Creditor call on a Saturday morning

I just received a call from a man asking to speak with a Misty [last name].

"Regarding...?" I asked the gentleman.

"Are you Misty?" he demanded. As if creditors intimidate me anymore.

"What is this regarding?" I countered.

"Student loan," he spit into the phone, "Are you Misty [my married last name]?"

"Misty [......] is a dead cat," I answered.

Silence, I think he's hung up.

He mumbles, "Student loan business. Call later."

Now I'm trying to figure out how my husband's grandmother's deceased cat was able to get a student loan and I can't afford to go to Grad School.

Lunch by the lake

I'm so worried about how this f'ing thing looks, I'm not writing anything worthwhile.

ON another note, I had a lovely time yesterday eating Everett & Jones BBQ by Lake Merritt. Bryan and I shared the BBQ beef and pork ribs, which are so tender they actually taste like beef themselves. Potato salad and sweet potatoes on the side. I've never been a fan of sweet potatoes. I'm now a convert.

After lunch, Bryan made a call, exchanged a few words and announced that our friends were having lunch near Jack London Square, literally across the street from where we'd just been. We were headed back to there to meet up with them.

Let the panic commence.

I immediately go from feeling perfectly comfortable to horribly frightened. My breath speeds, throat and chest tighten, fists ball up and my eyes begin the flood. It's involuntary.

"What's wrong?" Bryan asks, placing a hand on my knee.

"Nothing," I bark. He doesn't relent with "what's wrong?"ing me.

"Because I don't want anyone to see me!" I wail (we're inside the car now, not at lake's edge.

He says we'll go home but I say no as we've already told them we're on the way.

I felt ugly and awkward like the Hunchback of Lake Merritt. I feel like a monster some of the time. I don't want to see anyone because then they will see me.

Meeting up with our friends proved to be a nice way to end the afternoon. The beast went back inside its cage for the day. Or maybe everyone does see the beast I think I am and it's actually quite a nice creature.

2 weeks ago...

Watching Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations - San Francisco (Aug. 10 , 2009) This gastronomic genius is making me jealous. 

The other day Bryan (my husband) commented on my comment about me not thinking food is sexy.

"Maybe that's where your problems with food come from?" he said, throwing out the one reason I had never thought of.

Now, as I watch this episode, it starts to make sense.

All thought and no write...

Okay, I get it. Readers don't wants witty quips, heartfelt stories and clever jokes. That's what I was going for but it fell flat. They want a to know what a blogger is doing minute by minute, keystroke by keystroke. I shouldn't think, I should just write and the story will come later. No pretensions, no spell check, all words. All words and no point.

However, this does sounds pretentious, "All I know how to do is write!" But that's the truth. There is one thing I know - I was born to be a writer. If you have a/passion, you know what I mean. Whether you're an artist, electrician, athlete or nurse, you know what you are meant to do.

And each time you put your fingers to the keyboard, brush or circuit to that board, push the limits of stamina, you're fulfilling your obligation.

Such as now, my heart is beating in the top of throat and my fingers shake as they try to keep up with my thoughts. It sucks not knowing how to type. In high school I probably attended typing class a total of  10 or 11 times. During my senior year, it was the easiest class to cut and I lived a mere four blocks form school. I really regret it now. The luxury of watching Jerry Springer at 1 o'clock just doesn't seem worth it now. Particularly because the (in)ability to type is what's stopping me from applying for this "thing".

DJ Meow - Cat spins records in SF Club!

Blind item - Guess Who?

As eventually happens to most of us, people I never thought ever thought of me after all these years found me on Facebook. Well, they didn't search me out so much as added friends on the backs of existing friends like I do.  A lot of these are old school chums (Sherwood Forrest Primary), one of whom was once my bully.

I was a fat kid. By the time the 7th grade rolled around so could I (Oh!). Being 200+ pounds and 12 sucks. But being a 12 year-old girl and having a group of boys write a thinly-veiled book called "The Ho-Ho Girl" is absolutely mortifying.

In our G.A.T.E. (gifted and talented education classes a.k.a. where schools place marginally-smart kids to get some of that sweet State money) English class we were required to author and illustrate a short story then bind it together with a plastic spiral "spine" in the school secretary's office.

But back to the book itself, our "advanced" class went to the school library to work on our books - alone or in groups. Starting the dreaded illustration part of my book (which in itself was a thinly-veiled retelling of one of my favorite book series, The Stupids), I heard the unmistakable sound of stifled, pre-teen laughter. Turning around I saw one of my closest friends, whom we'll call @#!%?$, sitting at a four-person table with a trio of boys - a brunette, a blond and a redhead - The Three Bullies (TTB).

"What's are you guys reading?" I said more to @#!%?$ than TTB. "Nothing," she said, hand covering her laughing mouth, giving conspiratorial glances to the boys she viewed as potential boyfriends. 

Squinting at what it was she giggled over and TTB were so obviously proud of (I had bad eye-sight even back then), I made out a rough drawing of a bespectacled bloated blond girl holding what appeared to be a pastry and ready to burst at the seams - a pale Violet Beauregarde. Below the crude drawing was the book's title - "The Ho-Ho Girl".

As the image began to process, I couldn't understand how @#!%?$ could actually be reading, laughing no less, at the f'ed up parody of a person she shared a "Best Friends Forever" two-halved necklace with.  @#!%?$ knew exactly who "Ho-Ho Girl" was supposed to be. She was there at the beginning.


@#!%?$ and the rest of the usual "us" were having lunch at our usual spot when, from nowhere, my archenemies, The Three Bullies, began pelting me with our school snack bar's most popular item, Hostess' Ho-Hos. @#!%?$ sat at that metal table and watched as I awkwardly chased after them, hands clenched and flailing in front of me, yearning to hit something, anything.

"Look! She's trying to grab it!" the redhead bastard of the three shrieked, waving the circular cake in my face. "Ho-Ho Girl!"

The point of all this?

If a frenemy is a friend turned enemy then wouldn't an enemy turned friend be an enemend?

My enemend surfaced in the form of the brunette of TTB requesting Ho-Ho Girl's, I mean my, "friendship" on Facebook. He probably added me after a common friend had and followed suit.

Whether he or not he remembers his part in the creation of Ho-Ho Girl, it's now 20 years later and we're "friends" on Facebook. That is unless he starts posting Hostess-related recipes on my wall. Then this girl will wreak some Ho-Ho havoc on your a...

College Grad Gift Idea

The Che Store featuring Guevara gear  "for all your revolutionary needs!" 

Che-emblazoned t-shirts are for weekend rioters and pussy protestors; if you're serious about your revolución check out the Che chain wallet, The Original Che Beret and, of course, men's club wear.