Nobody's Fool

Dumbest thief ever

So the day before my birthday, earlier this month, someone got hold of my credit card number. Unlike before when this happened, my plastic was still secured snugly in my wallet, so the likely scenario is that somebody grabbed it from some Internet e-commerce database or copied it from a receipt in a store.

Luckily, FIA Card Services discovered it almost immediately and by the evening called to let me know there had been suspicious activity on my card. The total damage: $97. Andrew and I laughed over dinner that this obviously amateur credit card thief hadn't gone on more of a shopping spree. The last time someone lifted my credit cards (slipping them from my wallet at work several days before Christmas) they went on an afternoon-long shopping spree that started at a Target in Daly City and ended (when the cards were finally turned off) at the Tiffany & Co. in Walnut Creek. The card companies in that case were set back nearly $3,000.

But here's the weirdest part of this story. A couple of days ago, I got a box via UPS. From a supplement company. I opened it up to find this "cleansing system" that promised to rid me of gas and bloating. It was one of those membership programs with this beaming guy named Tony beaming on the enclosed brochure, promising to make me feel better forever. The invoice was for $75. And the product was shipped, and billed, to me. Ordered over the Internet on 1/5, the day that Internet thief had stolen my card.

I was a little thrown off. Why in the world would somebody use a stolen credit card to have product shipped to someone else? I thought maybe it was a mistake at first. And yet, today, UPS pulled up again. One of the fraudulent charges I remember from the list that the fraud services rep read off was for a coffee company called Boca Java -- I remember it only because it was the first company I didn't recognize after he read off some of my genuine charges, and I had to think for a moment whether I'd ordered coffee online for someone. Well guess what showed up today! Four bags of coffee, a bag of cocoa, two mugs and some gingerbread. Billed and shipped to me.

I am a little nervous about this. First, would somebody really be that dumb? Second, in both cases somebody signed me up for a monthly membership to these companies; Boca Java promised me another shipment next month. What I'm trying to figure out is ... is this a scam that I'm not smart enough to catch on to yet? Even though my card got canceled, will I inevitably be bitten by these products that keep showing up to my house? And what is my thieving friend getting out of this?

Whatever it is, I'm hoping it's just somebody who's sitting at home waiting for his/her box of Boca Java coffee to arrive and realizing that he/she bungled the scam.

Holiday

Vacation ended at midnight last night. It was a whirlwind trip, and a great opportunity to see some of my favorite people in the world. It's hard to believe that I've waited three years to go back to Philadelphia, and I haven't been much better about going home regularly.

Like with any vacation that involves visiting friends and family, I was caught in between feeling sorry that I couldn't spend more time with everybody and feeling exhausted by the amount of rushing from place to place we had to do. ("Mexico!", I blurted to Andrew randomly the entire trip ... as in, "We could be sitting on a beach drunk on tequila right now! But no!") On the other hand, there's nothing so satisfying as reuniting with the people who, after months and years of separation, still understand you perfectly ... and love you anyway.

***

On the way back from Columbus we had an hour-and-a-half layover at the George Bush International Airport in Houston. Walking to our C gate in the Continental terminal, we encountered the shrine to our 41st president. It's a bronze statue of George H.W., his rumpled jacket flung over his shoulder, his sleeves rolled up, his tie flying furiously in the statue-wind. He's surrounded by a semi-circular display of photographs from the Prez's life (including a few with son W., who, at 12 years old, still had that same shit-eating grin he does today).

We spent several minutes studying the display in morbid fascination. I spent vacation trying to take as many photographs as possible, but the bags were getting heavy so I had decided to pack the camera in our checked luggage and couldn't capture the moment.

"We should always make it a point to carry the camera with us," lamented Andrew as we walked away from bronze George. "Especially when we travel to foreign countries."

folk

This evening, a folk singer was entertaining commuters in the Montgomery BART station. In his best Dylan-nasal voice, he sang/shouted (to the tune of "I Am the Walrus"):

I am the Safeway
I am the Tar-jay
I am the WAL-MART.
So, screw you, screw you, screw you, screw you

***

Today, some men came and took away our trees. I was in mourning afterwards and felt maybe a little bit regretful, but as my husband the freedom-fighter justifies it: "It was us or them."

The list of lists

It's been awhile. I've been preoccupied, and a little stressed out, and physically and mentally exhausted. Mostly, I think that has to do with a new job, a half-hearted attempt to cut most carbs out of my diet, and a renewed commitment to an exercise routine, all of which have teamed up to mess with my energy levels.

It's Friday and I'm tired. One week until vacation! We're heading to Philly for four days for my friend Stephanie's wedding. And while we're there, we'll be staying with Susan and Steve, whose newborn isn't really a newborn anymore (and I'll be meeting her for the first time, before she finishes college -- whew!)

After that we're stopping in Ohio for five days. June in Ohio is a tricky proposition for my husband, who hates humidity. But I've managed to convince him that the weather will be nice enough to go hiking at Old Man's Cave, and also to explore the Short North in Columbus for an afternoon. And summer wouldn't be summer without a visit to Chillicothe's 30-year-old outdoor drama. (I saw this play just about every year growing up, and even worked at the snack bar one summer in high school. It played a large role in my transformation into a self-loathing European-American.)

So, because it's Friday, and because it's a week 'til vacation, I need to stop writing now, because the 5:00 whistle has blown in Bedrock and it's quittin' time. But, let me leave you with a short list of the things that have been rattling around in my brain and my life the past couple of weeks:

• Sarah Vowell's essay "The Nerd Voice"
• Deep Throat (my enthusiasm for which has been justified, I feel, by bullet #1)
• Tragic Russians
• A great new Hatha yoga class
• Emergency tree removals (two in our front yard)
• Photosynthesis (namely, the fact that it won't work on vegetables planted in the giant tub that our home's former owners installed in the shady corner of our yard)
• Colors in a taqueria (we plan to copy Mijita's green and orange in our living room and dining room)
• Our neighborhood online
• "Everything Bagel," the calico cat who lives next door

And you may ask yourself: well, how did I get here?

As of yesterday, I have officially been a Californian for five years.

Actually, five years ago Saturday, I crossed the state line from Nevada into California, but May 1 was the day I showed up in what was to become my new town of residence, Sunnyvale, and set up camp. In the Sunnyvale Best Western for five days, and then in my funny, dingy little apartment, in a neighborhood where children would flock out their doors when the taco truck playing "La Cucaracha" on its horn would drive down the street.

I'm not sure if I really knew how things would turn out when I got here. I was done with the East Coast, even though it was devastating to leave my friends there behind. I was ready for a new career path (healthcare) and I was sort of excited about being part of something that everybody was talking about (the dot coms). But that's not why I came. San Francisco was love at first sight for me when I came here in 1996, at the end of my senior year in college, and I'd secretly been nursing a fantasy that I'd end up here someday. And so I did.

But I had no idea that there would, indeed, be a happily ever after. And there has been. The dot com didn't work out. Sunnyvale was a drag. Yet somehow everything fell into place for me, and here I am. Married to a wonderful man, my best friend. Surrounded by loyal and sweet friends. Pursuing a cool and challenging career. Living in a fantastic house that we own in a hip, culture-rich city. Eating great food. Breathing clean air. Looking out my office window every day at one of the most spectacular views on earth.

So: eureka! I found it! We may have a blockhead action star as a governor, and failing schools, and smog, and earthquakes, and high gas prices. But this is my life, and there's nowhere else I'd rather live it.

Stress Relief with the Stars

My mind and my body are often not on the same page when it comes to monitoring my stress level. My mind is all Cleopatra, queen of de-Nile, certain that everything's under control. And in the meantime, my body's behind the scenes freaking out. This usually takes various forms, often involving the muscles in my neck and shoulders, though in the past month it's been acne, and now a propensity to clench my jaw very tightly, while awake and asleep, until the muscles in my face start to feel numb.

Yeah, I'm stressed out. A new job and a new house, coming off a year of writing two books and living through one of the most brutal home buying experiences in the country, has not been good to me. It's good stress, of course — I'm very happy with the way everything has turned out — but all the details of getting here, and of dealing with the new situations (a new job can make even the most accomplished person feel like an awkward 13-year-old again) has begun to wear on me.

Luckily, my corporate benefactor subsidizes membership in the most beautiful gym I've ever seen. I've been a 24 Hour Fitness member for almost five years, and belonging to it has become less and less convenient for me; plus, the facilities are always fairly uncomfortable, there is always a line for the machines, and half the equipment is typically out of service.

I never thought I'd pay extra money to belong to a schmancy-pants gym, but my God, you should see this place. First of all, it smells like a spa inside. That alone immediately relaxes me, because my body and my mind have a Pavlovian response to that smell, believing they're about to enjoy a nice massage. The locker rooms are quiet and carpeted, and there are clean towels members can use. There are dozens of cardio machines with individual cable TVs (with 80 channels! a waste when I'm only interested in watching reruns of "The Cosby Show")and there's a yoga studio with several classes a day. Also, a gorgeous swimming pool that's clean and almost never crowded. I could go on and on, but I won't, except for three more words. Eucalyptus steam room.

The subsidy from my company is substantial, and I feel like I can justify it by rolling all my yoga and cardio classes into one monthly membership, so why am I feeling ever so slightly guilty about joining a gym like this? I am now looking forward to working out every day (a big, and much needed, change). I feel like I can actually develop a workout routine that will involve fun classes, yoga and pilates, and weight training, whereas before I barely could find the time to get to the gym at all.

Is it possible that I am feeling guilty because The Sports Club L.A. seems so very, well ... L.A.?

Seeing Red

My mother and I went to Vegas this past weekend. On Saturday night, we shelled out to see Elton John's "The Red Piano" at Caesar's (a.k.a., the Celine Dion Hall of Shame).

I think I register somewhere mid-scale as an Elton John fan. I appreciate the old stuff, make lots of good fun of all the Disney movie ballads, and don't own anything on CD. But he did not disappoint in concert. Aside from his performance, which was impressive, he surrounded himself with lots of multimedia (including custom-made films for each song, some of which were heavy-handed, and all of which featured at least one shirtless dancing guy and an equal dose of topless, glamorous women). I was more entertained by his personality (which you could tell he was attempting to temper, especially since NBC was filming a primetime special that evening). After he tottered across the stage to blow kisses to the audience and back again, he was fully winded and spent five full minutes cheerfully slandering Celine, who he called a "singing Q-Tip." "If she spent 35 years behind a piano like I have, she wouldn't be able to make it across that stage and back either," he snipped. Mee-ow.

And then, there were the blow-up things. A fan site features pictures of them in all their glory:

Though, the photos did not manage to capture the highlight of the evening: the giant inflatable pair of breasts that hung in the corner of the theater for three songs.

charity

Despite putting our numbers on the National Do Not Call Registry, we've been getting hit up for money by phone a bit more than usual lately. I'm not sure why. And although I'm eager to use my fun new excuse for why I can't donate money ("We just bought a house, and we're poor as dirt") I just can't seem to say no.

First, it was the college freshman from my university who called on a Sunday morning to ask me to donate to the annual fund. Clever girl, she began by asking for $500, and after I nervously laughed out my handy "dirt" excuse she quickly followed up with: "Well, the important thing is that all alumni participate. So anything would be appreciated." So she got me, because at this point I felt guilty about looking cheap, whereas if I had just named a sum originally it would have been, like, five dollars. So I pledged $100. Of course, it didn't hurt that she was a sweet little freshman, funding her own education by sweating through her Sunday morning hangover by making alumni calls, thick in the middle of the most eye-opening year of her life and working it to make it happen. I used to be that girl. Yeah. So $100 she gets.

Then tonight the Oakland Police Department called us asking us to buy tickets for some kind of family-fun concert to benefit the underprivileged kids ("to give them something more better to do than to stand on the street corners," the woman said to me). As soon as Andrew detected that I was listening to the monologue on the other end of the phone he started with the grimacing and the gesturing. So, after politely declining three times and then hanging on each time to listen to the next phase of the pitch, I finally managed to get off the phone. And somehow, the "just bought a house" excuse didn't feel so good this time.

Where's my Ritalin?

I'm battling this annoying blend of spring fever (because this is happening:)

along with restlessness at work, mild depression over not knowing where I'm going to live, and withdrawal from not having 50 projects going on at once. I am full of this incredible creative energy and I have absolutely no outlet for it. Of course, there are many things I should be doing. Taxes, being one of them. But I'm feeling much too fanciful to do taxes. I must create.

This was always the mood that inspired me, during college, to sign up for art classes during spring quarter. And then I'd spend three months toiling in my dark apartment over projects — like the 3D-giant-cardboard-ginger-root-built-to-scale project, which was possibly the lowest point of my college career — and scarring my fingertips with the glue gun.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I need to be careful what I commit myself to in these times of whimsy and desperation.

Over at Salon (and by the way, I never read Salon anymore. Do you? I was such a huge supporter of Salon not long ago. But after two years of paying for my subscription, I decided that I like my Internet reading to be free) there is a fascinating interview with Dave Eggers. He's not one of my favorite writers, but I admire him as a person, and have always strongly suspected that I operate with the same hyperactive, stream of consciousness kind of brain as he. Now I know it! Here's a little excerpt on procrastination and overcommitting that sounds eerily familiar:

I was thinking about writing "Heartbreaking Work" the whole time that we did Might magazine — and that, for me, was competing with my time to maybe write that story out. And then I worked for Esquire for a year and I was supposed to be writing there but all I was doing was working on the memoir, for the most part. And then while I was stalling on that, that's where McSweeney's came from. I thought, "Fuck that, I haven't published anything and I don't know where I'm going with this memoir, but I have this idea for a magazine!"

You only want to work on the stuff you're not supposed to be working on. That's how it always is. I'll always be working on five things at once, usually with those documents open at the same time because if I get stuck somewhere I'll jump over to something else. That's how my head has always worked. I don't know if it's 'cause I watched too much TV as a kid or what. It really could be that.

Shakespeare at brunch

I complained a few months ago that I never got to see any good celebrities around here. And then low and behold, Alisa and I basically sat next to Joseph Fiennes, wearing grubby sweats and a trucker's cap and carrying a little Tiffany & Co. shopping bag, while we were waiting 25 minutes for a table at Rick & Ann's.