The following posts are collected from my "Single in the City" column for sfgirl.com that ran from about 2000-2003. I wrote under the pseudonym "Supergirl." These go in order from most recent to oldest. It's long, so brace yourself. My one claim to fame is that David Streitfeld of the L.A. Times (then the SF Bureau Chief of the Washington Post) sent me an email to tell me he had stumbled upon my column when researching the sfgirl.com site for an article and before he knew it, read them all. He told me my writing was good and that he hoped real-world editors had noticed and were paying me "bags of gold to write for them." I only wish...but this year, I hope to at least realize my dream of writing full-time for a while. I don't know how long, and I don't know where it will take me, but I've made a good go of it this summer, and am really enjoying myself. Without further ado, here it is (drum roll...)!

Single in Suburbia 2003
I’m officially uncool now. I’m the person who, when I was 25, swore I’d never be, and the person who, when she was 25, my mom swore she’d never be. But it happens. I live in the suburbs. I drive a station wagon. OK, it’s my mom’s, and that’s another thing. I live with my parents again. Superbro has started calling me "a frumpy schoolteacher" and I’m OK with that. OK, no I’m not. And I haven’t graduated to embroidered sweatshirts, yet, either, but it could happen. Never say never. I swore I’d never live on the Peninsula again, and here I am, and I love it.

I’d rather park my car at the Blockbuster in the strip mall and then drive home then take the N Judah to the Metreon (which actually feels pretty suburban to me, anyway). I’d rather go to Stanford baseball and be too hot than Giants baseball and be too cold. I’d rather wear old shorts than hip capris. I’d rather wear Longs’ flip-flops than those really expensive, high-tech Acupuncture shoes they sell at Villains in the Haight. I’m attracted to tall, slightly pudgy former football player guys in birkenstocks rather than the emaciated, gelled-hair, glasses-wearing hipsters I used to swoon for. Not that that’s getting me anywhere; the former football players dump me, too. Over email. But anyway.

The real reasons I moved to the suburbs are the following, in order: 1) Better schools to teach at down here, 2) I’m broke and supermom and dad said I could live here for the summer, 3) I am so OVER fog!

Granted, the number of SUVs (ironically, all sporting American flags) on the road makes me want to hurl; Tower is nothing compared to Amoeba; there ain’t no Red Vic; worse, there ain’t no El Rio, but the Rose & Crown is sorta like Finnegan’s, the Nut House isn’t that far off from the 711 Club, I happen to like Starbucks, and there are just as many great Taquerias down here. Plus, we have In-N-Out.

Superbro has been singing the praises of the ‘burbs for years (well, two). He and his Stanford grad student cronies are perfectly content to barbeque, bike ride, and swill beer in the ‘burbs, and I like their style. I happen to like some of them, as well. That’s the other big thing about the suburbs--more boys. They’re not all nice, no sirree, but there are more of them. And someday, I will meet some.

Superbro and I are going to be roommates, for better or for worse, with another grad student friend of ours. We’re going to get a dog, throw dinner parties, hike a lot, and enjoy the sunshine. Granted, our first attempt to rent a house was thwarted. I had called the owner of a house for rent that I spotted on my run, and he invited me to come look at it the following day. The next evening, I came home to a message from the owners’ son, who rambled on about how his parents’ wires had gotten crossed and his mother had already agreed to rent the house to a couple with children, but he felt they owed me a chance to look at it. In the spirit of suburban goodwill, I called back to say, go ahead and give it to the family, and thanks for calling. The guy proceeded to talk my ear off, in circles, about everything to do with the house, the renters, the purchase of the house, the local schools, his background, his age (50), and his status (retired). Then he asked me out. Horrified, I mmm-hmmed for a few more minutes, then hastily said, "Well, I’ve got to go, thank you for leaving the message, good-bye!." I’m convinced he’s going to start stalking me, based on rambling comments he made to the effect of where my parents’ house is and my employment at the school near the house, but Supermom says I’m over dramatizing. What, me, drama?

So that’s the latest. I still try to be hip, I mean, I do have a reputation as “the cool teacher” to uphold, but everything’s just easier in the ‘burbs. So this is the end of Single in the City; thank you for your support, and good night.

Vegas Baby, Vegas! 2002
Spacegirl and I took a little road trip for my Spring Break. Since she was driving cross-country and I was on vacation for the first time since graduate school, what better place to visit than the City of Sin. While I made it back with my reputation intact, we had a good adventure. In a short time you’ll be able to view our documentary, however for now, you’ll have to settle with my tale of the events.

We began our drive at 7am, out of the Cole Valley fog to the sweltering sun of the East Bay. There’s nothing to see on 880, as you know, but we entertained ourselves by reading the rhyming enticements to purchase farmland in Tracy. Then, a fellow traveler pulled up next to us. When I made the mistake of making eye contact with him, he leered at me and pulled his shirt up, apparently trying to get me to flash him. I started laughing hysterically and he, embarrassed, sped ahead of us just to show us he was a macho man. What did his license plate, from Tennessee, say? PHIDELT. Aww yeah, baby. I laughed harder.

We were sort of surprised at the plethora of personalized plates on the road. I got some of them on film, but PHIDELT is the only one that has stayed with me. We also saw some sheep, traveling in a truck to heaven knows where, and drag raced a few cars who didn’t know they were being drag-raced, and decided that we never want to return to Death Valley. Oh, we saw cacti as well. This was exciting for Spacegirl, who’s never been to the desert. Since I took a miserable bus trip to Texas the year Stanford went to the Final Four, I’d die happy never seeing the desert again, but there we were.

After a frantic call to Superbro in an attempt to find an In-N-Out Burger somewhere between Baker, CA and the Nevada State Line, we then drove right through Baker without locating the Holy Grail. Before we resorted to eating our left arms, we pulled an emergency stop at the B-list Burger King, where of course the heating was broken, and hurried back to the car.

Mildly cranky, we reached Fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada, as the sun was beginning to set. We cruised the Strip, searching for Circus Circus, our shithole of a hotel. After the discovery of a condom (fortunately still in its wrapper) under Spacegirl’s bed, and the tragic news that there was no gym, we went to meet a friend at the normally packed Velvet Lounge. It being Monday, we and our pauper friends were able to sit on the patio in an area that normally commands a $300 bribe, all for the price of one drink each. We ate dinner, we saw the Mirage volcano erupt twice, we saw two water shows at the Bellagio, and we crashed and burned.

The next day felt a little like being at Disneyland, as Spacegirl and I toured the hotels and casinos in the sweltering heat, trying to avoid being run over by strollers wielded by overzealous mothers. We developed an informal rating system for each destination. Thumbs up if the place had high ceilings, clearly marked exits, a sweet pool, a decent buffet, and free shows. Thumbs down for Caesar’s, which took us a half hour to depart, since we couldn’t find the exit. Spacegirl found it very claustrophobic, too, and not only did they give the Trojan Horse in FAO Schwarz a baby’s voice, when it’s supposed to be all manly, but they had Bacchus, Brutus, Venus and Apollo all together in the free fountain show and they’re never together in literature. I mean, really.

We trekked our way back to the lovely Circus Circus, with the idea of relaxing beside the pool. Unfortunately, not only was the pool in the middle of the parking lot, partly under construction, and filled with screaming children, but they had run out of towels. I huffily found myself a lounge chair and set to work on The New Yorker, when I noticed all the children being kicked out of the pool. I ignored the situation and continued reading. Spacegirl later informed me that a child had puked in the pool, and that’s why it had to be evacuated. Fortunately, I was blissfully unaware.

We missed the brand-new Circus Circus buffet, but did get a chance to view the Wedding Chapel “as seen on Inside Edition!” More importantly, we got the flier for the Elvis wedding--he’ll walk you down the aisle *and* sing three songs! Then we watched the trapeze artists, but the dude kept falling into the net, which was weak, so we left to go back to the Venetian, which was cooler.

After two days in Vegas, you know you have to leave or you might throw yourself in front of a passing car, so Spacegirl was off on her cross-country journey and I was left to play slots in the airport until my flight boarded. It was good to return to reality, and my students behaved well for the week after vacation, so thank heavens for small favors. Now things are crazy again, just the way I like ‘em.

Spurned Lovers Anonymous 2002
It was definitely a Monday. I had trouble waking up from my post-weekend, pot-induced haze, but managed to get some jeans on and a cup of coffee into my hand and make it to school on (sort of) time. As I shuffled into my classroom for my first period prep, the phone rang. It was the office, frantically calling to get me to fill in for whoever's sub flaked first period. So I took my vapid self into a room full of eighth graders and attempted to care about their creative writing project. Ouch.

The day didn't get much better from there. The kid I conferenced (with her mom) for about three hours last week lost the huge list of extra-credit projects I came up with for her during said conference; if I were her mother, I'd have lamintated that sucker, but instead, she put it in her pocket and her mom washed the pants she was wearing. I couldn't even stand to discuss it with her; I would have cried.

I went to try to get my missing transcript from my teacher advisor at school, and she was out sick, so I'll have to delay my teaching application yet another day (it's already a few days late). And the list goes on...

However, the clincher was the email sitting in my inbox when I finally got a break for lunch. It was from my ex-boyfriend from grad school, whom I have so little in common with at this point in life that whenever he sees me, he puts down my haircut, my glasses, my clothes, my job, or my friends in rapid succession, because he just doesn't understand my life at all. You might ask, why doesn't she refuse to talk to him? I've tried to create some distance, but for some reason he really really thinks I'm fabulous and continues to call and send email randomly. Here's the email I got yesterday, titled "the question":


Hey Supergirl,

Just wanted to share some exciting news... I finally managed to pull the trigger and pop the question!

It was really fun...My parents were in town this weekend for a conference and were going to meet her parents for the first time. I figured it would make for a great time to do it. We went to brunch Saturday morning with one of her good friends from college. While we were gone, a friend from work "decorated" our apartment. When we came back, there was a single tulip in front of the door. She didn't think much of it until she opened the door and discovered flowers everywhere. Over a dozen bouquets of tulips and daffodils, a giant bouquet of roses, roses petals all over the floor and tables, chocolate-covered strawberries and champagne on the dining room table, and "our song" playing in the background. She was totally shocked. I did my little spiel and got down on one knee, dodging her tears that kept pouring down. I've never seen someone that happy. It was so much fun. Her parents and my parents then met us at our apartment to drink champagne and celebrate before we all headed off to her parent's house for the rest of the day. Definitely a memorable, special day."

Um...excuse me? What possible purpose could this note have except to make me feel lousy? I guess I have to figure that he views me as such a selfless, squared-away person that the receipt of a schmaltzy tale lauding his own happiness at the hands of his current woman would do nothing but delight me. I managed a brief, "Congratulations, how exciting" reply before I spent the evening in the BGF Spurned Lovers' Recovery Program: drinking wine and listening to Oingo Boingo. One thing's for certain: I will NOT be saving the date. I guess the lesson learned is to not date jerks. Easier said than done. And to delete emails from people who don't treat you with the respect you deserve. Duh. Anyway, now you've heard 'em all. Cheers!

Change for Change's Sake 2002
So, I moved. Not far. Only about 5 blocks, actually. In fact, I’ve managed to live in San Francisco for 4 years without ever leaving my neighborhood, and never moving more than 5 blocks. When I left my last place, I was determined to try the living alone thing, sure that the self-indulgence of doing everything when I wanted to, exactly how I wanted to, would somehow make me a better person. I think it did, actually. It certainly mellowed me out. If I was depressed, I could cry and sob on the phone to Supermom and no one would hear me. If I wanted to talk to BGF at 1am, I could call him, he could call me back, and no one would be disturbed. I handled all my own bills, bought all my own food--I was the queen of my domain.

But it got lonely. Maybe it’s hanging out with twelve year olds all day, but I craved adult company. I didn’t want to go out so much as I wanted someone to hang out with at home. I started paying bills late every so often, missing one or two, incurring late fees. It’s hard to handle 8 different bills on your own, both financially and just in the sense of managing all that paperwork. And I didn’t like the thought that another mouse could return at any time, and I’d be no closer to handling it properly than I had the first time.

Not to mention the fact that for the exhorbitant dot-com era rent I paid for my studio, I wasn’t getting a whole lot. There wasn’t much evidence that my inflated rent money was paying for building upkeep--my bathroom pipes broke, my light switch ceased working, my heater broke, the crack in my window never got fixed, the hallway rugs were threadbare, the wallpaper was peeling. I lived in a slum for tons of money and it bugged. So, when my friends Captain America and Lacrosse King invited me to share their large flat, I jumped at the chance.

I’ve totally chicked-out the apartment. The place was free of the color pink for several years, but I’ve brought it back with a vengeance. Something about moving in with two guys is making me want to place scented candles all over the bathroom, flowers in the kitchen, and a pink rose comforter cover on my bed. Hope they won’t mind too much--at least the place smells better, and I have a coffeemaker.

So, I’m still single, but at least I can pretend I have two husbands. My students are cool with it, since they got a microwave in our classroom. And they’re making me feel better about yet another dateless Valentine’s birthday by writing happy birthday to me even now--wow, birthday wishes a whole month in advance? What teacher gets that? Now, if only I could get them to write a good persuasive essay...

Happy 2002
I can't quite believe I'm still on vacation, but I'm getting the most out of it, let me tell you. It's New Year's Day, and I wore PJ's till 3pm and completely missed the Rose Parade. That's the sign of a good day right there. New Year's Eve has historically ranked as #1 on my Least Favorite Holidays list, but this year, I nipped expectations in the bud, recognized it as the overrated holiday it is, and stayed at Mom and Dad's. I went to dinner at a friend's, went to a party where I knew no one, went to another party where I knew everyone, and was home by 12:30 (*and* got to drive Supermom's Audi, *and* listen to Radiohead on the cd player).

My friend Rusty claims that the Real Worst Holiday is Valentine's Day, but I disagree on principle, because it's my birthday. This sometimes means that only my parents want to hang out with me, but lately my celebratory crowd has gotten bigger. This year I'm throwing my second annual no-dates-allowed, friendly birthday gathering on V-Day at my local bar. Beers and birthday celebrating. No one to utter the "romance" word. School could be rough this year, what with all those hormones circulating, but I made the kids promise that if we have a Valentine party, I'll get some cards too.

I prepped for New Year's by whining to everyone that the only fun New Year's Eve I've had was when I was eight and prank-called most of the town with my friend Jill, who made a grave error in her prankster's tale by calling someone and saying, "Hi, your cat is stuck up in my lemon tree." The person is supposed to be immediately annoyed and respond, "I don't have a cat," which our hapless target did. However, instead of uttering the expected, "Well, I don't have a lemon tree, haha, bye!" and slamming down the phone, Jill uttered a botched, "Well, I don't have a cherry tree, haha, bye!" at which we all broked down in hysterics and ordered Domino's pizza. Those poor kids these days, with Caller ID. Drag.

I also prepped for New Year's by driving Grandma and Grandpa back to Fullerton, CA, from whence they hail, with Superdad. We had a rocky start, driving in pouring rain and listening to Enya and Gregorian chants on repeat, but once I got the seatwarmers adjusted and we stopped at Andersen's Pea Soup place in lovely Buellton, CA for Monte Cristo sandwiches and milkshakes, we were all happier. We dropped off the grandparents, checked into the local motel, and after a workout and some TV, grabbed In-N-Out burgers and toured the lights of Fullerton. It didn't disappoint. One street had a full Nativity Scene out front, another an American flag in lights--it was impressive. Seeing as that's probably where we're spending Christmas next year, we thought we'd stake out downtown and see what there'd be to do. We're gonna be just fine. After all, Disneyland is just a short drive away, and there aren't any lines for the Peter Pan ride in winter!

I got home on Sunday, and immediately headed up to the city for BGF's semiannual Foreplay Party. It's his New Year's Eve Eve Party, the king of fetes. I brought artichoke dip and hot chicks, his friends brought filo pastries and baklava--it didn't suck! Then my crew and I went to Cha Cha Cha in the mission because it was the only bar with people in it, and headed home.

New Year's Eve, I kicked off my resolution early by doing a training run down to the beach and back and scoping Ocean Beach apartments. Later, I finally saw Fellowship of the Ring even though I'm still stuck on Book 2 of the story. I love Tolkien and Elijah Wood with equal passion, so I'll be seeing the movie several times, I have a feeling. The funniest part of the movie was when Catwoman, my viewing companion, and I had to move due to the smelly sneakers hanging over the railing behind us. As we scurried to a seat farther back in the theater, Catwoman hissed to the owner of the sneakers, "Your feet really stink!" The girl waited for us as the credits rolled, presumably ready to rumble, but we snuck out the back door. Ha! Safe.

I'm looking forward to doing some dating this year (no kidding!), and cultivating my friendships, and running, as usual. Those are my resolutions, and I plan to keep 'em. So now you know. Good luck, faithful readers, with your resolutions, and Happy 2002!

Happy Christmakah 2001
After properly kicking off the first night of Chanukah at the Neil Diamond concert (thanks to the generosity of my fabulous friend Marta), I made it through the caffeinated, sugar-laden two weeks until the school holiday break. I thought my students were going to either break everything in the classroom or kill each other, so wired were they about their impending two weeks off. I finally resigned myself to the power of the VCR and let them watch movies (but they had to take notes) for the last two days of school. They repaid me with gifts, goodbye hugs, and some really fabulous Poetry Anthology projects that I just finished grading. That's the only work I've done. Considering I haven't had a holiday vacation since December 1997, I'm feeling pretty relaxed.

I will say that I could have used a bit more pre-Christmas planning and activity time. True to form, I did most of my shopping Thanksgiving weekend and then left the family gifts till Christmas Eve. Superbro and I like to shop Christmas Eve since things are often going on sale already and everyone's nice since they know they only have 2 more hours till they're off work. We were on the edge this year, though--Nordstrom closed right after we left, the stores in downtown Los Altos were already closed by the time we got there, and the Crate and Barrel people were laughing at us as we frantically pounded on the locked doors in a desparate attempt to get Grandma some mugs. We settled for a bathrobe and an ornament and called it a day.

My family always gets Chinese food either Christmas Eve or the day before that. I inevitably end up picking it up, since everyone else has put in their time with other chores and I'm a slacker, plus I enjoy the chance to tour the kitschy Los Altos lighting displays and check out all the other folks getting Chinese before the holiday. One year I told my dad I'd go, "but only if I can take my drink with me." He was cool with that but made me finish it in the car--I guess it's bad form to carry your kir into a restaurant. Huh. This year at Chef Chu's, Superbro and I ran into some high school friends who were also picking up take-out--that's fun, catching up with friends who are also back in town for the holidays.

Post-Christmas, you're tired and you feel like you have to get productive again for at least the few days till you can get wasted on New Year's Eve. However, my family is pretty darn good at random forms of entertainment, so in addition to the twelve rounds of Scattergories we played after Christmas dinner, we also played two separate games of Scrabble and countless hands of Solitaire (regular and double). I read 6 books and caught up on my New Yorker reading, I ran, I lifted, I played with my cats. Just a good old time in Los Altos!

It was amusing to come back to the city and contrast the small-scale decorating I did in my apartment with the major amounts of Christmas decor at Mom and Dad's. I got a lightweight Charlie-Brown-tree-on-a-wood-stand this year after learning my lesson with the "living Christmas tree" I hauled up from Roberts' Hardware last year. That tree lasted until March (I liked the lights and the smell, OK?), when I asked my friend Sarah to take care of it (she has a backyard). Not only had I molded my apartment floor, but Sarah subsequently killed the tree by not watering it. Oh well. This year's tree is darling and has just enough branch space for all my weird ornaments. I'd better take it down soon, though--it's becoming a fire hazard.

I decorated with Supermom this year for the first time in a while (there's something about teaching that's making me a little more Martha-Stewart-y than usual). I had to restrain her a bit, though--we had some pretty "busy" shelves there for a minute. In the end, in spite of me stealing all her snowmen for my room (I have snowman flannel sheets and decided to give the whole room a "theme") and putting the Nativity Scene (which, incidentally, I saw in an antique store in my neighborhood last week) in "the wrong place," the house looked fantastic. We reminisced about the little wooden tree I'd decorated with her when I was two, the year the tree fell down and my then ten-year-old brother calmly put it back up while the two of us wept, and the year our dog ate all the feet off one of the lambs in the Nativity Scene.

I only made it to one holiday party a weekend, due to my "Teacher's Fatigue," and was really bummed to miss my friends' annual tree-trimming and latke fest due to Bay Bridge traffic that screwed up all of 101, but basically it was a great holiday season. Drama-free this year, and really quite cozy. Happy Christmakah to all, and to all a good night!

Money Sure Doesn't Buy Happiness 2001
Now that I've left one sector for another, I've gone low-tech (this includes losing the column I wrote 3 weeks ago). I wasn't unemployed three weeks when I got a call from an administrator of the teaching credential program I'll start in January, wondering if I'd be interested in a job teaching seventh-grade English at a middle school in San Bruno. They needed to replace a teacher suddenly and had contacted my program to see if there were any early admits who might be available, since all the fall-term students had already been placed in internships for several months.

While at first I was reluctant to relinquish the additional two months of freedom I'd been counting on, I had to admit that I was already getting antsy about not working. After all, I was a dot-commer long enough to hunger for really challenging work, and taking more time off was only going to delay the change I was desparate for. It was time to get my hands dirty at a job that would inspire me. When I looked at the practical fact that some teaching experience prior to beginning my credential work would be a fantastic opportunity, the decision became clear-cut. I took the job.

Serendipitously enough, my first day as a teacher was by far the best first day I've ever had at anything. It's been three weeks, and I feel like I've finally landed the job I've wanted my whole life. I haven't had a moment of feeling uncomfortable or insecure. I'm thriving on the relationships I'm building with my students and colleagues, and my excitement about teaching literature and writing every day. My days fly by, and as hard as I work, I love almost every minute. I really do love every kid, too, even when they behave badly or whine about my homework assignments. I love that my work is so tied to my life. Every time I think about something that would be fun to do, like make a zine or burn some CD's to donate to a homeless shelter, I think of ways to involve my students in the project. I think we're going to do both things for the holidays, and I've already spent part of Thanksgiving weekend grading the storybooks they made of scenes from Midsummer Night's Dream.

The best thing about my career change is how little the drastic salary cut I've taken affects me emotionally. Sure, there are surprise costs, like a $100 charge for prescriptions at Walgreens when my former company's COBRA benefits administrator flaked on our coverage, and a $200 cel phone bill for all those calls I made and received while I was unemployed and "vacationing," but I dealt with it. I marinated my slick silver cel phone in Gatorade during the Silicon Valley Half Marathon (in my shorts-vs.-running tights quandary, I neglected to screw on the lid properly), so I've reverted to the old clunker cel phone I got 4 years ago instead of buying a new one, a paradox I find terribly amusing. My Palm Pilot, un-synced for several weeks and low on battery power, died (after I'd transferred all pertinent phone, address, and email data into my new Mary Englebreit address book, fortunately), and will not be replaced. These are accessories for the wired woman, and they don't matter in the long run. I haven't totally become a neo-Luddite; I have an iMac and T-1 line in my classroom (public school enters the 21st Century!), and at home I have an iBook, thanks to Supermom and Superdad, who felt guilty for making me spend my college years trying to run Stanford Ethernet on a Mac Classic.

I view my financial transition as a lifestyle change to accomodate my new career. It's also an adaptation to today's economy. I'm pretty pleased that I did things the way I did--caught the tech boom on the upswing, and burned out on the downswing in time to make a really great career change. My mantra when I decided I would need to leave the corporate sector and go into public service was always "It's not about the money," and that rings even truer now that I've made the career change. Working in the corporate sector gave me confidence that I'm worth a certain amount of money and stock options to some companies, but I've chosen to do something more meaningful. I wouldn't trade this job for anything.

New Career Path 2001
Last night I was watching the news with Supermom, as I'm in the habit of doing these days, and apparently we really ARE in a recession (no way): "The numbers of people submitting unemployment claims has increased," said the newscaster. My mom giggled and poked me, because I am now, after years of productive contributions to our once flourishing, now floundering, economy, unemployed. A "drain on the system," if you will.

As Spacegirl put it the day I got laid off, "getting laid off is the thing to do these days." I didn't expect it to happen right now, but who does? One moment I was running home with my laptop per doctor's orders to take Zithromax for the surprise case of bronchitis I'd developed, and 24 hours later, I was trading the aforementioned laptop for my John Hancock and desk décor with my (now former) boss.

For some folks getting laid off these days, it's a fearful, horrible thing to experience, and I feel for them. They have families, houses, things they need an income to retain, or even just the petrifying fear of not being able to find another job no matter how hard they try. In my case, I'm 26 and single with, yes, an overpriced studio apartment, but also decent savings and a spartan tendency to live like the grad student I was fairly recently. But the real reason I'm doing just fine with the fact that my life suddenly changed forever is that I'd been in a career quandary for quite some time.

Learning I have a chronic health condition was only one step in my developing awareness that I needed to move away from the corporate rat race toward a more community-oriented career. The more I volunteered to make myself feel involved in my community and like I was giving back some of the privileges I'd experienced, the more it whetted my appetite to do something more generous in my day-to-day work. The events of September 11 made me reevaluate my life even further, because I realized how precious each day is and how important it is to me to be fully invested in my job. By the end of September, I had basically concluded that I got no soulful rewards from my job and that it was time for a change. While I loved the people and product and would have stayed devotedly as long as they'd have me, getting laid off merely dislodged me from my comfort zone and sent me in a new direction that it was high time I pursued.

Immediately after I was laid off, I applied to a teaching credential program and began sending feelers out to teacher friends about potential jobs. I've already got quite a few leads and plan to start both school and teaching in January. Knowing that I've got a commitment in 2002 makes it easy to enjoy the next month or so of freedom. I haven't taken more than a few weeks of vacation since, well, the summer after sixth grade, and it's heady to know that I can stay up as late as I want, work out most of the day, and no longer worry about carpal tunnel. I spent my first week off at the beach every day, the second watching movies and reading everything I could get my hands on, the third with pink hair, wild fashion, and a slight hangover, and the past one in suburbia with mom and dad (free food and laundry, not to mention the great company), getting an even better tan than the one from Baker Beach and practically forgetting the name of the company I used to work for.

I think that now is the time to truly live in the present moment. It's become even more obvious in the past month that it is all we have. I'm devoting myself to complete enjoyment of my loved ones and this incredible gift of free time, while preparing myself to serve my community as a teacher in a few short months. It's exciting and incredibly validating to hear my friends and acquaintances overwhelmingly celebrate my decision to teach.

BGF, with typical wisdom and sensitivity, made one of the most beautiful comments I've heard recently: "I think society is repairing itself in the midst of the dot-com fallout, never mind the aftermath of September 11. Educated, bright, experienced folks like you and my friend Lisa are going into teaching, others into public service. It's an amazing time."

When I think of the excess in which I lived just a few years ago, I know that BGF is right. My friend from Egreetings and I are both unemployed currently, she because of an illness we suspect is chronic fatigue syndrome. As we wander the City neighborhoods and reflect on life, relationships, and our own hard work toward self-improvement and mental and physical health, we remember back to our dot-com days. Reminiscing about how hard we worked, how many plans we made, and how much we drank, we're relieved that it's all over. Fortunately for us as individuals and "us" as a society, the days of 3 dot-com parties a night, rich dinners and multiple eight-dollar drinks at Zodiac, XYZ or Mercury are over. Inflated money flooded local restaurants and now that it's gone, they're emptier. That part makes me worry for their owners, but I still feel that all this change is for the better. Jumping off the dot-com treadmill of big important titles, matching salaries, and senses of entitlement that were larger than the Egreetings building at 149 New Montgomery was the best thing we ever did.

San Francisco was not meant to be a city of yuppies and SUVs-it was meant to house people of all races and socioeconomic backgrounds, to reflect the spectrum of political and social thinking I hear around me as I sit in Reverie Coffee Café or wander the Mission. And I think-I dearly hope-that it is returning to that state. I'll be working hard to ensure the education and well-being of its citizens, and I know that I am not the only one.

Little Drummer Girl 2001
My musical muse was Animal from the Muppets. My family made the grave error of taking me to The Muppet Movie when I was 5, and I sat entranced through the last scene in which Animal bangs on his drums like the crazy mofo he is. At that moment, my fate was sealed. When I could play an instrument, I would play the drums.

It took a long time for me to become a drummer, unfortunately. There was a brief stint on bongos in my second grade African history celebration, but mostly I was forced through the motions of singing in class, playing flutaphone in fourth grade with a tyrant of a music teacher (I guess that's what happens when your career is teaching a small plastic instrument to a bunch of adolescents), and listening with envy to the neighbor kid playing his drum set at night when I was trying to go to sleep. I kept whining to my mom that I wanted to play drums, but I think she was hoping I'd forget about it if she distracted me with enough other instruments. I mean, what parent really wants their child to play an instrument that loud?

I paid my dues, though. After my forced flutaphone indoctrination and 2 years of piano lessons, I was allowed to take music in school. At last, I thought! Not so fast. Turns out drums, like the brass instruments, were regarded as being "more challenging" -- you needed a year on another instrument first. I was disappointed, but I sucked it up and played flute for all of fifth grade. I ended up liking it enough to keep playing until seventh grade, but my enjoyment of flute paled in comparison to my passion for the drums, which, after endless cajoling, my mom let me learn via private lessons in sixth grade. I LOVED it. I practiced all the time on my little rubber practice pad, learning my rudiments before I took my skills to the drum set. My school music teacher saw my excitement and let me play drums with the fifth grade concert band. In seventh grade, my parents and music teacher agreed to let me drop flute and take up drums full-time. I felt like I'd finally arrived.

My enthusiasm for drums never waned. Because I was musically trained and a good student, all the music teachers sought me out as a percussion accompanist. I played with the concert band, the orchestra, the choir, and the jazz band. Not only did I play bass drum, snare, and drum set, I mastered random stuff like chimes, wood blocks, and triangle. Percussion was my domain.

My first moment of true drumming glory came in eighth grade. My parents, comfortable by then with the image of their small blonde daughter as a drummer, sold my flute to pay for a drum kit. I played every day. Our jazz band was playing some old 70's rock piece with a drum riff in it at the school assembly, and I was so nervous about my solo. I was going to be playing BY MYSELF in front of the entire school. Once we launched into the song, I did what I always do when I play-- focused on the music I knew so well and the drums that I loved, and when my solo came up, I whaled. I'll never forget those cheers and kids afterward telling me I was totally cool. I realized then how good it feels to do something for the sake of doing it (march to the beat of your own drum, if you will), and become your own person in the process.

When I became a snare drummer in my high school marching band, I realized how different it really was to be a chick drummer. I was the only girl-and the only A student-in the drum section. When I was a senior, my nickname was "mom" because I was the section leader (and the only responsible one in the lot). We always had fun, but sometimes, when I watched the cute flag girls dance around and my flute-playing girlfriends bond, I felt disconnected, and wondered if I, too, should be carrying a flag or flute instead of a drum harness. I always came back to the fact that drumming was a huge part of my identity and something I had worked so hard at for so long, and I never quit. Not even during the section practice when the guys all took their shirts off and our leering instructor said to me, "Hey, maybe you should take your shirt off." I laughed weakly, shame and anger seeping through my pores, not, at 14, knowing how to respond.

I kept at it, teaching myself to play Timpanis (the big kettle drums), and winning the sole percussion spot in the pit orchestra for the school musical. I got asked out a lot-being a chick drummer holds a certain je ne sais pas quoi for 18-year old boys, apparently-and I remember the confidence I had in myself, and the feeling of excitement I carried with me, knowing I'd learn something new every day that I played.

Sophomore year, the sax player I was crushing on asked me if I played set, and I said yes, why?

"Well, my band needs a drummer. Are you good?" (Always answer yes to this question.)

"Yeah, I can play anything."

"Well, why don't you come by our practice next Wednesday."

I went. I had to look up the guitarist and keyboard player in the yearbook first, since I'd never heard of them, and when the guitarist met me, he almost fell over. I guess he was expecting some little punk and was a bit surprised to see a blonde student-government type in a flowered wool sweater. We went over to the keyboard player's house to listen to Pink Floyd, and our band was born. We played together for a year before they all went to college (I was only a sophomore). I went to the guitarist's senior prom, briefly dated the sax player, and attended the keyboardist's wedding last summer. We'd get together and jam when they came back from college/the Air Force and only stopped playing when I started college myself.

In college, I joined "The World's Largest Rock 'n Roll Band," more commonly known as the Leland Stanford Junior University Marching Band (LSJUMB), an irreverent, hilarious group of misfits who consume "The Breakfast of Champions"--beer and donuts--at 7am Saturday football halftime show rehearsal and throw raging parties (I got a black eye from a flying champagne cork at one party). The drummers taught me to learn music by ear, and, when I rattled off my credentials (drummer since age 11, section leader in high school marching band), smirked and said, "We can help with that." What they meant was that I'd never have to march again. The Stanford band never moves and plays at the same time-they scatter into (usually offensive) formations on the field, then "rock out" to the music. We played everything, from 70's hits like Frankenstein (which has a great drum solo) to No Doubt. I played-and partied-with them for five years.

After college, I was unsure for the first time about my future as a drummer. I'd have moments of yearning for my drums, and moved them into my San Francisco apartment for a while, but finally I decided that I needed to focus on my writing now rather than music. I sold my drum set before leaving on a trip to Europe, and when I returned, I told everyone my drumming days were over.

But then, six months later, at a show for my friend's band, I met a musician. We started talking about his newest project and my drumming. I'm not sure if he wanted a drummer or a girlfriend, but when our dating relationship went nowhere, we started a band. Playing with Morningside was like coming home. I was a drummer again, and I clung to that rediscovered part of my identity. 20 of my friends came to our first show at El Rio. I played perfectly and that night was one of the best of my life.

But nothing stays the same for long when you're 26 in San Francisco-especially in the world of music. Our lead singer moved in with his girlfriend and put the drums in storage, the bassist went to Sweden, and I got diagnosed with a chronic condition that waylaid me for months. Still, as I reflect upon my identity, it becomes pointless to think of myself as anything other than a drummer girl. Drumming has taken me places I never thought I'd go, and I know I'll pick up my sticks again soon.

Tragedy 2001
I find it ironic that I was singing the praises of air travel just a few weeks ago and am now afraid to get on a plane anytime soon. Maybe I, like Alanis Morissette, just misused the term "ironic," but I'm willing to take the fall for that one. What I'm not willing to do is remain silent on the topic of what happened to our country on September 11. I've read some truly inspiring and insightful commentary on the disaster, from Adair Lara's insightful column in the San Francisco Chronicle last Friday, to a letter that a friend forwarded me detailing one Afghan-American's fears about what a third world war would do to the already-suffering Afghani people and would not do to the tyrannical Taliban. I've read Jerry Fallwell's ludicrous argument that homosexuality and the absence of school prayer (how the two can be causally linked on the same piece of paper is beyond me) are to blame for Tuesday's tragedy. And now, I feel it is my job as a writer to comment further.

I am grieving the loss of some 5,000 people the same way I grieved the death of my grandmother seven months ago. The two situations are not similar; I knew of my grandmother's cancer and was prepared for her death. Tuesday's disaster shocked me awake on Tuesday morning and I'm still processing it, and I do not yet know of any specific people connected to me that perished. I am over here on the West Coast, safe (for now) inside my small world—but oh, so affected. The stages I've gone through, and the fundamental way that I feel about death, is exactly the way I felt last March. As with every death I've ever experienced, one moment I feel fine, present in my life and able to forget what has happened…and then there are the moments that feel incredibly sad and painful. And it will be much easier for me, so far away, to go on with my life. Except that no one knows yet exactly how our lives really will be affected. An entire nation—really, an entire world, as I saw from some photos a friend sent me from around the world—is in mourning, and will be for quite some time. If I extend my own feelings to a much larger scale, I can begin to conceptualize what is happening on my planet right now.

What I can't conceptualize is how we are going to handle this. I have a certain political opinion with regard to that, but I tend to be more practical in my response to things than theoretical. So it's hard for me to get my head around why a war is a reasonable political move, when I don't want my little brother to get drafted. My mental wheels are turning on that level—and I certainly support the freedoms of this country for discussion and dissension to occur around this situation—but for now, I'm having an easier time coping with this tragedy on an emotional level.

I have already experienced some amazing things. I have seen random people in the street ask each other how they are and truly mean it. I have met more folks in my apartment building this week than I have in a year, because I think we all recognize that living alone is, well, lonely at a time like this! I have connected with friends on a new level, talking about our families, our friends, our deepest feelings, our political viewpoints. I have examined and learned about how I respond to tragic events. I even got a guy's email address at a party Saturday night just to see if I could…there is something about world tragedy that makes petty things like hitting on people seem really simple.

The stories I've heard about people bonding before getting on the plane flights they had to take to get home, and the connections I've been seeing people make this week have restored my faith in humanity, shaken so brutally Tuesday morning. SF's favorite DJ, Spesh, made my week last Wednesday at 111 Minna—he sent an email to the regulars saying that they'd be "open for hugs"—and sure enough, there was a lot of love going around, and an incredible energy generated by all of us dancing our hearts out that has got to be able to be generated for a positive worldwide cause.

Let's remember the goal of Tuesday's attack—to generate hate—and rise above it. Let's continue to be good to each other, reaffirm our belief in true freedom, and take care of each other. Peace and love to all.

It's Gotta Be the Shoes 2001
I was at 111 Minna with BGF last week when he and three of my girlfriends pointed out some random guy and said; "There's Supergirl's next boyfriend, right there." The guy was built, wearing a tank top and long hair, kind of swarthy. I didn't get it. What about him screamed "my type?" They said, "Artsy, bohemian, athletic, here." It's true that Minna supplies a truckload of eye candy every week, but I was baffled as to why this fellow (who was so NOT who I was noticing at that moment) had made their list.

After that initial burp, we got on track when I pointed out my current crush: tall, nicely dressed, not too trendy, gorgeous eyes, warm smile, and friendly. BGF was like, "Ohhhh, of COURSE." Catwoman was like, "He kind of reminds me of your dad." Butterfly Girl said, "Aww, he dresses cute!" Overwhelming approval all around.

That weekend, I was at a party, checking out the only cute boy in attendance. He had the dark baggy jeans/black sweater thing goin' on, but the clincher was the shoes--totally hip. When I called BGF Sunday morning to report that I'd not only brazenly introduced myself to him but also closed the deal by snagging his email address, BGF naturally wanted to know if this fellow was of upstanding moral character. I replied, "He's cool, he's a writer too, he has great taste--in books AND clothes. He had really dope shoes." BGF responded, "Oh, right. Shoes first, face later."

It's true. While BGF touts himself as a "face first, body second" kind of guy, there is no doubt that I'm a "shoes first, face later" kind of gal. Someone can be dumb as a box of rocks, but if they've got rad shoes, I'm all ears. BGF appreciates this, considering the fact that I dress him (and yes, he has Gravis, Acupuncture, and New Balance. We're working on the Diesel.).

But lest you think me superficial, I'll be quick to note that I've learned my lesson. Just as BGF, bless his heart, recognizes that pretty is as pretty does, I understand that it's the guys in T-shirts and baggy jeans whose emotional availability and combined understanding of science, music and feminist theory will make my heart go pitter-patter in the long run. I guess as long as I realize that I can have my eye candy while I look for Mr. Right, it's cool. Would it be appropriate to say, then, that ultimately, barefoot is what I'm into? I suppose so.

R.I.P. Breakup Girl 2001
Once upon a time, my friend's heart got broken, and to console herself, she web surfed until she found the best antidote to a broken heart: breakupgirl.com. She has since moved in with her boyfriend, but Supergirl, not as lucky in love, has relied on Breakup Girl for consolation through countless breakups (and minor disses, insults, and so forth) ever since. I read the site religiously every week. I downloaded the screensaver. I bought the Breakup Girl books. I gave them as gifts. My friend Captain America started quoting, "Is your baggage your own? Did you pack it yourself?" to me all the time.

And then, disaster struck in my (Internet) world. Breakup Girl got bought by Oxygen Media. The content was still sharp and witty, but there were meaningless links that led to even lamer promotions. Gradually, even the content started getting dumbed down. I think they were trying to appeal to the at one time worshipped Teen Market, because suddenly, instead of good twentysomething breakup advice, every item was about how to ask the cute guy in Biology to the prom. Gradually, my favorite web site became Marketing Hell.

Things have gotten worse. Now, I cannot even get directly to http://www.breakupgirl.com. A month ago, when I went to Oxygen.com to search for her, I noticed they'd taken her font and some other design elements and used them on their site! Now, I see that Oxygen has redesigned, but they're still using her stuff at the top of their category pages. Creepy. She's nowhere to be found on the Oxygen site main navigation, and when I search for her, I'm even more dismayed. She's the first result, at http://o2simplify.oxygen.com/fun_travel/lifestyle/ft_ls_003.html, just one paltry page remaining of the famous Breakup Girl. And the other search results are like leafing through Cosmo: "Teenage Breakup Blues," "Can't Move On After The Breakup," "Casual Sex After The Breakup." I think I might puke. Or cry.

Keeping my head up (I'm a Survivor!), I make a last-ditch effort to find her on Yahoo. Someone called "Breakup Girl" is now giving advice to teens in the Miss Click area of Chick Click, but gone is the original Breakup Girl's salty, sarcastic tone. Now it's all about girl power and bubblegum. I'm too old and cranky for that stuff-at least where my dating life is concerned. I scroll to the bottom and am horrified, appalled, scandalized and furious to find out that two kids named Keisa and Tony are writing teen relationship advice under the Breakup Girl heading. NOT OK.

Getting Frantic, I return to Yahoo. There she is, the REAL Breakup Girl, Lynn Harris, but it looks like only articles about her book (with illustrator Chris Kalb, co-creator of Breakup Girl) are listed. I find one page on her on Oxygen's site, but it's an old article and none of the links go anywhere. I just hope that Lynn and Chris are finding fame, fortune, or at least happiness wherever they are. And in memory of Breakup Girl, I hope to offer something close to the humor and intelligence she offered…yeah, right.

R.I.P., Breakup Girl. I miss you a whole lot more than you know.

Go Ahead, Make My Day 2001
Let's give a little shoutout to all the people in the City that make our lives pleasant. I went in to work late after a doctor appointment, and as I pulled into my usual parking lot in SoMa with trepidation (I usually get turned away at the 11 o'clock hour), the parking lot guy, whom I've become friendly with, waved at me cheerfully. I called out, "is the lot full?" and he responded, "for you, we always have room!" Then he complimented my glasses, as he does every time I park there, and told me to "have a nice day, honey." This guy makes me so happy in the morning that I treat myself to a drive to work at least once a week. It's the least I can do for myself after suffering on Muni (so far this month, I've been witness to several brawls, several people falling over and hurting themselves when bus drivers took off like bats out of hell from a stop, been fondled by nasty men, and had way too many crazy, smelly people sit next to me to NOT feel sorry for myself riding the damn thing). And in me, he has an eternally loyal customer.

Other folks on the list include the security guards at my workplace, the guys at Mondo Café who call me "Bella," my neighborhood cleaners who always have a smile, the guys at the convenience store who always ask me how the running's going, and the folks at the gym who call me by name. And heck, while I'm at it, here's to my friends at work who listen to me rant, ramble or gush, depending on the day, my other friends who read my email diatribes during the day, and Supermom, who puts up with way more crap than she needs to. Happy Mother's Day (and birthday!), Supermom! You're the bomb.

Sometimes I forget to count my blessings, and each of those people is a little blessing making my life a pretty good one. What do you really need besides low-maintenance, low-drama folks that brighten your day? I like that I have the time, too, to interact with them regularly and keep close tabs on all my friends, as well. Being single means your life is a rich tapestry, full of people and activities.

When I'm in a bad mood, I can't deal with people, really. I'd rather just hide in my apartment drinking wine, go for a run alone, or play drums (hitting things is always good). But when I'm in a good mood, which fortunately is more of the time, I really like people. I think they're interesting, and usually they have pretty fascinating backgrounds and ways of thinking. Even people that drive me nuts/piss me off/give me that snarky-chick "what are YOU wearing" up-and-down look have intriguing motivations that I like to deconstruct. I feel like I'm a good listener, and give decent advice, because I'm interested in what people have to say and genuinely want to help them out. Which occasionally makes me wonder if I should be a therapist and not a writer, but that's another column. Thank you to everyone who is nice out there (it does not go unnoticed). And perhaps the rest of us should take a deep breath and remember that cheesy email forwarded about choosing to be in a good mood, and put it into practice.

Superbro's Guide to the Universe 2001
Superbro is back to his theories. This is fortunate for me, since I've been suffering from writer's block and a packed social calendar. Oh yeah, and I have a job, too. This appears to be news to my recently laid-off friends, who get to spend time suntanning on weekdays. They can't figure out why I don't call. Well, that's because I spend 10 hours a day at WORK, working. My fellow employed friend and I make ourselves feel better with the following list of reasons we're glad we have jobs:

1) money
2) no homework
3) 8 hours a day on email

In a tribute to the unemployed, I attended the Egreetings closing party last week, which felt like my high school reunion (in a good way). I saw people I had kind of forgotten about and enjoyed catching up with everyone and finding out what interesting things all those creative, bright people have been up to. Highlights were the flattering drunken confessions I got from a few guys, giggling with girlfriends, and an amusing moment when I caught the eye of a familiar looking guy, only to recognize him as the former employee my friend had introduced me to at a party once, who freaked out on me when I didn't want to be his girlfriend after date #3. Understandably, I rapidly looked away, pretending I hadn't noticed him. I refer to this maneuver as the "eye-lock-and-dodge." You glance around a room, lock eyes by accident with an ex, freeze momentarily in shock and horror, but manage to look away as casually as if he was a passing hors d'ouvre, keeping the knowledge of his evilness to yourself (or whichever hapless girlfriend happens to be standing with you as you mutter under your breath).

But I was going to address Superbro's theories, not mine. The boy's been busy, squeezing time to philosophize in between bouts of Saving the World. He's provided me with some great pointers of late (How do you show a boy that you like him? Play with your hair but not too much; smile and laugh a lot; bake him cookies). I tested the cookie theory on my band, and sure enough, it worked! I've never seen boys so delighted, and they didn't even have pot in them! I got hugs and adoration for the entire practice.

But Superbro, as we all well know, possesses brilliance beyond simple mating tips. Back in January, he originated the theory of the IRH, or Intense Relationship Hangover. Sufferers of this malady typically date women who look exactly like their exes (see EGV, below) and then dump them without warning to date the exact opposite type. Or, they date the exact opposite and then return to the type they've always dated. Or, they're just puddles on the ground and not good for anything.

The EGV, or Ex-Girlfriend Vibe, is often exhibited by victims of IRH. These folks either consistently date women who all look and act alike, or trip out when they meet a person that reminds them of their ex. I did this for a while with guys until I realized that my exes were all assholes. Then I was "the only blonde" a few guys had ever been with…and the last. Then I met the ex of an ex, and she's my twin. There's something weird going on here genetically, but I have neither the energy nor the biochemical know-how to decipher it. That's Superbro's job.

Speaking of, Superbro has recently developed the concept of the RII: Relationship Incongruency Index. This is an index from -5 to 5, measured by the attractiveness of the woman involved. The concept was developed when theorists wanted to measure the strangeness of hot guys hanging out with unattractive girls, and vice versa. So, if the chick is really hot, say, a 5, but her boyfriend is really not, (-5), their RII is 10. If both parties are equally hot/equally not, they'd get a 0. And so forth.

While we're developing the glossary, we might as well address the Big Mac of relationship terms: DTR, or Define the Relationship. Normally used in everyday speech by women only, it's time guys got into the act here and learned how to use it. Contextual Example A: Supergirl's friend IM's Supergirl at work. "So, it's my 4-month anniversary with Sven. We're going out for dinner, and I just really want to know what's going on with us, you know? Do you think it's cool to DTR?" Supergirl's response: "No, I'd wait until he brings it up. Better not to talk about the relationship and just focus on having one." Contextual Example B: Email from Supergirl's friend to Supergirl: "Ohmygod, Julio DTR'd me AT THE CLUB last night! What a dweeb! We're dancing, and he's like, 'I just need to know if you're seeing other people.'" Supergirl's response: "Weak. Dump him."

Supergirl DTR mantra: Don't discuss the relationship. Have one.

Note: The DTR can also take on noun form and become the RDT, or Relationship-Defining Talk. Equally frightening, yet necessary at times, the RDT should only be undertaken when both parties are really psyched on each other and equally to have an exclusive relationship (or, to use a more archaic dating term commonly referenced by Supermom, "Go Steady"). Incidentally, Superdad tends to stay out of these discussions.

In conclusion, Supergirl will be going forward with her dating life mollified by the knowledge that at least lameness is classifiable, ready to bake cookies in a single bound, and satisfied that giggling counts for something.

Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down 2001
I thought I was having a bad week when my car got towed last Tuesday. After calling a friend to ask for guidance to the mysterious world of San Francisco towing, I made my way via bus and on foot to The City Tow, determined to be chill about the whole debacle. There was a hot guy in line, which helped, and turns out my car was towed for being in a "Tow Zone," not that there was any signage or anything else, save the rather short length of the "parking space" I foolishly left my car in for 2 days (well, one, because it was towed almost immediately), so I only had to fork out $100. I say "only $100," because I've budgeted that much per month for random parking fees since I moved to the city and could barely make rent. I strolled around the corner to rescue my car, windshield marred with incriminating yellow crayon detailing the date and number of the tow, and met some souls more pathetic than I, who had done things like park in driveways. I even made it to work at a reasonable hour.

My relief at having the towing expedition solved relatively painlessly was dashed to bits when I got a phone call at 4:30 Wednesday that my grandmother had passed away. There is something about a family tragedy that sobers you up immediately. All concerns that seemed serious (like the fact that later that day my hairstylist cut off all my hair and now I look 16) pale in comparison. I was shocked to hear the news. I'm not sure why, as my grandma had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer about 6 months ago. Maybe it's simply that you're never ready to hear news like that. This was my first grandparent to pass. At 26, I feel incredibly blessed that I've known my grandparents into my adult life. But I'd always imagined that I'd have all of them present at my wedding, and it just felt like there was suddenly this void in my family.

The sadness I felt was the kind of thing you know you'll survive-unlike other depressions I've had where I've wondered if I'd ever get out. But I knew I couldn't go to work the day after I heard the news (I was literally on my way there but couldn't stop crying, so got onto the freeway instead of Folsom and headed down to see my family). I felt better after some downtime, and felt strong as I went to LA for the funeral.

I love my family, and it's always exciting to get everyone together, so I was interested to feel excitement instead of the dread I'd expected in anticipation of the first funeral I've ever attended. What was great was that my parents really had their emotions squared away. They were both really positive and their tone extended to my brother and me. My dad's brothers were having a harder time, I think. We had a few awkward minutes before leaving for the church, but I think everyone was ok once the service was over-relieved, I imagine. They were even cracking jokes.

Before the service, my mom, brother and I stood up front greeting everyone who came in and minding the guest book, which I think set people at ease and cultivated a positive tone. I was amazed at the crowd-some 100 people came to celebrate my grandma's life. That was a really beautiful thing. I choked up a few times-when her friends told me how proud she was of me, or how sorry they were. But that was par for the course, and in a way I embraced that teary feeling. A coworker and friend of mine lost her sister very suddenly last year, and I remember having a very frank conversation with her when I asked her if it helped to talk about it or not. And she said that absolutely the best thing was to talk about it. Because no matter how much it made her cry, it also helped her honor her sister's memory and survive her own pain. Now I truly understand what she meant-being able to express all of your feelings after someone you love has died is simply part of living. I'm so grateful to my friends, all of whom, when told about my loss, offered shoulders, hands, wisdom, colder, and all kinds of love.

I had been thinking that funerals were an unnecessarily depressing rite. But after my grandmother's, I view them as a very significant step in the celebration of life. They're a time to gather family and friends to celebrate together what that person meant to you. That realization turned it into a positive experience for me. At the reception afterwards, I delightedly watched as my grandpa knocked back martinis, ate roast beef, and enjoyed his family and friends. We all agreed at the end of the day that it was exactly what my grandma would have wanted. That's important, too-just like a wedding should be what the bride and groom want, a funeral should be what the person it honors would have wanted, or as close as you can get. It was hard to say goodbye to everyone. I hurt for my grandpa, that he's suddenly on his own after 61 years of spending most of his time with someone he loved. But all I can do is move forward proactively-more time at the beach, visiting him, for me-and give back to him the love and generosity he and my grandma showed me my whole life.

Family is amazing. It seems like there's always an opportunity to repair, or cultivate, a relationship. I guess that's how all relationships among humans are, really. Sometimes you have to let people go, and sometimes you have to reach toward someone who's fallen and help get them back on their feet again. In the circle of life, they'll do the same for you someday.

Re: Email Breakups 2001
A friend of mine just had the most horrific thing I've ever heard of happen to him on email. He'd been dating a girl he was really into, and she was giving him the cold shoulder. His fourth date with her ended at 9:30pm, generally a Bad Sign, and he got kind of a cold email from her the next day. Frustrated and hurt (I know this; he only admitted it later), and doing the thing guys do when they get blown off (compete with their male friends for who can be funnier--but also meaner), he did what he thought (subconsciously) was a harmless thing to do. He composed an email to his best guy friend. It read: "I got this this morning after a very dull date last night which ended early...I'm thinking of asking her if she wants to stay in touch just to be a sex toy, but I'm guessing she won't be too receptive to the idea."

You can guess what happened. Somehow, instead of hitting "forward," he hit "reply." Her message, and his commentary, got sent…back to her. OOOOOPS. I got an email from him precluding the chain with "BIGGEST email screwup of my life. I am an idiot. I guess this comes to a quick close." She had responded to his case of mistaken identity with, "I think you meant to send this to someone else. You're right, I'm not interested in being your sex toy. Good luck finding one." Seconds later, as I was laughing my ass off (much to the consternation of the 6 people I share an office with), the phone rang. Guess who. "What am I going to do?!" he wailed. "I feel like such an idiot!" I was laughing so hard I was practically banging my head against my keyboard, but I managed to pull it together enough to counsel him through his panic. I soothingly reminded him that she hadn't seemed to be that interested anyway; probably things wouldn't have worked, at least he knows how to go out with a bang. That sort of thing. Of course, later that evening, one of my 6 officemates met him for the first time and preceded his introduction with, "Hi there, and no, I'm not interested in being your sex toy, but good luck finding one." Yeah. At least he knows he'll live in infamy for a long, long time, AND he has a Most Embarrassing Moment story that will knock the socks off any icebreaker game participant he should chance to encounter in the future.

After all, not only do most people love funny stories, but the whole medium of the Internet still possesses just enough mystique to make incidents like this attain a storytelling value far beyond that of simple urban legends. I forwarded the email chain, naturally, and my boss shot back another story-about some PR bunny who smooched the CEO of her company at a trade show, then emailed a friend the details-only to find in horror that she'd sent the note to her entire media contact list. Niiiice.

I hate to think how many countless hours are spent forwarding emails around the net to friends. The diss note from that guy you liked, your diss note to the guy you don't like, and so on. Once I missed a key opportunity to blow off a guy because I put his email to committee, and my online contributors didn't email back in time to help me make up my mind about what to say until 6pm!!! Oh, the horror. He had left work early, missed my message, CALLED me because he didn't hear from me, and let me tell you, the next day's email relay (in which I think I sent three emails to the effect of "I think we want different things; let's just go our separate ways") was just painful. Fortunately he's forgiven my stringent attempt to diss him and we're friends.

Another friend of mine had an experience in which she was set up on a blind date by a couple she knew. Amusingly enough, they had tried to set me up with this guy about a year ago, but I guess he wasn't interested. At any rate, he seemed to find it necessary to send my friend a lengthy email telling her it was nice to meet her but he was kind of in dating drama right now, and he just didn't think it right to involve her in his "silliness." She was so pissed that he would make such an effort to diss her (Hello? Normally you just don't call and people get the hint.) that she wasted no time sending a note back to him (after several hilarious drafts) telling him thanks but she wasn't interested anyway, so things seemed to have worked out for the best, now, hadn't they?

I'm sure Netiquette experts all over the country are busily devising The Rules for email. It's ok to breakup on email under the following circumstances, not replying to email equals lack of interest, you should wait X number of days to email back someone you like, etc. My friends sagely agree on a range of such standards. We've got a whole email code when it comes to dating. But my friend of the "sex toy" incident put it best when he said, "Now I've had a true online relationship. We met because of the Internet, and we ended because of the Internet. It's oddly satisfying." I'll drink to that.

The Uberchick Theory 2000
My brother has a theory. He's good at theories, let me tell you. The boy handed me a list at Thanksgiving of all the dichotomous qualities he sees in people that end up being self-defining…like do you or don't you drink cheap beer regularly, do you or don't you drive an SUV, and so on. Old Volvos vs. New Volvos. His list is shaping my life path. I'm not a beer snob! I've converted to Budweiser and dive bars and I'm a happy camper. Down with yuppiedom! Up with Indie Rock!

Superbro's latest theory is the concept of the uberchick. We were conversing about a recent Bad Dating Decision I made, as well as the movie Beautiful Girls, and I said, "So, it's assumed socially that the Female Agenda is Commitment, right? Then what is the Male Agenda?" He replied, "Sex." I asked, "Why? Why is that? My old theories about male fear of commitment seem archaic in the New Millennium. Explain."

Superbro responded with a fable. Most guys, you see, fall in love for the first time puppy-dog style. They worship the ground their girlfriend walks on, would do anything for her, think she's the bomb. But then, inevitably, like all first loves, it ends. She breaks up with him, he breaks up with her; for whatever reason, it's over. And a scary thing happens to the male psyche. While we chicks are off moping, having makeover-spa-sleepover parties with our twenty best girlfriends and using Ouija boards to dissect our ex's every move, men are listening to cock rock and pretending nothing ever happened. Society requires this. So while you can expect the rejected/uninterested chick to recover, find a new guy, and start the whole charade over again, weird stuff happens to the guys we leave behind. They begin to develop a mental concept of the fictional woman they know they can find if they just keep looking long enough…the uberchick.

In many cases, the ex-girlfriend is ascribed with uberchickian qualities. She morphs from a human who froze him out to an ideal-and no one can compete with a goddess. If a girl kicks a guy's ass, she becomes even more idealized. Why was he not good enough for her? Why can't he get her back? Never mind the nice, sweet girls he dates after that. They don't stand a snowball's chance in hell of hanging out at his breakfast table when they're 50. I was suspicious of a guy I dated who claimed his ex was a tramp and a bitch, yet didn't seem to be over her. After we fizzled and he didn't care about impressing me anymore, he admitted that he's still in love with her; that she is, in a word (accentuated with misty eyes and a soft voice), "special." She is the uberchick!

In some cases, the guy meets the uberchick at the other end of the cycle. I had a guy rebound from a live-in ex he fell out of love with to me, and then he met his uberchick. More power to him, he's still with her and madly in love! On the other hand, Superbro and a few of my sweetie pie guy friends admit that they make the reverse mistake. Instead of limiting themselves the way some guys do, by dissing cool girls because they figure the grass is greener and they can find someone "better," or because they're still pining for an ex who broke their balls, these boys consider every girl a potential uberchick. They tell themselves the girl they're with is amazing and worthy of their generosity, when sometimes she's really not that smart, nice, funny, cool to their older sister, or whatever.

My girlfriends and I are wondering when someone will think we're the uberchick. Problem is, guys have treated me like that and then pulled the rug out from under me, or treated me like that while I ran screaming from their adoring glances and email deluges. I think real love happens when you do, in fact, get real and start approaching it not as a game to be won or a goal to be attained, but as a partnership that is a long, albeit rewarding, road to walk.

Double, Double, Toil and Trouble... 2000
I love Halloween. Of course, now as I suffer and drink mass quantities of Lemon Lift tea, I remember that I get some nasty cold every Halloween. Sophomore year of college it morphed into Bronchitis. This one just won't go away. So Supergirl may be forced to miss two parties and remain inside this potentially rainy Halloween. That's OK; I like handing out candy to the little cute munchkins in my neighborhood. The kids' costumes are almost better than grownups'. I must say, however there were some good ones at the huge fete my friend and I threw Saturday. A butterfly with huge (dangerous) wings of feathers and crepe paper, a couple that got killed while making out, a cop that some poor party guest believed was the real thing as she entered the house, and Sonny and Cher (she was Sonny; he was Cher).

I love hosting parties but there are two drawbacks: you have to clean up (although we, uh, haven't done that yet) and there's usually no excitement since you already know everyone in attendance. I already dated most of my party guests, or I totally know their 411 and don't want to get involved. That made it a really asexual experience for me, which was weird because one of my girlfriends was getting hit on right and left and I'll admit I was somewhat jealous.

At least I wasn't as poorly off as Best Guy Friend, who spent the evening taking abuse from the three exes of his that were in attendance. I bailed at 3am (it went on without me till 7) and miserably tried to find parking in my neighborhood. Fortunately I had traded the heels for sneakers mid-evening, because I had to sprint down a hill to avoid getting frostbite (short skirt). Highlights of the evening were my friend Jason falling down the stairs as he left (no injuries, which is why it was funny) and me clocking some guy with my wings who responded, "Jesus, I've gotten more wings in the eye this evening!"

Sunday night I went to a much more civilized party-dinner and board games. It was the perfect mellow Sunday night gathering, and I was reminded how nice it is to expand one's social circle every so often. I met three adorable single bankers; now I've got to figure out how to get one of them to ask me out. I think bankers may be a good way to go. These guys were definitely edgy yet with that nice stable persona I think I really need. We'll see.

A girlfriend of mine spent this morning trying to convince me that all guys want the girl to wait three months before bringing up exclusivity in the relationship, and ideally they want her to do this while still having meaningless sex with them. Whatever. While I'm young, I'm going to remain idealistic and strive to either date casually sans physical involvement or find that perfect man who actually wants a girlfriend. As I write this, I realize how ridiculous it sounds. At any rate, I'm apathetic right now. New job, relatively new home, new activities. My plate is full, thank you very much. Now it's time to just enjoy my newfound stability and see if some boy can fit into that picture sometime later.

Happy Halloween.

Keeping It Real 2000
I have an awesome girlfriend whose mantra is "Keep it Real." This may sound trite, but this woman walks her talk, let me tell you. Miss Thing has overcome a whole lot of stuff in her life and managed to find herself a groovy loverboy with whom she wanders the world these days, constantly challenging her boundaries, self-educated on all kinds of random topics, and writing volumes. She explores her world through music, dance and the written word, much as I try to explore mine. Last year, she and I began our friendship, at first with tentative steps driven by a mutual love of literature and passion for theory, then in leaps of joy as we found that we're kindred spirits in all kinds of other lovely ways. As she came into her own while I trembled in the shade of a self-erasing relationship, she used to whisper in my ear, "Keep it Real." She was like a shaman, noticing when I most needed a cure and dosing it out at crucial moments.

Sadly for me at the time, I did not fully comprehend the meaning of the mantra. I tried my damndest but I had allowed my Self to get lost and it wasn't until I walked away from my desperate situation and survived an aftermath of pain that came in waves for months, for all kinds of unrelated reasons, that I began to understand her. Now, as I walk into the light, I understand what it means to be a performer, someone who does what they think they should be doing without following their heart. I know how to please my audience and I know how to choose to please myself instead. I think that at last, I am keeping it real.

When you start dating someone you really really dig, all kinds of scary things come up. There are so many rulebooks out there, and even if you're not a "Rules girl," you still set limits for yourself as a way to have benchmarks to evaluate your situation, I guess. Just be friends first, don't sleep with him too soon, don't get too attached. All these little sub-mantras have their place, but I think at times I have set rules for myself and then broken them and felt guilty or worried that by breaking them I am sabotaging a dating situation I'm really into. Thing is, though, isn't it scarier to ignore your impulses and desires? Isn't it worse sabotage to deny yourself the communication you truly want to initiate than to scare someone a little bit? I know in my heart that whomever I am with is simply going to have to be someone who can take it. Who can meet me halfway, who's as strong as I am, who likes the fact that I'm not "difficult," not "high-maintenance," not a CATEGORY, just me. Someone lighthearted who's along for the wild ride.

I have reamed exes in the past for their inability to recognize the range of my personality. To criticize someone for being a certain way and to assume that their entire personality can be summed up in a few sentences is to disrespect them in an unacceptable way. People are a spectrum, and you appreciate the aspects of that kaleidoscope that work for you and accept the pieces that don't. That's true friendship, or true love. That's what I want.

How to Wash that Man Right Out of Your Hair! 2000
Wake up at 4am, frustrated. Again. Sick of this jerk for making your life a consistent hell. Resolve to rid him from your life once and for all. First, do something productive for yourself. Your finances. Lug your entire filing box onto your bed along with every "to do" folder and loose document you have spilling off your desk onto your floor. Go through everything. Organize your entire life. Get excited that you have more money than you thought you did. Realize this means nothing because there are still people sleeping on the sidewalk down the street and what would you buy, anyway? More clothes to contribute to the looks-obsessed society you live in? Realize that being up this early on a Sunday can’t possibly be good for your health or psyche. Think about how you can kill time before going running.

Decide it’s time to purge the guy from your life once and for all, this time you mean it. Rack your brain for everything you have from him in your apartment. Start with the pictures. Fortunately you only have 4. Take each one and cut him out. Then cut his image up into little tiny bits. Shred and shred until there’s nothing left—not even an eye. Laugh delightedly. Put the pictures up again with just you in them. Smile. Remember how he begged you once, when you were pissed off at him for lying to you and left the pictures on his chair at work, to never ever do that again. Realize this way you have a more permanent riddance of him, because he won’t know so he can’t berate you for it later. Smile more. Go through all your shelves and drawers and take everything he’s ever given you and throw it into the trash. Wonder if 6am is too early to drive to work and delete all the email he’s ever sent you and vice versa? Decide to run instead. Go running. Feel lousy. Cry. Walk. Run more. Go home and shower. Decide you need spiritual cleansing and you’re driving to the 9am service at Glide. Get in the car. Realize the mix tape he made you, that only depresses you because it’s all about troubled love, is in the tape deck. Eject it. Glare at it. Pull the tape out of the cassette. Look around furtively. No one on the street. Toss it out the window. Back over it. Drive away. Smile again.

Of course, this doesn’t entirely help things. When you’re stuck co-existing in the same office as him, however big, you’re bound to run into him at some point. You do, and you feel awful, because all it does is dredge up more bad feelings and memories and realizations about how unacceptably you were treated. Unsurprisingly, he does nothing for your birthday when it comes around. He is the most horrible person in the world.

But you go on, and now that you’ve resolved to be over it, you return your life to the way it was before him. You chide yourself a little; you recognize your mistakes, your weaknesses, your bad choices. But you spend more of your time being constructive. You work out like a fiend, you eat well, you stop drinking, you spend time with good friends, you sleep. You email the cool guy you just met instead of fighting with the loser boy over email. You date the good guy. He does things like take care of you when you’re sick and drive you to the airport and make you daisy chains. He would never send you home alone, never hit on someone else when he was with you--he even got you a birthday present before he really knew you. Realize that you deserve to be treated like this and enjoy it. Treat him just as nicely back.

"And one day, you wake up, and it doesn’t hurt anymore." This too has passed.

Matchmakers Everywhere! 2000
I like being a Matchmaker. I take the subtle approach. Grab random friends of mine, stick them in a room together, and see what happens. I've set up quite a few cute couples. Granted, most of them didn't last past the 3-month marker, but at least I provided some people with entertainment, companionship and sex for a while, right?

I've introduced my best guy friend to five women he's subsequently dated. Potentially 6, after my BBQ last weekend. I try not to rub it in his face too much, but every so often I have to remind him how much good karma I'm due from all his relationship successes. Occasionally I resort to whining. C'mon, Best Guy Friend, where's the love? Where are your male acquaintances? He protests that he simply doesn't have any guy friends that meet the qualifications for a cool chick like me. Okaaaay. I appreciate his respect and adoration for me, but it isn't helping me get dates.

So, feeling guilty after finding yet another female acquaintance of mine he's interested in going out with, Best Guy Friend was over the other night going through his Palm Pilot, trying to find someone he could set me up with (team loser over here, yeah, hi). I was grimacing as he flipped through the names on the "Miscellaneous" list in his Palm V, which contains mostly ex-colleagues, ex-girlfriends and random family members three times removed. As he was selecting and subsequently rejecting random people he barely knows, he says, "Aha! This guy's cute!"

I'm like, "And? Any other redeeming features?"

"Of course," he says. "He went to college with me, and I ran into him at the Ramp a while ago. He has some cool design job. Interesting guy. And actually, we share a first name."

Of course I had to ask the last name, it's a small city after all. Of course, the guy is dating one of my best girlfriends, whom Best Guy Friend adores because the bartender at Cha Cha Cha in the Haight is in love with her and gives me free stuff by association. I laughed so hard I fell of my chair.

So I guess I'm on my own, sans help from BGF. Of course he retains the right to approve everyone I go out with, which is even more stringent than my father's attitude toward the men I date. At least he's great with the flattery, and he's the best date around.

PDA in Europe 2000
I just got back from a glorious vacation, on which I had some major dating revelations, since I couldn't actually date anyone, being on the go and all. First of all, East Coast dating and West Coast dating are totally different. East Coasters actually do date, instead of this messing around, "hanging out" vagueness we granolas out here substitute for acting like a mature adult.

I arrived at a BBQ in Cape Cod July 4th weekend and by the end of the day, almost every single person there had paired off. My close friends in the group were two couples-Erin and Frank who have been dating for basically 4 years, and Diana and Mike who have been together for 5 years and are getting married in 2 weeks. I don't have much to say about the other people at the party other than there seemed to be a lot of drama, but they seemed to all be enjoying it. I didn't really understand when it was going on, and I even speak English, so that was a little weird, but I hadn't seen my coupled friends in a while so I was fairly focused. I think there might have been a feeble and very kind attempt to set me up with the one single guy there, but we were pretty obviously incompatible, and that was okay.

These two couples are the types who make you actually have faith in love. They are the types who ask you, "are you sure we're not the kind of couple that make you feel like a third wheel?" They are the bomb. I had such a great time on Cape Cod, and then Diana and Mike took me back to Boston with them, and we had this perfect summer weekend where we mostly went running in humidity, lounged around the porch and ate, and gabbed about everything. Mike is a rare specimen, in that he's as fun as a girlfriend and laughs at all my jokes. It was a good time. I almost didn't want to leave.

Then I went to London, where the boys are hot, the shoes kick ass, and the transportation is so great I cried when I got back on Muni. I pretty much wandered around and enjoyed the eye candy. Spain was next. My roommate (and travel companion) and I would like to write a letter to Spain. "Dear Spain, could you please tell the chicks to stop wearing tight purple pants, get the guys to stop hissing at us and get the couples to cut down on the PDA just a smidge?" My guy friends (and my little brother) all told me how hot the Spanish women were. Seriously, I'd mention I was going there and they would sort of froth at the mouth and get all dreamy and talk about the hot women. Thanks guys, but that doesn't really do a lot for me.

I actually gave my brother a lecture on double standards in attractiveness because he made the grave error of saying, "all the women are thin and tiny .. come to think of it, the things that make the women beautiful are exactly the same things that keep the men from being attractive." Now, I like my beefcakes as much as the next girl, but no younger sibling of mine is getting away with a comment like that. My roommate and I had a whole conversation about attractiveness because I was telling her about that. We were saying how we're into the very Nordic look while my younger brother's totally into small, thin, dark women. And then we were saying how when it gets down to it it's all about the person anyway, and we're relieved to be like that; some people still can't get past looks and that really sucks.

So anyway, all this energy wasted on theoretical conversation about beauty, and why is it that American men really find Spanish women hot? They wear no clothes! I mean, okay, they are beautiful. In a really natural, comfortable sort of way. But they dress scandalously! I was surprised. Especially when men on the street that saw my blonde hair would start hissing at me. Um, hello? I'm clothed at least!

Then we discovered that Spaniards are really into PDA (that's Public Display of Affection for all you non-abbreviators out there). Macking on the subway, on the street, in restaurants. It was everywhere. I started having flashbacks to the Lollapalooza show I went to in high school after a nasty breakup. It was like everywhere I turned people were making out. Uuuugh. But then I was talking with some girlfriends we met up with in Sevilla, and they were saying how beautiful it was in a way. To be so unrestrained about your love and desire for someone would be really liberating, I agree. Also, the Spanish are so dramatic about everything. Once you get used to that, the PDA is just par for the course. It's very not-me, but it was really fun to just get comfortable with it and think about the ways in which that is better and worse than American cultural norms.

A few people asked me if I got any action in Spain, and I just looked at them blankly. Honestly, it hardly crossed my mind. I was there to learn, to see, even to work. Romance was just not on my agenda. Nor is it now that I'm back. I've got work to do, friends to catch up with, and an apartment to find. Vacation is so great, though, in the way it expands your mind and allows you time to think, and exist, outside your box. I'm trying to keep that with me as I continue on my little path here. San Francisco is a marvelous city, and there are new frontiers that need exploring, too.