I’m aware that I’ve been dangling the “We got a new place!” card for a couple of weeks now. While I’m not ready to show the house in its settled-in state (On the list: a full set of bathroom towels and a coffee table.), here’s what I left. Just to give you an idea of what a change the new house has been, my mom, after the tour of our new house, found it in her to say “Your old place was…oppressive.”

Office space.

Kitchen clutter.

Living room.

I’ve given away or sold a good deal of the furniture in these pics. I’m pretty proud that Billiam and I didn’t have to buy much more in terms of big ticket items.

Hah, that light says "GET A JOB."

Skinny but lovely walk-in closet.

Bedroom!

I always glamorized the image of the struggling successful person, but even so I never pictured myself living in a ghetto. When I was in college I was totally hypnotized by the idea of living in a loft space or some place really urban. I wanted to walk outside and just fall open retail stores and cafes and sidewalks bustling with people. To be honest, that dream changed when I worked in an urban space and got into a relationship. I wanted the opposite at home, I wanted something more calm and clean and quiet.

At least now if anybody gives me beef I can be like, “Fool, I lived amidst gunshots for two years of my life. Get offah my lawn!”

I was brought up in a lot of privilege. I just had to pay my dues.

*

You know those cinematic and sitcom moments when the poor, unsuspecting schmuck of the movie comes home to a completely deserted, empty house? It’s so stark that of course your first reaction is “Oh my goodness, I hope that never happens to me. What would I do if that happened to me?”

On the ride home from my fourth trip out to find a set of high-quality bath towels (Fourth time’s a charm!), I was chewing over how impossible that endeavor must be. Granted I’ve never been the leavee or the leaver, but if I was the leaver, I’d simply have too much shit to get out of the house. How would you do it? Do you wrap up all your fine china in the time your ex-lover takes to get to work? Do you hire sixteen able-bodied men to haul your big furniture items into a huge truck? Is it actually a family-run business, this outfit of movers? Do the women dust and clean everything before it gets packed away? Is it up to the children to stuff vases, toothbrushes, and area rugs into every nook and cranny in the truck?

I don’t know how one person could execute all of that. But maybe they’re one person with very little stuff, or one person with lots of stuff who can afford to have other persons come by to do the gruntwork.

It took me a couple of weeks to fit my one bedroom apartment into just a handful of car trips.

Here’s to being totally oblivious to the inner thoughts and motivations of the leaver.

On July 1st my lease started, it was my last physical day at the SFBG offices, and only one more shift remained of my Apple retail career. That morning, for none of the reasons mentioned above, my life changed.

No one ever really “leaves” Fremont…
The week before I was researching hair modeling for SFBG’s Free Issue, and I ended up dialing a salon in Fremont, of all places. I’ve expounded on the completely unintriguing concept and existence of Fremont before, that it is strip mall suburbia at its worst, a bedroom town at its best. So when the general manager of Visual Image and I hit it off over the phone and he extended an invitation to their salon, I was kinda like “Why not?,” tinged with a little bit of “Ehh.”

Me, circa a long time ago.

The affable GM, Boris, asked me what I would like to do to my hair. I told him I wanted to dye it. I explained that I recently had it cut so that it was finally healthy again, but that the overall styling was essentially too conservative for me. “I like funky,” I said. “So pretty much anything you wanna throw on my hair, I’ll go with.”

I used to have really cool hair. (See right.) As far as body modification goes, punky hair is as great a leap as I will make these days. Six piercings split across two ears is enough for me, and tattoos are just way too permanent. Punky hair styles, though, those I can do. If something goes wrong with your hair you can just wear a hat until it grows back. You can dye it back. You can learn as you go, with less terror about passing the Point of No Return.

I haven’t done anything significantly interesting to my hair in about four years, and I wanted to show my creative side again. Through my follicles. (Upon going to summer abroad in high school, my mom made me dye my hair back to normal black-brown. I lamented to my then-boyfriend “But now people are going to think I’m boring!”) Let’s face it, hairstyles show personality. I could never work in an environment that doesn’t allow for that type of experimentation.

So Boris tells me that he has a junior stylist at the salon who’s “really creative” that I’ll probably like. Her name is Olivia. Given the small-town nature of Fremont, I jokingly think to myself “Wouldn’t it be weird if the Olivia styling my hair is the Olivia from high school who totally didn’t talk to my [nerdy] group and she ended up being the one doing my hair?”

Fangirl.
So the day arrives and I drive a whopping one hour to get my hair done. Even for me and my shopping tenacity, this trek is a bit ridiculous. I get to Visual Image (as opposed to an “audio image” as related to hair…), which is located in a strip mall with an oddly modern exterior, a couple of doors down from the liquor store that Synaesthesia’s dad used to run. I park, head inside, and fill out a new customer card while I wait for my stylist. I’m a little bit early, so I have plenty of time to look at all the aproned women setting up their stations and play a guessing game of “Who’s my stylist?”

I really do half expect Olivia from High School to come out.

Instead, out walks this girl wearing hip, rectangular glasses. Olivia from high school would never wear glasses, hip or not. I fixate for a second on the girl’s face, and the jet black color of her hair does nothing to deceive me. I know this girl. I’ve known her for years. I can pinpoint the exact moment when I first saw her.

In my first memory of her, she had rainbow hair.

One-sided reunion.
The “Olivia” that Boris paired me up with was none other than “OhTee” of the South Bay female breakdancing world. Keylos got me into the hip-hop dance world at the tail end of 2003 when we auditioned and made it into Khamai. In 2004 we went to my first BattleFest, where OhTee and the super sick girls B-Syde claimed first prize. I had never seen anything like it. I wasn’t one of those dancers who watched music videos over and over again to figure out the choreography. I was a studio kid through-and-through, except for an insatiable thirst for hip-hop music (good and bad). I had never seen anything like it, and I especially didn’t expect that level of breaking, popping, and locking power from a group of women. Mainstream media highlight men who can do this well, not women. It wasn’t that I didn’t think girls could do it, it’s just that I hadn’t been exposed to it before. As any of us who moves from one culture to the next knows, it’s not easy to seek out what you don’t know. B-Syde brought it all to me.

The artists formerly known as B-Syde.

I’ve even tracked down their original photo from that performance. (Suggested viewing: herstory lesson on Jane Doe Collective’s MySpace.) I remember those green and black outfits vividly! And yes, there’s OhTee in the front row with the rainbow hair. She was a dancin’, jivin’ popsicle. And that’s when she became my hair idol.

As she walked up to me, still tying her apron, I breezed over the normal introductory “Hello, how are you? I’m fine, thanks,” and shot as swiftly as I could into, “Are you a dancer?”

She turned her head to me as she led the way to her station. “Yes, how’d you know?”

“I’ve seen you before. You’ve always stood out for your hair. The first time I saw you, it was rainbow!” I had girly giddies just gushing out of my smile. I was probably as excited to run into her as I was when I first met Billiam.

Here I was, about to get my hair dyed, a process I had been waiting much too long for, and my stylist happened to be the girl with the boldest hair I had ever seen. It’s like if you wanted to turn your shower singing hobby into a legitimate career, and someone off the street arranges for you to be trained by Christina Aguilera. Or something. It’s just really fucking cool to have some descend from their high position in your mind to physically standing in front of you, he or she being the very one to orchestrate your reinvention.

Back to the matter at hand.
OhTee asked me what I wanted to get done and I told her the same thing I shared with Boris, that I would do just about anything. Without saying these exact words, I told her I wanted to be a canvas for someone creative. She warned me “Well, you know I’m pretty bold,” which, of course, I knew, but that was precisely why I loved her as my stylist. My only limitation was that I didn’t want to be “blonde Asian.” (I said this and then saw her bottle blonde mugshot in her cosmetologist license. Oops. Still, my fear is that I can’t rock blonde. But OhTee could. Because she’s badass.)

OhTee handed me a hair magazine as she flipped through one herself. I eventually came across a hot asymmetric bob with really classy, bold color. The only hesitation I had was that I wanted to keep the current length of my hair. It had taken me this long to grow it out and get it trimmed so that it’s healthy again, so it would have been a pity to waste. Otherwise, as evidenced by my clothes and general outlook on life, I like asymmetry and I like punches of color.

OhTee’s mentor came over to hear what decisions we had made with my new style. She did that stylist thing where they run their fingers through your hair and pore over it to get an idea of the quality, and apparently my hair spoke to her, too. Jenna, the mentor, suggested bangs, and being in a bold mood, I said, “Okay. I’ve never really done bangs before, so this is going to require some hair training.” OhTee got me more excited when she said “I love bangs!” (If she said “I love fangs!” I probably would have been like “Yeah! Let’s get me tooth implants for my canines!”) And then Jenna suggested asymmetrical bangs. And I just about died. It was like my hair was speaking to these women, saying, “Please, for gods’ sake. This poor soul cannot style her hair to save her life. Give her something loud and lively that requires no special application of product.”

I was stoked. I picked out my colors, shades of burgundy-red (of course), the brighter of which would take over my soon-to-be asymmetric bangs. I just want bang bang bangs!

Small world.
To be honest, the thought of bangs scared me. I didn’t want to make the Asian bang mistake of getting chunky bangs cut straight across like someone never grew out of the bowl cut stage. I had gotten bangs before and asked specifically for “wispy bangs.” I was never happy with the results, so I just pulled my hair back every day instead of trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. (That saying made me feel twenty years older.)

It’s for concerns like this that stylists need to perfect the art of chatting. Luckily, I was more eager to talk to OhTee than she probably was, and we went back and forth with questions about the dance world and who knows who and recent events. She asked me how I would describe my own particular style, I said I’d probably easily fall into flygirl. I asked her what her favorite style is, and she said she loves locking. We learned that we’re both from Fremont. I learned that her boyfriend might know one of my carpool buddies. It was all kinda freaky if it wasn’t for the fact that I was so enamored with this girl’s sense of style. And who the fuck expected something cool like that to happen to me in Fremont??

Doin’ the do.
As she stepped away to show me my bangs, I was more than impressed. This whole time I was wondering if I’d have to hide my bangs again, when really all I needed was someone who better understood how to create a shape that would compliment my face. I’m very self-conscious about my wide face and asymmetrical jawline, but this cut seemed to soften things up. I’m also self-conscious about my asymmetrical eyebrows and expansive forehead (I’m Tweety Bird.), but the bangs seemed to take advantage of the distance from my hairline to my browline and even gave more character to my imperfect face.

I know this all sounds very self-centered, but you’re given a lot of time to stare and overanalyze yourself when you sit in a hairstylist’s chair. It is both a good and bad thing. Fortunately for me, the longer I sat in that chair as we went from shampoo to cut to color to touch-up, the more I fell in love with my new look.

Eventually it reached color time! I was elated as OhTee went off to mix my dye. I tried to read Eats, Shoots & Leaves, but I was too distracted by the possibilities of what might happen to my face. I was already thrilled that bangs could look so cute when I pulled my hair back into a ponytail. I was daydreaming about which pair of frames I should look into at Next Eyewear to really pull off the stylish-and-smart-with-great-hair look. She came back with tubs of strong-smelling paste and went to town.

I regreted not taking progressive shots of the transformation. Sometimes I want to stop stylists mid-dye and take photos of the piles of tin foil I’d collect in my hair. Unfortunately I didn’t grow the balls for this round of hair reinvention. Maybe next time.

OhTee and I talked some more and our commonalities grew: in types of things we were interested in (nerdy things) and even in people we knew who could help each other. The entire experience, aside from being a major upgrade in my appearance, was a wonderful chance encounter.

Once the dye had set, it was time for the moment of truth. How did it turn out? How sad would it be if something had gone awry?

The foil came off, the hair got rinsed, and I sat back down in the chair. Some blow drying, big brushing, and finishing touching later, and FUCKYEAH it looked awesome. All that build-up wasn’t for nothing! ‘Twas all I wanted, and more. Since I don’t like the quality of my skin from that day you get back shots of the peek-a-boos running through my hair. (OhTee’s got a full set of pics here if you’re curious.)

This is the length of my hair AFTER I got six inches of split ends chopped off.

Success.
My bangs are still novel to me and I play with them in my eyes, out of my eyes, pushed to one side, evenly splayed out. Even without punky colors built in, these bangs are a lot of fun! So much more interesting than the cop-out long hair I had for so long.

In finding a stylist, it’s one thing to go with whoever’s available or even to take the advice of your friend who has totally different hair characteristics than you. To land on an appointment with someone worth following is a surprise and delight. To meet someone you’ve been taking note of for years is just super exciting. To walk out knowing that a new style “suits you” and hearing that exact compliment from your peers is a major confidence booster.

So not only was I moving out and switching jobs in the same week. I was also executing a secret item on my to-do list, to get my hair done once I got a new full-time job. It all came to me at a ridiculously unbalanced cost-to-value ratio that completely tipped in my favor. Life is too short to not love your stylist.

…And here’s me! In MySpace-esque restroom mirror fashion, finally feeling like myself:

Fresh outta the stylist seat.

When I got home Billiam was sitting down to SyFy’s new Warehouse 13. “This new show has a girl named ‘Myka’ in it!” he yelled. And then I heard something I hear every week. Fast forward to 5:10.

Pete Lattimer: Meeka…
Myka Bering: Myka.
Pete: Myka?
Myka: My-ka.
Pete: Myka.
Myka: M-hm.

See? You see what I mean? What the fuck is up with people not being able to pronounce two syllables? TWO SYLLABLES. Less syllables than you find in the word “syllables.”

Interestingly enough, when I go to Jamba Juice, I spell my name “m-y-k-a.”

But you know what they say when my Aloha Pineapple juice is up? They say “Meeka.”

Very few of you will understand what it’s like to hear something similar to your name used on a TV character. For the first time. Ever. In 25 years.

This is not my Tale from the Club, but it is so excellent and unique in its nature that I found it imperative that I share it with you. A Pretty Sunday had the most interesting almost-run-in with Yellow Fever, and then she ended up gaining a bodyguard. Hilar. Read the entire story here.

We started to talk, and he asked me what ethnicity I was. I said, “I’m half-Korean and…” and before I could say what the other half was, he interrupted me.

“I LOVE KOREANS. I knew you were Korean. I love Koreans.” His voice was booming, even in a loud Vegas nightclub.

I was a little stunned, a little annoyed, a little confused. He must have yellow fever. But he continued, explaining that he lived in Korea for two years and has a lot of Korean friends, and then he spit out a few phrases in Korean, to which I shrugged my shoulders because I don’t know much more than “hello” and “how much is this?” in Korean. After a little more talk about his Korea life, he busted out his camera and showed me photos of him and his Korean friends. Not just women, but men, old people and children too. Like a stamp collection. “See? See?” as he pointed out each Korean in each photo, as if I couldn’t tell which one they were out of the Asian person and the 7 ft tall black person on the LCD screen.

Kind of bored, but kind of fascinated at how he was so enthused about this topic, I felt the way an adult feels when a kindergartner shows them their pokemon collection. He looked at me as I nodded. “You’re SO CUTE!” he almost yelled at me, and scrunched his nose. “Thanks?” I said back. What does one say to a huge man in a nightclub that is looking at me more like he wanted to make a stuffed animal out of me than he wanted to get my number?

Then, he did it. He pinched my cheek. “You’re soooooo cute!” He scrunched his nose up again. His hands were so big that it hurt a little, but I was more bewildered than angry. He asked if we could take a picture together. Normally I would probably deny this proposal, but since this was such a “unique” situation, I thought what the hell, and obliged. His friend took the photo, and I put on a smile as he wrapped his gigantor arm around my shoulder. “Koreans love me,” he said. “And I love Koreans!”

Catch the surprise ending at A Pretty Sunday.

Vegas. Who knew?

Things have been relatively quiet on theMaykazine (I even ignored alerts about my domain mapping running out until the very last day I had to renew.) because a torrent of change came swooping down on me. I’ve been hired and, a few weeks later, promoted for separate positions. Billiam and I received a thumbs-up on our dream rental house and I received a new job offer, all in the same 24-hour span. I’ve been very anxious, really overwhelmed, and nearly completely distracted. What follows is what I believe explains the horrific acne that’s been attacking my face since recovering from my Cabo sunburn. Altogether, it also informs my own curiosity about when my next bout of depression would be. (Answer: Not any time soon! I’m guessing I won’t even have time to feel for the next couple of weeks.)

So today was my last day at the Apple store, rounding off three iPhone launches that I’ve been around for. (Yes, I’m actually thinking of throwing down some money for the 3G S. Eventually.) Things are on the upswing! And now, it’s time to get my (new[er]) life back on track.

April

07–Going through Craigslist, I see the San Francisco Bay Guardian (SFBG) is searching for its next round of summer interns. I applied for an opening three years ago but didn’t hear from them. I try once again for Style Editorial Intern.

08–I find an opening for Editorial Assistant (EA) at Aplia, a company that makes Web modules to supplement college textbooks. A friend of mine works at the parent company. I contact him and he agrees to be my referral. (I used to be very interested in higher education administration. After an internship at Seattle University, I decided that though I want to contribute to education, I didn’t want to be the “young one” who gets mixed up with students.)

May

08–During my lunch break I interview over-the-phone for the EA position with the Talent Acquisition representative.

12–I interview with the SFBG Culture Editor. She offers and I accept the internship right on the spot. Three years in the making!

13–I interview for Family Room Specialist at the Apple store, a position that isn’t yet thoroughly defined. When the question about my availability comes up, I just say I need two days off during the week for my brand new internship.

June

01–While I’m working on a story at SFBG, I get a phone call from a recruiter at Ask.com. They’re looking for a Client Services Editor, a more sophisticated and focused version of my previous Web marketing job.

02–While I’m on the floor at work, I’m pulled away by a manager and (future) supervisor and offered the position of Family Room Specialist. Full time with benefits, finally! I can get sick again!

03–Hiding in my car parked outside of SFBG, I interview over-the-phone with the Managing Editor for the EA job.

After work, Billiam and I go to our first housing visit. It’s not what we want, but it’s good that we got the ball rolling.

04–I interview with three people at Ask. The fourth person I was supposed to meet, the department manager, had scheduling issues. I am told we’ll coordinate a separate time to follow up.

09–I interview for EA with eight different people in-person, on-site, one at a time. The entire process takes about four and a half hours, including an hour-long lunch that ran twice as long as it should have. I win brownie points for knowing Ed Helms as Andrew Bernard and having recently seen a bad zombie movie (Reel Zombies, in case you’re wondering.). I am told to expect to hear from the company in two weeks.

On the ride home, a message in my voicemail informs me that Ask.com is putting the CSE position on hold until Q3. I’ve been strung along before. Instead of feeling disappointed, I welcome the decrease in options.

10–B&I visit three places, two of which we really like.

11–B&I visit a condo that’s really spacious and nice.

13–I start my training as a Family Room Specialist! I take apart two iPhone 3Gs and it totally makes my day.

B&I visit an awesome townhouse with two really fat cats lazing about. It’s homey and lovely.

14–Before heading to the San Raphael Italian Street Art Festival with Mama Tai-Chi, B&I visit one more house in North Berkeley. We are both in love. It is our “reach” house.

15–In the best interests of my own sanity, I tell my editor I’m working from home.

I submit three applications for housing (one via post, one via realty agency, one delivered by hand), including the townhouse and our reach house.

In a follow-up call with the Talent Acquisition rep, I am told that they are ready to make an offer. I do a piss-poor job of trying to negotiate my way to the highest salary possible. I am told I should hear from them by the end of the week.

The owner of our dream house calls us to let us know she’s ready to rent to us. It’s like getting admitted into Harvard and Stanford at the same time. And Oxford and Cambridge, too.

16–During my FRS shift, I miss a phone call from the Talent rep. I call her back during my fifteen-minute break. I receive my EA offer at the salary I was shooting for. Literally, as I am being asked by the rep “Would you like to accept at this time?” one of my coworkers walks by me and starts making faces. I hastily run away. He probably wonders what was going on.

After barely two days of training for FRS, I pull my manager aside and tell him I’ve got a new job.

18–B&I sign our new lease!

I turn in my two weeks’ notice to Apple. (Again.) Fifty-one weeks come to a close.

Which brings us to now. I’m packing and moving, continuing contributions to SFBG, and getting ready for working a 9-to-5(ish) schedule and getting my weekends back.

When it rains, it pours.

I am bruised and drained, but it’s all for a good cause.

Saturday

We christened the place by eating cupcakes in our backyard. (!!!)

Sunday

I wonder if Billiam and I could support the entire house with just his books and my shoes.

I think Pier 1 has really mastered targeting us two as a market. They have a “Mei Book Cabinet.” I’ll take five!

I felt very self conscious this weekend, not because of the sweat glistening on my hairline as I hauled ass boxes, but because I was driving an SUV in crunchy hippie Berkeley. I vowed three years ago never to drive a Mercedes Benz again, but I have to admit borrowing the landboat helped out with all our thangs n’ stuff and stuff n’ thangs. I’d say we’re 30-40% done. All that’s left are the big items, some stuff that stuffs the big items, and actually putting everything away. We’ll worry about look and feel when we can. (I’m a big proponent on living in a space and filling it as it feels it ought to be filled.)

Next weekend is July 4th, Big Item Move-In, and our second anniversary. DAMN I FEEL OLD.

::shuffling off to bed now::

Impetus.
On June 8th, two young girls aged 3 and 6 were shot while sleeping in bed. And that’s when Billiam put his foot down and “We should move” turned into “We are moving NOW.”

I’m not complaining. The assault occurred less than a mile away from my apartment. Ever since Maker Faire, it has been absolutely ordinary to hear gunshots at night. In fact, when I was composing an e-mail to my landlord notifying him of my 30 days’ notice, I counted sixteen gunshots. It was broad daylight and I sent off the message. I walked outside to get my mail, and my landlord was there, weeding. We talked for a bit, and he was astonished at the close proximity of the sounds, too.

Research.
B&I immediately got to pounding the pavement in finding a new home. Virtually, anyway. Our tools?

1. Padmapper. It’s Craigslist, geomapped. I prefer its interface much more over Google Housing’s and Housing Maps’.
2. Gentrifire: San Francisco. Even though we didn’t end up renting in SF, I still love the fire-breathing dragon logo. And you know how San Franciscans are about being within walking distance of cheese shops.
3. RentWiki. It’s a little sparse right now because the bloggers they invited to add content to the site while it was in beta didn’t follow through. I know this because I’m one of them. Oops. Great concept, though! Smart realtors should flood this site with positives about the properties in their jurisdiction.

Downsizing.
Now that we’ve found a(n amazing) place, B&I are met with the challenge of moving two sets of belongings into one space. The entire time we were looking for an apartment, I had a looming fear in the back of my head that my clothes wouldn’t fit in the closets. Especially if there was to be a second person’s wardrobe of clothes in the picture. In the middle of our search, Billiam revealed that he, too, had this concern.

I love you, Current Closet! It's not you, it's your location.

But, lo and behold, we found not an apartment but a house with not a single closet but four. And Billiam has bestowed the walk-in closet (Yes, I said “walk-in closet.”) to me. (We are dating for a reason.)

My goal is to downsize on all the excess that I have as much as I can before we pick up the keys to that U-Haul. I spent my lunch break at Urbanity where I dropped off a bag of clothes for consignment. I picked up the balance my last round of items drew in. After work I drove to the local Goodwill.

Paperbagger.
I’d never actually been inside the local Goodwill. When I got my bags out of my car, a lady from across the parking lot yelled something at me. I didn’t think she was talking to me, it’s not like I dropped something, so I kept walking. She yelled something at me again, and I yelled back, “What?”

She came over and asked me for one of my bags. Her exact words were, “You got some nice bags.” I had two bags of donation items: one Trader Joe’s grocery bag and one BCBG shopping bag. I thought her request was strange, but hey, whatever, I don’t need a paper shopping bag, so I said, “All right, if you can give me a minute, I just need to put these all in one bag.” She said absolutely nothing and just stood over me as I stooped to grab gobs of clothes and gob them into the other gob. It was awkward.

When she finally spoke, it was nothing along the lines of “Thanks for moving your stuff into one bag for me. I’m sorry to inconvenience you in your errand while we stand in the middle of the parking lot.” She just said, “Mm, I could take all of your stuff.” I didn’t pause, though flashes of being smited in the parking lot for clothes I intended to give away ran through my head. “Oh, but you’re smaller than me, though.” I don’t know if this comparison was true or not. I was distracted by how weird the situation was. “That’s a nice bag,” she continued, practically drooling over the paper BCBG shopper with fabric straps.

As I hastily rearranged my straps so that I could still carry my things, I helped her with the second strap to the BCBG bag. (Remember: bag, not purse.) “Got it?” I said. She just walked off and said “Okay. Thanks.”

As I drove off, I considered how I maybe could have turned that into a parking lot sale. The cash couldn’t hurt, right? Unfortunately it might’ve been the city tenderfoot/suburbanite in me, but I was just too creeped out to think.

Lest you think I have no reason to be cautious, might I remind you that I was at my local Goodwill, and the only other notable things in my surrounding area are a dirty BART station and perennial drug turf wars. Given those conditions, the request “Can I have your bags?” doesn’t seem very innocuous.

Unless we work together, you probably haven’t seen me in about a month.

Just so you know, I don’t look like this anymore:

I kind of miss the way my hair used to spill over the hoods of my jackets, but my current state is much, much healthier. I got a trim by an apprentice as part of research for an article I’m doing. I did some more investigation today, and ended up booking an appointment with a “creative” apprentice for next week. It’s listed as “highlight and tint,” but I told the general manager, “I like funky. Whatever you want to throw on my hair, I’ll go with.”

I’ll post progressive shots after the new ‘do.

According to WordPress, this is my 1983rd post. I was born in the year 1983. (The very end of it.)

Today on BART I was totally engrossed in a game of Tetris. Some woman sat next to me.

She started toeing my foot, and since I was wearing Birkenstocks, it was weird to feel someone poking at my bare toes with their cold tongue.

…Wait. It wasn’t the woman, it was her 10-month old French bulldog with brendel stripes. We made friends, “The Little Vacuum” (her words) and I.

Back to our regular daily posts in a couple of weeks!

Congratulations!  Enjoy, dance, swirl around in your moment of wonderful, positive feelings.

Karma happens when you’re ready.

Let me hear more about EVERYTHING later.

I am truly joyful for you and Bill.

)  Mom

Note: I AM NOT ENGAGED. We are going to live in a big, fat house, though, and for a remarkably reasonable fee. We liked it. So we put a ring on it. More info to come.