Hey Neighbor

Dear Fellow Writers,

Do you ever come across bits and pieces of writings you've never finished that are just sitting on your hard-drive making you feel more and more guilty about their lack of completion? Here is something I found that doesn't really belong to anything. I was in a stand-up comedy class in my last semester of school and I think I was trying to turn this into a joke. But when I reread it, I came off like a Yankee or something. Not the ball team. This is a true story though. And no; I do not remember what I was drinking when I wrote this.

I’m incredibly self-absorbed. Whenever I’m walking I never look up or notice people waving to me or trying to say hi. Later they’ll tell me that they were waving and I have to tell them about how I really only care about myself and my thoughts. But I can’t always do this with everyone, especially the people I don’t know. I had this neighbor who was always strung out and high and he would have these random visitors in Beamers come to the apt complex to “chat” or something then leave after 20 minutes. Now I think I have this thing where I do not ever want to risk being considered racist, so I go over the top to be nice and cordial. This neighbor of mine happened to be a black man and whenever he walked by me he would say, “Hey neighbor.” I would not say anything back because I only care about myself. After a while of this going on, he stopped me one day while he was talking with one of his clients and said, “You’re mean!” “What?” “Yeah, you’re mean! You never say hi to me.” Well, I was really fucked because he caught me and I couldn’t tell him how self-absorbed I was because then I would just come off as white-absorbed. So I did what I thought brilliant. I made him carry up my dresser that I just bought. This was not a small dresser. He was a nice guy and kind of rotund, so I didn’t think carrying up the dresser would be that difficult for him. So I watched and drank my tea as he carried the dresser on his back. I thought it was a very polite gesture, on my part. It really made up for all those times I didn’t say hi back. When he was done, I told him good job. I thought I needed to compensate him, but not with money. Someone left an unopened pack of Malboros in my car so I ran down and gave them to him. He said, "No, look at my skin. What do you think I smoke?" I said, "I don’t know. Do black people not smoke cowboy cigarettes?" He said, "No we just always smoke Newports." I said, "Sorry I didn't know."

The boy going on 20 and the girl who said "whoa"

I needed to cross, so I pushed the button. The light turned green but the little white permission man never replaced the red foreboding hand. If you've ever crossed a street with me, you probably tried to continue in our conversation for a moment then realized I had already raced to other side. My fear of intersections does it to me.

I stood and threw a silent tantrum on the darkening corner, even though I knew the white permission man was probably just out and the green light would still allow me enough time to cross unharmed, and without any jay walking accusation. An out-of-nowhere blond boy raced past me and, seizing the opportunity to have a crossing buddy, I raced with him and arrived at the corner as he was pressing the next crossing button.

"It's scary! When there's no white man light!"

"Ah, fuck the light. Excuse my language."

"That's okay."

"And there's what I missed," he said, pointing to an OCTA member driving away.

"The bus?"

"Yeah."

"Was it stopped there when we got to the corner?"

"Yeah."

"Well, is there another one coming?"

"I think so."

I noticed the functional white permission man beckoning us, so I pointed and started walking. He followed.

"Sorry for walking in the same direction. I'm not following you or anything."

"That's okay."

"I guess it's back to work."

"Where do you work?"

"Right between those two office buildings."

"What do you do?"

"In a nutshell, real estate. In not a nutshell, something very complicated."

"Is it legal?"

"Well considering that when I was doing it when I was 13, 14, and 15 years old and it was definitely not legal then, it must be legal now."

"How old are you now?"

"19. Going on 20."

"Cool."

"You?"

"22."

"Sorry, I guess I'm not supposed to ask."

"It's okay. I asked you."

"Where are you off to?"

"The library."

"You like to read, then?"

"Yep."

"Reading's good for you. It's good for your brain."

"Yeah, I've heard that."

Then I said something that was very much something I would say. If you've ever become friends with me it's probably because I said something like, "Hey let's be friends!" Or, "Hey, look. We're hanging out. We must be friends." Or, "Want to get a drink some time? I think we could be good friends." My friendships never seem to happen organically. I always feel the need to comment on the conversational or relational development, or lack thereof. So I said something like this, something like, "Look we became crossing buddy friends!" Or, "What a fast conversation we started and are now ending as we part our ways." But I don't remember exactly what it was because at this point I saw the fire hydrant, made to pass to the right of the fire hydrant, subsequently failed and incurred a bruise I'm sure will be hideous by tomorrow morning. I do remember what I said after that, though.

"I just ran into the fire hydrant."

"I saw that."

"It really hurts."

"I believe it."

"Owe."

"Well, it was good meeting you."

"You, too."

"And best of luck to you."

"Bye."

Returning from the library and approaching the same intersection, my new crossing buddy had an interesting outfit: helmet, wrist pads, knee pads, elbow pads, and a bike as an accessory.

"Why are you walking your bike?"

"I forgot my light."

"Oh. You should just wave your cell phone in front of you while you ride."

"I don't think the police men would like that," she laughed.

"Where are you coming from?"

"The library."

"Me, too!"

This middle-aged woman told me about how hard her tax class is and that she lived by the high school, which was in my direction, so of course I said, "Hey! Let's be walking buddies!"

"Okay!"

I held up my phone to her and said, "I'm expecting a phone call soon, though."

"Where do you go to school?"

"I just graduated from Vanguard University."

"Whoa! You look like you're in high school."

"I'm 22."

"Whoa. What did you study?"

"English. Literature."

"Whoa. That's deep."

"Where are you from?"

"Venezula. You're Californian?"

When people say "Californian" or "Oregonian" or "Delwarian" it seems to clarify that each state does in fact have its own culture, own people, own ways and shit of that sort. I like it.

"Born and raised. What's your name?"

"Korkee." (Clearly not spelled right, but it sounded something like that while we shook hands.) "Yours?"

"Hannah."

"Hannah, like..."

"Montana."

My phone rang and I answered, finishing my conversation so Cyntho could hear all the way in Miami.

"Well, I have to take this. Good meeting you."

"You, too! Have a safe walk home!"

"You, too!"

Harbor and Baker is a good intersection to meet two-minute friends.

It seems not to matter

"I broke up with a girl once because she didn't know how to put make-up on."


This is something I overheard the bartender say to the cocktail waitress while I was stewing in my early bird loneliness. Knowing shows always start late wasn't enough to keep me from getting there right on time, the wrong time, two hours before the right time. I filled the lull with a phone call to my best bud and also using up precious pages of my Moleskin with thoughts about how hipsters are cool and I want to be one but I hate them because they're too cool for me and on second thought they need to get their act together and just be themselves instead of buying fedoras and wearing scarfs in 80-degree weather. I also wrote down a few things others said around me, "others" being folks in the band, folks with the band, and folks paid for serving drinks.

Stimulating conversation rarely comes during a loud show. The only thing I can think of asking that is relevant and understandable is "What are you drinking?" And the answer can sometimes be followed by, "You know, they have $4 well drinks." But if there is no special deal, you're left with "Hm. Cool" (thumbs up sign.) Even before the show starts, while people are still milling in and the speakers aren't drowning the crowd yet, the conversation seems to be reduced to "yeah, uh-huh", keeping some sort of discussion going while you look around to see who's there: if you know anyone and if you see anyone you want to know. The most provoking conversation, for me at least, has been when I listen to others' conversations and respond to them in my mind. That way I can say anything I want back and will never cause offense because no one will hear it. Such as, "You're so shallow. You seem really nice and all, and I like your 'Go Fuck Yourself' tattoo to some extent, but you're fat and I think you need to get in a bit of shape before you start telling a girl she can't do her make-up right."

I realized tonight that I have a great fear of being insignificant. It must be my greatest fear actually. And if my years of pretending that I know what I'm talking about have taught me anything, I'd have to say with great confidence that people's greatest fears are what drives them to do what they do. I, for instance, cannot waste time sitting and enjoying a drink. I have to do something, anything, like write down anti-hipster quips and other people's shallow comments, even if it amounts to nothing. To me, wasting time is as good as throwing away a perfectly good bowl of soup. I read something once by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., that's always stuck with me.

And now I want to tell you about my late Uncle Alex. He was my father’s kid brother, a childless graduate of Harvard who was an honest life insurance salesman in Indianapolis. He was well-read and wise. And his principal complaint about other human beings was that they so seldom noticed it when they were happy. So when we were drinking lemonade under an apple tree in the summer, say, and talking lazily about this and that, almost buzzing like honeybees, Uncle Alex would suddenly interrupt the agreeable blather to exclaim, ''If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.''

So I do the same now, and so do my kids and grandkids. And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ''If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.''

That’s one favor I’ve asked of you.

-Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., "Man Without a Country"

This is one of the only times that I have heard this concept, the slow down and smell the roses concept, outside of a religious context. At least that has been articulated in such a vivid, convincing, non-hippie way. I'm not sure how I feel about my greatest fear that I have just now labeled. All I know is that I want lemonade now and will ask if Laura will have some with me tomorrow.

This post turned into more like a journal entry than I had hoped. My apologies.

Cookie monster

I think it's required to take food pictures

up close like this.

Parson Brown

I might be most proud of these holly berry

cookies. I've never actually eaten one,

but look how impressive.

Some may call me a child; I just say I'm American. I know nothing but instant gratification. And to make things worse, I am a bit privileged and was slightly spoiled as a child. Perhaps these are the reasons why Theodore and the employees of three different grocery stores experienced my fake smile and bubbling anger last night in a seemingly endless quest for Christmas shaped cookie cutters.

I have baked cookies almost every single day since I finished the semester a couple weeks ago. I started with chocolate dipped ginger snaps, then moved on to coconut jam-thumbprints and glazed sugar cranberry. I am finding the most creative excuses to bring cookies to anyone who has a digestive system. (If you want some, give me a call.)

This semester has been quite a hectic one, with my full class load and editing the paper. I used to love hearing the beep of a text message or phone call, but now I dread it, knowing that it's something to do with the paper or one of the other obligations I have dedicated my life to. And so once Christmas break hit, I was excited to do something other than write and fix people's grammar.

Baking provides delightful projects for me that I am actually very good at. Sure, giving cookies away and making people like me a bit more is always a pleasure. But personally, I think people eat too many sweets, me being one of them. Not one of the sweets. One of the people who eats too many sweets. It is really the actual process of rolling, whisking, sifting, frosting, rushing around and burning your elbow that I enjoy.

Theodore came over around 7 last night and I told him we were making cookies, whether he liked it or not. We were going to stay up late and frost Christmas shaped sugar cookies and make them look absolutely superb. Others would ask, "Where did you buy these marvelous cookies?" "Oh," I would say. "Theodore and I finished them early this morning." That is not exactly what happened.

I made the dough just fine. I am a pro, after all. But it needed to chill for a couple hours and we were without the necessary Christmas cookie cutters. The only shapes we had were a Christmas tree and a circle, which I consider a ornament with the proper imagination.

While the dough was in the refrigerator, we went to the first grocery store.

"Cookie cutters are on aisle 6."

There were not an aisle 6.

"Let me go check if we have any in the back."..."No, sorry. We sold out of them."

Second grocery store.

"They're on aisle 12."

They were not on aisle 12. I asked someone else.

"Oh, all the cookies are right here."

"No I don't want cookies. I want to make cookies. Do you have any cookie cutters?"

"Try aisle 12."

"They're not on aisle 12."

He asks a coworker.

"Sorry, we don't have cookie cutters."

After a moment in the car, I realized we were at the point of no return. It was almost 11 p.m. and I was determined. I drove a little further to the biggest grocery store I know of.

I walked up to a cashier and asked if they had any cookie cutters.

"We're closing in 4 minutes and they are on aisle 5."

They were not on aisle 5, and I swear, every damn baking aisle in every store looks the same.

We walked up and down the aisles as a voice over the P.A. system hurried us up in a countdown to closing time.

I ran up to a manager-looking person.

"I'm sorry. I work in a grocery store, too. I know how annoying it is when customers are in here when you're closing. But I have to find Christmas shaped cookie cutters."

He was very generous and helped us look. After a minute of quick paced walking, he found them by the yogurt.

"They must have moved them."

Swell.

I walked out semi-victorious. The only shapes they had were Santa Claus and a Christmas tree. We already had the tree. So that entire hour was spent on purchasing a $2.59 plus tax rubber and metal Santa Claus.

While Theodore watched music videos and napped with Padme, I cut out the shapes and baked the delicious cookies. He left around 1 or 2 a.m. and I continued with my decorations. After decorating with my homemade frosting, I finally went to bed at 3:30 in that damn a.m.

Was it worth it? Of course. I could have waited until the morn to buy cookie cutters. But by that time, my desire for them would have passed. I am quite impulsive.

If I ever tell you I'm going to get a tattoo, please don't let me.

Really Appalling

Rite Aid seemed like a perfectly safe place for Cynthy to pick up her ear ointment. And dressing up in skirts for our lunch didn't seem too ominous of a decision.

I'm standing there in the aisle a bit awkwardly because, as much fun as it is to wear four-inch heels, I am quite visibly uncomfortable when I dress up in something more than jeans and a neutral-colored shirt.

I see a man, white, 30s, sunglasses, shorts and t-shirt, limping towards me. He's not limping because he's hurt, but because he has something on his foot that's about to fall off. It looks like an upside down, orange iPod. He walks really close to me and so, out of instinct, I close my legs and walk away.

Cynthy goes to check out and I whisper to her.

"That guy has something on his foot."

"What is it?" she asks.

"I don't know. I really don't know. But he got all close to me and put his foot by my foot and, I don't know, I think it's a camera."

"What do you mean?"

"Like he was trying to look up my skirt or something."

"No. Really?"

"I don't know. That's what it seemed like. Look. That guy. Look at his foot," I say as he walks past us.

"Yeah. That's a camera phone."

"Oh my god."

Cynthy is next in line and the guy gets behind me. I cross my legs, scoot away from him, and look at his face. He is exhaling a long breath while looking up nervously. I walk out of the store.

Cynthy comes out and meets up with me.

"Is he still in there?" I ask.

"Yeah. He did the same thing to me. He went like this," she says, sliding her foot directly under me.

"Oh my god."

"So I pulled away and gave him this dirty look."

"Did you say anything?"

"No."

"Do you think he's still in there?"

"I don't know."

"Should we go in there and say something to him?"

"Like what?" she says.

"I don't know. Like, hey pervert, or something. And tell him off. I don't know."

"Well, we don't know if he was really doing that."

"I know. What if we were wrong?"

"That'd be pretty bad."

So we walk away.

Obviously looking back, I realized that was in fact what he was doing. I was just so shocked in the moment I didn't think to report him, yell at him, step on his foot and break his phone, or even simply ask what the hell was so precariously attached to his foot. I wish I did something, said something.

I still can't really get over it. There are so many perverts and freaks out there.

I fell asleep around 2 a.m. with the incident still on my mind. Fifteen minutes later, I woke up from a loud ringing. I checked my phone and I didn't have any missed calls or anything, but something woke me up. Something was telling me to pray for that man. It was a difficult thing to do.

One of my Favorite Vets

A man set his basket of groceries on my register and looked at me. He was like 80. "Well, it's you and me," he said.

"What," I said.

"It's you and me against the world." Very serious.

I smiled quickly then matched his somber tone and said, "Do you have your weaponry?"

"No I don't believe in that stuff. I got enough of it in World War Two."

"Oh."

The woman who was gathering her change from the previous transaction overheard. She waited a few moments, as if gathering up the courage to do the right thing, looked him in the eye and said, "Thank you for serving our country." Her somberness was not in the same mockery tone as mine and the man's. She said this brave statement as if it were her good deed for the day, obeying the urges of Dr. Laura and PBS, who encourage us all to thank our troops.

The man looked at her a bit startled and said, "Well, I didn't have much of a choice. We were drafted."

I smiled at this. The woman did not. She hunched over her wallet again and mumbled something I could not understand. The man looked at me and shrugged his shoulders. The woman then said more clearly, "My father was in World War Two and he said you never return the same."

"Well, yeah. I'd think that'd be kind of obvious. It's a war, you know," he said.

Without a glimmer of a reaction, she walked out the automatic doors.

"I don't know how I got into that conversation."

"Does it make you uncomfortable?" I said.

"No."

I want to see that man again.

I'm a Great Tenant

Recently I have been almost driving in the carpool lane when I'm alone because I think it's legal now that I'm 21. I don't actually think that of course, but for some reason I feel there are no restrictions now that July 8, 2009 has come and gone.

New subject. I can hear everything my landlord and his family say when they're in the kitchen. Mostly it's a lot of him hanging out with his freakishly adorable three-year-old son. But sometimes I can hear he and his live-in girlfriend fighting which I find very awkward. I told him the first week I moved in that I could hear everything so he insulated the walls. But it only muffled the still pretty clear words. Oh well. I'm moving out soon. Oh, and something else awkward. One time I heard them talking about me. I wish it was bad stuff. It would have caused quite the controversy. However, it's impossible for anyone to say anything bad about me. I'm great. So they said all this nice stuff about me, like, "She's really nice...a very good tenant...great girl." Then my landlord said, "Yeah, I'm thinking about lowering her rent." Ah! I was pretty stoked. A few weeks later he came to talk to me and, surprise surprise, lowered my rent. But my reaction probably threw him off a bit. I'm really bad at lying. Unless I'm being sarcastic (there's a difference). So my reaction was like, "Oh wow. That's really nice of you." Looking back on this I feel I should have said something like, "Really? Oh gosh..." Or something...I don't know. Sorry about this anticlimactic story. Then I looked down and found five bucks.

Does frontal male nudity mean it's rated R or PG-13?

I was flashed. A few days ago. It was awful.

I'm standing at the register being my normal awesome self. I'm efficient. I don't dawdle. I get people through the line without being too cheery. Some people call me mean and not very personable, but I call it being genuine. When people ask, "How's it going" I say, "Eh, I'm at work." Most understand.

My point is, I'm innocent. Standing there doing my job. This bro is at the counter with his sagging jeans and screen printed hooded sweatshirt. The total is something like $3.02. He gives me a five dollar bill.

"Do you have two cents?" I don't want to give him 98 cents in change.

"Uh, I think so. Hold on."

He reaches deep into his pockets to search for coins. While doing so, he pulls his pants down so far that I can see nearly every bit of his manhood. I'm shocked, I assure you. I actually audibly say, "uhhh" as I look up at the ceiling listening to that awful music they insist on playing until he discovers a couple pennies.

"Here you go."

"Uh, thank you. Um..." I complete the transaction. Although when I'm giving him his change I feel like I'm paying for a peep show.

Needless to say I was very distracted from being awesome at work for at least five or ten minutes. It was horrible.

Not sure why I felt the need to divulge such information. I guess I wanted to express another reason why I should find another job, one that appreciates the fine work I do and doesn't repay me with unwelcomed nudity.

On the Subway Eating Leftovers and Being Really Happy About It

Do you ever drive with the radio on and realize that you have been listening to a song for a few minutes that you really wish you weren't listening to? And you would have changed the station, except you were deep in thought about nothing in particular?

I'm driving home at almost one in the morning and as I'm getting off the freeway, or the Autobahn as some would have it, I realize I've almost finished listening to "That's the Way I Like It" in its entirety. As it finished out, I drove the rest of the way to my apartment laughing hysterically. Not sure why. Maybe because I'm a little cooky from finals week. I didn't change the station though. You'd think after I heard such a ridiculous song I'd switch it. But I don't really like the sound of changing stations. There's no continuity. It is so flustering to change stations mid-song. I'm also apprehensive because I think it's kind of rude, as if I'm offending the artist whose song I cut off.

I'm glad I didn't change the station though, because as I was pulling into the parking lot, I heard the first few seconds of "When A Man Loves A Woman." Great song. Sad to turn it off. But at least I didn't have to hear "uh huh, uh huh" running through my mind as I go to sleep tonight. Although now that I'm talking about it more, I probably will be singing it in my sleep...and tomorrow.

Some of the best moments I have with myself are in my car. First of all, I dance like there's no tomorrow, and like there's no seat belt, nearly every time I drive. And also, I just crack myself up. I'm sure you have those moments. Who sits there listening to "That's the Way I Like It" by themselves at 1 am without singing or dancing along? Just sitting calmly with one hand on the wheel thinking about where they'd just been or where they are going...That is what made me laugh.

My favorite laughing in the car moment happened about a year ago. I was driving home from work rather mindlessly when I saw the most hilarious bumper sticker: "CAN'T GET ENOUGH OF PISTACHIOS." Of course, started laughing, slapping my knee and the whole bit. What does that even mean? Do people really get attached to a particular nut? Do pistachios have some sort of cult following? Do Pistachio Groupies talk trash on Peanut Groupies because they're not really nuts, they're legumes? Or what about Brazil Nuts? Do people who have Brazil Nut bumper stickers get slashed tires because, come on you morons, a Brazil Nut is a seed!? I had to know the answers.

I followed the guy. I finally got up next to him at a stop light for the perfect opportunity to discover the story behind the sticker. I make the motion of rolling down a window.

"I love your bumper sticker!"

"Thanks!" He's a middle aged white guy who looks like a surfer.

"Where did you get it?"

"I grow pistachios!"

"Oh, no way."

"Yeah, I sell them. Go to my website."

"Okay!"

The light changes and I get behind him so I can memorize his web address. I went on it when I got home and it was down due to construction or something.

I kept laughing at the sticker, though. Throughout the week I'd think of it randomly and let out a weird noise from my attempt to contain my laughter. When someone would ask what I was laughing at, I'd tell the story. They wouldn't get it.

If I had been in the car with someone, I guarantee I wouldn't have laughed as hard as I did that night. I guess I'm just a really fun person to be around if I'm by myself. Which I know doesn't make sense. But it's the truth.

Moral of the pointless stories I just told? Uh, drive by yourself late at night.

I feel like I should put some pictures up so this post isn't so boring. You're more inclined to read something if it has pictures. Maybe I'll put pictures up of something irrelevant, yet intriguing. You'll read this entire post trying to figure out what the pictures are connected to. You'll read through my story about listening to a song and my story about a random bumper sticker, then you'll read this paragraph and discover the pictures meant nothing. Except they meant something to me: to get you to read this.

Okay I need to sleep. It's been a foreign activity to me in the past week.

Bye

Today

Today, after I bagged up a customer's groceries, we made eye contact and he said, "Coolio."

He was in his forties.

The Benefits of Roadkill

(THIS IS A PICTURE OF SOME BELOVED ROADKILL AND ME AND MY FRIEND LISA IN CLACKAMAS, OREGON. I AM UNOPPOSED TO KILLING R.O.U.S.s)
Driving home at 1 AM from Garden Grove singing along with Bradley Nowell who "can play the guitar like a mother fucking riot." I see a cat running across Ward. I am going to miss it by a few yards, then it suddenly jerks back and runs directly under my wheels. I hear (and feel) two distinct thuds. I immediately turned off the radio and began sobbing. First of all, just feeling the furry body under my wheels was enough to startle me. Also, that's someone's cat I just killed. I've never killed anything with my car before. I kill bugs. And I've fished. But no one owns those animals. I drove for a few minutes crying hysterically and being awfully dramatic, then decided if I feel this bad about the thing I should probably go back and check on it. I drove back but couldn't see any guts or fur or body through my blurry vision. So I went back to Jon's and he got in the car to help me look for it.
Went back and couldn't find it. That's good. Except I know I hit the thing, with the front and back tires. So that cat, although miraculously on its feet again, is definitely damaged. Then Jon reminded me that it could be a stray. At least no human beings are involved in this catastrophe. There's just some cat limping around somewhere who's got an awful, patchy coat now and the other cats will probably make it an outcast. But the cat could just as likely be someone's beloved pet who will now have to undergo surgery and get one of those plastic cone things that look rather obnoxious and only make the animal grateful for its peripheral vision. I was sad for the sad person who will hate the driver of the car who hit the little black and white animal. But I was able to console myself because there is some gain in this situation. I have just given the veterinarian some prodigious business in these troubled times. The owner of the cat probably needed to take the cat to the vet for something minor and has been avoiding it until now, having a perfectly legitimate reason for spending hard-earned money on such luxuries as animal restoration. And this will all come back to me (and you) in the end when the veterinarian comes to Mother's Market (the vet probably shops at Mother's because of all the animal-friendliness dogma) with that money from the cat owner. I will have more customers to serve and then more likely to keep my job. I don't know how I can revert everything to helping the economy or some glorious demonstration of the virtue of capitalism, but I just did it and it made me feel much better. Another small thing that made me more at ease with smashing the bones of the cat was the fact that I don't eat animals...so it pretty much evens out.

Embarrassing Moment of the Day

I walked all the way home with my backpack fully unzipped. Not so much a "moment" as a "15 minutes".