Here are some little anecdotes that I want to say:

Why do black women keep their cash in their bra? Yes, this is more common than one would think. One woman actually asked me to turn my head because the bills had fallen further into her cleavage than she thought. I have been handed sweaty dollar bills at two of my jobs now. I didn't think this type of thing really happened. Apparently, it's a black thing. However, there was one white woman that used her bra straps to carry the cookies I had just wrapped up for her. You know, because she didn't want to waste a paper bag. On behalf of the people who will be eating those cookies: kill a tree. Through our conversation prior to her cookie molestation I learned that this woman had at least a graduate degree in Chemistry. And for the record, her bra was red so you know she was getting some later that night. I want to junk punch the women who make me handle their moist crumpled dollar bills. I mean, how am I supposed to focus on work when all I want to do is smell the money they give me.

I was on my way to go see the movie Precious, and I saw a beat up looking Nissan POS covered in bumper stickers. Most were along the lines of impeaching Bush, and not trusting authority. I guess these stickers are meant to convince me to share the ideals these rectangles espouse. If these stickers really are billboards, and all you get from questioning authority is a dented teal Nissan that smokes, I think I will be a sheep. The only way a bumper sticker would get me to question authority is if it were on the back of an Aston Martin. You don't see that often. Bumper stickers on cars that cost six figures. I hate bumper stickers. Junk punch.

Working in retail, I have become a pretty good eye for spotting a person who doesn't mind spending money. Good sign: Nice glasses. Bad sign: Pony tail on top of the head. Good sign: A natural material purse, like alligator. Bad sign: Coach bag. Good sign: Nice clothing. Bad sign: Raiders apparel.

It's Pat visited the store the other day. She (I am fairly certain) was not wearing a bra, or at least a supportive one, and her breasts combined with her gut to form a lumpy middle section that was troubling to look at. Strutting into the shop, being led by her fully functional fannypack, not being worn ironically, she charges the counter. Her lips looked as though they had been stung by a bee, and she had a slight speech impediment. "Um.. Do you... have... hot, uh, chocolate?" "Not yet, but we are working on it. I keep complaining to the chocolatier," I say. "Well, I... make... the best... hot chocolate. I... combine a ganache... with the milk." I don't care, or want to know. "We just use a milk and melted chocolate, and that seems to work very well. But we don't have the machine that keeps the chocolate at the proper temperature." "I make a ganache with the chocolate and cream and then add it to the milk." "Oh, okay." (Her way would most likely end up with a broken ganache, and that tastes disgusting). This woman wouldn't leave. She kept going on and on about her stupid hot chocolate. Just before she took her leave, she gave me this priceless piece of wisdom: "If... you get hot... chocolate... they will... come in... droves." Argh, leave me alone. I forgot to mention that she came in 4 minutes before closing and rambled on for about 6 minutes. Why is this woman talking to me so much? I didn't even feign interest. All I could think about was how she must have been home schooled. The fannypack was a good clue, but if she went to public schools her speech impediment would have gotten her teased enough to the point where she wouldn't speak often. Not only do I want to junk punch her because she doesn't know what she is talking about, and is annoying, but I also want to junk punch her out of curiosity. She is like Ciara. I want to junk punch her to see if the rumors are true, and to settle any questions in my mind about her gender.

I finally found a new apartment. It took me 3 months of looking in Berkeley and 1 week of looking in San Francisco. Let me tell you about the misadventures I had.

First off, if you aren't a vegan or vegetarian your housing options are limited. I don't understand vegans. Do you really hate being alive so much that you have to deprive yourself of great food?

Also, not wanting to live in a communal really puts a damper on living options too.

Here are three real life scenarios:

1. I made an appointment to see a room that is detached from the house and doesn't have it's own bathroom. One would have to walk up the back deck steps to go inside to use the bathroom or kitchen. I might have been able to get used to that idea because it was in the perfect location. What the ad didn't mention is the studio space that is attached to the room. In this room they teach music lessons, community yoga classes, zumba classes (?), and they have a children's summer camp. There are so many things wrong with living there. Topping it off is the woman's nose piercing. You are a mother of 2 in your 40's. Grow up, take things that are magnetic out of your body, except for maybe your hip. And further more, put a shirt on. You are fat. I don't want to see the bra straps of an ample middle aged woman. Maybe some people are into that, I'm not. And your husband's haircut is atrocious. What? You cut the hair yourself? I would have never guessed. Mainly because I would have guessed you paid a blind homeless person.

2. I found an ad for a room for a reasonable price. I left church early one day in order to meet the person who owns the house and would be my landlord. He referred to himself as a semi-retired physician. I had high hopes. The house looked nice from the outside and was in a decent neighborhood. As soon as the man came toward the door I knew that this wasn't going to work. He is malformed. His left arm and leg are both underdeveloped. Am I the only one who would walk out of a doctor's office if the doctor came walking into the examination room doing his best Igor or Hunchback of Notre Dame impersonation? It isn't like he is going to run after you if you leave. Could you imagine? That seems like a scene from a horror movie. This man is the doctor for the people in The Hills Have Eyes or Wrong Turn.

Just on sight alone I know this housing situation
wasn't going to work. Also, the man was easily in his 70's. He shuffles to the door and opens it and invites me in. The front room smells of cigarette smoke. The couch looks like the man likes to find his furniture underneath overpasses. The batting is coming out of every cushion, and is dark grey instead of white. He tells me that he sees his patients in his living room and that it would be off limits to me. What?! You have patients? For what? Are you sure you didn't mean patience? What type of physician are you really? He then gives me a tour of the house and shows me how "clean" his kitchen and bathroom are. And he tells me that he expects that standard to remain high. There is rust on the kitchen cabinets. I don't even know how that works because they are wooden. And the bathroom. Somebody tried to be handy and tiled their own shower. Too bad you could tell that the handiman only had one working arm. The tile was slanting all over the place, and the grout lines grew thick and thin depending where you look. After the tour he wanted me to sit on the couch and discuss the prospect of me living in the house. I said that I was already late for another appointment to see another room for rent. Blech!

3. I found a room for a bit more than I cared to spend, but the description sounded nice and the person who would have been my roommate sounded like a decent person in our emails. I go to visit. First of all, the house is south of Ashby and not east enough to be nice. Side note: What is up with Marvin the Martian and latino gangsters? The whole purpose of your look is to intimidate and you go with Looney Tunes? Something has been lost in translation. Everybody knows that Wile E. Coyote is a true thug. Back to the apartment. I knew it was going to be really classy by the table that somebody had fabricated out of marble tile samples. Between that and the coating of cigarette butts on the porch, I knew I had found home. But somebody hadn't told me it was basically a coop house that hadn't been cleaned in years. I walk in, the entry way lights wouldn't turn on. There is a bald man that resembles a mental patient smiling, did I imagine the drool?, staring at the television. I laughed and walked out the door without seeing the room.

Junk punches all around! Except for my new roomies!

Vanity license plates. You are the lamest thing I can think of, and I have paraplegic's legs in mind. I was driving on the bay bridge and I saw a red mustang with the plates "RED UFO". I feel like I need to delve in to this matter. Can you properly describe a UFO and still have it be a UFO? I feel like attaching the adjective red throws the last half out of the window. And I can identify that object as a 2001-3 Ford Mustang. And last time I checked, that car can't fly. Another plate, from Nevada, said "COP SON". Who gives a sh*t? Do you really think that your plates will deter a police officer from pulling your drunken frat arse over for speeding? I can picture a police man standing with his radar gun pointed at this SUV that is doing 60 in a 45. Just as he is about to hop in his car and pull them over he reads the vanity plates. Vanity plates can't lie. The officer has no choice but to let one of his coworker's children speed along rather than cause a riff in the department. Here is another common plate: first off, the person driving is a mid-40's woman with platinum bleached blonde hair, behind the wheel of something really classy and speedy (like a Miata). Her plate may introduce herself, or tell you a bit about her personality. "IM CINDY" "FUNGRL". It is like internet whores have turned their screen names into license plates. Out of all the places I have been, Arizona has the most vanity plates on the road. But after spending a summer in Mesa, I understand why some may find the most fun to be had would be getting a vanity plate.