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9:28am Much to my surprise, I receieved an email yesterday morning from Tchotchke, the girl I was meeting on Monday afternoon. What really surprised me was that she wanted to get together again. The bag-snatching incident wasn't really my fault, but I wasn't exactly at my best afterwards, and I rather figured that she'd be spooked and give me a miss. Evidently not. Vash had a date of her own that night, so the timing was perfect. So, Tchotchke and I met up at the Lexington. (Why the Lex? Because it's there, of course. Not exactly close to me, but she was staying in the Mission, so it made sense.) At one point the bartender, relatively new there and with one of those eternally cranky dispositions which my fragile self-esteem can't help but take personally, asked if somone would please put on some music. When nobody else moved towards the jukebox, I put in a few bucks and entered my standards. Much to my surprise, she sang along to almost everything I put in. I'd like to think that means that if she's cranky in the future, it's nothing personal. Tchotchke and I talked for a few hours, feeling much more comfortable and relaxed than we had on Monday—until it got too crowded, and the crowd had too many straight men in it. I think the last straw for me was when, trying to get the bartender's attention, one of scruffy-looking fellow barked hey! Not excuse me or even hey bartender! , which for some reason would have been less annoying. Just hey! Didn't much care for his tone, either. The joy of male privilege in a dyke bar. Standing outside the Lex as Tchotchke smoked, I heard a voice approaching from Valencia saying Sherilyn and Maddy, actually speaking! They then laughed and said they were kidding as I turned and saw who it was. As well they were, since it was someone who very much knows that Maddy and I are on speaking terms. They had a point, though—from behind, Tchotchke could be mistaken for Maddy. Go figure.
Anyway, from there we went to Cancun. (Why Cancun? Because it's there, of course.) She asked
when I was free next, and I said Thursday night, as my plans for the evening had just fallen through. She said she was free on Thursday as well,
and that she'd call, and we parted company.
I can't decide if this qualifies as an Aesop Violation or not—you know, when you have the bone in your mouth, and see another dog (strangely familiar and
wavery-looking) with a bone and you decide that you want that bone, too...
I've always admired Ali's tales of wantonness, and I wish I could emulate her. But it's not so easy for me—very few whom I want to sell to are buying what I've got. It helps to be a genetic femme in your early twenties, I suppose. The deck, as I say, is stacked. I briefly considered going to the Power Exchange when I realized that my night had opened up, but decided against it. There's the boy issue (as in, the place is populated by little else), and it wouldn't be as much fun without Vash.
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Wednesday, 16 August 2006 (possibly maybe) 11:45pm I got a new tire this morning, and my replacement phone arrived this afternoon. My mom also called to check up on me yesterday after reading about Monday's unpleasantness, and I received an utterly beautiful love letter from Vash. Some equilibrium has been restored.
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Tuesday, 15 August 2006 (innocence is bleeding red) 12:34pm Bastard was in my dreams last night. I guess that's to be expected. Standard home-invasion scenario, common for my dreams, but amplified. Large house, people trying to break in everywhere, him in particular. do something, pussy.
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Monday, 14 August 2006 (stirring it with a stick) 4:09pm Go ahead. Ask me why my knee is skinned, and why I'm very glad I got the replacement plan thingy for my cell phone.
Please don't take a picture.
I discovered this morning that my car has a flat tire. Don't know why, but I'm glad it didn't manifest itself while I was driving over Portola on my way home from the Mission last night. I really only use it to drive to the muni stop because I'm lazy, so I walked (remembering once again how good it feels to exercise), and wasn't particularly late to the office. Importantly, I arrived before anyone who would actually care about such things.
The first thing I did was send out an email to the company:
Work was a tad more stressful than usual, as several clusterfucky projects were demanding my attention at once, but that was okay. Nothing I can't handle. What was getting my stomach twisty was a date that afternoon. Not that I like to use the word "date" in this context. It was a coffee hookup with a girl visiting from Portland who'd seen my latest ad on Craigslist, and was interesting a string-free tryst. So we'd just hang out for a while, see what the vibe is like, then decide if we wanted to get together later in the week for a bit less than coffee. Having lived in San Francisco many eons previous, she remembered liking South Park. I work literally around the corner from it, and it felt more San Francisco-y than my usual suggestion of the Seattle's Best Coffee in Borders, so I cased out the area last week and suggested Caffe Centro. Upon arriving shortly before the scheduled time, I couldn't decide whether to sit inside or out. It was a beautiful day, and I'm trying to not be so afraid of the Sun (in spite of the fact that direct sunlight is not a good thing for my face, between hormones and electro), so I decided to grab a table outside. Eh. The problem with being outside on a sunny day is the Sun, so I went back inside. The only seat available was directly underneath a very loud speaker playing obnoxious music. Back outside I went to the table on the South Park side of the corner of South Park and Jack London, trying not to notice the people who had clearly noticed my indecision. At about twenty past, she called to say she was running late, but was in a cab and would be there shortly. No problem, as it was giving me time to work on my Instant City piece. And, you know, beautiful day and all. I put my phone next to my notebook, then decided to put it in my Alternative Tentacles messenger bag at my feet. I also took off my sunglasses, as the sun wasn't shining directly into my eyes, and didn't put on my regular glasses, as I'm a vain whore and think I look horrible in them. Finally, she arrived. We talked for a few minutes about the differences in traffic between Portland and San Francisco, because that's what you talk about when you're nervous and have to fill the air. (Whenever I visit Fresno, the inevitable first discussion is about the traffic.) She then excused herself to actually go inside and get a beverage. I was already working on a ginger beer, as my stomach hasn't been too happy with my caffeine consumption of late, and they were out (out!) of orange juice. As she went inside, I returned to my writing. I was vaguely aware of a scraggly-looking guy walking towards the table, veering closer and closer— —and then grabbing my bag and running. It took me about a half-second to comprehend what just happened before I launched myself from my chair, shouting, no you don't! no! no! no! If we were on foot I might not have stood a chance, but of all things, he ducked into a waiting cab on Jack London. give that back! he has my bag! give that back! that's mine! no! no! no! My Girl Army training was kicking in something fierce, and probably the most important thing I took away from that class was To Make Noise. Not that I was consciously thinking of the class or anything; my instinct was just to scream real loud and get my stuff back, to follow the lizardbrain which was saying hetookititisminehemustnothaveitthiswillnothappen over and over. I reached the cab before he closed the door and practically leaped in, grabbing for my bag, screaming no! no! it's mine! no! no! My glasses were off, so the surge of terror and adrenaline of berserker mode combined with my blurry-bright vision and the utter bizarreness of the fact that I was attempting to wrestle my bag out of the hands of a thief sitting in the back of a cab gave the entire scene the unreal feel of a drug trip, or perhaps more accurately, a dream. Indeed, it was very much like the kind of dream that I have on a regular basis. But I knew it was real, and I was focused, getmystuffgetmystuffgetmystuff but it had gone flying everywhere, and as I grabbed for my wallet there went my glasses and grabbing for my glasses there goes my wallet and are those my keys? Yes they are because the TV-B-Gon which Maddy got me for my birthday was flashing blue, and man oh man they do not want to give up the wallet, and I'm trying to put them all in my bag without anything else falling out while the guy is trying to keep the bag away from me and all throughout this as I'm flailing half-in half-out of the cab the thief and his skanktastic crackhead of a girlfriend are shouting right back, the guy first saying go cabbie go! gun it! go! drive! go cabbie go!, but the cabbie isn't going at all, he's just sitting there watching, and it isn't until later that I realize that he's done the math on it: if he drives, he'll hurt me. A lot. My head and torso may be in the cab, but knees are on the street, and if he guns it as his crank-added primary passenger is demanding and I'm injured, he'll get into serious trouble. None of this occurs to me at the time, of course. My eye is not on that particular ball. Nor does it occur to me at the time that the thief is not actually violent towards me; he could have punched me, kicked me, done any of a number of things, but he doesn't. Probably he was too shocked by the fact that I chased him and struggled rather than simply letting it all happen. Realizing the cabbie isn't going to start driving, the guy and his crab-infested cohort start shouting The guy's crazy! Shit! You're crazy, guy! Get out! Then: Fine, take the stuff! Get out, take it! You're fucking crazy! You're on drugs! This guy's on drugs! I was vaguely conscious him calling me "Guy." Of course he parses me as male. Who doesn't these days? I stumbled back out of the cab, clutching my bag to my chest, and asked the nearest person in the growing crowd to please please please hold my bag so I can check for whatever else might be still in the cab. He just stood there, possibly not understanding what I'm trying to say. In the crowd of people is of course the girl I was ostensibly on a date with through the panic and adrenaline bubbled up the realization that this is a horrendously bad first impression. Oh well. Easy come, easy go. Now free of liability, the cabbie speeds off, turning at the first available corner. On the ground in its wake were a half-dozen multicolor hairties, which fell out of my bag during the fracas. It's actually rather pretty. I turned to the girl and said, welcome to san francisco. My bag contained both pairs of glasses, my keys, and my wallet. All the important stuff. My phone, however is a victim. For as much of a technofetishistic connection as I have to my cell phone, if I had to lose anything of value, at least it was thing that's easiest to replace. Oh, shit, my notebook, I can't lose another one— No, my notebook's right where I left it, on the table. In my astronomical carelessness did I perhaps leave my phone there as well, and someone else swiped it while I was fighting to get back my other possessions? I decided I didn't like that thought. It was in my bag and remained in the taxi as it drove off, yes it did. One of the onlookers had already called 911, and after a few minutes handed me the phone, instructing me to tell them what happened. I proceeded to do just that, talking a mile a minute and gesticulating widely and smiling and laughing hysterically and doing all the maddening things I do in that heightened state. Finally, I heard the operator, terribly cross: be quiet! stop talking! i'm trying to help you by asking questions, but you just keep talking! be quiet and let me talk! Presumably she's new, and skipped the day in training where they mentioned that people calling a frackin' emergency number might not be in the best mental state. She lost her patience with me and transferred me to someone else. Ruined the first operator's whole day, no doubt. The considerably more patient operator told me that a cop would be there in about twenty minutes, or I could go to the station to file a report. I elected to wait. The girl and I sat back down at the table, and I after a while were about to talk about things other than crime. My heartrate took a while to subside, and I continued clutching my bag, just in case. For no reason I could immediately determine, I got another handoff with the cops like the with the 911 operator. I started talking to the first guy who arrived, and then someone else showed up and took over. It was okay, though. I liked the second guy better. (Have to give the first one credit, though; I heard him correct himself when referring to me: he—she says that the cab was waiting, and that she... Major points for that.) When I told him that I ran after the thief and got my most of my stuff back, he smiled and said i love it when people fight back. The girl and I parted company at Third, after discussing schedules and realizing that our evenings this week don't really jibe. Alas. Things were kinda jinxed anyway. Vash picked me up from work, took me home, then headed out. It was a little, but it was enough. Just being with her for a little while helped put my mind at ease. I called AAA to have someone come out and fix my flat tire (oh, that), but by the time they arrived and put on the spare, it was too late to actually get a new tire put on. Though it meant I'd have to flake on helping Cindy move on Tuesday (is there anything worse than flaking on something you volunteered for in the first place?), it was probably for the best. I needed the comfort of my four blackened walls and my like-colored cat.
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Sunday, 13 August 2006 (back to reaction) sometime after midnight Thanks to Vash, I now know The Ultimate Question of Life, The Universe and Everything: what size cheongsam will fit Sherilyn? I already knew the answer, of course. Bad Movie Night was fantastic this evening, with a full, rowdy house coming out to see Cool As Ice. I'm always overjoyed (as in, literally receive too much joy) when the movies I suggest turn out to be hits. (I'd like to think it has something to do with the blurbs on the website, which I've been writing since the Bob Crane Double Feature, but I know better.) Afterwards, a rather cute girl came up to me and said you were fucking hilarious! I turned to Anamoly (who, in full goth battlegear, had earlier described herself as "the winner of The Sherilyn Connelly Lookalike Contest") and said i think i'll take that as a compliment. She agreed.
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Saturday, 12 August 2006 (pinging tuneless) 3:22pm That's the beautiful irony of alienation: you often feel more comfortable around strangers than friends.
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Friday, 11 August 2006 (timberline plummet) 2:10pm Overheard while returning from a mandatory group lunch outing: sherilyn was quiet at lunch. hell, sherilyn has been quiet for the last few months. Sometimes I like to fly under the radar. It's what I do.
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