positions I have had over the years. Most of them were during college...

• I worked a temp position as a temp worker (really kind of a paper-folder) for a big convention for People Soft at the Anaheim convention center, and on the night they had their big gala type thing with lots of free delicious food, I stopped working for a bit to enjoy the festivities.


• I was hired as a house cleaner, but wound up being more of a post-divorce friend a counselor for a lady who had divorced her husband about a year before she hired me and had not cleaned her house since. This was sad, and also very disgusting. It was just gross things like not cleaning your bathroom sink or changing the sheets on your kids bed for a year that kind of got to me. But most of the weeks she would send me home having worked less than she hired me to work and paying me our agreed price. So that was nice.


• I was a care-taker for an elderly woman who needed someone to stay with her while her live-in friend and caretaker had some time out on the town. One activity that she liked was reading the paper, but a few weeks into it I realized it was usually the Sunday paper and she wanted to look at every single section including the ads, and she couldn't really hear me when I read them to her so I had to repeat myself a lot. I started disassembling the paper before we read it to avoid the business section. I tried to take her to get milkshakes at Ruby's once, but she got very scared on the car ride there, so we had to go home.


• I was a nanny for one of the member's of Dave Matthew's Band and they put me up at the Ritz Carlton in San Francisco for a week. That was a totally random/fun/awful/experience.


• I nannied for a lady who let her three year-old hit me in front of her without saying anything. Needless to say this was pretty awful and I had no control or respect in the relationship with the little girl. I dreaded going to this job.


• I worked for the Gallup Organization taking telephone polls, and while this was supposed to be a really great job and opportunity, I had a hard time trying to keep people on the phones for twenty minute surveys when their child was crying in the background. I only lasted about 3 days, and when I quit the lady basically told me that I would be a failure in life if I gave up so easily, and she made me cry and to this day I am still trying to prove her wrong.


• I had a guy on craigslist allow me to come to his house babysit and drive his daughter around without event speaking to me on the phone. We had only emailed, and while I am really trustworthy person I thought it was really scary that someone would trust their child's life in the hands of a stranger.

At least I have a lot of good stories to tell. Some possible jobs that I might take in the next few months are working in flue clinics at different retail stores or participating in a phone fund raiser. It will be weird working for ten bucks and hour again, but hopefully my next job will be something fun rather than data entry tedium.

If you were watching the security video...

If you happen to be watching the security video from the Kinko's located at UCI from about 11:00 am this morning, you would see two adults come in with three bags brimming full of Farmer's Market produce.

You'd see the female walk over to the copy center and head right for the free scotch tape. She would have been tearing off long pieces and sticking them to the palms and fingers of her hand and then ripping them off one at a time. The male you'd see walking over to get some not free packing tape with he offers to the female, but she declines. Then she take some more tape and wraps it around 4 of her fingers, two on each hand. She wonders of she should leave them there because they make her prickly fingers feel better, but decides not to and asks her partner in crime to remove the tape from her four fingers. She then wipes here hands and few times, and gathers her bags, removing the greens from the top of her bunch of beets and puts them in trash receptacle. She has been laughing for the entire duration of this time in Kinkos.

And you'd probably laugh too if you saw the tape of David and I in Kinkos this morning as I tried to remove the teeny tiny hair like spines that had gotten into my hands from the cactus fruit I bought this morning.

I am not sure after all that that I will be able to eat the fruit without first having rubber gloves to handle them.

Lots of laughs and a little bit of ouch.