Another Day, Another Dollar, INDEED

Today is my lucky day - I found a dollar laying on the street today in the middle of a crosswalk. I stopped, picked it up, but then was immediately consumed with guilt and paranoia. I held the dollar out, arm extended, pondering what to do next. I looked to my left, nope, doesn't appear I'm on camera. I looked to the right, nope, doesn't appear I'm being watched.

I was kind of holding up pedestrian and automobile traffic as I stood there looking around me, trying to identify possible legal authority in disguise.

Then a stranger brisked by and said "lucky."

I responded, "what do I do with this?"

Her: um. keep it. (now looking at me like I'm crazy)

Me: Oh. Ok. I was raised Catholic. I always feel like I'm doing something wrong.

Her: (already crossed the street- no longer within earshot)

Me: Put the dollar in my pocket and felt like I wasn't sinning. A strange but appreciated feeling, indeed.

Mo' money, Mo' make-up.

To My Number One Fan

"Here's to you... my number one" (Usher reference)

Well, if you're reading this blog and you're NOT my number one fan (details to be divulged soon enough) you should start feeling guilty for taking taking taking and never giving (to me).

Today I got into work bright and early only to find a package at my desk.

Internal thought process:

"Ooooo looky here, a package... hmmm it rattles. A rattle snake? No. Too obvious. Jelly beans? Nah, Easter is long gone. Maybe branded company whistles, or something equally useless to use for recruitment. Wait, why am I still guessing? It's not like Christmas where I have to wait to open it. Alright - here goes..."

Well, my friends. I opened and it was two giant movie theatre-style boxes of Good and Plenty's (see previous blog posting on Grandma Candy) with a note reading "keep on blogging :)"

It was my first tangible form of fan mail. I feel like David Cassidy must have felt... receiving gifts from his crazy girl fan base.

To my number one fan: Thanks for the encouragement. I couldn't be as hilarious as I am without fans like you supporting me.

To all you other freeloaders: Send me something.

The Handshake Heard Around the World

I'm pretty sure the grip on my handshake may be a bit too firm.

A new guy started today, a manly man at that (unlike most PR guys...), and when I shook his hand his fingers CRACKED. I could see in his eyes he was startled, and possibly fearing for his life. I made a joke that clearly wasn't funny and followed it up with, "Laugh at my jokes, the other new guys doesn't." Ummm. Not so much a smooth move.

I'm a bone-crushing, man-eating machine. Wah Wah

Caught in the Act

Today I was caught doing an ab work-out at my desk with an exercise ball. Yes, I have an exercise ball at my desk, it's green, and it's all I have in this world.

For a deeper look into my psyche, read on:

I work too much. So much, in fact, that it has been impossible to go to the gym this week. What's a girl to do? Well, I think doing crunches while on a conference call is the perfect answer to this dilemma.

So today, I was sitting on my trusted ball at the computer getting an email out, but taking the opportunity to do some ab exercises in between paragraphs. I mean, no shame or blame in that! Soooooooooo as I was wrapping up, I hear "Is that what you do all day?"

Dun dun duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuun.

It was a VP from the L.A. office, a woman I have only met once. Because I suck at lying I just answered "Yes, as a matter of fact. Well this and work at the same time, of course." I was waiting for the tongue-lashing, but no. Instead, I could almost swear there was light suddenly shining on her. She lit up and said, "I just started working out with a personal trainer. That's a great idea."

Ohhhhhhhh yeah. Makin' moves. Bold moves.

The Black Sheep

The following story is sad, but true. Names have been altered to conceal the individuals identities.

My co-worker "Ashlee," recently shared with me her disheartening discovery of her father's professional biography. Please note "Ashlee" is the youngest of two daughters in her family. Please also note that Ashlee is not the sister that went to Yale. Read on.

The last sentence of her dad's bio, which is used for all work-related purposes reads: "Bob" has two daughters. One of which he is quite proud of, is a lawyer in the entertainment/cable industry and she went to Yale. I do not recall what his other daughter does, but she went to Boston University.

Buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurn.

Excuse Me, Are You Russian?

Tuesday morning, 8 a.m., on the bus :
Middle-aged asian woman: Excuse me, can I ask where you are from.
Me: I have disappointing news; Minnesota.
Middle-aged asian woman: Oh, I was certain you were from Russia.
Me: I honestly get that all the time. What makes you think that?
Middle-aged asian woman: You just have a very distinct eastern europe look.
Me: (Heavy sigh), yeah. That's not helpful at all.

Ok, let's re-group:
A couple of things come to mind. First of all - is this appropriate to you? In what world would it be Ok for me to walk up to her and say, excuse me, are you from China? You just look very
Chinese. Honestly. Second, even if I said "why yes, I'm from Russia" what was she going to follow that up with?? Clearly she was not from Russia-- it's not like we could bond over where our favorite bakery is in Moscow.

Enough is enough. From the moment I moved to San Francisco (Approx 2 years and 2 months ago), I have been hounded by strangers, insisting I am Russian. I mean, this literally happens a minimum of four times a month. I kid you not. On the bus, in line at Starbucks, at the bar (mostly at the bar), shopping, etc. In fact, on Saturday I was at a bar and a very gay (so clearly not a pick-up line) black man stopped grabbed me as I was exiting to ask me what part of eastern europe I was from. When I informed him that I was from the great U S of A he followed up with : what ethnicity are you? OK - AGAIN -- let's flip the roles here, my friends. "Excuse me sir. What part of Africa are you from? Oh, you're from California? Oh, ok. Well what part of Africa did your ancestors come from?" I just feel like that wouldn't fly. Am I wrong?

I mean, sure, I walk with a certain level of authority, possibly giving off a Stalin-esque vibe. But it's not like I walk around with a fur hat on, or, you know, doing some sort of Russian dance.

Baffling, indeed.

Leftover Cupcakes

Before I proceed with my hilarity, let me apologize for taking quite the vacation from my blog. To my many fans that wrote in and voiced your concerns: Thank you for keeping me on my toes, and I assure you that letting you, the fans, down truly upsets me.

Moving on.

Soooooooooo Thursday was my birthday! Hooray! Well some rockin' coworkers brought in all sorts of balloons and delicious "Kara's Cupcakes." As there were extra cupcakes and I was leaving the office early, I decided to give back to the community, if you will, and distribute the two left over cupcakes to a well-deserving homeless person.

I was so excited to start my journey. I eagerly skimmed the streets for someone down-and-out that could use a cupcake to cure them of their unhappiness. I became weary as I had walked 6 blocks, and found NO ONE. Since when can someone walk 6 blocks in San Francisco and not see a homeless person? Ugh. I was getting quite upset. My birthday was nearly ruined when I smelt an unpleasant scent (human smells). I reluctantly followed my nose, and was indeed led to a homeless man. He was JUST approaching the garbage can. I could tell he was about to make a dive, and I could save him the trouble and hand him some delicious sugar.

Well, the thing is, as I approached him, I noticed he was using the garbage not for food, but rather, as a place to pee. I of course didn't notice that until I was close, and noticed his, um.... thing .... out in the open.

I was quite distraught. This man was clearly not the man I was supposed to offer my bday cupcakes to.

I slumped my shoulders, hung my head, and slowly shifted my feet along the pavement, ready to give up. BUT WAIT- there was another man in the distance sitting 'indian style' (is that politically correct? I doubt it. But how else do you describe it??) I excitedly skipped over to him and loudly inquired, "Do you like Cupcakes?!??!?!?!" he dully replied, "Sure." Not quite what I was looking for... but I let it slide. I handed him the cupcakes, gave myself a pat on the back for not a) just eating them all myself and b) not demanding he sing Happy Birthday to me first.

I must say, I've matured quite a bit over the last year. Indeed...