Luck be a lady? No thanks - how about luck be a sexy guy who wins me MONEY!

I am not a gambler. I know exactly what I can buy with the money in my pocket. And I can dream about all the things I would do if I won the lottery or won big in any number of casinos. But I rarely can get past the idea of losing – that isn’t fun to me. Most of the time, I opt to hang on to what I have and watch someone else lose their money to the odds.

This spring, a friend talked me into kicking in my $10 for a suicide pool during March Madness. With a little help from my younger sister, I managed to pick enough winning teams to tie with one other person and split the final pot. My $10 bet earned me $150 – not bad.

This weekend, I am going to the Kentucky Derby. The same friend who got me into the NCAA pool invited me to attend the race with his family – I am suspicious that he is hoping to get his money back or is determined to turn me into a gambling addict, but maybe he is just trying to make my life a little more interesting. I know I will have a great time and plan on using my March Madness winnings to bet on the ponies, so it isn’t like I am really investing anything. The problem is I have no idea how to bet on a horse.

How does anyone pick a horse to win a race? I have scoped out some sites on the web and tried to understand odds and how they are determined, but I am more confused than ever. I mean, think about it. How does anyone bet on an animal that has surely been trained and has a jockey trying to control it, but in the end is a thinking, feeling life form that could just decide to do whatever it wants? I might as well bet on racing cockroaches.

I have asked a few people for tips on picking horses and have heard some interesting things. Pick a horse with intelligent eyes. Choose one that is frisky. How about opting for the prettiest one? Or the one with the cutest jockey, best racing silk colors, or silliest name? Apparently, despite the numerous websites figuring odds for each Derby entry, choosing whom to bet on is as arbitrary as throwing darts at a list of names. Essentially, not very specific or helpful.

Another interesting tidbit (which I may have heard entirely wrong or else warped the information all out of sense in my crazy brain) is that all the horses entered into the Derby are 3 year old animals without a lot of racing experience. I am really hoping that is wrong because if so, how the heck can anyone lay odds on an animal that is essentially a teenager and then wager money? Are people crazy? Don’t these people know that teenagers are fascinating, fun, and completely unpredictable? And these particular teenagers can get away with biting, kicking, and bucking you off into the mud because how exactly do you ground a horse? Take away its car keys and allowance? HA!

As yet, I have no idea who I will bet on. The good thing is, I don’t have to make up my mind until a little while before the race, so I will have plenty of time to become even more confused by the decision making tactics of other race-goers. I am hoping that a little of my NCAA beginner’s luck will carry over to the Derby, but the truth is my sports fanatic younger sister obsessively watched college sports when we were growing up and some of her insane factual knowledge appears to have penetrated my skull. And a good college program tends to last for years and can become predictable and an easy pick to bet on. Unlike frisky teenage horses with fur, sharp teeth and hooves who could just decide to do their own thing that day.

I am supposed to go to a bourbon tasting in Louisville on Thursday, so maybe some well-aged alcohol will help. I don’t anticipate it helping me make a good decision. I just hope it will help me make any decision at all. And maybe keep me from building pipe-dreams about what I could do with a lot of money I haven’t won yet.

Anyone for a bedtime story?

I like to entertain my closest family and friends. Usually, this happens just by opening my mouth and telling them whatever idiotic thing I have been thinking about lately. (Sometimes they laugh and inch away from me, worried about my insanity level that day). These are the people who know me best and are least likely to be offended by what I say or do, offense being something I seem to be able to inspire in the rest of the world a little too easily.

I have what could politely be called an irreverent sense of humor – to me most things in life have an ironic side and should be laughed at. (This of course does not apply to anything that causes only suffering, of which tragedies there are far too many to list here.) Often, what makes me laugh is something I sort of glimpsed or overheard a snatch of while on the bus, walking down the street, spacing out on a park bench, or whatever and then my crazy little pea brain made up its own story, randomly filling in the blanks. Just like the Mad Libs I used to play with my sisters on long car rides in my parents’ horrible mustard yellow Ford Pinto.

The usual response I get when I tell my friends and family some of my crazy ideas is that I should write them down. Why would I do that? Writing things down fixes them in a permanent state and my brain functions in a more fluid way. It also provides a lot of concrete proof that I am a little kookoo and might benefit from some mind altering medication. I also have a serious problem with fleshing ideas out – I can usually come up with the initial premise, but the details are beyond me. If I tried to write them down, it would just be a list of things, what-ifs, thoughts that go nowhere.

However, I do sometimes like a challenge. I am up trying to note down my favorite loco thoughts and see what happens. The attic in my noggin is getting a little full and perhaps if I write them down, I can let them go and make room for new thoughts. So please enjoy the craziness with one caveat – take everything with a ginormous grain of salt. I mean no disrespect to anyone, any belief system, any gender, orientation, identity of self, etc, etc.

“In the beginning…Irreverent Bible Stories for Lapsed Catholics”

**WARNING** Any devout Christians are likely to want to burn me at the stake after this, including some of my own family members…I am seriously not joking. I just want to make it clear that these ideas are not meant to insult anyone or debase any faith they may have. For the few of you who have heard these ideas before and found them hilarious, I hope you enjoy them again.

*What if Jesus was a vampire? No seriously, I am not the only person in the world to think of this. I mean, if you are not a believer in God, don’t see Jesus as the Messiah, and think it is extremely odd for an institution to condone and promote transubstantiation (the magical turning of bread and wine into flesh and blood), how else do you explain the miracle of Christ? The rite of communion is all about ingesting the flesh and blood of a human being – surely this is cannibalism at the very least but there is definitely a vampire connection there too. Jesus was a man who was dead and yet rose again, not-dead (undead)? Vampire lore is also full of all kinds of interesting items that can be attributed to Jesus – the ability to walk on water is one. What if instead of walking on water, he was just floating above it? At the marriage celebration in Cana, he supposedly turned water into wine. Vampires are famous for being able to hypnotize prey – what if all he did was plant the suggestion in the guests’ minds that the water had become wine and they all believed it? I could go on, but I think you get my point. I think it is outrageously funny to contemplate the idea that a religious figure who supposedly preached peace but inspired so much bloodshed is actually a blood drinker himself.

*Peter, Peter, woman hater. To me, Peter is the biggest misogynist in the last 2000 years. He helped turn the only other important female character (Mary Magdalene) in the New Testament (Mary, Jesus’ mother being the first) into an anathema, a social pariah, a whore. The man obviously had a vagina problem – why else would he help create an institution that has completely denigrated women? Wouldn’t it be funny, though, if every night when holy man St. Peter went home, he had a few dominatrix women waiting for him? What if the rock of the church was spanked like a little boy by his mommy every night before bed and he LIKED it? I laugh just thinking about it.

*Judas Iscariot – poster child for a broken heart. Sometimes, I can’t understand why Christianity is so against homosexuality. I mean, why does anyone care so much about how another person finds happiness in a relationship? Why is there only one missionary-style road to happiness? One day in a flash of truly inspired depravity, the answer came to me. Christians hate Judas Iscariot as much as they hate homosexuals, right? I mean, Judas IS the man who betrayed Jesus to the Romans, which led to his scourging, painful trudge through the streets of Jerusalem, and finally the agonizing execution by crucifixion. I mean, who WOULDN’T hate such a rat? So where am I going with this? Well, what if the true story is that Judas was a gay man who was madly in love with Jesus and actually had a romantic relationship with him? And then, Jesus dumped him? And Judas felt immense anger and shame when his heart was broken? I don’t know anyone who hasn’t felt that way when told by the object of their desire that they ‘just don’t think of you that way anymore”. I have experienced it myself and can easily understand why in a moment of pure anger Judas would want to make Jesus’ life a little uncomfortable, to teach him a lesson. I have always thought Judas was a tragic figure who regretted what he had done – he hung himself eventually, committing suicide, yet another strike against him. The guy just could not win for losing. The true history behind Christianity’s obsession with the evils of homosexuality has just been revealed by a love affair between Jesus and Judas.

*Dona Maria, Holy Mary Mother of God – the poor preggers girl. Seriously, think about it. Some teenage girl has a glowing alien/angel stalking her, telling her crazy things like she is destined to become the mother of God. God?!? How is that logically even possible? It hurts my head thinking about it. The Thing from Outer Space finally talks her into having the kid, she becomes pregnant (the Bible skips a few details when explaining exactly how THAT happened. But Mom, Dad, it was only one time…) and suddenly for social reasons she needs a husband. So she marries the most famous cuckold in history, Joseph, who by all accounts was a good husband and father, one bright star in this story. From now on, Mary’s life is not her own, if it ever was. She has to give birth in a barn with a bunch of animals and strangers from afar looking on as she is sweating and screaming her way through contractions and delivery. She has to raise this uber-holy child, not having any resources for something like this. I imagine it would be like trying to raise a genius but not being able to read, write, or do basic math yourself – where do you even begin? Then her crazy kid decides to start his own hippy commune, preaching revolution and a serious lack of respect for established authority, an early pre-cursor to the Summer of Love. Eventually, this kid, this man, who changed whatever course her life might have taken, has the gall to get arrested and die a messy, public death, all the while praising God and saying ‘thy will be done.’ What about HER will? This person who was carried in her body, who she cared for and raised to manhood didn’t consider her at all when he ran off to foment revolution. I bet deep inside, Mary wanted nothing more than to just be left alone, in a nice little cottage somewhere with her cats and a rose garden. That’s how I picture her now – a plump little lady with dyed, permed hair wearing a too-small sweatshirt covered in kittens and living in a house with plastic covers on the furniture and velvet paintings of Elvis on the walls, smoking cigarettes like a chimney. When you visit her, she gives you stale store-brand Oreo wannabe cookies and Kool-aid lemonade. It makes me laugh a naughty, disrespectful laugh to think she could have been so normal.

Ok, if you are still reading this blog and want more, the rest is pretty benign in comparison. Boring, even. I promise to try to make you laugh..

*What if you were some drugged out asshole wandering the streets of a bad neighborhood one night and saw a beautiful woman inexplicably sitting in a convertible at a stop light? And what if you jumped into her convertible, stuck a knife to her throat, and told her to drive off, all the while salivating over what you were going to do to her before you stole her jewelry and car and left her for dead? And what if the woman just laughed at you, grabbed you and pulled you in close for a kiss – but wait, she is actually biting your neck and sucking all the blood out of you, down to your toes? And what if she tossed your pathetic, dead body out of the car and drove off licking her lips? That would really suck, right? Get it – suck? I crack myself up. So then the beautiful woman drives back to her high class condo, racing the rising sun, completely satisfied with her midnight snack. Yum. Better than a glass of warm milk to help you sleep.

*One day I was walking down Market Street, enjoying the mixture of sunshine and San Francisco weirdos and listening to Marilyn Manson scream in my ear, “I don’t care if you don’t want me, ‘cause I’m yours, yours, yours, anyhow..” About ten feet in front of me, a cab pulled up in front of the Regis Hotel and just as the passenger opened the door, a bike messenger came zooming down the sidewalk, swerving around pedestrians, and got nailed by the cab door. The messenger, a girl, went flying then skidding down the sidewalk until she finally slid to a stop. She must have been one giant body-sized mass of bruises and road rash – I cringe just thinking about it now. Yowza. So I turned off my headphones and ran over to her with my cell phone out, ready to call 911 because I was positive this chick was seriously hurt, if not actually semi-burnt toast. The guy who hit her with the door got to her first and was talking to her. The girl sat up, took off her helmet, and it was a total sexy-librarian moment. With her helmet on and wearing the usual messenger gear of trashed Carhart jeans, black concert t-shirt and a big bag, she had a total tomboy appearance. But the moment that helmet came off and all this pretty blond hair came tumbling down, it was a totally different story. I am an appreciator of beauty everywhere and even though I was very frightened that this girl was seriously hurt, I admit to staring in awe – she was honestly a very beautiful woman. I noticed that the cab door guy was staring too, but who could blame him? It only took a few seconds to figure out that not only was the girl really ok, but that I wasn’t needed and I could boogie on down Market Street. So I did, listening to the rest of Marilyn Manson’s “I Put A Spell On You”. The song started me thinking – this is a classic stalker ballad. And what happened between those two people had the makings of a perfect stalker story. What if Ms. Messenger decides it was fate that she was nailed by Mr. Cab Door at that very moment? She would be foolish to try and thwart fate and she ain’t no dummy. Mr. Cab Door is a very polite man who truly felt sorry for nailing her, even though she shouldn’t have been riding her bike on the sidewalk. As a way to feel better about it, he gives her his business card and tells her to contact him if she needs anything at all, then continues on his way into the Regis. For him, it is over, although he does enjoy thinking about how beautiful she was. For Ms. Messenger, though, a completely different concept was received. He told her to contact him. He gave her the means to do it. Fate, again, is telling her he is THE ONE. You can probably fill in the blanks – think Single White Female. Although, who knows – maybe they could have a happy ending. After an appropriate amount of bloodshed, creepy behavior, and any other Hollywood-isms you want to throw in, of course.

Is anyone still awake? I hope I haven’t insulted you / bored you to tears / convinced you I need to be legally committed to the nuthouse. I could give you more, but this blog is already getting too long as it is. If you are interested in telling me what you think, I believe this site allows you to comment. I would love it if you did. Ciao

Ok drama queen, enough already. Would you please get over yourself?

Have you ever had one of those days where you just can’t stand yourself? I don’t really mean the whole self-loathing jump off a bridge to escape the insanity kind. Just the relatively minor thing where absolutely nothing makes you happy for no explicable reason. Breathing is somehow an insult to your ego. Anyone who says hello or smiles at you has earned your undying hatred for ever and ever, amen. And God forbid anyone wish you a good day. I mean really, who do they think they are?

I am in the middle of one of those days today and I just can’t figure out why. I have reviewed the mental ‘what is your problem this time Lisa’ checklist and come up with nothing. Nada. Nichts. PMS – nope. Not enough/too much sleep – nope again. Hungry – just ate, didn’t help. Chocolate deprivation – had some primo stuff, still bitchy.

So what exactly is bugging me? Well, I am afraid that one of my very bestest friends in the world just might possibly be pissed off at me. Or else she is making a joke and I am way too dense to figure it out. Overly literal person that I am, I miss a lot of things like that. Have I bothered to ask her? Nope – I am busy playing chicken. But is that enough to freak me out to this extent? Hmmm, I don’t think so.

Boyfriend issues? Always. That is status quo, so no dice there. I am a firm believer that the more you love someone, the more issues you have. When the issues stop, THEN I will begin freaking out.

How’s the family? As crazy and in need of serious medication, counseling, and intervention (not necessarily in that order) as ever.

Money? Well, duh. I mean, even guys making billions of dollars every year never seem to have enough. Why should I be content with my few thousands? Nope, I don’t think that is my beef.

What about the job? Well, it is the most excruciatingly boring thing I have ever been paid to do, but it definitely beats the alternative, which I experienced first hand in Technicolor misery last summer. No, the job is definitely not a problem.

Maybe I am going about this all wrong. Perhaps, instead of obsessing about whatever it is that is making me so damn unhappy, I should think happy thoughts instead. That is easy, I can think of many: I am madly in love with my new sofa. I am going to the Kentucky Derby in a few weeks to bet on horses, two things I have never done before in a place I have never been to. Spring is here in all its rainy glory and I am surrounded by happy little plants waking up from their semi-hibernation – that always makes me smile. I got my favorite pair of boots resoled and they are like new – fabulous.

Ok, it is several hours later and I have spent a chunk of time meditating on my happy thoughts and all I feel is boredom. And irritation. Still. Ugh.

So what am I supposed to do with myself? If anyone else was going through this, I would say they needed to just chill out. We all have bad days, cut yourself some slack, blah, blah, BLAH. It isn’t anyone else going through this, it is ME. And I am stuck with me in my head, continually re-pissing myself off in a vicious cycle. Does anyone have an ice pick I can borrow for a homemade lobotomy? I will have to thank you in advance because I suspect that while I will probably be in a better mood afterwards, I will also be a drooling, non-communicative mess. Excuse me while I accidentally slobber on your shoes – it isn’t intentional.

I have no idea what my problem is and I guess it doesn’t matter. In general, I try to hide my high maintenance nature from the world and I think I am having a Mt. St. Helens moment – too much unexpressed drama is building up. I just hope I get home before my top blows off. Heehee. No, not my shirt, although that could be funny I guess.

So what is this whole silly blog posting about? It mainly consists of me complaining about being a dissatisfied whiner. Obviously, a fascinating topic. I am still irritated, but I think I have come to accept that I am just going to be that way today. I just need to finish out my work day, go home, watch some mind-numbing tv, go to bed, and start all over tomorrow.

Why does that plan irritate me so? Who knows. Not me, that’s for sure.

So is this actually friendship or just abuse?

I am coming to understand that I am sometimes an idiot when it comes to friends. In general, I think of myself as a very difficult person to be a friend to: I am moody, opinionated, and prefer to be by myself most of the time. Because of this, I try very hard to also be completely loyal and willing to listen to whatever it is that needs to be said no matter how boring, ridiculous, crass, or pee-my-pants-laughing funny it may be (that last one has been in short supply lately). I feel guilty that no matter how much I may adore my friends, sometimes I don't actually want to see or talk to them very much. That is when all the trouble starts - guilt is terrible thing that makes me do things I later regret and then feel more guilt over later. Unless it is eating lots of chocolate. But that is another story.

I always tell my friends they can speak to me about whatever it is they want, whenever they want and I really, honestly mean that. Most of my friends are true friends - they put up with my crazy anti-social behavior and will listen to what I have to say as much as I try to do the same for them. I am learning, however, that there is a difference between friends who talk to me about all the things going in their lives and the ones who only tell me about the bad things. I don't know why I have been so slow to figure this out. Maybe it is because I myself will drop off everyone's radar from time to time, so it is taking me forever to realize that a few people do the same to me when their lives are good, then only look me up when disaster has struck again.

For example, one person that I have considered a friend for almost two years now is having a difficult time in life. He recently lost his girlfriend and his job and is suing his former employer over something (he told me why but it didn't make any sense). As he was telling me all of this, I started thinking about all the conversations I have had with him over the last year or so and they have only occurred when his life is falling down around him. If that is true, then why am I still friends with this guy? I guess the answer to that is when I first met him, he seemed on top of things. And even though very quickly he started having issues, it took me a while to figure out that his life is one big issue and that forever after that is all I would see about his life. As I look back on my conversations with this guy, I realized that all the signs were there and I only have myself to blame for spending time listening to this person.

I think I will call this guy Niemann, just to make it easier for you guys to follow along - believe me, it is kooky so you will have a hard enough time. The first time I met Niemann in person, I remember thinking that he didn't look as annoying as I knew he could be - warning sign number one that I was oblivious to. He was coming to the account I worked on and had been emailing me for weeks asking the same questions over and over and generally making me loco. When he finally showed up, he wouldn't even make eye contact when talking to me, something that really drives me crazy. I start freaking out that I have grown a big wart on my nose or have something stuck to my teeth and it is so hideously ugly people can't stand to look at me. And when I say he wouldn't make eye contact, I should say he wouldn't actually look at me at all - he wasn't even staring at my boobs. He was just sort of focused on his own shoes.

After getting past day one, Niemann didn't seem so bad. I thought he was just a little shy, which I understand. Just because I have a big mouth and will talk to anyone doesn't mean that I am not quivering with fear on the inside - I am terribly shy but I force myself to get past it so I can function in life. I made a point to say hello to Niemann if I saw him and ask how he was getting on with his new team and eventually he started talking to me more easily, which was good. We were working in an unusual situation with a very small group of people and it was essential that we could all get along.

After about a week or so, Niemann and I had lunch together, not an uncommon thing in our group. He started opening up to me more about himself - talking about work and asking me for background on the team. Over the next week, he started talking to me more and telling me how difficult he found working with this team and for this company to be. I didn't mind listening to what he had to say and maybe I thought that by saying how he felt out loud, it would help him - it works for me sometimes. The gist of what Niemann had to say was that he was very unsatisfied with his job and that it wasn't what he thought it would be when he began working with us. I told him that he only has one life and if he isn't happy with what is going on right now, then he should do something to change it - he should actively go after what he wants.

A few days later I was out with some friends after work and my cell phone started freaking out. Niemann had emailed a text message to my phone that was so long, it came as 12 chunks of data. At first, I thought it was a joke and that he was just messing around with my phone. But as I read the pieces of the message, I started really worrying that he meant every word he wrote. Basically, Niemann decided to take me at my word and go for what he really wanted in life, which somehow had become me. I guess he thought that I was flirting with him or sending him a coded come-hither message when I told him to go after what he wants. I thought I was just talking to him. Silly me. His message basically said he was totally gaga over me and was too afraid to tell me in person so he was texting me. Have you ever heard of anything more romantic? Me either.

It was hard not to let that unasked for text message ruin my evening, but I couldn't help quietly freaking out about it instead of paying attention to my friends. I knew that I was going to have to deal with it somehow, but I had no clue what to say. I should have been flattered that he was interested in me, but for some reason all I felt was angst. I don't think that was exactly the feeling he was trying to inspire in me.

I am not the most aware individual when it comes to my personal life. I am always the last one to know when a guy is interested in me. It never occurs to me that a man I have been hanging out with might be looking for more than friendship and when he finally gets my attention, I am so surprised that I don't always handle it well. It takes a very patient guy to put up with that. I wouldn't call Niemann a patient guy - more of the adult temper tantrum sort.

The next day, I still hadn't decided what to do about the issue - I knew for certain that I was definitely not interested in this guy for a variety of reasons, but how was I supposed to tell him that and still be able to work with him? I felt guilty that I had somehow led him into thinking I was open for a relationship beyond that of just a usual workplace friendship. Eventually, the whole issue of how to address the problem was taken out of my hands - Niemann called me and like a dork, I answered the phone. I mean, what else was I supposed to do? This had to be dealt with at some time so why not get it over with as soon as possible?

Right from the start Niemann was not a happy man. I guess he had spent the whole night essentially sleepless waiting for me to respond. That made me feel awful. I should have at least said I would talk to him about it the next day rather than not saying anything at all. When he heard that I was completely caught off guard and didn't feel the same way about him, he hung up on me. Ok, I thought. That wasn't good but it wasn't horrible either. Now I just have to see what happens on Monday. Silly Lisa, easy outs are for kids. About 5 minutes later, Niemann called me back and then the fun really started. I don't think I said more than 10 words in the whole hour or so that he ranted in my ear. Looking back on it now, I can't really understand why I tolerated that behavior. I mean, I didn't ASK him to decide he was lusting after me. I didn't tell him to please, please choose me to be the ever so grateful recipient of his affection. The only thing I can think of is that I felt guilty that he had poured his heart out in a text message to me and I rejected him. It takes real guts to spew your feelings out in an electronically sent love note to a person who you work with that has never encouraged you romantically.

About half way through the call, I realized that Niemann wasn't ranting at me about me anymore. He was just ranting about life in general. In his view, his life was a big mess and I was just the latest thing to go wrong. Looking back on it now, I realized THAT is where I made my big mistake. I stopped feeling bad that I didn't want to jump into the sack with him and instead started feeling sympathetic that his life was so messed up. Maybe he just needed someone to talk to. I can be a good listener, so that's what I did. I listened. And listened. By the end of it, my ear was numb and my cell battery was dying, so I was given a reprieve. What I didn't know at the time is that the conversation was an example of how my friendship with Niemann would be going forward - painful and energy sapping.

It wasn't as awkward as I thought it would be going back into the office and working with Niemann, mostly because he was in the process of pissing off everyone on the team and would eventually be moved to another account. When he did have time to talk to me, it was to complain about how he was being targeted and all the BS was career maneuvering being done by unscrupulous people. As naive as I can be about my personal life, I am completely aware of office politics and did not have the same impression about what was going on. However, I still felt bad for Niemann because he was just so AWKWARD. And I think I was also just so happy he wasn't chasing after me or making my life difficult at work. Another lady love had entered the picture.

Niemann doesn't live in San Francisco. Lots of the people I work with don't live here. Instead, they fly all over the place, going wherever the job takes them, living their lives mostly in hotels instead of the homes they pay mortgages on. Niemann had a favorite hotel in SF, like most of these vagabond co-workers do, and one thing he particularly loved about it was the wine bar. And one very lovely waitress who worked at the wine bar. One day, Niemann walked into the office and he seemed different - lighter or brighter or something. I commented that he seemed to be having a good day and he proceeded to tell me all about this waitress that he was in love with. He had spent every night over the last week or so sitting at the wine bar talking to her and she was perfect. Wonderful. Magnificent. And, she was going out on a date with him that night. Cool, I thought. I am happy that he is finding something good in life. For some dumb reason, I never questioned at the time that he could go from being (supposedly) madly in love with me to madly in love with another woman all in about two weeks. Or maybe I was just relieved to know I was off the hot seat. Sometimes, I am a complete chicken. Cluck cluck.

After telling me all about his new love, I didn't really talk to Niemann for about a month. I saw him at work and we would make office chitchat, but nothing beyond that. Ours was a busy office with plenty of work to do and time could just fly by. One day, Niemann stopped by my desk and mentioned that we hadn't really talked in a long time and invited me out for a coffee. We hadn't even made it to the elevator before he started ranting about his girlfriend and how it was all going to hell. She was too clingy, she wanted too much from him, and she never seemed to want to listen to him when he needed to talk. It seems this woman expected him to talk to her on days when he wasn't in San Francisco. She actually expected him to talk to her almost every day, even if it was just a quick 15 minute phone call. Can you believe the nerve of her? And if it was a short call, she would complain that he never listened to what was going on in her life. He just wanted to talk about himself and his boring job.

I was stuck in the elevator listening to Niemann literally ranting about this woman and all I could think of was escape. Except, I could see he was upset - really upset. And it is hard for me to ignore that. I feel like I just kicked a puppy and then laughed as it cried when I try to ignore someone who just needs to get a bad day off their chest. Yes, I am an idiot and I bring all this pain and suffering on myself.

It took 45 minutes to get the stupid cup of coffee. The rant about his girlfriend turned into a rant about his job and how much he hated it in our office. I suggested that he try to move into another department or that maybe his girlfriend had an actual point - it is hard to have a relationship with someone you don't talk to or who you feel doesn't listen to you. It all rolled off his back like water off a duck. I don't think it even penetrated his ear drums - he literally could not hear me talking. I finally just stood up and started walking out the door of the coffee shop and he followed me, talking non-stop all the way. I felt like he was sucking all the oxygen out of my immediate area and I was going to suffocate. I had to wonder if he would even notice if I turned blue and dropped dead or if he would just continue yakking at my corpse.

I think it comes as no surprise that Niemann didn't last very long in our office. He was clearly not happy there and the management of our team was more than willing to move him off elsewhere in the company. On his last day in our office, Niemann stopped by my desk to thank me for being such a good friend to him and said that he hoped we would stay in contact. He really appreciated and understood that I had put up with a lot from him and he wanted me to know it hadn't gone unnoticed. I had been sort of avoiding him since the whole ranting in the coffee shop thing and I was totally surprised to hear him acknowledge that he spent most of his conversation time with me freaking out. It was nice to know that I am not a complete idiot and that he wasn't as self absorbed as he seemed.

Except of course, I was totally wrong. Niemann does have the capacity to care about other people, but he is so wrapped up in himself and is so hyper-critical of other people that he can't maintain true interest in anyone else for very long. Every little thing in the world that comes into his orbit is sucked in and turned into either a reflection of his ego or an attack on it. Take our 'friendship' for example. After he left the account, I would hear from Niemann every once in a while, usually when he had alienated everyone around him and I was the only person left. He would always ask me how I was doing, but it was only a formality. He would barely let me begin to tell him anything before he would start in on the saga of his life. And none of it was good. He would begin dating another woman who was always 'the one', but then as soon as she started really getting comfortable with the relationship, he would have 101 reasons why it was all wrong and then he would end it. He always seemed to be working with idiots who didn't appreciate him and was moved around a lot within the company. It was getting to the point where I was deliberately ignoring his calls - I just didn't have the energy to listen to him tell me the same things over and over. The only new details were names and places.

Right around Christmas 2009, Niemann called me up and it was the same story: he was under appreciated at work and his latest girlfriend was driving him crazy. She had told him repeatedly that she loved him and wanted him to tell her if he could ever feel the same. A reasonable request, in my opinion. Every girl needs to know if she should just cut her losses or keep on keepin' on. Niemann said he was going to end it with her, but he felt like he should wait until after the holidays because he didn't want to ruin them for her. I don't really have an opinion about that. Is it better to let someone enjoy their holidays but find out later their other half was plotting the end of the relationship? Or should a clean break be made as soon as possible so everyone can move on? That one is a flip of a coin, I think.

About a week after New Year's Eve, Niemann called me again, sobbing his little heart out. It seems that his unwanted girlfriend had dumped him. In the time I had known him, this had never happened. Niemann had always called all the shots and did all the wooing and dumping. I was actually seriously concerned about the damage to his ego - I wasn't sure it could stand it. I also was laughing my ass off because it had only been a few weeks ago that he was seriously talking about leaving HER. So what was the problem? I guess as soon as she dumped him, Niemann decided that he really was in love with her and now his heart was well and truly broken. Shattered into teeny tiny irreparable pieces that not even gorilla glue could fix.

Am I a mean friend for laughing at his pain? Probably. I am a bit of a slow one when it comes to things other people seem to instinctively know about life and I was gradually realizing that whatever my relationship was with Niemann, it wasn't a friendship. So that meant I could be guiltlessly mean and get some of my own back. I did feel bad that he was upset, but Niemann was ALWAYS upset. I had become numb to the whole drama of it - his life was like a Mexican soap opera except without all the big hair and women with long nails screaming Nada! at the top of their lungs and crying all the time.

Instead of just telling Niemann that I couldn't talk right then and that we would catch up later (I knew it would be at least a month before I heard from him again), I did something I try never to do with crazy people - I told him what I really thought about the situation. I laid it out the way I saw it: Niemann charmed the dickens out of yet another lady (as a salesy dude, he could be very smooth when he wanted to be), romanced her for a while until she started actually believing the persona he projected, then turned into the wicked warlock of the west when she had the nerve to plan things out long term. But, he sobbed into my poor ear, I LOVED her! No, you didn't. That only happened when she went off script and dumped your tuchas in the gutter. Needless to say, Nieman was very shocked. I had only ever listened to him before. I had never, ever told him what I thought. It was amazing how fast those tears dried up and he started telling me how much I had hurt him and that he thought I was his friend and how could I treat him this way? Oh boo hoo, I thought. I accidentally ( or was it?) laughed at that and he was so mad, he hung up on me. Uh oh - was this the end of our beautiful relationship?

A year ago, even six months ago, treating him like that would have made me feel horribly guilty because I did consider him a friend. Other people (much wiser than me) had pointed out that he never seemed to be around when I needed a friend and only ever called when his life was completely a mess. Maybe it fed my ego in some way to have someone talk to me when his life was so down. I'm not like that - the worse my life gets, the less I talk about it. Or maybe (even worse) I felt somehow better about my life when he would call and I would hear how horrible his was. I hope that isn't true. I want to believe I truly do care about people outside myself.

After my lack of appropriate response to his agony, I really didn't think I would hear from Niemann again. It was a big surprise, then, when about six weeks later he called to 'catch up'. It was like the last conversation had never happened - he didn't mention his latest ex-girlfriend and I didn't ask. He actually even listened to me for about 5 minutes when I told him what was new in my life. Then, the drama started again. Niemann was getting laid off and he was furious with the company. Ok, that is a normal reaction. I was laid off last year and while I wasn't furious with the business decision, I was pretty damn angry that it happened at all. The difference between Niemann and me was that I KNEW that mine was only a business decision while I was fairly certain that with him, it was a way for the company to finally, legitimately get a difficult non-productive employee off the books. Give him a severance package and say auf wiedersehen.

Niemann's angst wasn't only that he was getting laid off. He was also upset with the company for perceived slights during his time there and had decided to sue over it. More drama to tell me all about. What he didn't know, though, is that I had reached my breaking point. I did it pretty quietly, but it still happened. I literally wanted to scream into the phone that he just needed to shut up. Just SHUT UP! That would have been fun and made me feel better for a time, but just like ice cream and sexy shoes, I had this stupid idea that I needed to deny myself the pleasure. Instead, I lied and told him I had a meeting to go to and I would get back to him later. Which I haven't done. Because in a past life, I was a cowering, belly groveling organism who hated to tell people they aren't wanted around. And I really don't want Niemann around because whatever else our relationship is, it sure isn't a friendship.

Niemann has called and texted a few times and I have either ignored the phone or texted him back to say I couldn't talk then. In my chickenhearted way, I know I am hoping he will just fade away and forget all about me. It bothers me that I made such a poor choice of a friend. Did I really believe that he just had a tough life and needed a loyal friend? Was it all a big ego trip for me? I honestly can't say for sure and that upsets me more than anything else. I do hope that the simple fact I am even asking myself these questions means that I really was just a ninny who was waiting for the good side of Niemann to show up more often than the bad side and that I did try in my own way to be a good friend. I think in this instance being an oblivious idiot with a hopeful heart is humiliating, but better than being Niemann.

When I turn 50, I want to party like its 1985 too

This last weekend I had the honor of attending a 50th birthday party for the woman who was my boss for an entire 3 1/2 months. This woman was the best boss I have ever had, and not only because we worked together for such a short time. Julie is just one of those people - intelligent, kind, curious about life, ambitious but not overly driven, and - most importantly - FUN. I knew any party she threw would be a blast.

In a few months, I will officially be closer to 40 than 30, which is just fine with me. Who cares about some silly little number of years I have spent taking up space on this planet? Age really is a state of mind, a concept that for me is validated every time I ride public transportation and see the infantile behavior that both MUNI operators and passengers exhibit. When I was invited to Julie's 50th birthday party, I was excited to go because I knew that it would be a celebration of her life so far, not a desperate attempt to convince everyone that 50 is the new 30. And THEN I found out that the party had a theme. And THEN I found out what it was - an 80s costume party. Gag me with a spoon.

My date to this party was my wonderful friend Mary. Mary is one of the few women on this planet that I can truly be a friend to and feel that friendship returned. If I don't speak to her for 3 weeks, she doesn't automatically think I am mad at her, that I hate her, and thus talk to everyone else behind my back about imagined insults. She is a straight shooter - she tells me exactly what she thinks in a way that doesn't make me feel attacked. I never feel like I am in some obscure competition with her over things that don't matter. Most importantly, when I hang out with Mary, I always truly enjoy myself. So if there was any chance of me having fun at this (now) ludicrous party, it was all going to be because of Dona Maria.

I love dressing up for almost anything except funerals and dates, which can sometimes feel like the same thing. The idea of going to a costume party always makes me happy, depending on what the theme is. The only things coming to mind about the 80s were how much I hated it when Billy Carney would call me Lysol (get it? Lisa/Lysol? He was truly a clever kid), how much I would laugh when Mr. Piatz threw erasers at kids sleeping in his math class, and how truly awful the fashion was. If you could even call it fashion. It was more like every bad idea regarding a person's appearance was crammed into 10 long years of visual ouch-ness. Mary, being Mary and generally much more positive about these sorts of things, seemed thrilled.

Ok, so if I was going to attend a party celebrating a friend's birthday with another good friend as my date, I was either going to have to adjust my attitude or just stay home. I don't try to be a party pooper, it just comes naturally sometimes. Mary's suggestion that we dress up as Milli Vanilli helped immensely. Unfortunately, I am not a talented lip syncher. I'm not a talented singer, either, but that would not be necessary for obvious reasons. And even though you can find all kinds of truly wonderful and bizarre things in San Francisco any day of the week, long dredlock wigs would be a challenge. Besides, I enjoy looking like a girl, not some hairy wannabe popstar.

By Friday afternoon, I was tired and grumpy and in no mood to try to find 80s togs to wear that wouldn't completely gross me out, but I had agreed to go shopping with Mary. We took a stinky, crammed bus up to Haight/Ashbury where all the best vintage stores are and started browsing our way up the street. I could tell you all sorts of interesting things that I saw and heard while in the Haight that night, but that would totally take me off on a tangent. Maybe another time.

One thing I will tell you is that for some reason, the 80s are now retro. I personally don't think I have lived long enough to have my childhood be labeled as retro, but obviously some fashionista does. ALL the trendy little shops along Haight Street had lots of 80s knock-offs, 80s inspired, and 80s refrence items in their windows. It was kind of creepy.

Eventually, we went into a store I usually associate with vintage Summer of Love and Disco clothes. Held Over is pretty famous for having the best quality vintage items from the 60s and 70s. I was skeptical that we would find anything newer than 1978, but boy was I wrong. They not only had several racks of honest to god real 1980s clothing, but they had it sorted out by the type of person who would have worn it - valley girl, preppy, long prom dresses, short prom dresses, rompers, beaded dresses that Angela Lansbury would have proudly worn on Murder, She Wrote. They even had Little House on the Prarie dresses - anyone feel like channeling Laura Ingalls Wilder? The best (or worst, depending on how you look at it) was a pair of parachute pants - I had deliberately forgotten how truly awful those things were.

As we started flipping through racks looking for things to try on, I was totally unprepared for the memories that came flooding back. That sounds really cliched, but seriously, that is what happened. Every single thing I saw reminded me of someone I knew, something I saw, something I wanted to own, to be, to look like when I was a kid verging on teenage-dom. I could not stop laughing at how horrible the fabrics were (everything seemed to be made from some flammable fake material), how crazy the colors were, and how truly unflattering some of the shapes were. One completely unflattering dress Mary tried on was classic valley girl with triangle shaped buttons running asymmetrically up the side (think civil war uniform). When she stepped out of the dressing room, the white bib front looked like a cloth diaper she had thrown on before she started burping babies. Yuck doesn't even begin to cover it.

I tried on a few dresses, but the one I chose is something that if I am truly honest, I would have loved when I was 14. It was classic 80s punky-rocker chick, very Madonna and Cyndi Lauper-ish. It was also hideously ugly, but who cares - I was too busy channeling my inner teenager. Wearing a really ugly dress in public was something that I loved when I was a rebellious teen. Half a life later, I was doing it again.

Mary and I spent hours flipping through racks, laughing at truly bad items, making fun of absolutely everything, and having a total blast getting all the details of our costumes just right. It wasn't such a bad way to spend a Friday night.

The next night was Julie's party. Mary went to a salon to get her hair as big as possible and then came over to my apartment to get dressed. I was bowled over by the poodle on her head - the hairdresser had crimped her hair all over, then used half a can of hairspray on it and put a little ponytail on top in a scrunchie. She even had her bangs up in a 'rooster'. Classic 80s all the way. Getting ready was just like highschool - we were sharing makeup, fashion ideas, stuff, and laughing our asses off as we got ready to go out for the night.

The party was at the Log Cabin in the Presidio, always a fun place to be. When we walked in, I was shocked and very embarrassed - hardly ANYONE dressed up. We just stood in the doorway wondering if we had somehow crashed a completely different party. It wouldn't be the first time in my life that I had misinterpreted something and gone completely overboard in the wrong direction in as public a way as possible. That feeling of awkwardness coming over me was unfortunately one of the most memorable parts of my life in the 80s. I felt like a cliche - the girl trying so hard to fit in who is clearly not one of the group. Ugh doesn't even begin to cover it.

Someone grabbed my shoulder and hugged me really hard, screaming 'oh my god you look great' in my ear. It was Julie, and she was totally glammed out as Joan Jett - this woman was clearly setting the tone for her own party. She was obviously thrilled that Mary and I had gone all out with our costumes and made me spin around a few times so she could get a good look at all the details. I really had it goin' on - spiky hair with a big hot pink bow, bright makeup, Cyndi Lauper dress, lace gloves, loads of jewelry including huge white earrings and a rosary (I know, I will go to hell some day for using my first communion rosary like that. Add it to the list of all the other things sending me to hell), hot pink cut off lace tights, Doc Martens. Mary was totally fabulous with her short dress, pink lace tights, high-heeled black booties, and really big hair.

It was obvious that Julie was thrilled we had really gone all out for her party, which helped that panicky, oh god I am such a dork AGAIN feeling start to go away. Life became even better when she pointed out the open bar. One of the best parts of being an adult - I don't have to pay an obliging grownup to buy me something alcoholic and then hide it in the way too obvious brown paper bag. The years of consuming 40s of Old English, St. Pauli's, or even Bartles and James are long over. After we got drinks and started talking to other people, it became pretty clear that Mary and I were part of the small cool kid club at the party.

I have never in my life been one of the cool kids. Even as an adult I have to work extra hard to fit in. Part of the problem is that I don't understand why some people are cool and others are not. The rest of the problem is that in general, I just don't care. That doesn't mean that there haven't been times when I wanted to be part of the in crowd, just like nerdy Brian in the Breakfast Club asking if the cool kids stuck in detention with him will ignore him on Monday morning. I am still enough of a dork/nerd/geek to want to be part of the popular kids group now and then and Saturday night I was one of the coolest people at the party. All because Mary and I took the idea of an 80s costume party as literally as possible and channelled our inner Molly Ringwalds instead of poor dorky Brian.



The party was great. It was obvious that Julie is a much loved and respected woman for so many reasons. She also set the tone by going flat out in enjoying herself, even going so far as to take part in a skit of several of her favorite songs. In one part, she was dressed up like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz - I would love to know the backstory on that one.



The music was fabulous. Think of an 80s artist who had at least one song with a dance beat and you would have heard it that night. For all my kvetching about how awful the 80s were for fashion, when it came to music, that decade was as good as any other. I had forgotten how many truly great bands thrived in the 80s and I knew the words to every single song played. And I sang my little atonal heart out, not that anyone could hear. They were all singing too.



I also danced my tuchas off. Most of my friends these days would agree when I say I am not a dancer. The truth is, I don't usually boogie down with them unless they drag me out onto a dance floor. I don't really know why that is. If you had asked me last week, I would have said it is because I am such a complete klutz that I am afraid of hurting innocent bystanders or embarrassing myself with a clumsy, maiming dance move. But when I was out on the dance floor at this party shaking my thing and hopping around like a demented pre-mosh pit pogo stick, I remembered how much I had really, truly LOVED dancing when I was a teenager. I have so many great memories of dancing with my best friend Mike Reinsch (I mostly sort of orbited around him while he was doing his own thing) or watching Candi Baldwin recreating every Madonna video step for step at school dances. Even the jocks were fun to watch - they all danced by jerking their heads around, like demented chickens who were always on the off beat. By the end of the night, I was tired, sweaty, and extremely happy.



It is interesting how memory can play tricks on you if enough time goes by. My perspective on the 80s was always tied up in how bad everyone looked - and it is true that there was a lot of really awful fashion. But no era is ever exemplified by just one thing, and that is definitely true of the decade where I spent most of my childhood. This party not only gave me an opportunity to help a really awesome woman celebrate how happy she was to be turning 50. It also in a cliched, sappy, Hollywood way gave me back some things I had forgotten along the way in life. I really did love The A-Team, I was kookoo for Cocoa Puffs and Count Chocula cereal, I wore my knee-high rainbow striped gym socks with pride, and I always had a spare can of AquaNet in my bag so I could maintain my big hair. I knew all the lyrics to every Madonna song, had watched Goonies, Ghostbusters, and Raiders of the Lost Ark hundreds of times, and had the predictable crush on Rob Lowe. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.



I heard a rumor that a bar in my neighborhood hosts an 80s night on the weekends. I can't wait to get my gear on and go.

2 Super Hot Chicks

Kissing Michael Jackson

Gotta love the bow

The infamous poodle

Believe it or not, sometimes even a blabber mouth has nothing to say

It has been brought to my attention by several people that I have not posted anything new in many months. I hadn't realized how much time had gone by. I also hadn't realized that anyone would notice. I mean, let's face it - the only people reading this thing are those who already know and love me (For which I am extremely appreciative. Thanks, guys).

So, why haven't I posted anything in months? Good question. Everyone who knows me is also fully aware that I usually have opinions about most things and I am not shy about expressing them. I come from a long line of talkative, opinionated people, and blabbing is in the genes. My father, a first-class yakker in his own right, actually had the nerve to tell his children they had used all their words for the day when we were growing up. If all of this is true, why haven't I been logging my thoughts down for posterity?

The whole premise of this blog is to share with a (mostly) disinterested world the crazy things happening outside my window. When I was gainfully UNemployed this summer, I had plenty of time to watch all the shenanigans taking place in my neighborhood, things I never saw when I was a 9-5er. When I finally rejoined the working world, all those soap opera stories continued, but I wasn't there to watch them. But is that really the reason I stopped blogging?

I think I have a pretty good imagination. Some of my ideas might seem like pure lunacy to the general public, but I like to think of myself as a no-holds-barred imaginist (Yes, that is a made up word. My first of the day!). I usually have several ideas for a tale of some sort running around my brain and when they have percolated long enough, I write them down. Some are good, some are horrible, but in general they seem to flow pretty easily. If that is true, why am I not posting those on my blog?

Here is what I am afraid is true about me and this blog: that I have become one of those people who only has something public to say when the world seems horrible. Maybe the reason why I had so many ideas to blog about during the summer was because I really needed a creative outlet for all the angst I was feeling while looking for employment. Looking back on the summer of 2009, I can truly say it was one of the most difficult times of my life. I literally slaved away trying to convince somebody, ANYBODY to hire me to do a decent job at a decent wage. I have never in my life expended so much energy for so little return and looking back, I am aware how much that was beginning to eat me up from the inside out. So, maybe that is why blogging was so easy last summer and feels so much like work now.

Ok, psychoanalysis time is over - thank goodness. Is everyone still awake or have I bored you all to sleep?

I am going to do my best to keep blogging. It isn't just my neighborhood that is outside my silly little window, it is the whole freaking world with all the fantastic things that happen in it. I don't consider myself much of a writer, but I know that I do have some ideas that entertain my friends now and then. And life is good and getting better every day. It's time to start posting and see what happens.

Maybe I will finally remember to take a picture of the headless, naked manniquins with tassels on their nipples and stars on their, um, private bits that appear in random places on Market Street. If I do, I promise to post it. If I forget, well, use your own imagination for a change and stop relying so much on mine.

Note to self - if you aren't an exhibitionist, don't leave your underwear lying around

I live in a small building that has its own laundry room, but there are only two washers and dryers apiece. About 25 people live here and we all try to get along and be responsible about not hogging the machines, but there is this one chick who doesn't get it. I don't know her name and I don't want to on the off chance that some sleepless night when I can't find a way to distract my brain long enough to trick it into falling asleep, I decide to get out my home made voodoo kit and work some jiggy magic on her. Actually, I don't own any such kit but if I am bored enough, I am sure I could create one. It is just better not to go there.

This building has very few, but very simple rules: no loud parties during the week, no loud parties running past 11pm on weekends, don't let people you don't know into the building, remove your laundry within 10-15 minutes of the machine finishing and only do laundry between the hours of 8am and 8pm. There are a few apartments with windows overlooking the courtyard leading to the laundry room and the people living in them can hear the machines when they are running. One of the washers seems to be trying to eject the drum at extremely high speeds in an effort to express just how much it hates the puny humans that abuse it.

So, this particular woman has the bad habit of starting her laundry at 6.30 am during the week, and putting the wet laundry into the dryers before she leaves for work. She is some highly strung workaholic who often doesn't seem to come home until late in the evening. Which means that not only is she starting up noisy (potentially murderous) machines very early in the morning, but she is leaving her clothes in the dryer for at least an entire day. Not only is this downright inconsiderate of everyone else living in the building, but it is causing some problems in an otherwise friendly building.

Here is the problem - not only is the noise a factor, but there is also the issue of what to do when you just need to use both dryers. Do you pull her laundry out of the dryer and put yours in? Not only is it just weird to touch someone else's clothing in general, but you are also dealing with more intimate things, like her underwear. I won't go into detail, but she wears some interesting stuff. It is all very cute and probably too expensive to just be thrown into a dryer - no grandma panties here, boys. Maybe some of the guys in the building don't mind handling her undies for various reasons, but I do not. Not only do I get irritated by the fact that I am put in that position, but there is also the unrational fear of getting caught. What if she walks in while I am piling her things on the folding table? I shouldn't have to worry about that as she is clearly in the wrong and I am not what you would ever call a timid person, but I have good reason for fearing the wrath of the naughty underwear lady. (I love that word 'naughty'. No matter how it is used, it always sounds like so much fun.)

A few weeks ago, one of the gentlemen living in my building had finally had enough of this lady and her laundry shenanigans. I came home to find a very interesting bra hanging from my doorknob that did not belong to me. It had a label attached to it stating who it belonged to and how long it had been sitting in the dryer taking up space. The whole building had been draped in her laundry, most of it her underwear. Needless to say, the lady was not happy. She complained to the live-in building manager who just the day before had been informed that he no longer held that title, so he had a happy time telling her he couldn't do anything to help her. He is my neighbor and came right over afterwards to tell me all about it and was laughing like a loon about the whole thing. She essentially just stomped back down to her apartment, slammed the door, and behaved herself laundrywise for the next few weeks.

Today seemed like it was going to be a pretty nice day. The fog that had been hanging so low over the city and numbing everyone's brain had lifted and it actually seemed like we might get a summer day. Some really weird trees on the street outside my window that have these bright orange, poofy flowers on them were beginning to bloom and the color was fabulous. Neighborhood kids were outside traveling in packs up and down the street, happy to get at least one sunny day during their summer vaction. I went out and ran some errands, picked up some Fritz's fries for lunch (with balsamic vinegar ketchup and pesto mayo - don't knock it 'til you've tried it), and eventually headed back home.

I could hear the male hyenas laughing before I even opened the door to the building. The whole lobby was decorated with underwear. It was hanging from the newel post of the staircase, taped with packing tape to the light fixtures, and every one of the mailboxes had something attached to it. I could see why no one had complained about this woman for a while - there was enough underwear scattered around to suggest she just hadn't been doing her laundry for a few weeks. I will say one thing for working all the time - it seems to provide you with a huge budget for fancy lingerie.

More underwear was hanging from the railing of the staircase and I was a bit skeeved out about using it for balance as I climbed up to my apartment. Yes, ok, fine, they had all been washed and dried (obviously), but still. Eeeew. The guys in my building might be overjoyed to play with her thongs but I most definitely am not. Three of my fellow tenants were sitting on the top step drinking beer and laughing about their latest panty raid and looking very pleased with themselves. I said hello, agreed it was all very funny, and left them with the suggestion that no one take any souvenirs because that would be theft rather than just a practical joke. My apartment was nice and quiet and I was happy to be in it ignoring my juvenile neighbors.

At about 7pm, the banshee came home. I don't know what else to call her - she was certainly shrieking like one and was threatening death to anyone who had a hand in the great underwear escapade. She ran up and down the hallways banging on doors demanding that whomever had touched her property come out so she could kick their ...um....behinds. Of course, it sounded much more serious than that, but I am trying to keep this at least PG rated. I opened my door to her banging and almost shut it again immediately, just to defend myself from the finger she started poking in my face. Her face was bright red and her voice had risen to such a high pitch it was almost squeaky and made my ears hurt. I couldn't even completely understand what she was saying because she was so angry she had become incoherent. And that annoying finger was less than an inch from my eyeball and made me happy I was up to date on my tetanus shot. And that I had two eyeballs in case I lost one. If something went wrong, maybe I would look as cute as Darryl Hannah did wearing her eyepatch in Kill Bill 2. I did not like her finger.

I really don't like conflict. I don't like public displays of anger. In fact, I just don't like anger. I do get angry now and then but usually I just get irritated for 20 minutes or so and then try to let it all go. Being angry just seems to take up so much energy and nothing good ever comes from it. Angry, screaming people really turn me off, too. This out of control angry banshee blasting me with the most amazingly dirty language really was too much. Up to that point, I had nothing personal against this woman. Yes, she was annoying. Yes, she stressed me out when it came to laundry, but there are far worse things in the world. Most of the time I just ignored her and the world kept turning just fine. But for her to start abusing me verbally in my own doorway was about all I could take. I think I just stood there staring at her looking like an intellectually challenged tree stump, but really I was trying to stop myself from doing a Bruce Lee on her and grabbing that annoying finger, bending it backwards as far as I could to see if I could change the pitch of her scream, and then slamming my apartment door in her face. Those doors are heavy - when they slam, the whole block can hear them. Not only do I hate anger, I really hate physical violence and feel both extremely offended and doubly attacked when someone actually pushes me to the point of wanting to hurt them.

By this time, everyone in the building who was home was standing on the landing outside my apartment door watching what was taking place. I saw the three geniuses who'd had the braniac idea to decorate the building with her underwear standing behind her. I looked at them and said, "Well? Are you going to tell her or should I?" I didn't think the banshee could actually hear me over all the noise she was making but I guess I was wrong. She stopped in mid-shriek and turned around to see who I was talking to.

I will give these guys some credit - they absolutely did not expect the banshee to go off the deep end like that. I don't believe any of them were being malicious, they were just really tired of her completely inconsiderate behavior and took their revenge a little too far. And they did own up to what they had done, but unfortunately, they didn't seem at all sorry. Not by a long shot. The banshee started up again, verbally abusing the three stooges who started yelling back about how she was a selfish, annoying, bad neighbor (oooooh, that last insult was LOW) that the whole building hated and they just had the guts to do something about it. It was starting to sound like the Pogues song "Fairytale of New York" but without the love or singing police officers at the end.

I could hear heavy footsteps and squawking radios coming up the stairwell and saw what seemed like an entire platoon of San Francisco's finest pushing through the crowd of my neighbors - someone had called the police. The question was who and what would happen? As the officers separated the banshee from the stooges and started collecting stories, one of the women in my building started picking up the underwear lying around and putting it into a paper bag she had brought up. In my opinion, she was just trying to be nice to the banshee with the potty mouth. Unfortunately for her, the banshee didn't agree and actually flew at her. I am not joking, I don't think her feet were touching the ground. She grabbed a handful of the nice neighbor's hair and gave it a good yank before the police pulled her off, pushed her face down onto the carpet and handcuffed her. Several people clapped; I was still making like a tree stump and staying quiet.

The three stooges started yelling at the banshee again and she returned fire, accusing them of being perverts and demanding DNA tests be done on her underwear to test for fluids. Gross! I finally unstuck my tongue from the roof of my mouth and asked her if she suspected them of messing with her undies, why did she attack me? She just looked at me like I was an idiot and said I was the only person who opened the door and she had to yell at someone. That infallible logic stumped me (heehee 'stumped', get it?) and I went back to my previous state of total silence. The stooges started yelling at her all over again, this time on my behalf. I wanted everyone to just be quiet but I also felt that they should stick up for me because they caused the whole mess. The least intelligent of the three decided to contribute a voluntary DNA sample by spitting on the banshee, which ended up with him also lying on the floor in handcuffs. The score was now 1-1, but with no one else on the banshee's team she would probably lose unless she was let out of the penalty box soon. However, she did have the secret weapon of her incredibly inflammatory vocabulary and since no one had gagged her, she continued to verbally abuse the other two.

Over the next hour, the police tried to get statements from everyone standing around, including me. It was slow going though because the banshee and the stooges were all hopped up on caffeine or Energizer batteries or something and were definitely going strong. When the banshee wasn't screaming about the perverts spewing who knows what on her underwear, she was complaining about her dust allergies and how much the carpet stinks. I will agree with the smelly carpet statement - I wouldn't want to be face down on it anytime soon. The stooges were making equally insulting statements about how there was no way they could ever spew anything on her underwear because just the thought of it made any spew-producing equipment non-functional. That is an extremely edited version of what the stooges acutally said, by the way.

Eventually, the police finished with the statement gathering, collected all the incident causing underwear as evidence, and put the two handcuffed neighbors in separate cruisers to be taken down and booked, Dan-o. During the whole drama, one of the officers had stood toward the back of the crowd looking a bit bored. He was older - maybe around 50 or so - and had said very little throughout the whole thing. As everyone was starting to wander off to their own apartments, I asked him what he thought about the whole mess. He said that as far as he was concerned, this was exactly the type of call he would prefer to be sent out on - no one was actually hurt, no weapons were involved, and even though 2 people had been arrested, most likely no DA would take it to trial. These two would just spend the night in jail to cool off and hopefully regain their senses. His opinion gave the whole thing a different perspective, one I could appreciate.

Was any of this actually worth it? Three guys in my building played a joke on a woman who didn't seem to care that she was acting like a bad neighbor. In a small building with all of us literally living right on top of each other, it is very important that we all try to be understanding and accomodating. I believe that philosophy goes both ways - she should have extended that consideration to her neighbors, but her neighbors never did anything to try and find a positive way to change the situation. I don't know if anyone ever spoke to this woman about how her behavior was annoying everyone in the building - I know I never did.

What those guys did was funny, but it was also humiliating and I think that is what set her off in the end. If someone took my underwear and displayed it for everyone to see I would be upset too. Think about it - now everyone who looks at you can imagine what you are wearing under your clothing. The most personal part of your wardrobe has been spread out all over the building. Unauthorized people have been TOUCHING these pieces of clothing. Yeah, I can see why she was angry. I think she was totally out of control, but I can understand why. I can also understand why the guys did it in the first place - if someone leaves belongings unattended in a public place and inconveniences other people, then those belongings could arguably be considered fair game.

In the end, I believe nothing good came from this whole debacle. The two jailbirds will be released in the morning with their own sides of the story to tell all their friends. The property owners will most likely have to get involved, and that usually isn't a good thing. Previously content people in the building will now be living with the idea that if they do something their neighbors don't like, someone could go vigilante on them. Saddle up posse, you have all been deputized. Let's go nail some varmints. A huge, ugly drama exploded out of a fight over laundry. Totally childish, completely ridiculous.

I have to be honest, though. The inital joke WAS funny. One drawback to living in a small building is that it sort of functions like a college dorm at times and otherwise mature adults can end up acting like irresponsible students. And panty raids are an old college tradition, right? Think of Belushi in Animal House.

I am trying to take something positive away from all of this: the banshee didn't manage to poke out one of my eyes, my ears have finally stopped ringing from her screaming, and it wasn't my underwear draped all over the building. Sometimes, it is the little things in life that make it sweet.