Don't you just love those little flashy buzzy coasters restaurants give you while you're waiting for a table? I do. In fact, I wish their use was more prevalent. For example, I wish my clinic had them. Instead of the patients waiting in the depressing lounge, they could go outside, wander around in the gift shop, or check out the band downstairs.

Other places those little buzzy things would be useful:
-The California Lottery. If your little buzzy thing goes off, you won! (Restaurants would be prohibited from using the buzzies on Wednesday and Saturday nights though, which is somewhat inconvenient.)
-Game show buzzers for classrooms. Instead of the teacher asking you questions, and you raising your hand, or slinking into your chair... the teacher just makes some student buzz! This is especially convenient, because the flashy buzzy action of the coaster also serves to wake the student up, avoiding potential embarrassment.
-A high tech, square, flat, flashy potato to be used for the game "Hot Potato."

The only think I think these coasters AREN'T good for is their intended purpose: coasters. I've never put my drink on one, for fear that it would go vibrating off the end of the bar and crash. Doesn't it seem?

I feed my sense of self-importance sometimes with random seizures of authority. I'm not sure why, but having a job to do and doing it makes me feel like a better person. A pretty American way to feel, I think. :o) This past weekend I was the RIDE LEADER for the Velo Girls' 30 miler. Woo hoo. I was thinking about this, and I asked myself, why did I volunteer? Considering how lazy I often am, why would I want to commit to this ride ahead of time, and assume responsibility for the safety and whereabouts of other riders? Well, I get a point on my membership for one. A point! And a cookie and a pat on the head. (Just kidding about the last two.)

Do any of you know what I mean about this? Just being in charge gives me some sicko high. And not even really the active part of being in charge-- just the part where I tell myself, "Okay! Yeah! I'm a RIDE LEADER."

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My favorite people in the whole world are confusing, complex, and dynamic... people who have a lot going on inside. But I realized yesterday, I have to like boring people, too. I think the world would cease to function if "normal" people didn't stagnate. I don't like them for who they are in and of themselves, though.

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I have a favorite saying. It goes, "When you assume, you make an ASS out of U and ME." It's so true... you can never know what another person is thinking (or almost never... depends on the person) so don't even bother speculating. Of course, I am scenario girl, so taking my own advice is something I have to work hard at.

What would you do if you were 12 weeks pregnant (work with me here, fellas) and you discovered you had cancer? Let's say it was breast cancer. You can either undergo treatment for cancer, probably including chemotherapy and/or radiation, which would kill your baby. Or you could keep the child and hope that once your baby is born it's not too late to save your life.

I'm sure some people will say, it depends on how serious the cancer is, or whether it's your first child, how old you are, et cetera. So you have my permission to simplify it to this: would you die for your child to live?

It's not just an emotional thing. We're subject to a strong evolutionary drive to keep our DNA propagating. This drive influences altruistic behavior among groups, which is kind of the same thing. Only in this case, you're not only giving up your life for kin, you're sacrificing yourself for DNA that is at least 50% identical to your own.

I know it's a little early for me and my peers to be thinking about the "what ifs" of parenthood. Anyway, it's an interesting little thought experiment for y'all on a Friday morning. Go ahead and email or IM me with your thoughts. Personally, I'd bite the bullet and bear the kid.

On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate my innocence? 1 being not at all innocent, and 10 being minister's daughter. I ask because I feel like I have seen some of the worst of humanity over the past 24 hours... but I might just be sheltered.

Last night I took the 19 Navy Yard to 8th and Brannan and saw a new cross section of San Francisco's inhabitants. Normally I stick to the 1 California, which ferries mostly Chinatown residents and downtown professionals, and the cable car (always a nice homogenous mix of moneyed tourists). This bus went through the Tenderloin to the Deep South of Market (think 8th street). I think I actually frowned the whole way to REI. Something about the blend of old, thin, sickly people and younger, sicker women with needle tracks on their arms just depressed me. There was one woman in particular who unsettled me... she was fidgeting more than a three year old told to sit still. She had huge circles under her eyes, and her bleached hair was rattily tied into a bun at the back of her thin head. She wore tight jeans and a tank top that looked bad on her, not because of her weight-- she was actually deathly thin-- but because she was obviously an ill woman underneath the clothing. She was the first crack whore I had spent any prolonged amount of time with.

Then today, at work, one of my doctors got an email from her family far away. Her niece, who had been in a hospital recovering from illness, had been stabbed repeatedly overnight by her caretaker. Apparently the caretaker had killed two other women before moving on to my boss' niece. The girl is still alive, but barely. I felt like someone had slapped me when I heard the news. What kind of world is this?

I think I've answered my own question-- don't bother emailing me with my innocence rating. I guess I knew people got murdered, did drugs, and basically live in ways I can't imagine. I've seen it all on TV. I'm just wondering... will seeing it get any easier with age, or will it hurt every time I notice someone in a bad place?

I can't stand how provincial and self-absorbed the SF Chronicle is. Last Friday, the front page of every other newspaper on the country had coverage of the Spain bombings... as they should have. The Comical's big story? Gays right to marry halted by California's Supreme court. That would have been an okay front page story... if a worldwide disater hadn't occurred that requires our attention. I'm sorry, but an Al Qaida bombing is a little more important than gay marriage.

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Another quirky SF rambling...

In SF the cool thing to do is have a dog as an accessory. Apparently people are feeling too guilty (or emburdened) by the baby accessory trend of a few years back. So now you get yourself a pricey purebred pooch, name him something clever, keep him in your apartment all week, and bring the poor mutt out on the weekends to a highly visible park to impress other people.

That's kind of what I do with Misty. She stays in my room all week long, serving no other purpose besides looking attractive. She was expensive, and she has an award winning pedigree. On Sundays I take her to the South Bay and play all day, and when it's all over I clean her up and put her back in my room for another week. I don't really feel to guilty about this though, because she's aluminum.

The really cool thing to do is to take your puppy for walks in the middle of the day, wearing a Juicy Couture sweatsuit, which advertises your lack of a job (most likely because you have a rich boyfriend/husband and don't need to work anymore). Bonus points if you do this in Pac Heights. Obviously, I can't take Misty out on weekday afternoons... and probably never will. Damn my work ethic!

A hallmark of immaturity is throwing the concept of love around like a frisbee. For example, telling somebody you may or may not like, "I love you!!" Yesterday, a friend of mine (20 years old, male) tacked this onto the end of a conversation with me. I wanted to be like, shut up, no you don't. a) You have a girlfriend. b) We barely know each other. c) You just don't, okay? Not even close. And you're insulting Love when you say that!

Maybe young adults do it because they don't know any better: they've never been in love (or many haven't... I'm not trying to condescend here). Or maybe they DO understand what love is, and by mocking it are trying, in Peter-Pan style, to advertise their childishness. "I won't grow up, and I certainly won't fall in love! Look, I don't even know what love is yet." Once upon a time I was guilty of this offense. Some of you may have been part of my group marriage senior year in high school. What can I say?

I bore witness to another interesting display of love and immaturity yesterday. I was at the 1 California bus stop, wolfing down a sandwich post-swim, and listening in on the conversation of three young college students. One boy, two girls. When I walked up to the stop, the boy and girl A were seated. Girl B was standing. I was surprised to see this arrangement, but I nabbed the seat without question since I prefer to sit while eating (although my post swim meal is more of a scarf than a dine).

I figured out that girl B hadn't wanted to sit because then they would have been seated in a line, and the boy was on the other side, and she would have been isolated from him. The drama persisted on the bus... girl A and the boy were sitting together, and girl B sat on another bench, alone, sullen. It was plainly obvious that both girls liked the boy, but he was, of course, clueless. I wanted to call a timeout. I would have told the guy, "I know this is going to blow your mind, but both of these girls like you." I would have told Girl B, "Grow some balls and sit next to him if you want to. He's just going to think you're mad at him if you sit in the corner and sulk. He has no clue you like him, or why you're sad." And I would have told Girl A, "You're going to lose your friend Girl B over there if you keep going after the guys she likes. Stop being a bitch and tell her how you feel about this boy, and decide whether he's worth it."

A funny story, for you.

Today I was running a little late, so I poured my breakfast (a smoothie) into a travel mug and sipped it on the way to the bus stop. One of my roommates lost the lid (you know who you are!) so I had to open-top it. Now, I've never had a problem with picky bus drivers, especially since all the morning 1 California drivers know me. I eat, drink, and am merry on the bus to work quite often. This morning, however, I met a new guy, a real stickler, too. Here's how it went.

Alli: Hi.
Driver: Hi.
Alli plunks down the fare
Driver: You can't take that on the bus. Points to cup.
Alli: Oh, please??
blank stare from bus driver
Alli: I won't drink any, I promise!
Driver: You need a lid.
Alli: defeated OK, can I have a transfer?
Driver hands Alli transfer, Alli gets off bus

At first, I was kinda miffed. Who does this guy think I am, some butterfingered klutz hellbent on ruining the fine rubber floor of his pristine bus? But whatever, I knew there was another bus right behind him that I could take. I just put my smoothie in my swim bag and boarded bus #2. When I got to my seat, I opened my bag, only to find... MY SMOOTHIE HAD SPILLED. Waaahhh! My swimsuit and towel, not to mention my beloved LeSportsac, were smoothie-d! I burst out laughing... Damnit, but bus driver #1 was right... I DID spill it!

This is about jellie sandals, not granny panties

I first saw you on aisle seven
Funny, how your location matched my size

I had the opaque blue, and clear too
but not the sparkly pink.
Nobody had sparkly pink!
I think you were my first obsession.

I slipped you on, a dream
and for a month or two we were as one
but fun play frayed your edges
and little cracks formed in your surface.

As with Puff I lost you one day,
but in the recesses of my closet
you remained, along with my sweat and love
Are you still there now?

I saw a big-girl version of you, my beloveds
just the other day.
The large proportions rendered your flimsy material
too delicate to wear.
However, the same sparkly pink called me back,
and the novelty saddened me.
Don't come back.
Instead stay here
in my hazy, cotton candy memories.

P.S. This is about jellie sandals, not granny panties

Radio personalities I'm tired of:

Tom Shane.
Excerpt: "Now YOU have a friend in the diamond business. The Shane Company! Open weekdays until 8, Saturday and Sunday till 5, and online, at shaneco dot com."
Mr. Shane, the odd syncopation of your voice is stuck in my head forever. I had a nightmare about you last night. I also don't appreciate you playing yourself off as a local businessman, when my friend Meghan from Michigan told me that they have Shane Co stores out there too.

Pat St. John from Trader Joe's.
"The winner in the 'why didn't we think of that sooner' category is, without a doubt, our new crumbled Gorgonzola cheese. Of course we had regular Gorgonzola before..."
Guess what. WE DON'T CARE.

That guy from Shreve and Co Jewelers.
"Now's the perfect time to buy a Hearts on Fire diamond from Shreve and Co jewelers!"
Sir, I guarantee you it is not the perfect time. It's spring, and girls everywhere are watching their friends get engaged and/or married, feeling inadequate, and staring at their naked ring finger. Please cease with the daily radio reminder of my marital status. Also, your voice sucks more than Tom Shane's.

I just found out that J.K. Rowling is worth $1 billion. That's a heckuva lot of money, especially considering she used to be on welfare. Not many women are that rich. Not many men, either; to put it in perspective, Donald Trump is worth $2.5 billion.

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I was swimming a couple of days ago at the pool, in the medium speed lane. Normally this lane suits my ability perfectly, but two things were different that day: 1. I had a new surge of skill and energy that made me swim faster than I have before, and 2. there were quite a few stragglers who belonged in the slow lane, or worse yet, in the wading pool. As I passed people up and down the lane, I wondered, who are these people, who swim in the medium lane when they obviously don't belong here? I grew annoyed until I realized that I no longer belonged there either. Yet I didn't want to switch to the fast lane. Why? I was comfortable in the medium lane. It was my domain; I was a big fish in a small pond. Or maybe a fast fish in a slow pond. Anyway. I was just as guilty of self-assigning to the wrong lane, but I'd rather be the best of the middle than the worst of the best. Does that make any sense?

The reason I posted that here is because I think that's a recurrent theme in my life. Friends, you know what I'm talking about. Isn't that apt?