San Francisco Archives - The Girl Next Door is Black

San Francisco, I Think I’m Over You

By The Girl Next Door is Black09/22/201501/31/201642 Comments5min read243 views

After three years of living in San Francisco, I think it may be time to call it quits. Read more from "San Francisco, I Think I'm Over You" at The Girl Next Door is Black

I’m kind of back to not liking living in San Francisco.

Part of my disenchantment is probably my fault. I arrived here with big dreams I’ve yet to see realized. For one, I thought I’d fall into a good group of friends. Instead, someone I considered a good friend ghosted on me. Though I have made a few good friends whom I am grateful for, they’re from disparate circles. My social life is unrecognizable to me.

I also thought I might finally meet someone I can see a future with or at the very least someone whose company I’d enjoy more than Netflix and chillin’ solo. After all, they say San Francisco is one of the best US cities for singles. I don’t know if they actually talked to anyone who lives here because while I know many single people of different genders and sexual orientations whom are lovely, lovable people, they are not in a relationship, and most are actively searching.

I suppose if they mean this a great place to for singles if you want to remain single, that makes sense. Dating mostly takes place on apps here, at the expense, in my opinion, of people sharpening their in-person social skills. You can take your Tinders, Bagels, soul connections, rings and dings or whatever the hells and put ’em somewhere not on my phone.

Then there’s work. Of the two full-time jobs I’ve had here, one left me feeling useless, the other gave me my first anxiety attack. I barely want anything to do with the tech industry at this point.

When reality doesn’t live up to your high hopes, an emotional crash isn’t all that surprising.

There’s also the fact that everything here is so.damn.expensive. I think I must blackout when I pay my rent every month. That’s the only way I can understand how I continue to pay more than some people’s mortgage.

Of the people: I don’t get the seemingly dominant personality of passivity in this city. Just last week, I was at the drugstore in my favorite aisle – the candy aisle – when I noticed a woman walking toward me. As she neared me, she paused and started rummaging through her purse. I know she was faking. She walked with purpose down that aisle until she saw me. Now, I’m not very wide and I’m generally aware of the space around me, so it’s not like I was completely blocking her path. I’m not one of those oblivious aisle-blocking asshats.

A simple “excuse me” would have sufficed to get me to scoot the inch or two more needed for her clear passage. Instead, this lady acted like she had an urgent need to reapply lipstick or find a tampon. Who knows?

I could have moved preemptively, but I’ve done this dance before. I’ve been in many an aisle in this city and had this same scene go down. What is the deal with people? Is it timidity? Are they afraid to make contact with an unfamiliar human being? Politeness is appreciated, but there is such a thing as being so polite you make people want to scream.

The woman continued to dig in her purse – finding nothing because she was looking for nothing – until I finally inched forward, making sure to sigh heavily and roll my eyes at the absurdity of it all (hi, petty). There I was minding my business, trying to determine which pack of Sour Patch Kids would be the freshest, and here comes Timid Tammy ruining the experience with her fish spine.

I’ve also had people here give me that “Oh my” pearl-clutching glance because I dared speak up about something.

On the bus one afternoon, after a particularly tiresome string of hours at the day job, a budding-grey-haired woman with a folding shopping cart packed with several large black plastic bags, decided to throw a tantrum as she exited. She’d situated herself right by the door, so she only needed to make it a few feet to the steps. Each and every step she took came with a cranky grunt and dramatic muttering.

A minute later, she’d only progressed a few inches, so a kind man offered to help her the rest of the way.

“Noooo!” she shouted, mimicking the Wicked Witch of the West, “I don’t need YOUR HELP!” If she’d carried a cane, here is where she’d have shaken it at him with menace.

The defeated man backed away like a kicked puppy.

Around me, other passengers looked toward the rear window to see if another bus was coming. Nope.

A couple more minutes ticked by. The shopping cart and it’s pusher had yet to reach the steps.

Is NO ONE going to say anything? This is fucking ridiculous. This woman is holding up a bus full of people with lives because of her pride and stubbornness. Not even a peep from the bus driver – whose arm she threatened to bite off. She didn’t actually say that, but the quickness with which he recoiled like she’d hissed at him, indicated as such.

I couldn’t take anymore.

“Get off the bus!” I hollered.

A young woman across the way turned toward me with a furrowed brow. Oh stop clutching your damn pearls!

“Yeah, get off already!” the bus driver repeated, regaining his voice.

Soon other passengers chanted, some quieter than others, as the woman grumbled her way down the steps.

A few passengers clapped and whistled once the last of her landed on the sidewalk.

I hadn’t meant to start an uprising on the bus; I just wanted us to get moving. But, I bet you those people felt good taking control of their lives. We endure a lot of bizarre and sometimes frustrating encounters on these city buses.

Lastly, but most importantly, there’s the race thing. To put it bluntly: being black in San Francisco is existentially exhausting and socially isolating like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I’ve written about that on multiple occasions, so I won’t rehash it here.

With all of that said, I do not regret moving here. It’s still one of the best decisions I’ve made. My life now is incredibly different from the life I lived in Los Angeles. If I felt stalled in L.A. and wanted to push past the stagnancy by trying a new city, I got what I asked for and more. I’ve evolved in ways I never imagined. I believe moving here was a necessary step for my personal, emotional and career growth.

Barring some freak joyful miracle, my time in San Francisco is nearing its end. I had hoped this might be a place I could stay put for a long while, but I want to get out before I am driven completely mad. I also fear becoming one of the passive. That works fine for some people, but it gives me the itchees.

There’s only one US city next on the list. I’m not quite ready to reveal it yet as I’m still planning. I will say that it’s not happening this year, but if you’re a regular reader, you can probably guess which one it is.

October will mark 3 years here. I think I gave it a good shot.

Have you ever lived in a place you didn’t like? Also, if you are a passive aisle-passer, tell me why please, I’m curious.

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Career + Work

When You’re Confronted With Racially Insensitive Terms at Work

By The Girl Next Door is Black05/28/201508/27/201524 Comments4min read179 views

View of Downtown San Francisco from "When You're Confronted with Racially-Insenstive Terms at Work"

Last week I sat in a meeting where the word “slave(s)” was said at least 20 times.

No, I wasn’t involved in a discussion on slavery or history, as someone asked when I tweeted about it. I was in the office of a tech startup. [I’m contracting in my old career until my new one takes off.]

Each time “slave” escaped someones’ lips, I cringed internally, trying hard not to externally display my discomfort. However, with each “slave” uttered, I sank deeper in my chair as my tension found other ways to release itself: a bouncing foot, a tapping finger, deep, quiet sighs, shifting positions in my chair. With every vocal release of “slave” it was as though someone tossed the sharp-edged word directly at me. A lashing by lexicon.

I was the only black face in the room. Of course I was, this is tech in San Francisco.

In technology, “master/slave” terminology describes the relationship between entities. In the case of this meeting, the discussion centered around databases.

I’m familiar with the terms from reading about them during my undergrad studies, though they never made the cut for class usage, thank goodness.

I’d also heard the terms during orientation months ago. Mercifully, they were only vocalized twice on that occasion. Afterward, thrown by the incongruity of this word usage in 2015, I turned to Google to research if it’s a topic that’s been addressed before.

Master_Slave_Diagram from "When You're Confronted with Racially Insensitive Terms at Work" on The Girl Next Door is Black — Diagram representing the relationship between databases.
Source

While I didn’t find much, there is one notable case. In 2003, Los Angeles County requested the naming convention not be used in county operations, despite much opposition to the change. They took action after a county employee filed a discrimination lawsuit upon coming across the phrase at work.

Unsurprisingly, those online who criticized the change – with the majority who weighed in being non-black people – responded with over-intellectualized arguments about the origin of the terms, their multiple meanings, complaints about an overly PC culture, and other irrelevancies.

As a black American who descends from enslaved people, in a country where the legacy of slavery STILL has its tentacles ensnared in so many institutions and systems, not to mention daily life, it disturbed me.

Do I think that the folks in the room used the words to hurt me directly? No.

Do I think they are evil racists? No.

What I do think though, is that usage of the terminology is insensitive because it ignores the negative affects such words have on some employees, regardless of how small they are in number.

I don’t really care about the history of the words, anymore than I care about the history of the words “ghetto” or “thug.” I do not care about the usage of the phrase in other countries or in peoples’ bedrooms. I care about how the words are used here, where stolen human beings were treated like chattel, with fewer rights than a dog, for hundreds of years. I care about the fact that no one’s work experience should involve them feeling assaulted by the free usage of outdated terminology.

Words evolve in meaning and association. It’s disingenuous to pretend otherwise. We can talk circles around the topic, but I will never again sit through this crap.

I wish I’d left the conference room. I think I was rendered immovable by the shock of the situation. My mind reeled with options. I’d considered walking out as I uncomfortably anticipated the next utterance of “slave.” I didn’t want to seem unprofessional, especially if I left mid-meeting without explanation. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. I didn’t want to make a scene.

Ultimately, I endured the meeting and bolted out of the room the instant it concluded.

I am somewhat ashamed by my response. I promised myself I’d no longer refrain from addressing difficult subjects just because it might make other people uncomfortable. I WAS EXTREMELY UNCOMFORTABLE. The longer I sat in the meeting, the more I heated up, stewing over the fact that if the racial makeup in the room were different, this wouldn’t be an issue. But, I was alone and no one else appeared bothered.

diversity trainer from craigslist" border="0"></a><br>More career humor at <a href="http://academy.justjobs.com/cartoon-caption-contest">http://academy.justjobs.com/cartoon-caption-contest — Source

I don’t expect the use of this terminology to change – at least not anytime soon. Tech is ruled largely by white men and as the thinking goes in this country when we gauge offensiveness, if it doesn’t bother them, why should it bother anyone else, right? If they don’t see a problem, it doesn’t exist.

The tech world is known for a serious lack of diversity. Words matter and continuing old practices like usage of “master/slave” terminology doesn’t help people like me feel included, nor valued.

If the tech industry really wants to attract and retain more black talent (as well as Latino/a, Native American and female), issues like this require addressing. People whose experiences differ from the majority shouldn’t be dismissed as “too sensitive.” Diversity isn’t solely about increasing the number of employees from underrepresented groups, it also involves adapting and evolving customs and practices to foster a culture of inclusion rather than marginalization.

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Alleys and Alleys of Murals in San Francisco

By The Girl Next Door is Black03/31/201527 Comments2min read200 views

Michael Jackson Mural in Mission, San Francisco from The Girl Next Door is Black

Like many cities in the US, San Francisco is experiencing a wave of gentrification that some residents welcome and others deride. Often central to the debate is the Mission District, an eclectic enclave whose formerly large working- and middle-class Latino population moves further south as the gentrifiers roll in by the dozens: well-paid, largely young, white, male, and employed by tech companies. Their presence brings with it priced-out renters, long waits and lines at a growing number of trendy restaurants and cafes, and a fear of cultural and historical erasure.

The Mission’s Latino and Chicano influence is visible in the bright and elaborate murals that decorate the alleys for several blocks, tucked between the streets in a less polished section of the neighborhood. Inspired by the work of Mexican artist Diego Rivera and the Chicano Mural Movement of the ’60s and 70s, some of the artwork reflects reactions to social and political changes. Other pieces illustrate life in the Mission in the midst of the City’s growing pains.

A few weeks ago, I toured the murals with my younger sister, who was visiting from Texas. We picked up a map at Precita Eyes, a community mural center and headed for Balmy Alley, which boasts one of the largest collection of murals among the alleys.

A classic

We lingered in front of this mural. Almost every inch of paint seems to hold meaning.

Good and Bad Side of Policing in the Mission - Mural - San Francisco, CA

Good and Bad Side of Policing, Mural in the Mission, San Francisco, CA

We spent a bit more time with this one, as well.

A few more murals that stood out to me.

I.C.E. - Immigration Mural in the Mission, San Francisco, CA

Atari - Pac Man - Mural in the Mission, San Francisco, CA

Frida Kahlo-Julia Mural in the Mission, San Francisco, CA

Tree Mural in Mission, San Francisco, CA

Head Above and Below Mural in the Mission, San Francisco, cA

This is by no means all there is to see of San Francisco street art. You could easily spend 3-4 hours touring the alleys across the city, absorbing the messages in the work. If you ever get the chance, I recommend checking them out! Keeping it real though: it’s probably better to plan your visit for the daylight hours.

Sisters-at-Mission-Murals, San Francisco, CA - The Girl Next Door is Black — Me (R) and the sis

What symbolism / meaning do you see in the murals?

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Career + Work

5 Ways I Stayed Productive (and Kept Sane) During Unemployment

By The Girl Next Door is Black11/17/201411/18/201418 Comments12min read215 views

Gordon Creek Road by Luke Detwiler , Winding Road | The Girl Next Door is Black

The last time I experienced unemployment was over 10 years ago. I was in my mid-20s, living in the heart of Hollywood, California. I don’t just mean living in Los Angeles, I actually lived in the Hollywood neighborhood. My roommate and I could see the Hollywood sign from her condo balcony. I came home one Friday evening to a message from my temp agency informing me that I’d been let go from my several months long temp assignment. Again? I thought. While this hadn’t been a permanent job, it still marked the third time I unexpectedly and abruptly found myself without employment in a 3 years.

Is this what it means to be in the working world? Absolutely no job stability? I had a feeling I knew what motivated the sudden booting: I think my temporary employers were concerned I’d caught wind of their shady financial reporting practices and might report them to the SEC. I did know. One of their long-term permanent employees gleefully spilled the tea. She despised them, but did a great job of pretending otherwise. I think she wanted me to do the snitching for her. Shady.

One of my new L.A. BF’s was also among the ranks of the unemployed. We shared a lot in common including our age and an aversion to the concept of working in an office and signing our lives away to the rat race. At that time, I hadn’t identified a new career path after parting ways with my attempt at an acting career, so I floundered a bit until I basically fell into my most recent career in tech. I took on a few temporary jobs here and there, but during that economic climate, even short-term temp jobs were drying up. So, my BF and I had a lot of free time on our hands, along with the excitement and Energizer-energy that accompanies early twenty-something youth. Unfortunately, we did not have a lot of cash.

Hollywood Sign View of Los Angeles Basin Photo cr: Mary-Austin and Scott, flickr.com | The Girl Next Door is Black — Photo cr: Mary-Austin and Scott, flickr.com

We’d wake up late mornings and IM each other while we looked for jobs online and concurrently planned out our next bit of shenanigans. We went out most nights as there is always something to do in L.A.: always a party, an event or an opening. I also learned the Long Island Iced Tea, with its melange of liquors, is the best drink for your buck if you want to get drunk for the least amount of money. We found $1 bargain shopping bins at trendy thrift stores, figured out the best ways to score free food, drinks, and swag – free movie tickets are easy to come by in the “Entertainment Capital.”

We were aces at finding clubs giving away free drinks if you were willing to arrive unfashionably early; art gallery openings were a great way to appear cultured and score free wine and cheese. I’d also inherited the role of organizer & events planner for a woman’s social group that I’d joined when I first moved to L.A. two years earlier. I had plenty to keep me busy. I look back on the time fondly even though I was broke and being broke in Hollywood where money = power, influence and prestige, is not easy. It may not have been the most productive way to spend 10 months of unemployment, but I enjoyed it and don’t regret a bit of it.

Now that I am older and, I hope, wiser, my priorities are different. My situation is different. I am different. I also realize, having been laid off now four times, that with the ending of each job, something bigger and better always arose. Each layoff propelled me to something greater and more beneficial for me.

This time around, I recognized the opportunity in front of me. The layoff signaled to me, an opportunity to move on to something greater. Maya Angelou said, of an employer firing her and learning to be grateful: “So you fired me. Good on you and very good on me, ’cause what I’m going to get, darling, you would LONG for.” Yes!

I felt a duty to myself to make the best of the situation. After taking care of the basics one does after losing their job, like filing for unemployment, taking care of health insurance (thanks Obama!) and dealing with finances, I set to planning. Here are five things I did that helped me stay productive and kept me sane during unemployment.

1. TOLD MY FRIENDS, FAMILY AND NETWORK

I know some shy away from announcing their layoff to people they know. Maybe they feel embarrassed, ashamed or down. Whatever the reason, layoffs are a part of life. We no longer live in a society where employers keep people on for decades and happily wave you off at age 60 with a cushy pension. There is no loyalty in most workplaces – on either end of the relationship – and at any given time any of us can lose or leave our jobs.

I didn’t do anything wrong to warrant being released. I worked hard and have the performance evaluation to show it, so I let people know. As a result, I felt freer; I don’t like hiding things. Friends and family have been emotionally supportive in the aftermath. Additionally, friends and former co-workers from jobs past have referred me when jobs in my role crossed their paths. In many industries, getting the next job is about who you know. Tech is definitely no exception. I am grateful not just for their referrals, but their respect. Most people don’t refer someone for a job if they don’t respect their skills and work ethic.

Being open about the layoff has led to a few uncomfortable moments; but nothing I can’t handle. When you talk to someone who asks, “How’s the job search going?” before they even eek out a hello, that’s a little awkward. You wonder if you’re not looking hard enough and then you realize it’s only been three weeks and did this person forget what it’s like to look for a job? When a person you rarely hear from messages you from out of the blue, “How are you?” and you know what they really mean is, “Have you found a job yet?” because they’re just being nosy, you wish you’d excluded them from your Facebook post.

A recruiter who contacted me, shortly after I updated my LinkedIn profile to reflect the parting of ways between me and the old job, told me his company had their eye on the ex-employees of my former employer, “Fancy Startup”. Who knew? Tech companies compete for good talent here, he said. That knowledge made me feel that much more optimistic about the potential return on my job search investment.

2. MADE A “FREE TIME” WISHLIST

It’s not often that a 9 to 5-er gets the opportunity to have the entire daytime free. Not just a holiday Monday or Friday off when most everyone else is off too and banks are closed and so is the post office, so it may as well be a weekend. An actual free weekday when TV shows air that you’re never home to see live. When stay-at-home moms and dad entertain their kids who are on summer break. Free time during business hours when you can make the phone calls you need to make!

Free Time Clock Photo cr: Wes Peck | The Girl Next Door is Black — Photo cr: Wes Peck, Flickr.com

I recall during one particularly trying work day, walking down Market Street (a main thoroughfare in San Francisco) and wistfully envying a group of teenagers seated in a circle on a patch of grass laughing and talking. The sun shone brightly and I thought how nice it would be to lay in the grass in the sun in the middle of the day. I think the kids may have been doing drugs together, but still, the sentiment remains.

I set about making a list of everything I could conceive of doing that I could either only do during the day or that’s better done (e.g., less crowded) during the day. Whether I could get to it all, and how much of it was actually feasible mattered little. The list gave me a jumping off point, ideas for keeping busy, small achievements to aspire to, and activities I could look forward to doing.

The first thing I checked off my”free time” wishlist? Laying out in the grass in the middle of the day.

Eventually, I expanded the list to include lower priority items on my to-do list that I now I had plenty of time for. BLO (Before Layoff) so much of my life was either spent at work or recovering from the exhaustion of work. I never had enough time. PLO, I spent one luxurious afternoon cleaning up my junk email box. I unsubscribed from several newsletters (including “Fancy Startup’s”; it took them 3-months to remove me from the list, #fail), organized items into folders, and cleaned up my social media accounts. I know that doesn’t sound thrilling, but it was glorious to have the time.

Feet in the Park San Francisco | The Girl Next Door is Black — Here are my happy feet in the park

3. CREATED GOALS AND ESTABLISHED A ROUTINE

As much as I detest the idea of having routines and schedules, I recognize that it’s helpful to give a sense of stability in my life, thus increasing my comfort level. I recall from my earlier unemployment experience how lost I felt some days without the schedule I’d grown accustomed as an office worker bee. I also quickly concluded that pressuring myself to look for jobs constantly would eventually drive me batty. I had to establish some boundaries. Modifying the typical US work week, I decided Mondays through Thursdays are for “work” and Fridays through Sunday are for play (with exceptions considered if I ask myself nicely and negotiate well). I created a loose routine that includes not sleeping in past a certain time (I hate feeling like I’ve wasted half the day), time for job searching & networking, therapy, fitness and a few other items.

It’s important to me to feel a sense of accomplishment or achievement. I imagine that even when I’m retired, I’ll want to feel like I’m having the best retirement I can. So, I do what do and I made goals for myself to keep motivated and active. Or as I titled it, “How to Not Become a Lazy Bum:”

Do something productive at least each weekday – e.g., exercise, read, apply for jobs, etc.
Look for things to consider as accomplishments – Sometimes we don’t give ourselves credit for the important things we do each day.
Leave the house at least four out of five weekdays – Perhaps this seems odd, but I’ve seen how easy it is to become a recluse over time
Keep a clean apartment – My nightmares include dying alone in a filthy apartment that the fire department has to bulldoze through to extract my feline–ravaged body. I also find it harder to think if there is chaos around me.
Keep a journal of the things I’m doing – I cannot tell you how much tracking my daily accomplishments has helped me from feeling like a useless layabout. I accomplishment quite a bit on an average day.

Glass of Water on ice, Photo cr: StockPhotosforFree.com — Photo cr: StockPhotosforFree.com

4. MAINTAINED HEALTHY HABITS

I’ve worked out in the mornings for at least the last 6 years. At first, it was to ward against the end of day workout killers of “I’m too tired,” or the “I’d rather go to happy hour,” and other distractions. Now, while I certainly enjoy that benefit, I also like that starting my day with something that’s good for me, mentally and physically.

I didn’t want unemployment to lead to my blowing up Sumo-size. So, I make it a point to continue to work out several times a week and not turn practice trash compactor-like eating. It’s so easy to graze on food when you’re at home. I work out at home and I also find ways to get active outside, to which San Francisco’s weather is usually conducive.

I try to walk as much as I can. When I worked, even though I took the bus, I still got in an extra mile a day just walking to and from bus stops. I didn’t want to lose that advantage, so I use the Moves app to make sure I’m walking enough.

I got into the habit of drinking water regularly in my twenties because of it’s health benefits. At work it was easy enough to keep up the practice with a large water bottle I’d keep on my desk. Now that I’m home, I make it a point to get in my regular intake of water each day. This is one of the ways I know I’ve grown up. I care about my daily water intake.

5. TOOK TIME TO REFLECT

Initially, I was antsy to return to work. After working continuously for over 10 years, it barely occurred to me to think of anything else. A few weeks of disinterestedly applying for jobs, bored senseless by the role descriptions, I realized that by jumping into yet another job, i might be wasting this opportunity to make a change. How many times have I complained that I don’t feel like the office life is for me? That I don’t like slaving away to make some faceless person wealthier. That I find it ridiculous how executives catastrophize situations and trickle down their stress to employees as though the cure for cancer is slipping through their fingers on a daily basis. My 25-year old self knew she didn’t much like working in an office, whether it’s in the confines of the corporate or a fast-paced fancy start-up. While I’ve managed to fake it well, it’s not who I am. The more time that goes by, the harder it is to survive in a world where I don’t fit in. I felt off-center after the mindwreck of my last job.

Girl Meditating on Water Photo by Abigail Corpus, flickr.com | The Girl Next Door is Black — Photo cr: Abigail Corpus, flickr.com

A friend told me I needed to take time for myself. “I live by myself and the only other creatures I take care of are two cats. Who else am I spending time on?” Upon reflection, I understood what she meant. The very nature of my career involved giving to and taking care of others’ needs. I spent the majority of my days solving other people’s problems. By the end of many workdays and work weeks, I was too spent for much else.

I needed to take this time to get back to WHO I AM. I’d lost myself.

I have savings (having learned from the first time around!) and I figured now is as good a time as any to invest in giving myself a break to step back, reassess and really consider my next steps.

I explored my natural interests and delved in to the activities I found interesting in hopes of leading myself toward my new path.

I made the rounds with my family and friends whom before I didn’t have as much time for. I reunited with several friends, including a few whom I hadn’t seen in over a decade. I knew these friends surfaced in my life at this time for a reason. I figured I had something to learn from them or maybe even something to share. I welcomed these opportunities not just as a chance to catch up with old friends and nurture those friendships, but to see what unfolds as a result. What doors will open for me? What new angles will I notice?

I also enlisted the help of my friends in my search for direction. My career counselor suggested asking friends and former co-workers for their thoughts on what career fit they envision for me, for their thoughts on my strengths. Not only do I think it touched them that I asked for their input, their feedback helped to gel a few ideas that had sloshed around in my head for a while.

Being laid off can rock your world, but it doesn’t have to be a negative experience. I’ve learned a lot about myself as a result of my layoff. I’ve been ready for a change. I’ve undergone a transformation and it hasn’t been the easiest. I got really depressed at one point, but I made it through. I feel like I’ve returned to center. I recognize myself again. For the first time in over a decade, if not longer, I have a true sense of direction, one about which I feel confident. I know what I want to do next. Now it’s just a matter of making it work and having faith that things will work out. I am excited to see how my life continues to unfold.

Have you gone through a layoff or experienced prolonged unemployment? How did you keep busy? How did you maintain your sanity and sense of self?

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San Francisco’s Dia de los Muertos 2014

By The Girl Next Door is Black11/03/201411/01/201520 Comments1min read139 views

Dia de Los Muertos Skull San Francisco 2014 | The Girl Next Door is Black

San Francisco loves a good celebration and any excuse to dress in costume. Sunday’s Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) celebration proved no exception. The holiday, which originated in Mexico, honors both the dead and the living – an appreciation of the cycle of life. For a few hours last night, hundreds of people converged in the Mission district – the neighborhood often at the center of San Francisco’s gentrification tensions – for the festivities.

Celebrants erected elaborate altars in remembrance of deceased loved ones. Aztec dancers and musicians in ornate costumes and striking makeup led a procession through the streets. Bay Area residents lined sidewalks to watch the parade. Some enjoyed front row seats from the comfort of their apartments, while others opted to follow along with the roving entertainment.

A sea of bodies of various colors and ages, with faces painted like sugar skulls, wearing marigold headpieces, dressed as resurrected brides, carrying parasols and candles, many clothed in black and white, ambled down the streets to the sound of rhythmic percussion beats. A comment I overheard aptly sums up the evening: “This is definitely better than Halloween!”

Aztec Dancers at Dia de los Muertos San Francisco 2014 | The Girl Next Door

Aztec Dancers at Dia de los Muertos San Francisco 2014 | The Girl Next Door is Black

Metal sculpture at Dia de los Muertos San Francisco 2014 | The Girl Next Door is Black

Father and Son at Dia de los Muertos San Francisco 2014 | The Girl Next Door is Black

Friends at Dia de los Muertos San Francisco 2014 | The Girl Next Door is Black

Asian Couple at Dia de los Muertos San Francisco 2014 | The Girl Next Door is Black

One Less Car Shirt, Dia de los Muertos San Francisco 2014 | The Girl Next Door is Black

Dia de los Muertos San Francisco 2014 | The Girl Next Door is Black

Candles, Dia de los Muertos San Francisco 2014 | The Girl Next Door is Black

Freida Kahlo, Girls at Dia de los Muertos San Francisco 2014 | The Girl Next Door is Black

Getting Makeup Done for Dia de Los Muertos | The Girl Next Door is Black

Day of the Dead Stoop San Francisco | The Girl Next Door is Black

Day of the Dead Notes | The Girl Next Door is Black

Dia de los Muertos Couple San Francisco | The Girl Next Door is Black

Man in Sugar Skull Makeup Day of the Dead | The Girl Next Door is Black

Sugar Skull Makeup Day of the Dead | The Girl Next Door is Black

Skull Playing Guitar Banner | The Girl Next Door is Black

Day of the Dead Altar | The Girl Next Door is Black

Evictions are Evil Mission District | The Girl Next Door is Black

San Francisco Giants Altar Day of the Dead | The Girl Next Door is Black

Giant Skull Dia de los Muertos | The Girl Next Door is Black

Day of the Dead Altar Notes | The Girl Next Door is Black

Stop Sign The Tech Takeover Mission District | The Girl Next Door is Black

Man on Stilts Dia de los Muertos | The Girl Next Door is Black

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Life Pop Culture

Scenes from the 2014 Treasure Island Music Festival

By The Girl Next Door is Black10/21/201410/21/20144 Comments3min read122 views

Treasure Island Music Festival Stage 2014| The Girl Next Door is Black

When my friend asked if I’d go with her to the Treasure Island Music Festival, I surprised myself when I said, “Yes.” After my one and only experience at the Coachella Music Festival a few years ago, I all but swore off large-scale music festivals. Between the heat, the parades of douchery, the posers (people who literally seem as though they are just there to pose), the flower headbands, the Native American headdresses on non-Natives, the spilled beer, sloppy drunken fools, the long lines to get just about anything and my general dislike of unruly crowds, I must have temporarily lost my memory to agree to this. Of course, it didn’t hurt that my friend’s face lit up as she gushed about how much she loves André 3000 of Outkast, one of the headliners of the two-day concert.

Treasure Island is man-made and sits in the San Francisco Bay just a short drive north of the Peninisula. Smartly, to avoid parking lot overcrowding, they provide (free!) large shuttles to transport concert-goers from the Civic Center to the Island. I enjoyed the bus ride, it felt like being on a field trip with a group of strangers excitedly buzzing about all the fun we hope is in store. We couldn’t have asked for better weather for the event with temperatures in the 70s and a mild breeze blowing from the Bay.

Thankfully, the Treasure Island Music Festival was more like Coachella’s chill baby cousin whose sprinkles their speech with “hella” and smokes a lot of weed. The Bay Area doesn’t hide its love of the sticky icky. There is no “typical” smoker in the Bay. Smokers are old and young, ranging in colors from all over the spectrum, professional and slacker alike, each with their intake method of choice. The air was pungent over that island. Contact highs are real, y’all.

My friend and I attended Saturday’s lineup of shows. We arrived shortly before Ryan Hemsworth’s hopped onstage. He made fans of us by the end of his half-hour set that had the crowd bouncing. My friend and I agreed we liked his set more than Zedd‘s, whose set was too heavy on the “electronic” and not enough on the “dance” side of music for my liking.

Janelle Monae did not disappoint with her high-energy show despite a confusing 10 minutes during which she sang her heart out and the audience heard nothing. The audience chanted, “We can’t hear! We can’t hear!” hoping to get attention from a sound guy, Janelle, a backup dancer, Jesus, anybody! If I miss hearing “Electric Lady” because of this, someone is going to pay.

Outkast closed out the evening playing all the fan faves like, “Ms Jackson,” “Caroline, “B.O.B.”, and of course, “Hey Ya!” At one point, André 3000 called out, “Seattle!” I guess he forgot where he was. Contact highs are real, y’all.

We had a “hella” good time at the concert.

Other scenes from the festival.

“Bliss Dance”

Treasure Island Music Festival Fire Heart | The Girl Next Door is Black

Tent at Treasure Island Music Festival 2014 | The Girl Next Door is Black

Dragon at Treasure Island Music Festival 2014 | The Girl Next Door is Black

Bay Bridge from Treasure Island Music Festival 2014 | The Girl Next Door is Black

San Francisco Skyline Treasure Island Music Festival 2014 | The Girl Next Door is Black

Monkey Giraffe Treasure Island Music Festival 2014 | The Girl Next Door is Black

Friends at Treasure Island Music Festival 2014 | The Girl Next Door is Black

Me (L) and my friend E___

Treasure Island Music Festival 2014 | The Girl Next Door is Black

415 Tacos Treasure Island Music Festival 2014 | The Girl Next Door is Black

Which one of these will I not be eating in this public space?

Boat at Treasure Island Music Festival 2014 | The Girl Next Door is Black

Ferris Wheel at Treasure Island Music Festival 2014 | The Girl Next Door is Black

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Life

How I Broke Up with Comcast (Well…Kinda)

By The Girl Next Door is Black09/18/201410/16/20144 Comments8min read184 views

Photo cr: Photo cr: Jason Rosenberg, flickr.com How to Cancel Cable | The Girl Next Door is Black

Circumstances forced me into a relationship with Comcast when I moved here. In Los Angeles, I’d been a loyal DirecTV customer for years. Unfortunately, when I tried to transfer service and have a dish installed in my new place, the DirecTV installer shared his dreadful assessment, “San Francisco sucks for satellite! The building behind you is blocking the signal. Can’t hook you up.” Then he told me I should move back to L.A. because he hates San Francisco. Uh…thanks for the welcome, homie!

I searched and hoped for other options and came to the sad conclusion that Comcast is my only option for cable here. Internet service options are no better. AT&T was like, “We don’t have cable here yet, but we’ll give you internet for a $200 equipment set up fee!” The hell?. I’ve had financially-vampiric relationships with Time Warner AND Comcast in the past along with shitty service, bait-and-switch package “deals” and calls with customer service so painful they make you want to kick that jerkface who kicked that poor puppy. The worst.

Resigned to my last resort, I grumbled and huffed as I spent two hours – TWO HOURS – on the phone with a Comcast rep trying to get the least wallet-rapey deal on a cable / internet bundle. This fool came at me with $200 a month for a bunch of channels I didn’t want, along with landline service that I had to include to get the best discount even though I said I haven’t had a landline since 200-I don’t remember and then tried to get in my business about splitting bills with roommates and such. Filled with frustration at the foolishness of this whole ordeal, I bit my tongue because I know he’s just doing his job. My beef is really with his evil overload monopolistic employer. But, dude why are you up in my budget? If I say I don’t want to spend $200 on service I resent ordering to begin with, I don’t want to spend $200, whether I have roommatehomieloverfriends to share in the swindle or not.

Given I’m currently not working, I know the responsible, adult thing to do (sigh) is cut back on some of my non-essential expenses. In my world, television is close to essential. I mean yeah, food, shelter, love, world peace and all that, but it’s TV and I’m a pop culture junkie/former wannabe actress. Cutting cable has always been a last resort to me. For me to even seriously consider cutting off the source of my visual pacifier represents a significant shift in my world. But, homegirl ain’t got no job and Comcast isn’t speaking any my love languages. Ultimately, I decided to put on my big girl bikini, take the plunge and tell Comcast that I needed to take our relationship in a different direction. This relationship is expensive as hell and I can’t even talk to them about it because they know they have the power! It’s wrong.

I know for some, cutting the cable cord is no big deal. Either they’re not big TV watchers or they have other, higher priority vices or kids who make it impossible for them to even sit through an entire show without distraction. However, if you are thinking of cutting the cord and scared of what life is like on the other side of cable, or if you’ve already cut the cord and want to maximize your viewing options, I’ll share how I did it.

Calling It Quits

I’m sure you heard about the infamously horrendous call from the annals of customer service fuckery between the Comcast customer who tried to cancel his service and a Comcast rep who was like, “But why you trying leave though?” on repeat. I truly wasn’t looking forward to calling and being harassed for trying to save some coin. I did some research before I called. Yes, girl/boy, I RESEARCHED this shit. That’s how serious it is. I learned the following from customers who were able to exit a call with Comcast unscathed:

If you want to cut off your service all together, no internet or cable, tell them that you are moving to another country. People swear by this. It’s important that you say you are moving internationally. Down the street or to Kansas doesn’t count. They will insist on following you like some stalker mess.
Be kind to the rep. This should go without saying, in general, but with Comcast’s reputation, I recognize it’s easy to be defensive from the jump, busting out the Vaseline, before you even pick up the phone. Just try to put your stankitude aside and think of the rep who just wants to work, hopefully without headache, and call it a day like the rest of us.
Find out in advance if there are “hidden” packages. The package I ended up with, Internet Blast, is one of their cheapest packages and not one they advertise. I got the low down on it from a friend.

I ended up with a cheery rep in Utah whom I charmed with quips and compliments about her disposition. I explained to her that I was recently laid off from my job, knowing that’d score me sympathy points and set the tone for what I am not here for and that’s a $200 package or even its cousin the $150 package. The call took less than 15 minutes and when it ended I didn’t feel like I’d gotten my whole body threaded. I traded in all those channels I don’t care about, as well as HD service and a DVR for a basic basic cable package with high-speed internet, saving myself nearly 60% each month.

Now What to Watch

Cutting the cord has never been easier with all the streaming TV and film options available. Easing my transition is the streaming trio of Amazon Prime Instant Video, Netflix and Hulu Plus.

Amazon Prime Instant Video isn’t cheap, but I share my account with a few friends (they allow up to 4 people on one account), making the cost more reasonable. It seems like a good deal of their television content you have to purchase, but they have free episodes of entire seasons of some sitcoms and dramas, as well as some free and cheap movies. You can also buy TV shows by the season. Even if you do decide to by a season pass of your favorite show, the one time cost is still likely cheaper than paying Comcast an arm, a leg and a lung.
Between Hulu Plus and Netflix there’s plenty of streaming TV content. Netflix is killing their competition with their indie film and documentary selection. I’ve never heard so many people care about whale welfare until the Blackfish documentary blew up on Netflix. As with Amazon, you can share your account with others, though how much sharing you do is up to your personal ethics. Both services are $7.99/month, which is $2 more than the $5.99 “convenience fee” Comcast charges for conveniences I’m sure I never saw. “Comcast” and “convenience” are words that don’t belong anywhere near each other.
iTunes is another option and like Amazon isn’t cheap. However, similar to amazon, they offer the option of purchasing entire seasons of currently airing shows, so if you’re a semi-Bravoholic like I am, that’s an option for staying in the loop of those shows if you want to pay the price…which I’ll reiterate is still cheaper than promising a gaggle of goats to Comcast.

How to Watch It

I bought myself a Roku two Christmases ago and it’s on the list of my favorite electronic purchases. It’s relatively inexpensive and need I say, the one time cost is cheaper than giving one of your silver fillings to Comcast. The Roku allows you to watch your favorite streaming apps (they’re called channels) directly on your TV. Roku has something like over 500+ channels available including Spotify, YouTube, Pandora, Crackle, Plex, YogaGlo, PBS and tons more, many of which are free. Lifetime even has a channel and I discovered that you can watch some of their movies of the week.

Apple TV is another option for streaming channels. It is similar to the Roku, but integrated in Apple’s ~~cult~~ network of products.

Roku 2 Photo cr: Mike Mozart, flickr.com — Roku 2
Photo cr: Mike Mozart, flickr.com

The package I settled on includes a standard definition box. I bid a sad farewell to my HD DVR and in its place received transmission so bad I thought it was the ’80s again. What’s next? The Poltergeist screen of “things are about to get really bad for you”? I’m paying for this box and the channels keep fading out. That’s some nonsense. I remembered a particularly frugal friend of mine swearing by his indoor HD antenna. He let me borrow it once when I bought my first HDTV a few years ago. I thought it was cool that I could get these random channels I’d never heard of like Bounce and stations that end in .1 and .2.

There are many options for HD antennas, both indoor and outdoor. They enable you to watch the broadcast and multicast channels in your area. The signal strength depends on your distance from the station’s broadcast tower. You can check the DTV website to see what channels are available in your area. I purchased this one on Amazon and I have 33 channels including ABC, NBC, CBS, etc. At least 10 of these channels are in Chinese, Vietnamese or Spanish; there’s even French news and a KPop channel; coming in clear, crisp, beautiful HD. Comcast, I’ll be sending back that standard piece of crap you sent me. What a joke.

AmazonBasics Ultra-Thin High Performance Indoor HDTV Antenna Photo cr: amazon.com — Amazon Basics Ultra-Thin High Performance Indoor HDTV Antenna. It’s black on one side and white on the other.
Photo cr: amazon.com

It’s been a couple of weeks since I cut the cord and while I do admit to missing the ability to flip channels to find random content to watch, and I keep making phantom DVR movements (what do you mean I can’t rewiiiiinnnnd?!), I am surviving. I haven’t melted into a puddle yet. I’m not going through withdrawals. Eventually, I may want to invest in purchasing my own DVR/Tivo, but that’s a bit of a pricier endeavor. I am even at relative peace with the fact that I’ll not be able to watch my biggest TV addiction, The Real Housewives, in real-time, especially given Beverly Hills (real estate porn) and Atlanta (ROTFL-type shade) return soon. I’ll miss my fairly new habit of nerding out to Melissa Harris-Perry’s show on weekend mornings, but I’ll be okay. I’m happier and less cash poor since I changed the terms of my relationship with Comcast.

Have you gotten rid of your cable? Do you have any tips for surviving life after cable?

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Life

Walk on the Right!

By The Girl Next Door is Black09/15/201408/05/20159 Comments2min read122 views

“I no longer have road rage, I have walk rage,” I joked to my friends at breakfast recently, sharing one of the ways which my life has changed since leaving Los Angeles.

“We’re in the city. People walk, take public transportation, taxis, Uber. We’re trying to get somewhere, not take leisurely strolls through the streets.”

Proper sidewalk eitquette makes everyone happy! | Read more from "Walk on the RIght!" on The Girl Next Door is Black — source

Traffic, horrendously douchey driving and my resulting road rage which became way to commonplace for my liking (I don’t think it’s healthy to regularly wish for people to “get his someday, motherfucker!”) top the list of reasons why I left L.A. Now, after nearly two years of living in San Francisco, I can count on two hands the number of times I’ve driven my car. My poor, neglected car which once held way too much import in my life.

My friends, all current L.A. residents, listened with amusement as I continued my mini-tirade.

“I get irrationally bothered when people walk slowly or when they don’t walk on the right side of the sidewalk. It messes up the flow. It’s so annoying! That and standing all haphazardly on the escalators, blocking the flow of people who are just trying to catch their train to work. Stand to the right! Climb to the left! It’s not that hard!”

Rant over, I sat back in my seat, satisfied at having released a string of words suppressed for too long.

Proper sidewalk etiquette makes everyone happy! | Read more from "Walk on the Right" on The Girl Next Door is Black — source

“You’re supposed to walk to the right?” my friend K- asked with mock trepidation.

Wide-eyed, my friend L- added, “Yeah, I didn’t know that.”

I fixed them with a stare of disbelief and looked to I-, L-‘s husband for validation. He nodded at me in agreement.

“Yes! In this country, we walk on the right side of the street if there are others on the sidewalk. It’s like driving. You drive on the right side of the road. I know it’s different in some other countries. Anyway, that way if you’re walking down the street and are walking toward a stranger, you avoid doing that stupid, ‘Which way are you going? I’m going left, no you’re going right! Ok, I’ll go right,’ dance.”

“Oh, is that why that happens?” K- remarked with a half-smile.

“Yes,” I sighed, “do people not know this?? Am I going to have to blog about this?!”

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Life

So, I Killed a Bee

By The Girl Next Door is Black08/12/201408/08/20154 Comments4min read140 views

I killed a bee.

There’s no other way to say it. It happened. I’m a bee killer.

I feel guilty about this bee-icide.

My approach toward insects is this: I pay to live in my home. They do not, nor are they invited. No creature with more than four legs should be taking up residence in my place. If the bugs stay outside, keep outta my abode, we’re all good. Invade my lair and all bets are off.

I spent a summer in Panama when I was a kid. One night, while settling into bed, a cockroach accosted me, boldly crawling across my pastel pink wall, mere feet above my twin bed. A bug as thick as a pack of Bubble Yum. The roaches I knew in New York, where I lived at the time, were typically the size of my little girl pinky toe. Gross and pesky, but manageable. Squishable. This cockroach was a meathead bug; ‘roided out.

In a panicked blur, I grabbed a small shoe, and THWACK! Nobody invited you, roach, GOOD.BYE! When I shared the story with the family I was staying with, the matriarch, a kind-eyed woman with a no-nonsense manner, fixed me with a somber stare and said matter-of-factly:

“If you kill one, the rest of their family will come back for revenge. You should be careful.”

I couldn’t be sure if she spoke the truth or not, her eyes twinkled, but her eyes always twinkled. I slept uneasily that night, dreams of being chased by vindictive cockroach armies disturbing my slumber.

Though I’m an adult and I know vengeful cockroach militias don’t exist, if ever I kill a bug, a nagging thought tries to take root in my mind, an immortal superstition, “The rest of it’s kind is coming for you.”

Since the weather in San Francisco rarely rises to uncomfortable levels, many apartment units, like mine, don’t have window screens. A recent series of humid nights brought with it a wimpy breeze and ravenous mosquitoes chomping on me like steak, dining for free, multiple times a week. I’m over being battered by bugs.

So, this bee.

It flew into my home one afternoon, using my screenless window as it’s portal. When it zoomed into my living room, my favorite cat did absolutely nothing. His feeble, half-assed attempts to catch it evolved into a game of his design, a cat-and-bee chase, only the bee was unaware of its participation and I became very concerned about getting stung. I watched his catnanigans for a bit, keeping one eye on the bee, the other on my useless feline, flipping, flopping and tossing in the air like a caught fish as he half-heartedly attempted to capture the fast-moving bee.

“Aren’t you going to do something, cat?! You only have two jobs: be cute and kill pests. Ugh!”

The bee, catching on to the cat’s plan, flew away from him and into my personal zone. Oh shit! Unthinkingly, I grabbed a broom and showed my cat how it’s done. Bee Smash!

At least my cat does ONE of his jobs: he's cute. — At least my cat does ONE of his jobs: he’s cute.

I felt temporarily victorious – until I realized what I’d done. I killed a bee. We need bees! Bees are endangered! Did I not just have a conversation with someone about how we should try to avoid killing bees? Even though I initially scoffed and side-eyed the idea of sparing the life of an insect – sometimes these NorCal-ers take their organic-treehugging-sustainable-“nature, man”-hippieness to extremes and it’s easy to get caught up in – I am nothing if not soft-hearted when it comes to living creatures.

However, I acted on instinct. The instinct not to end up with my soft-hearted ass in the hospital. A bee stung me once – the same year as the great Panamanian cockroach haunting – and the incident ended with piercing pain and a trip to the doctor’s office. No thank you.

Filled with self-reproach – because of me, that’s one less flower pollinated, who knows how much I’ve messed up the circle of life – I approached the fallen bee, hoping that it’d still be twitching. Alive.

The bee remained still.

Dammit!

I poked it gently with a pen, careful not to get too close lest it was playing possum and decided to sneak attack.

It didn’t move.

I gently picked it up in my paper-towel-covered hand, walked to my window and placed it carefully on the fire escape. Solemnly I said to the bee, still slightly hopeful it’d flutter awake, “I am really sorry. I will not kill another, but can you guys not fly into my apartment? Also, please do not send your bee crew after me in retaliation.”

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Life

Potty-Mouthed Street Kids & Other Tales of Harassment

By The Girl Next Door is Black07/07/201409/30/20140 Comments6min read145 views

A couple of weeks ago, seated with a girlfriend outside Philz Coffee, a random, late middle-age man passing by, grabbed my foot and shook it. He didn’t say anything, just shook my foot and continued walking.

What the hell?!

My friend and I looked at each other, puzzled. I didn’t say much and publicly shrugged it off. It happened so fast I didn’t even have time to react. Afterward, however, I sat feeling disturbed, my attention divided between my discombobulated thoughts and my friend’s excited chatter about her upcoming travel plans. What made that man think he had the right to reach out and touch me? Would he return? With the steady stream of pedestrians, many toting along canine companions larger than me, I uncomfortably wondered if anyone else might feel compelled to invade my personal space and grab a limb.

***

A few weeks ago, I opted for an Uber home after dinner with a friend. A few blocks away from my apartment building, I instructed the driver where to drop me off. He nodded, but a few seconds later looked behind him and said, “Uhhhh, there’s a police car behind me. I’m going to drive for a little while, see if he goes away.”

My heartbeat sped up ready to race. Danger! Danger! Why does he care if a cop is behind him? They exist, they patrol, they eat donuts and tacos. If you haven’t done anything wrong, you probably have nothing to worry about (in that neighborhood, with his skin color). The story I’d heard of the woman in West Hollywood who was allegedly kidnapped by her Uber driver in the forefront of my memory.

Cat Self-Defense Keychain Photo cr: tactical-life.com — Cat Self-Defense Keychain
Photo cr: tactical-life.com

I prepared to weaponize. I will stab an attempted kidnapping motherfucker in the eye. I looked around and assessed my surroundings, people to ask for help if needed,or a place to run. Only 9pm, but my neighborhood is a quieter one and thus few people wander around late – it’s one of the reasons I chose it, fewer chances of being harassed on the street. The doors to the car were locked. This man is not taking me anywhere. My phone poised to dial 911, I requested, my tone firm, “Please let me out right here.” He drove one more block, my anxiousness increasing with each wheel revolution until finally he stopped the car, I got out and told him, “Never say ‘no’ when a female passenger tells you she wants out.” I don’t know what his issues were or his intentions, but the experience left me shaken. Did I do everything I could have to prevent a bad situation?

After, I read up on the incidences of assault and kidnapping on female passengers in taxis and shared ride services. One male officer suggested that women consider riding with a friend. I grew angry. Isn’t the point of taxis and other passenger services to provide convenience to get from point A to B? I have to adjust my behavior, put a crimp in my lifestyle, because there are some people, men – let’s be real – who think they have a right to my body. Though, I didn’t share this story – as much as it disturbed me – with anyone else because I feared the potential judgement of questions, “Were you drunk? How were you dressed? Were your clear with him that you wanted to get out? Did you flirt with him? Why were you out so late?” All the ways in which female victims are sometimes blamed for the poor behavior of their transgressors.

***

Photo cr: Rapscallionvawn, deviantart.com

A few of months before the Uber incident, on my way home from a friend’s place after the sun disappeared for the day, as I boarded the bus, the bus driver, with his shaggy muted brown hair, 70’s pornstache, and Dahmer-style eyeglasses, greeted me with an approving glance and asked creepily, What’s a nice girl like you doing out here this time of night?” Is 7pm when all the “girls” are to pack it in for the day and stay indoors? I’ll admit, I stereotyped him, his appearance and borderline-lascivious gaze brought to mind the type of man police discover harboring missing young women for years.

A handful of other passengers were aboard, including two women – one young, one middle-aged. I decided to board, we’re all women riding the bus at night and there is strength in numbers. I texted my girlfriend to fill her in on the situation and updated my Facebook, a humor-tinged status referencing the fact that bus drivers here are sometimes as stoic as the men guarding The Royal Palace, and this guy was different. Should anything actually happen, people will know I’m missing sooner than later. Thankfully, I disembarked the bus without incident.

***

Last year, on our way to a piercing shop in The Haight, my sister N and I were leered at by street kids lazing on the sidewalk, leaning against a clothing store, looking lost, stoned and sketchy. One “kid” (he appeared to be in his early twenties), white with dirty, stringy blonde hair, shouted at us, “Hey ladies! I’ll lick your p–sy for $10.”

I shook my head, the taste of revulsion and disgust filling my mouth. I’ve experienced my share of insensitive and objectifying cat-calling, but this incident begged to stand out. We are more than our vaginas and ours breasts, we are human beings that deserve the respect we afforded them.

***

During dinner in The Mission with two of my ex-coworkers, Andrew and Melissa* – the same week as the foot-grabbing episode – Andy, one of the most genuine, big-hearted people you could ever meet, asked us earnestly for our thoughts about the national ongoing rape culture discussion. He didn’t want to unknowingly perpetuate the behaviors and beliefs that encapsulate it. We assured him he’s one of the last men who should be concerned with promoting rape culture. As things tend to go, the men who should concern themselves are likely the ones not thinking about it. Similar to how, often the people most insistent on not talking about race, are the ones who need to examine their beliefs and behaviors.

After dinner, our trio headed to the BART station; Andy insisted on walking us to the BART and bus stops, because that’s the kind of guy he is. We ambled down Valencia Street, savoring our time now that we no longer all work together, when a lone man of average height, approaching from the opposite direction, eyes ogling me and Melissa, uttered, with his voice hinting at desire, “Sexxxxxy.”

I ignored him. No man worth my time will approach me on the street and call out to me like I’m a cow in the field.

Andy gaped at us in disbelief. “Did you guys just hear that?!” he asked.

I looked at Melissa, she nodded with indifference. I shrugged and told Andy, “This happens all the time. You get used to it.” He shook his head in sadness. I told Andy, “I’m glad you are with us though. Men respect other men. He won’t be bothering us.” Had Andy not been with us, who knows what would have happened? The three of us remained silent for some time, my words, “You get used it,” reverberating in my head. I have gotten used to and I hate it. I hate that I have accepted that this is part of life as a woman.

*Not their real names

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Life

Saying No to No

By The Girl Next Door is Black06/05/201405/23/20155 Comments6min read133 views

Recently during lunch with a co-worker, Mighty* – we’ve bonded in our search for sanity in the crazytown that is our work environment – she exclaimed, “Keisha, I have to tell you! Something you told me really helped me!”

—

A few weeks earlier, on our way back from lunch, dodging poo on the sidewalk (dog? human? who knows), sidestepping a disheveled-looking man angrily muttering to himself and quickly breezing past a urine-scented staircase, – in other words, a not atypical walk in certain parts of San Francisco – Mighty told me how she’d fallen victim to a scam on a popular website – a website which began as a consumer-to-consumer auction site, we’ll call it, “eCray”.

She sold an expensive electronic item to someone who conned her out of four figures. Distraught and poorer, she complained to eCray’s customer service who told her due to some loophole, “Sorry for ya, but you screwed yourself. Sucks for you though, we get that. Maybe call a lawyer? Ok, bye! Please shop again!”

Clearly exasperated and frustrated, she concluded, “I guess I’m just out all of that money! It was stupid! I can’t believe they won’t do anything!”

I recounted to her the tale of my great battle against the big online bookstore that put many baby bookstores out of business. But, I didn’t buy a book from them, I bought something else, because they sell other stuff too, everything actually, it’s pretty amazing. Let’s call that company, “Jungle.”

Due to a botched transaction with a reseller (they have stuff for resale too!), I was owed a refund which I never received. At the time, Jungle’s customer service that was so bad and it angered me so much I wondered if I needed therapy, after all, it wasn’t all that much money. But, THEY messed up and THEY needed to give me back my money. It’s the principle of the thing. So, when Jungle’s customer service hit me with:

“We are sorry for your inconvenience, but our policy states that we must be money-hoarding automatons with fake names – because you know and I know my name isn’t really ‘Brad’ or ‘George’ or ‘Angelina’, but something less easy for the average American to pronounce – and we can’t give you a refund. But, sorry, that sucks ma’am. Ok, bye! Please shop again!”

Don’t mess with my money! photo cr: Ryan Li, flickr.com

Screw that. I drafted a letter and an email – old school and new school – to “whom it may concern”, about the small amount I was owed, why it was owed to me and the amount of ridiculous shenanigans and fuckery that ensued when I tried to reclaim my money thanks to their blood-pressure raising, script-reading, customer service. In summary, I added how I’m not going to be shopping there anymore because they’ve left a bad taste in my mouth and I will never be the same. Ever.

Letter stamped, dropped in the mail and email sent to the VP of Customer Service, the VP of Marketing and the VP of VPness. That should about reach at least one person high enough who will care that a customer is so upset she’ll take her fight up the ladder and tell the whole damn neighborhood about it.

A few weeks later, I received a lovely email from a VP expressing intense regret at the unfortunate experiences I’d endured at Jungle’s hands along with a refund for the full amount owed and a gift card to buy anything I like (you can buy Q-tips! Q-tips delivered to your doorstep in two days!).

When I finished the story about my battle against the giant Jungle, Mighty let out a big breath: “Wow, I didn’t think of that. You’re right; I should do that, because I am so angry! That is so wrong, they should be protecting their customers!”

—

At lunch, she recalled the telling of that anecdote and being marveled by my perseverance. I offered as explanation:

“I guess I just never take ‘no’ for an answer. I never really thought about it, but I think I just figure there’s always a way around most things. There’s almost always someone higher up who can get you what you need or another solution around a roadblock.

I just keep trying until I decide either it’s no longer worth it or I’ve exhausted my solutions. I ask myself, ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’ and decide if it’s worth it.”

I added, “I think it’s a family thing.”

Ready for another story within a story?

I shared with her how Last Christmas, back in Texas to visit the family, I went to the movies with my mom and younger sister to see the film Mandela. Unfortunately, an older version of Martha and the Vandellas were there too, gossiping like church ladies. Now this is Man.de.la, a movie about a man of great historical importance, who, along with his fellow South African supporters, suffered through much violence and debasement as demonstrated in evocative scenes. Imagine having your stream of emotions interrupted by obnoxious braying:

“Honeyyyyyyyy, I couldn’t!”

“Hahahaha, I know!“

These heifers.

My mom and sister periodically turned around presumably to mean-mug them. A few other patrons in the mostly empty theatre attempted to shush them, but they’d start right back up again, clucking away like plump hens freed from their pen.

Ordinarily, this is exactly the kind of shit that sticks in my craw. I have paid damn near the price of a concert ticket to sit in this dark theatre with strangers and my family, eating overpriced artery-clogging popcorn because the stuff is addictive, and these women here, these women here, are bleating their way through Mandela. Mandela!

However, I was more fascinated with my mom and sister and their fascination with Rude, Ruder & Rudest.

My sister huffed. Then she stood up. She is 22 and has more confidence and self-assuredness at her age than I had my entire high school experience. She whispered, “I’m going to find the manager.”

Oh snap.

A long 10 minutes later, my sister returned, shortly followed by a young usher, who looked like he’s capable of nothing more than wrestling a stuffed tiger, peered toward the back of the theatre where the three assmigas have caught on and were silently behaving themselves.

He stood in place for a beat, probably sizing up the women, shrugged – I’m sure he realized they could take him and the stuffed tiger he wrestled – and he exited the theatre without a word to them.

We were not impressed.

For a blissful half an hour, the women remained largely silent, shuffling and shifting weight periodically, almost as though the pain of holding back their witty commentary might eat them up from inside, until finally bits of conversation, varying in volume from a whisper to audible travel-level and worked its way toward us:

“and then…yeah, uh huh…right, so then…and he…”

Gah!. We did our best to ignore their voices as they chittered intermittently during the movie.

After the film, my mom approached the useless usher and requested to speak to the manager.

“Yes, ma’am!” He immediately turned and headed for a private door.

I think he would have flown to the manager to get there faster if he could. My mom’s tone indicated, “I mean business. You better get moving! Nobody’s playing here!”

When the manager arrived, my mom and sister calmly explained to the him the pain we suffered through having our Mandela experience ruined: Do you know how much movie tickets are these days? And my sister/daughter is in town all the way from California! and this is what she has to go through? I just find this unacceptable. We did not enjoy ourselves.

I stood silently in awe trying to avoid breaking out in a full smile of pride.

In less than five minutes, we emerged from the theatre having received an apology and 8 passes to see any movie we like.

—

“I wrote to the Vice President of Customer Service at eCray like you suggested,” Mighty said, “and I got it resolved! It was so fast! They refunded all my money! I have to remember this! Thank you for your help!”

Sometimes it pays not to take no for an answer.

* Name changed for the sake of making my life easier

By The Girl Next Door is Black

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Culture + Society Life

Awkward Encounters at the Greeting Card Store

By The Girl Next Door is Black03/24/201409/19/20146 Comments3min read181 views

Vicki Lawrence as Thelma Harper in 'Mama's Family' — Vicki Lawrence as Thelma Harper in ‘Mama’s Family’

A few days ago I was at my local greeting card store picking up what seemed like stacks of birthday cards because I tend to befriend and befamily* a disproportionate number of Pisces/Aries/Taurus people (those born in March and April, for the non-astrology folks). As I approached the cash register to pay, I kind of hoped that I wouldn’t be helped out by the somewhat eccentric older woman with the Thelma Harper hair and with whom I’d had an off-putting encounter around the Christmas holidays.

—

As I was packing away the holiday cards I’d just purchased (holiday-neutral, no religious symbols, no mentions of Christmas, baby Jesus or miraculous pregnancies) in the reusable bag I’d dutifully brought with me (you’re welcome, Earth), she wished me a, “Happy Holidays.”

“Thanks, you too!”

“Oh, thank you. You know, last week, I said ‘Merry Christmas’ to a customer. She snapped at me, ‘I am Jewish!’ Sor-REEEE. You don’t have to jump down my throat! Can’t say anything these days without somebody getting offended. Do you celebrate Christmas?”

I nodded.

“Then MERRY CHRISTMAS to you, young lady.”

I tilted my head in false sympathy for her plight and left.

Erm…okay. I mean, maybe you shouldn’t make assumptions about people’s religion? Maybe the customer is Jewish and in the religious minority in this country and gets tired of people assuming she celebrates Christmas? I mean, I get annoyed when ignorant dudes approach with me some fake swagger and a “Hey girl, what’s up?” trying to sound hood, but the same dude will greet my white or Asian friend with, “Hi, I’m Joe,” using perfect diction, sounding like they’re ready to give a speech to the President. It just so happens that I also speak Standard American English and am capable of understanding simple words like, ‘Hi, I’m Joe.” So, spare me the blaccent. Assumptions, assumptions. Just assy.

—
A few months later, I stood at the register and who else but eccentric older woman made her way toward me? Three employees in the store and I get her.

“All set? Oh! Let me show you our Easter cards!” She motioned toward the front of the store.

“Oh, no thank you.”

“They’re just right here. I’ll show you.” She started toward the cards.

Her voice was loud enough for me and the rest of the customers in the store to hear.

“Thanks. I don’t celebrate Easter.”

“Ahhhh…” she walked back to the register. The woman standing in line behind me tensed up, shifted her weight. The woman still hadn’t even rung up my purchases; she was too busy badgering me into looking at Easter cards.

I was raised Christian, but don’t consider myself Christian and don’t really make it a point to celebrate Easter. I do celebrate Christmas, but for the secular reasons.

“It’s just, there’s one with an [she lowered her voice to a loud whisper] ‘African-American’ on it. We don’t usually have those, so…”

Why is this happening? For real? I just wanted to buy some damn cards.

On the one hand, given I’ve written about the lack of color representation among greeting card choices, it’s positive there’s a card with a black person on it. But, it’s ONE CARD. What if I didn’t like the card? What if the person on the card was wearing some tacky ass outfit? Or looked ratchet? Or looked like a white person whose skin was painted a horrible brown shade that doesn’t exist in humans? Like I’m not supposed to notice the European features on the chocolate skin. They do that. Thanks for the charity. One card.

Grossest Easter candy | Photo cr: wikipedia

On the other hand: woman, seriously? Stop being so pushy and sticking your foot all the way in your mouth. It’s kind of ridiculous to single me out because you have one black card. She probably meant well, but c’mon.

“Yeah, not a lot of cards like that. I’ll have to check that out some other time.”

It seemed like it took her ages to ring me up before finally I could bolt from the store. The lone black customer has exited the store, off to do some black stuff. Goodbye.

*made up word

By The Girl Next Door is Black

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Life

Beware the Crazy Old Goat Down the Hall

By The Girl Next Door is Black03/12/201406/19/201512 Comments8min read203 views

Hi, I’m Keisha and apparently I get into fights with old ladies. Let’s take a look, shall we?

—

When I first moved into my apartment building I met the girlfriend of one of my neighbors. Her boyfriend had lived in the building for two years.

“How do you like it here? How are the people in the
building?”

“Oh, I like it. People are pretty quiet and nice, but…” she lowered her voice and moved closer to me, “Have you met the old lady that lives down the hall?”

“Oh, Gertie? Yeah, she seems nice, I saw her vacuuming the entryway. It’s sweet that she does that.”

She made a face as though she was less than impressed.

“Yeah…she’s just…kinda weird,” her voice trailed off and then as though she were re-energized, “Well, I hope you love it here! Good luck unpacking!”

This is how scary movies start. Everyone knows the black people always die first. Dammit!

I had indeed met Ms. Gertie. I know little about her. I try to engage her in conversation when I see her, but she doesn’t much seem interested. I
noticed once an accent fading in and out, so I asked her about it.

“Oh yes, I am from Ireland.”

I asked her how long she’d been living in the building.

“Oh, longer than you’ve probably been alive, dear.” She has the voice of a fairy-tale grandmother. Or the Wicked Witch: “I’ll get you my pretty (and your little cats tooooo.).”

In the 18 months or so that I’ve lived in the building, I’ve learned the following about the life of Gertie:

1. She lives alone and spent this past Christmas with her niece that lives an hour north in Wine Country.

2. I can’t say with certainty how old she is, but I’m a good guesstimator of age (ask my friends) and I think she’s probably between 72-77.

3. She likes to vacuum. I don’t mean vacuum her place. I mean, the whole building. Often at 9:30pm on a weeknight. I don’t know what the hell she’s vacuuming or why; we have a cleaning service that comes weekly to tidy up. In any case, our building is extra clean. Maybe she’s bored and needs something to do. If she has a job, it doesn’t seem to be one that requires her to leave her place.

4. I had a drink with our former building manager once (a random occurrence, he’s nearly 60 and married; it was nothing scandalous) and when I asked for his take on our building and its residents, about Gertie he shared “Ohhh, Gertie. She’s a tough one.”

He winced. I chuckled. “Does she complain a lot?”

“You could say that. She just makes my job extra hard. She calls about every little thing that goes wrong.”

Imagine this as a 2-ft doll | Photo cr: Ottawavalleymoms.com

5. Every Christmas she decorates the indoor entryway to our building with a Christmas tree, lights, tinsel, garland and a 2-ft tall Santa Claus doll with a pale, waxy face that my sister N deemed “creepy as hell!” It’s festive and I appreciate someone making the effort, especially since I’m not putting up a Christmas tree for me and the cats.

6. She is fond of leaving passive aggressive notes with lots!of!exclamation! around the building:

“The LIGHT! in the laundry room! is BROKEN as of 1/5/14 @ 2pm! Please FIX it IMMEDIATELY! Someone could break! their NECK!”

7. My younger sister N was here last summer and stayed with me some nights. Gertie asked me: “Is that your daughter that stays with you sometimes?”

My sister and I are six years apart in age and black don’t crack so usually people ask us who is older. No way in hell does she look like my daughter! Is my black cracking?! Do I suddenly look old? My sister’s reaction when I shared this with her reassured me, “The fuck? Your daughter?! Why does she think that? Is this some racial thing? Like you’re a ‘young single black mother’? What the hell? Your daughter? Let me say something to her.” No need. I let it go.

8. I ran into Gertie when I was on my way out to dinner once, wearing a cute new dress and showing a perfectly respectable amount of skin. And even if I wasn’t, I am a grown ass woman and I buy what I want to wear, so I can wear what I want. The look she gave me. Like I was some loose harlot! When did I sign up for a den mom? This wasn’t the first time she side-eyed me when I was either coming from fun or going to fun. Of course I ran into her on way home from the Pride festival with stickers on my face wearing a rainbow feathered boa. I think she either hates fun or is jealous of fun. Either way, not my problem.

I couldn’t find my keys when I left for work this morning. I dug up half my apartment looking for them. I even missed my bus trying to find them. I have a
spare key to my apartment, but not to the building’s front door. It’s one of those keys that you can’t get copied at your local Home Depot. We used to have the access code, but when our building management changed, they
decided to change the access code too and not tell anybody. Hey guys,
maybe you should notify your tenants. Anyway. I figured I could either call a neighbor when I got home or call a friend to call my cell so I could buzz myself in.
Problem solved.

Well, hold on there girl! There are other plans in store for you!

When I got home, I was happy to see Gertie sitting inside at the bottom of the stairs. I wouldn’t have to use any of my door plans! I tried again to see if I could find my keys, just in case, but came up with nothing. All the while, Gertie didn’t move. I fished around in my purse some more and finally mouthed to Gertie, “Can you let me in, please?”

She walked slowly over, met my eyes and growled, “NO. Call the [offsite] manager. You should have your key!”

R e a l l y?

I rolled my eyes and turned away. I wasn’t going to beg her to get into my own damn place of residence. A shoebox that I pay stacks to live in. Fuck her. I was mad I ever thought to send her mean ass a Christmas card.

For whatever reason, calling myself didn’t work – I was probably too agitated to focus. I looked through the directory and dialed my neighbors who live across the hall from me. They are a polite young couple who mostly keep to themselves and their two pugs. I also knew they’d be home because they’re pretty predictable and I know their schedule.

“Hi, this is Keisha, I live in #_ and I can’t find my key…”

“Oh, I’ll let you in!”

Thank you!

I could see Gertie stewing in the entryway. Her plan to teach
this wayward youngin’ a lesson foiled by cleverity (no, it’s not a word). Had I been less stew-y I would have booyah’d! all up in her face. Instead, I stormed in, I hope looking flawless, huffing, as she started in on me with, “You should have your
key!”

“DO NOT TALK TO ME GERTIE! I don’t want to hear ANYTHING you have to say. This is the WORST neighborly treatment I have ever received.” Neighborly treatment? Is that really the best I could come up with?

I almost never yell. I’m quite anti yelling in anger. But this crazy old goat got me yelling. Yes. Crazy. Old. Goat. I love old people. I love goats. I even love some crazy people. But I don’t love crazy old goat people. I hope I never become a crazy old goat so set in proving I’m right that I act like I’m constantly trying to headbutt people with my assholery, goaty beard strands swinging in the wind.

“Where’s YOUR KEY?

“I MISPLACED IT!”

I was yelling.

“How come none of you have your keys?! You all lose your keys? Sure! You think I”m crazy?”

Actually, yes, you crazy old goat. I don’t know who or what the fuck she was talking about and I don’t care. I am not “you guys,” I am the person who was standing outside with grocery bags trying to find my keys, getting super angry, as she banged on the window like a banshee, lecturing me and telling me to call the manager. I’ve never even misplaced my keys before!

“Gertie. I have a JOB. I have a lot of responsibilities. I am busy. SOMETIMES I MISPLACE THINGS. I have lived here for OVER A YEAR. YOU KNOW WHO I AM.” God, I really pulled the “I have a job” card. Who am I? Vicki Gunvalson?

“You should have YOUR KEY!”

“You KNOW I LIVE HERE! Do not EVER ask me for ANYTHING. EVER.”

Do not come to my house looking for an egg, sugar, an earthquake kit, or a rag to chew on as goats are wont to do…go ask somebody else, crazy old goat. All I got for you in this apartment are dead stares and no fucks. Look me in my face, I ain’t got no worries FOR YOU.

I opened my door, walked in and slammed it with the force of Veruca Salt’s anger.

I cannot believe she let me stand outside the build, like a damn fool, just watching me and not helping. WHO DOES THAT?! I felt humiliated. Crazy old goat.

She continued muttering and bitching out in the hall, periodically moving closer to my door so I could get a good whiff of the shit she was spewing. I heard her
complain to a neighbor who must have passed by, “Keys..door..manager…I…crazy…”

Sometimes people misplace things. It happens with age. She should know.

She walked nearer to my door and complained into the air, “It’s like an insane asylum in here!”

This old bitch.

My keys were on the key rack under a sweater. In my attempts to straighten up, I hid my own damn keys.

I get a few days off from work next week and away from my apartment. I need it.

It occurs to me that she was just sitting at the bottom of the staircase when I got home. She didn’t appear to be doing anything. Was that crazy old goat just waiting to bleat at people about their keys? I’m now wondering if the Christmas decorations she puts up in the lobby every year are riddled nanny cams so she can spy on people coming in and out of the building, daring to have fun or forget their keys.

Damn crazy old goats.

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By The Girl Next Door is Black

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Life

Don’t Pity Me Because I’m Single

By The Girl Next Door is Black01/04/201409/19/201512 Comments12min read205 views

Don't Pity Me Because I'm Single Quote Single Pressure | The Girl Next Door is Black

“Are your standards too high?”

My concerned dad, seated in front of me in the booth, waited to hear whether I was self-sabotaging my romantic possibilities and thus crushing his dreams of seeing more grandchildren. Grandchildren from his firstborn. No pressure.

I’d returned to Houston to visit my family for the Christmas holiday. My dad had kidnapped me from my parents’ house, where funnily enough I’d been regaling my mom with dating horror stories. He’d returned from running whatever errands dads run and whisked me away. He didn’t tell me where we were going. I didn’t know until we pulled into the restaurant parking lot. I guess we’re eating then.

I knew I wouldn’t escape this trip without one conversation with my dad about my love life. I know he just wants me to find love. Of course, what’s amusing is my dad spent a large majority of my existence trying to keep the male species a universe away from me. He’d warn me: “I know what boys are like, Keisha, I used to be one.”

—

Once in high school, a boy called our house asking for my older sister. Unfortunately for him, my father answered. I couldn’t hear the boy, but I did hear my dad’s booming voice sternly admonish,

Young man, when you call to speak to one of my daughters you first
say, ‘Hello, Mr. ___, how are you?’ Then you ask to speak to my daughter. Do you understand me?

No doubt by this point, the kid was shitting his pants and “yes, sir”ing up a storm. My dad has a way with words and a voice that rightly suggests you best not mess with him. He hung up the phone on the boy. My sister was teenage-d pissed, which is pissed with a large injection of crazy-hormones. To the four girls under his protection eavesdropping upstairs my dad yelled, “Don’t be having none of these knucklehead boys with no manners calling here with some foolishness!” My whole family is full of “articulate black people”, but get us worked up and the blaccent suddenly makes an appearance.

—

Decades later, here we sat, dad and daughter, released from her cage years ago. My dad was essentially asking me what was wrong with my pimp game.

I hate this assumption that single women past a certain age are single because they have unrealistic expectations. That may be true for some, but I don’t think that’s the case for me. Trust me, I’ve done the self-reflection.

I sighed, as respectfully as possible, before answering, “No. I mean, unless you think wanting someone who is gainfully employed, ambitious, open-minded, clean, socially conscious, knowledgeable about current events, has social skills and likes to travel, is having high standards. Even then, someone can have all these great qualities, but for some reason, there’ll be no connection.”

“For instance, dad, I have a guy friend who told me he wants a basketball team full of kids. First of all, nobody in this area,” I said, while pointing at my “womb” region, “wants anything to do with five babies. Second, I wasn’t then and am not now young enough to be popping out all those kids. There’s not enough time! So, needless to say, he’s out. He’s a good guy, but I don’t want five kids.”

He nodded, pensive, and asked curiously, “What do you mean by ‘social skills’?”

I thought back to a Match.com date I’d gone on last spring.

—

His appearance was fine enough, but you know how “they” say that a woman knows within some number of minutes of meeting a man whether she’ll sleep with him? Upon seeing him, sex-repellent particles filled my body with a rush. No way it was ever going down with him. But, I thought, who knows? Maybe his personality will change things.

We met at a cafeI suggested because although he asked me out, he had no plans to offer. I’d been in San Francisco all of four months at that time, so I had a limited knowledge of date spots. My criteria were simple: Yelp-approved food, on a bus line and alcohol available. Ain’t nobody here for a first date without the option of loose juice.

He arrived before I did and I’m perpetually five minutes early to places. Points for timeliness!

The conversation was a bit stilted. He was a little awkward, more than “first date jitters” awkward. If he looked like he wanted to fall asleep while telling me about his job, you can imagine how I felt hearing about it.

“You’re really pretty. You must get lots of dates on Match. How many dates have you been on?” he asked.

A proper compliment (yay!) and an odd followup. “Thanks! This is my first date actually.”

Are we supposed to talk about this? Like comparing war stories of the online dating game? Show our battle scars in the form of baggage and skepticism?

“I’ve been on a few,” he shared. “The girls are pretty cool. Lot of people who seem to want to go do all these crazy, adventurous things though. I’m more of a homebody.”

The sex-repellent particles buzzed in my body like crackhead tics, reminding me of their presence.

Nope, no sir. Been there, done that. Not looking for a homebody! I am sure he will find a compatible quiet girl who wants to be home with him indenting the sofa, but I’m not that girl.

I sifted through my arsenal of conversation topics, attempting to the keep the conversation lively, pulling a little too hard on my beer. If I drink it, this will be fun.

Out of nowhere he asked, “So are you really 3_? A woman I went out with from Match told me she was 36, but she was really 38. If I had known she was 38, I wouldn’t have gone out with her. I mean, I have to think about having kids. She said she gets more hits when she says she’s 36. I didn’t ask her out again.”

What in the? I sympathize with the woman; I’m younger than she is, but not by much. I could be her in a few years: single and increasingly worried about aging out of the window of much male interest; feeling the weight of my declining fertility. But, I don’t lie about my age, or at all, really. I have spent the majority of my life having to convince people that I’m not as young as I appear. When I was 13, my parents tried a few times to buy me the 12- and under ticket at the movies to get the discount (“Keisha, just pretend you’re 12 if they ask.”). I would expressly and proudly tell the cashier I was 13, thankyouverymuch. My parents couldn’t be mad; I’d told the truth. My truth cost them two extra dollars.

The idea that I would age myself down made me chuckle. He sounded a touch paranoid. “Yes, I am really 3_.”

“Can I see your driver’s license? Haha. I’m just kidding.” He totally wasn’t kidding. I pulled out my driver’s license to humor him (I covered my address; I am nobody’s fool).

“See? 3_.” He nodded, satisfied.

“So, do you want to go on a second date? he blurted. The only thing is, I don’t drink during the week. But, I drink on Friday and Saturday nights.”

Who said anything about drinking? I know I showed more affection for my beer than for him, but I still had a third of a pint remaining! And what’s with the rules? Drink or don’t drink, that’s your prerogative. But, to have a rule about when you’ll drink it? How very opposite of fun. Rules for what days of the week you will and will not drink seems rigid to me. I don’t do well with rigidity. It makes me feel…confined. What about Thirsty Thursday? No drinking on weeknights? Get outta here with that crazy talk!

We didn’t go out again. He was nice. Nice isn’t a positive descriptor though. It’s just there. Sitting. Being nice. Doing not much else. Nice doesn’t light anyone’s fire. Nice doesn’t wiggle eyebrows. There was nothing wrong with him, he just wasn’t right, for me. He was nice though.

—

I concluded the retelling of this date to my dad with, “I am a social person. I like to meet people, I like to learn about people, I like to entertain. I cannot be with someone who will be on me like a boil if we’re at a social event. Following me around because he can’t make conversation on his own. Fearing what words might come out of his mouth. That will get old fast. He told me he’s a bit shy and a homebody. I wasn’t interested. He was nice enough though.” I don’t mean nice in that “women always reject nice guys for bad boys” way. No mature woman with sense is still chasing “bad boys.” I mean nice as in, neutral.

My dad made a noise I can only describe as a cross between a huff and grunt – a gruff – indicating he was absorbing my words and ready to move on. We were done…for now.

—

There is no great answer to the question of why I am single in my 30s. I didn’t choose a career over love or any of that nonsense posited in silly articles berating women for their single status. I didn’t push away great catches. I wasn’t tossing Idris Elbas or even Stephen Colberts (smart and makes me laugh? *swoon*) aside on the regular.

I dated around in my 20s, with some difficulty at times (thanks Los Angeles), and eventually dated someone for a significant part of my 20s, but things didn’t work out, for which I am actually quite grateful, though at the time it devastated me. We broke up a couple of months after I turned 30 and I recall thinking with a heavy heart, “I am now a 30-year old single woman. I am that stereotype. I will never find anyone now. Couldn’t we have broken up when I was 28? Nobody wants anyone after 30.”

I’d fed on a societal diet of sexist, limiting, defeatist, panic-inducing, judgmental, regressive, unrealistic views of female self-actualization and dating. I’d internalized a lot of it. I know better now. Those woeful thoughts have long been expelled, like the absolute crap they are, and I have a more measured and optimistic view of my dating life.

I am single because I am waiting for the right person. Unfortunately, I only have so much control over when and how I may meet the right person for me. It may be cliché, but I do want to be with someone I feel like I can’t be without and not just someone I can tolerate.

I would rather wait for the right person than be with someone I know I’m settling for because it eases societal pressure and judgement. I fear ending up in a bad marriage or relationship more than I fear ending up an “old maid” with cats.

Speaking of “Old Maid”, I played that game as a kid. It occurs me to now just what a horrible game it is. What a message to send to young girls; nobody wants to end up with the loser Old Maid card.

Kids, look at this poor old wrinkled lady. She’s ALL ALONE. She can’t possibly be happy ALL ALONE! BEWARE, this could be you one day if you’re not careful, girls! ALL ALONE!

I date. Of course I date; I’m a young female with a pulse who isn’t a dog. It isn’t all that hard to find someone who will take you out, well, kinda – the quality may be questionable. With some people, I get the impression they think I’m sitting at home many nights, deciding whether to knit or cross-stitch, sullenly dreaming of a Prince Charming scooping me up, self-pitying my life of solitude. If I even so much as acknowledge I think an adult human with a penis is cute, it’s “Oh! Is he single? Did you talk to him? Are you going to ask him out?” It’s all said with a great sense of urgency, as though men are high-speed trains running on a tight schedule and I need to hop on the next one coming before it’s too late and the train makes it to the final destination, marriage, without me. It’s not that serious. Like, damn, I didn’t say I want to babymake with him. I am out living the best life I can and having a damn good time doing it! I already have many colorful stories to share along with the accompanying memorable experiences, and I have, I hope, decades remaining to create even more, with or without a romantic partner.

When in I was in my 20s, out at bars, clubs and restaurants, as I often was, I’d observe a subset of women in their 30s & 40s and their intense pursuit in search of “the one” before the clock ran out. The pressure came from everywhere. They were constantly talking about men, dating men, looking for men, talking about ways to attract men, places to go to meet men. Their eyes would automatically scan any room they entered for eligible bachelors as they halfheartedly listened to a friend prattle on about what she learned in the latest self-help dating book You’re Single Because You’re a Smelly, Toad-Like Nice Girl (but too slutty). There’s Still Hope For You! You’re Not a Total Loser!

It saddened me for them, but I also saw these experiences as cautionary. Some women truly did seem desperate, which is attractive to few; others were just earnestly hoping to find “the one.” I never wanted that to be in the desperate class. I have better things to do in this short life than obsess over men.

—

I don’t really share my dating life with many outside of a small circle. People are at times nosy, gossipy and easily jump to conclusions when it comes to the dating life of a singleton and I’m not here to be anyone’s live episode of Scandal. Save it for Olivia Pope. There’s still a double standard in societal perceptions of the dating lives of men and women.

There’s also a tendency of some to second-guess your behavior, to try to help you avoid coming off as a bad catch, or to give you unsolicited dating advice, because obviously what you’ve been doing isn’t working. I appreciate the advice random co-worker who probably last dated in the ’70s. Unless you can tell me how you’d handle a guy requesting you text him photos of your its ‘n’ bits after one date, I don’t need to hear it from you.

My dating life is none of anyone’s business and it’s not fodder for others to live vicariously through. I’ve had coupled up people say to me, “I have to live through your dating experiences!” No you don’t. If you want to be entertained by dating experiences, date, shake up your own relationship or watch Maury. Single people aren’t here for the entertainment of the paired up.

I’m doing what I’m “supposed” to do. I date against my “type”, I try different avenues to meet people, I get out of the house, I smile, I keep clean, hone my feminine wiles, etc. There is nothing more “wrong” with me than the next person with flaws. Married people can be crazy as hell too. It’s just there is only one other person being subjected to their crazy.

I know who I am. I like who I am. I enjoy my own company and the life I’ve built for myself. I can make myself laugh hard. I’m not on some “I don’t need a man” trip. But, I am not going to invite someone into my life if they aren’t going to enhance it or
complement it, that goes for friends or more than friends. I am fortunate to have much love in my life between my friends and family. I don’t lack love.

I ended 2013 happier than I’ve been in a long time. And I ain’t even got no mans! So, I’m cool. Don’t pity single me.

—

My dad sweetly said to me during one of our now regular discussions of my dating life, “Don’t get frustrated Keisha; you’ll be fine. You’re a [our last name]. You’re gonna be just fine.” Awwww, daaaad.

My parents had a couple of friends over one afternoon while I was in Houston. My parents don’t entertain as much as they used to, so when my dad told my sister N__ they were “having friends over”, my sister joked, “You have friends? Having people over? Who are we? The Winslows?”

I left my parents and their friends to their conversations and hung out with my youngest sister, C___. It felt like we were kids again. In a different room from our parents, the grown-ups, as they did grown-up stuff. My dad called me into the kitchen where they were grazing on tasty appetizers.

“Say Keisha,” my dad began, “we were just talking about having more grandkids…”

I wrinkled my face and silently walked right back out of the room.

Questions nobody should ever ask (singlethirtysomething.wordpress.com)
Being Thirty-Something and Single (divinecaroline.com)
The Thirtysomethings: A Hotbed Of Angst For Single Women (womenyoushouldknow.net)
The Single Thirtysomething Female Phenomenon (she.yahoo.com)
Choosing Singlehood Doesn’t Mean You are Lonely and Miserable, by Mary Jo Rapini (healthyrelationships2013.com)

By The Girl Next Door is Black

12 Comments

Life

12 Things About My First 12 Months in San Francisco

By The Girl Next Door is Black11/11/201309/19/201413 Comments10min read103 views

Well, well, well, look who survived her first year in San Francisco! That’s right. She of the woeful posts New City, No New Friends, San Francisco: Not a Treat (Yet) and Making Friends: Paying Dues. It’s been a tremendous year with intense ups and downs and quite a bit of change and growth. Here are 12 ways in which my life has changed in the 12 months I’ve lived in San Francisco, from the mundane to the exciting.

1. I Spent 90% Less in Gas

I drove an average of twice a month in this first year as compared to daily in the Los Angeles version of my life. My main mode of transportation is Muni, the bus line, with some help from BART, taxis, Lyft and Uber. When I drive now, I feel like a brittle, nervous octogenarian, with nodding head and pursed lips, my small frame almost hidden behind the wheel of a giant Cadillac, making exclamations like, “Oh golly, I just, oh my, so many cars, oh no, one-way street, oh jeez, too much! Too much! Abort! I want to get out of this mechanical beast!”

Driving is intense and stressful. I don’t like it anymore. I blame Los Angeles and that hellion of a freeway, the 405. I have post traumatic traffic stress disorder or PTTSD. I told myself I wouldn’t make a decision on what to do with my car for at least a year. It’s been at least a year and have no decision…yet. The Angeleno in me is having a hard time imagining a life without the freedom of my own car.

It’s not always easy on the bus, but it sure beats developing an unhealthy hatred for BMW drivers and contemplating all the fucked up things you’d rather be doing than sitting in traffic.

Guess where the money saved on gas ends up…

2. Rent, Rent, Rent, Rent, Reeeeent

My rent here is nearly double what I paid in Los Angeles. Yet, my square footage decreased by almost 30%. This sucks. I don’t think I need to elaborate further.

3. More Oysters Please

In Los Angeles, some of my friends and I had an unofficial burger club. We’d take turns picking burger spots to check out. L.A. has become a beef-opolis of sorts, with competing burger joints popping up on the regular. I used to eat some form of beef at least once a week. [Obvious joke not intended.]

Me Hog Island — One of my favorite days this year was spent with my sister N at Hog Island Oyster Farm

Burger joints don’t abound here the way they do in L.A. There are, however, plenty of oysters-a-gogo. I’ve grown quite fond of the little suckers. They’re now on rotation in my cravings repository. Burger cravings, however, are rotating around with less frequency these days.

My sister and I went to Hog Island Oyster Farm one weekend – about an hour north of the City – and that day was the perfect culmination of joy from hanging out with my little sister, tasty oysters, refreshing Arrogant Bastard beer, mild weather, bright sunshine and outdoor NorCal beauty. To top it off, one group of picnickers’ weird-ass folk music played loudly enough for us all to hear. Oddly, the bizarre music fit the scene perfectly. A soundtrack to go with the perfect picnic scene.

This cutie chow in a penguin suit won best dog in costume at my job.

4. Started From the (Corporate) Bottom The job I have now isn’t the job I had when I moved here. That first job stank like some of the funky people I ride the bus with. I went from the job of my nightmares – which sold itself as a “startup-like environment”, but in reality operated more like a corporate fledgling – to an up-and-coming actual startup.

The start-up world is unique and peculiar. At times, I feel like I’m in a pretty NBC office sitcom. Like when a group of trendily-dressed, attractive, young women walk by my desk laughing with bright white smiles, or a thin Michael Cera-looking engineer breezes by on a scooter, or when I pass by the kegerator in the lounge, or when there’s a costume contest for employees and employee dogs on Halloween. I can’t tell how old anyone is at my job. Everyone looks some vague age between 22 and 45. The person that looks 25 could be a director. There’s talk of venture capitalists, competition and IPOs. It can feel surreal. As I share tales of the workplace with my sister N, she often asks incredulously, “Do you actually do any work there?” Heh. Absolutely, they just reward us very well for our hard work. I feel lucky to be there.

5. Try Walking in My Shoes

Thanks to my trusty FitBit (which, devastatingly, I recently lost on a Muni bus, RIP Bitty), I know that I walk an average of 1 to 1.25 miles more per day compared to an average day in Los “Your car is your BFF” Angeles. Let’s hear it for walking!

6. Shake-Up in the Shoe Game

Last year while shopping with my friend Z at Loehmann’s, I picked up a great pair of rose-colored Franco Sarto wedge sandals with ivory embroidered trim.

“Don’t you already have a pair of wedges that look like that?” she asked me with a teasing smile.

“Yeah, kind of, I mean… not really. At least not in this color!”

I purchased the sandals and we’ve been very happy together. We’ve shared many adventures on foot and receive many compliments. A girl can never have too many pairs of wedges (or boots, scarves, hats, jeans or dollar bills). I like to wear wedges because they give me and my itty-bitty legs height without the feeling that I’m going to break my neck if my ankle rolls that I get with a skinny heel.

Since I’m walking more and in cooler weather, I need comfortable, cute (a must, obviously), non-toe-freezing shoes versatile enough for dashing over puddles of water to dashing away from the man with weird facial tics angrily muttering to himself about “the enemy.” I don’t wear sneakers (or tennis shoes for those of you down South) out unless there is a workout involved. So, those were a no-go from the get-go. I am not a fan of the ubiquitous, shuffling ballet flats and I couldn’t get away with wearing boots year round, so I needed options.

Sperry Top-Sider Audrey . Very comfortable, versatile, do not recommend for walking long distance due to limited ankle support. — Sperry Top-Sider Audrey: Very comfortable & versatile, do not recommend for walking long distances due to limited ankle support.

Like a hypocrite and a sheep, I turned to the boat shoes I once scoffed at: Sperry’s. At some point, they became cute to me. It could be that everyone seems to have a pair here, men and women alike. Isn’t that cute? A shoe that both women and men can wear! I’ve seen couples out in boat shoes together and it’s a sickeningly adorable.

I also am thankful for the moto boot trend, as I now have a legitimate fashion excuse to wear boots year-round. I just vary the height of the boot depending on the time of year and day. And the wedge bootie? Best shoething ever! Anyway, I could go on, but I don’t think you’re here for the shoes.

7. My Cats are Even Bougier

It's good to be a cat in San Francisco — It’s good to be a cat in San Francisco

My cats already ate well, but the pet stores here sell San Francisco-type goods and food. You know, all trying to be responsible, earth-friendly, healthy, free roaming geese and pigs and all that. So the cats now poop on corn-based litter instead of clay. I mean, who poops on clay these days? What is this? 2012? Am I right? Their new brand of can food has kitschy dish names such as “Two Tu Tango,” and “Kitty Gone Wild.” Ain’t no Friskies touching the tongues of these cats.

8. I Have One of These

The yellow squiggly is the Timbuk2 logo. Photo cr: timbuk2.com

Being the little observer that I am, while riding on the bus early on, with all the other worker bees, I noticed many people seemed to have cute or rugged messenger bags and totes. Makes sense if you don’t have a car to use a storage unit. I’d been looking for the perfect bag that could double as a gym bag and hold my work laptop. I kept seeing the brands Timbuk2 & Rickshaw, two bag companies native to SF. The Timbuk2 bags had heaps of positive reviews and cute designs, so I supported a local business and got a great gym/laptop/weekend bag.

9. I Know You!

At a friend’s party in L.A. last year, pre-move, I got to chatting with friends of hers, a couple whom had recently moved to L.A. from San Francisco. I told them I’d been considering moving to San Francisco and asked them how they liked it.

“It’s cool. But…it’s a really small city.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Well, you sometimes run into people you don’t want to see. Like ex-boyfriends or ex-girlfriends…”

I remember that conversation each time I run into someone I know here. I don’t know that many people here. I couldn’t even scramble enough people together to have a flash mob. So, it amuses me that I’ve run into an average of one person I know every 2 months. I went years in L.A. without randomly running into anyone I know.

I did have the misfortune of running into a woman from the nightmare job. A woman whom I intensely disliked and whose presence seemed to make my awful days that much worse. Her nose seemed permanently in the air around me. Ugh. I saw her one afternoon while I was shopping downtown with two of the 20 people I know in the City.

“Shit!” I told my new friend J, while trying to hide behind a clothing rack, “I know that girl. Don’t look!!! I know her from work and I can’t stand her. The last thing I want is to see her on my work-free weekend. Ack, I hope she didn’t see me! I’m gonna go over there!” I pointed to a section on the far opposite end of the store, which was thankfully, very large. I don’t know if she ever saw me. She never said anything to me about it later. My life will be fine if I never see her again.

10. Reuse This!

I have a new hobby. It’s called “collecting reusable bags because I forget to bring one I already own and end up buying another.” It’s ridiculous. As I mentioned, San Francisco is all about being good to Mama Earth, and as such we’re encouraged to bring our own reusable bags to the grocery store. If you forget or don’t have one, you can pay $.10 for a non-reusable bag from the store. Paper only. Plastic bags are banned here. The plastic bags which I like to use to dispose of cat litter.

I always forget to bring a damn reusable bag with me to the store. I end up spending the $.10 on a paper bag I have no use for. A few clerks act like an admonishing Principal Strickland as they dutifully tell you with mild judgment, “I’m going to have to charge you 10 cents per bag.” Damn, I get it. Let’s move on. Don’t bag-shame me.

Admonishment, judgment and bag-shaming seem to have no effect. I forget to bring my reusable bag, 9 times out of 10.

11. Buying Eggs is a 10-Minute Task

Organic, free-range, free-range organic, brown free-range, brown organic, cage-free, vegetarian-fed, cage-free brown, OMG, how many freakin’ egg choices are there?! Which one makes me seem the most humane? I suffer from analysis paralysis a lot more here. There are so many options for food!

I'm practically running unofficial egg taste tests in my kitchen. — I’m practically running unofficial egg taste tests in my kitchen.

My sister and I went to a farmer’s market one Saturday morning where she wanted to buy an avocado.

“One avocado please.”

“Sure,” said the vendor, “do you prefer a sweeter flavor?”

“Yeah, that sounds good!”

He rooted around the pile of avocados in front of him.

“Will you be eating in this in the next day or so, or a week?“

“A day.”

More rooting around.

“Hmm, will you be cooking it or eating it raw?”

“Raw.”

More rooting.

A beat. “Here you go, this should do it!” He presented the winning avocado with a slight flourish.

And all of that was just to buy one avocado, which to his credit, my sister said was very, very good.

12. Who are you?

The foggy days get old quickly. (View from Sea Cliff)

I yammered on in the early days here about how people didn’t make eye contact on the street. Like a puppy eager to make new friends, I smiled at people whose eyes I caught and they’d look away, down or through me. I now recognize my irritated response as part of the rejection phase of cultural adjustment. About three to four months into the move my attitude toward San Francisco was that of a woman carping about the guy who hooked her and then disappeared. As anthropologist Kalvero Oberg observed, “At this stage the newcomer either gets stronger and stays, or gets weaker and goes home (physically, or only mentally).” I got stronger and stayed, I am pleased to say. Also, I make eye contact with few people these days; I’ve learned well from my citymates. I’ve adapted to the culture and feel like San Francisco is my home.

Folsom Fair — The very naked Folsom Street Fair was…eye-opening and made me want to bathe vigorously.

This is by no means an exhaustive list. Honorable mentions go to: my growing dislike of bikers who wantonly disregard pedestrians and road rules; my growing love of Oakland; attending more festivals and fairs in one year than I have in the past five; way more time spent waiting in line at restaurants; seeing triple the number of publicly nude people (up from 0); my expanding collection of hats, scarves, sweaters and coats; getting better at figuring out what’s compostable; and finally, significantly increasing my knowledge about wine thanks to several visits to nearby Napa Valley.

This City didn’t make the adjustment easy on me. We fought and it was really tough at times. I persevered, made it through and I really like it now. I forgot what it’s like to genuinely have fond feelings for the city you live in. Moving here goes the list of “Great Life Decisions Made by Me.” I can’t wait to see what the next 12 months have in store!

Rents soaring across region (sfgate.com)
Culture Shock: A Fish Out of Water (international.ouc.bc.ca)
Your 2013 Party Schedule (jacksonfuller.com)

By The Girl Next Door is Black

13 Comments

Tag Archives San Francisco

San Francisco, I Think I’m Over You

When You’re Confronted With Racially Insensitive Terms at Work

Alleys and Alleys of Murals in San Francisco

5 Ways I Stayed Productive (and Kept Sane) During Unemployment

1. TOLD MY FRIENDS, FAMILY AND NETWORK

2. MADE A “FREE TIME” WISHLIST

3. CREATED GOALS AND ESTABLISHED A ROUTINE

4. MAINTAINED HEALTHY HABITS

5. TOOK TIME TO REFLECT

San Francisco’s Dia de los Muertos 2014

Scenes from the 2014 Treasure Island Music Festival

Other scenes from the festival.

How I Broke Up with Comcast (Well…Kinda)

Calling It Quits

Now What to Watch

How to Watch It

Walk on the Right!

So, I Killed a Bee

Potty-Mouthed Street Kids & Other Tales of Harassment

*Not their real names

Saying No to No

Awkward Encounters at the Greeting Card Store

Beware the Crazy Old Goat Down the Hall

Don’t Pity Me Because I’m Single

12 Things About My First 12 Months in San Francisco

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1. TOLD MY FRIENDS, FAMILY AND NETWORK

2. MADE A “FREE TIME” WISHLIST

3. CREATED GOALS AND ESTABLISHED A ROUTINE

4. MAINTAINED HEALTHY HABITS

5. TOOK TIME TO REFLECT

Other scenes from the festival.

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Calling It Quits

Now What to Watch

How to Watch It

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*Not their real names

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