The Disappearing Toilet Paper Act

Has anyone noticed how quickly toilet paper disappears? I feel like I am constantly putting out a new roll of toilet paper, and it makes me feel so wasteful.

Now, I must admit that the most guilty of toilet paper users are women. Not only do women use toilet paper every time they utilize the actual toilet, but they also use it while doing makeup and cleaning. At the same time, since men are such less experienced users of toilet paper, they may not know how much they really need.

During college, I once lived with two other girls. With three girls living in one apartment, we were always running out of toilet paper. I finally felt it was getting out of control, and tried to regulate my roommates’ toilet paper usage. It went something like this.

“Okay you guys. We’re using way too much toilet paper. From now on, you can use two squares for a #1 and three squares for a #2.”

One of my roommates thought I was psycho, told me so, and then ignored me. But the other one actually tried this toilet-paper-rationing exercise for a bit. I was very happy she was making the effort, but one day she told me that she didn’t think she could keep it up.

“You know, I’ve tried but two squares is just not enough. But really, I tried.”

Today, I realize that, unless it’s the extra thick toilet paper, two squares probably isn’t enough. Extra thick toilet paper is just a ploy by the toilet paper companies to make consumers need to buy more toilet paper. Since everyone is so used to the normal thickness of toilet paper, they are all accustomed to grabbing enough to normally cover themselves, not thinking that since this toilet paper is extra thick, they probably need less of it. Therefore, the extra thick toilet paper will vanish almost twice as quickly as the regular two-ply type. And it’s just a trick by the toilet paper manufacturers.

So I feel like I’m getting ripped off every time I change a roll of toilet paper. It may be a necessity, but it feels like there’s a black hole into which all of my tp gets sucked.

A Penny Saved is a Penny...Lost?

Regardless of what my mother likes to think, I make a conscious effort not to squander my hard-earned money. However, sometimes I wonder if I scrimp and save in the wrong places.

I am a notorious collector of packing materials. I have a hard time throwing away things such as tissue paper, boxes (for moving, shoes, you name it), bags (plastic and paper), bubble wrap, and string. I’m convinced that I will need these things again in life, and the day that I will want them, I will not have any of them. So I am something of a pack rat.

There are a total of four closets in my apartment, but I cannot seem to find enough closet room. One of these closets is in the bathroom, so it does not count much towards storage since it is all shelved like a linen closet. The other three are all very useable for storage, clothing, or boxes. However, even with three closets, I have a hard time finding enough room to organize all of my stuff – mostly, as recently pointed out by one of my friends, because it is full of packing material.

Am I really that bad? Have I turned into my mother?

I am also quite the Ziploc bag re-user. No point in wasting a bag that was only used for a day or two to store a tomato, right? So I just turn it inside out, rinse it, and hang it up on some old wine bottles to dry. And the next day, it’s ready to go all over again.

Sometimes I wonder if all my effort in saving things like Ziploc bags and plastic bags and packing materials is really worth it financially. For example, on DrugStore.com a box of 100 Ziploc sandwich bags cost $3.19. So each sandwich bag really costs three cents. Let me repeat that. It’s only three cents. Now, if I average four sandwich bags a week, but I can use one of those bags over and over again instead of four separate bags, then I’ve just saved myself nine cents that week. Instead of using 100 bags in 25 weeks (still assuming the four-bag week), I can use 100 bags in 100 weeks. That means my one box of Ziploc bags can last four times longer than it would if I never reused a bag. How much does that save me? A whopping $9.57.

Does this really help me in the grand scheme of things? Just the other night, I went out for lunch and I had the option of bacon or no bacon on my cheeseburger. The difference in price was only 30 cents. Well, then it’s totally worth it to go for the bacon cheeseburger. But that 30 cents cost me nearly three and a half weeks of using one Ziploc bag per week instead of four. Puts things in a different perspective, doesn’t it? Three and a half weeks of laboring, of washing the bag, or drying the bag, and reusing the bag amounts to bacon on my cheeseburger. Talk about food for thought.

So, maybe I am as ridiculous as my boyfriend likes to tell me I am, but doing stupid things like re-using Ziploc bags or bubble wrap makes me feel like I have some type of control in my life. I may be counting pennies, but at least I’m counting something.

If You Sprinkle...

There is a smell in the bathroom at my office. It is not a normal bathroom smell – but completely unidentifiable and definitely unpleasant. I can’t figure out exactly what the smell is from, because even when the bathroom is clean, the smell still lingers. But I’m sure that the usage it gets contributes to the everlasting odor.

I have a fear of men’s bathrooms because they are supposed to be filthy. Now, maybe it’s a myth – I haven’t been in enough men’s bathrooms to know. I think it stems from the fact that men may miss their targets when taking care of business. So here is another myth that needs to be dispelled: women miss too.

Women’s restrooms are some of the dirtiest places I’ve been. Some are even so bad that I have to hold my breath while rushing through my business. The women-don’t-miss myth implies that since a woman needs to sit in order to use the toilet, there is no chance of missing. A logical conclusion - I mean, how can a girl miss if the source is already practically in the toilet? But no, a woman can definitely miss…and mostly due to the hover technique.

Now, while I have already discussed the hover technique in The Unmistakable Smell of Urine, let me repost it here to refresh your memory.

*start of excerpt*

Most women just don’t enjoy “sitting” where hundreds of women before them have sat (although I can think of many dirty ones who do). These women actually opt not to completely sit when doing nature’s bidding. This is what I fondly call the “hover technique”. Sounds simple enough: simply hover over the toilet and go. However, the hover technique is one of the hardest things to perfect. Even seasoned veterans of the hover technique can still suffer setbacks, like too-small stalls (which do not lend themselves to the space necessary to hover) or off-balance days – disastrous to women who are in the midst of hovering. And for those novices, things can be even more challenging. Trying to find the right angle at which to hover or the perfect speed at which to let go – not things that can be picked up overnight.

*end of excerpt*

Women who think (key word: think) they have perfected the hover technique do run into little snags here and there. The most common, and most minor, problem is a little sprinkle on the toilet seat. Now, I will be the first to admit, that I have sprinkled on the seat in the past, and probably will again many times in the future. We’ve all had a little sprinkle in our lives. Given our physical makeup, it’s unavoidable. However, all women should know this phrase:

If you sprinkle when you tinkle,
Please be neat and wipe the seat.

I have the urge to print out copies of this phrase in capital, bold letters and tape it into every stall I can find on my floor. And that’s only for a teeny, tiny sprinkle. Some of these women flood the seat, which results in spillover, and then they turn a blind eye!

I would prefer not to be the sign nazi, posting signs to flush the toilet (yes, some women find it very difficult to flush the toilet, leaving seat cover, toilet paper, and all just hanging around for another innocent women to discover), to wash hands, and wipe off a wet counter before exiting (don’t you just love it when you walk too close to the bathroom counter and come away with a line across your shirt because the counter was soaking wet?). Things like this start making my eye twitch and my fingers flinch uncontrollably. I want to post signs. I need to post signs. But instead, I sit here, fume, and write my frustration out like this.

Waiting to Exhale

It all started with a childhood superstition about cemeteries. Whenever I was in the car and passing by a cemetery, my sister and I would always cross our fingers (mind you, only on one hand, or else you cancel yourself out) and hold our breaths until we passed the cemetery. It was the beginning of a lifelong habit of holding my breath.

Today, as I was walking to work, a man walking in front of me sneezed twice, without covering his nose and mouth. Not just any type of sneeze, but a nice, big, juicy, wet sneeze. The kind that rocked his body so violently, that he had to stop walking in order to double over during the course of both sneezes. It was when he stopped that I made my move.

I took a deep breath, and hurried past him, waiting until I could hold my breath no longer, followed it with a very long, drawn-out exhale, and began breathing again.

After I resumed breathing like a normal person, I realized that this is something I do often, and most times as a reflex.

I do this when people cough, sneeze, or even walk by me. When I was growing up and would see someone approaching me, I would take a breath and hold it while they were passing me by (is it wrong to say that I do this more with very *ahem* large people?). This way, I would not have to smell their odor, which usually lagged behind them by a couple of seconds. I admit that I do not always hold my breath. If I can gauge a situation as short-lived, I usually opt to just breathe out very, very slowly. The exhale method always follows the breath-holding technique, and is always done through the nose. No sense in tasting the smell too, right?

Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t always do this, and definitely not in huge crowds. But when faced with a mostly one-on-one situation, it’s just a habit I have.

Am I unusual in doing this? I’ve never asked anyone else if they do this, but there must be many people like me out there. I remember learning in Psychology 1 that olfactory memories are unusually potent. Odor-evoked memories can remind us quickly of people and events that we thought we had long forgotten. So I do not find it so strange that I attempt to block out potentially foul odors (and germs!) by holding my breath and exhaling. Why create repulsive memories when avoiding them is so easy?

Clean Subways?

I have been told that the subway has really cleaned up in the past several years. Apparently, 10 years ago you would never see so many people taking the subway. But now, the subway is always crowded during rush hour, and even at midnight on a Friday night. The more newly outfitted subway cars on some of the subway lines also attest to the changes and renovations being made to create a safer and cleaner commuting environment.

That’s the thing. It’s cleaner, but it’s not clean.

I was once riding the 6 train and saw a little boy licking the subway pole. Yes, he was actually licking the pole. While his mother had her back turned because she was gabbing with her friends, her little boy was twirling ‘round and ‘round the subway pole while his tongue licked the pole. It really was one of the grossest, not to mention unsanitary, things I’ve ever seen. I looked straight at this little boy without hiding the look of disgust on my face, and there was no reaction out of him. Just kept on licking that pole, like it was the best candy he had ever tasted. Damn kids.

With the number of people that currently ride the subway every day, one can only imagine how much bacteria accumulates in each subway car. And there are a few things that should not be done in there. Things like licking subway poles and eating whole meals top the list.

Now, I sit for the majority of my day. When I’m at work, I’m sitting and staring at my computer. When I’m at home, I’m sitting on the couch or at the table. So, sometimes I like to stand, well, just because. But on the subway, I will always take the opportunity to sit. Why? So I don’t have to touch those nasty subway poles. Just thinking about how many people have touched those poles with their grimy, unwashed hands gives me the chills. It’s like I can see all the bacteria crawling on the poles, waiting to get on to me. If there are no seats available, I would rather play the “stand-without-holding-on-to-anything-and-see-how-long-it-takes-me-to-fall-over” game. Or if Edwin’s with me, even better, because then I can just hold onto him while he holds the subway pole. Although, I don’t know how helpful that is, since I’ll just hold his hand after we get off the subway.

While I do not have an obsessive-compulsive disorder (but maybe germaphobia?), I will try and arm myself as much as possible from subway bacteria. If there is enough room in the subway car, I will lean against the pole instead of touching it. If I do have to touch the pole, then I will do so with only my thumb and one finger, to attempt to minimize the area of contact. And after all that, I do carry around a little bottle of hand sanitizer gel if there is no sink and soap available at my destination. But even then, the lack of paper towels can spell disaster when trying to open the bathroom door, because that’s another germ-fest waiting to taint my clean hands. That bathroom door handle is dangerous - and I know I'm not just being paranoid because there is now proof of people's deficiency in handwashing. Just think what the statistics would be like if they did the study in the subway.

So, although the subway oftentimes appears to be clean, just remember all the people who have left their germs on subway poles before you.

Technology, Schmecknology

I work in the Corporate Purchasing department of a large, international investment bank. My role is to “source” goods or services that the Bank purchases – this could include everything from office supplies to the black cars that take employees home late at night. Part of my job is to create proposals, asking suppliers questions that range from their financial situation to their technological capabilities.

As I was reading some supplier responses this morning, something occurred to me. With the way technology cuts costs today, we are always looking for suppliers who can do more processes via internet, or those who have the latest technology. However, right now I am sitting at work using a computer that is running on Windows NT. The Windows XP rollout is not expected until late this year, and I’m reading a response from a supplier that states they are planning to upgrade to Windows 2003 in the next few months.

Is there something wrong with this picture?

How can a cutting-edge, leading, international investment bank still be running on Windows NT? Or maybe a better question is, why? Where is all their revenue going, if not upgrading internal systems to improve business processes and create an overall more efficient method for their employees to work?

I started working here in June, and imagine my surprise when I was handed a brand new Dell Latitude laptop. “Wow!” I thought. “This company is really on top of technology!” I was even more surprised to find that the computer was running Windows NT and takes exactly five minutes and 22 seconds to get to the log in screen. I know this because it is the exact amount of time it takes for me to walk from my desk, heat up breakfast, get a glass of water, walk back to my cubicle, and sit down. Trust me, I’ve timed it.

With the amount of time I spend using Excel, I was shocked and frustrated to find that my computer also had Office 97. Now, the last time I distinctly remember using Excel 97 was in a musty and dark temp agency, when I nearly failed their Excel test because many of the typical functions were not in the same menus as in Excel 2000. I was even more frustrated to find that many of the shortcuts I used did not work in Excel 97 either.

A month ago I found out my boss managed to get Office 2000 on his computer from the tech guy. With a gasp of surprise and a giggle of excitement, I hurried to my cubicle to call tech support and request Office 2000 on my own machine. I spoke to tech support with a big smile on my face.

“Hi, I’m calling to request Office 2000 on my computer.”
“Okay, let me look for that package and set you up with it,” tech support replied.

My smile soon faded when tech support informed me that the Office 2000 package was not yet authorized and could not explain to me why my boss had it installed on his machine. I felt so tricked and deceived! I felt like a child who had been offered a lollipop like the ones the munchkins from the Lollipop Guild in the Wizard of Oz had, only to find that it was made out of liver! So much for cutting down analysis time with newer (can Office 2000 really be considered new anymore?) technology.

The next morning I found that tech support had called back and left me a voice mail. They were trying to determine how to legitimately get Office 2000 on my computer. Mr. Tech Support even came down to my cubicle to try and install it. My hopes started rising like a phoenix from its ashes.

Now, maybe it’s just me, but I have never seen a tech guy of any sort type with his pointer fingers. Don’t they still teach keyboarding in junior high? And then Mr. Tech Support took three tries to type in the correct URL of the tech support site. Watching Mr. Tech Support riddle with my computer was one of the most painfully slow and agonizing experiences I’ve had. I just wanted to push him aside and have him dictate to me. My phoenix was quickly fading away. After all that muddling, Mr. Tech Support couldn’t do anything to help me get Office 2000 installed on my computer. At this point, another tech guy happened to walk by and ask what the problem was. After being briefed, he asked if I had the Office 2000 disc at home.

“I can just install it myself?”
“Yeah, just bring it in and I can install it for you,” the other tech guy said.

Uh, thanks, but no thanks, I think I can install the application myself. I promptly went home and got my Office 2000 disc and installed it that afternoon. And that is why my boss and I are the only ones in the department who have Office 2000.

So I wonder what all these suppliers would think if they knew what type of operating system the Bank has. Would they laugh, knowing that they are required to run with electric motors while the Bank is still heaving coal into the furnace?

Because that’s all the Bank really is. An F-18 on the outside and a bi-plane on the inside.

The Disgruntled Telemarketer

Once upon a time, I came home from work and the phone starting ringing. As most of my friends have a tendency to call my cell phone, I had a strong suspicion that it was a telemarketer. I picked up the phone.

“Hello?” I answered.

Silence. Ahhh, the telltale silence of a telemarketer. Now, the smart thing to do at this point, and the thing that normal people tend to do, is just hang up. But no, not me. Usually I respond to the telemarketer silence with a silence of my own. I feel the need to keep the telemarketer on the phone as long as possible so that s/he cannot make other calls with the phone line I’m hogging. I’ll put the phone down on the counter and wait until I hear the operator message telling me to hang up my phone. Today, I felt like telling the telemarketer to take me off their call list.

The telemarketer finally began to speak. “Is this the person in charge of the phone line?”

“No. Who is this?” I responded.

“This is . Can you make decisions regarding your home phone plan?” said the telemarketer.

“No, I can’t. Please take this number off your call list. We are not interested in changing phone plans,” I said.

“Well, if you can’t make decisions about the phone, then how do you know that whoever does isn’t interested?” the telemarketer spat back at me.

Whoa. Wait a minute here. You do not call me on my home phone and bitch at me. Telemarketers do not bitch at people they call. People who they call are supposed to bitch at them - it’s a fact of life.

In the split seconds after this remark, I wanted to be like the man in Minnesota. Or the comedian who harassed all the telemarketers. I wanted revenge – I wanted to annoy this telemarketer like a gnat – small and barely noticeable, but persistent and waiting for the opportunity to fly up his nose. So far up his nose, in fact, that he would not be able to blow me out. And for those of you who know me, you know how well I can hold a grudge.

So shocked was I by the telemarketer’s response, that all I managed to get out was, “You are disgruntled. Never call this number again.” And I hung up the phone.

I have done many things to get out of talking to telemarketers. I’ve pretended I was a four-year-old child who responded with a cute little “I don’t know” to any question the telemarketer would ask. I’ve hung up on them right away. I’ve pretended to put them on hold while I got the “head of the household” and let them sit there waiting. After the episode with the disgruntled telemarketer, I’ve now started first asking what company the telemarketer is calling from. Then I’ll proceed to tell them that they have already called, at which time I request to be removed from their call list again, that I am noting this second call as I speak, and never to call again. With all the hype about the federal “Do Not Call” list, I’m hoping that this new tactic will work. I recently used it on MCI, and so far MCI hasn’t called me back.

First In, Last Out (Part Deux)

Two things happened in the elevator today and I can’t help but add this as a continuation of my First In, Last Out entry.

Peeve #4

I was in the elevator, returning to the office from lunch this afternoon. I was by myself, and very happy that I tricked Mr. Elevator into closing his doors on the first try. To my surprise, as the doors opened on my floor, there was a man standing right in front of the doors, waiting to get in to head down to the lobby. Now, how was I supposed to get out of the elevator when there was someone blocking my exit?

I think a generally good rule of thumb is to always assume that someone is going to get out of the elevator and to stand back or stand to the side. That way, when the elevator doors open, you don’t look like an idiot to an elevator car full of people.

Peeve #5

Why do people talk on their cell phones in the elevator? Listening to people talk on cell phones on a bus is bad enough – but in a confined 5’ x 5’ area is completely unacceptable.

Today there was a man in my apartment building trying to put a call through on his cell phone in the lobby. I got into an elevator and pushed my floor. I heard that man start hurrying towards my elevator car, and feeling that I was in need of some good elevator karma after First In, Last out, I held the “Door Open” button for him. As he got in the car, I realized that he’s still on his cell phone. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help but overhear. Apparently this man had been trying to get through to someone named Jerry.

“Jerry?” Mr. Cell Phone asked.

“Jerry?” Mr. Cell Phone asked a second time. I think he had poor signal. Gee, I wonder why.

“Yeah, this is John. John. The computers have the latest software installed on them.”

Ooooh, so Mr. Cell Phone-aka-John was on a business call. I guess that should make everything okay then, right? I mean, he’s important, and he has important things to take care of.

“Yeah, the computers have the latest software installed. No, the latest. Yes, the latest software. Okay.” End of conversation.

This conversation took all of 10 seconds. And he couldn’t wait until he got out of the elevator onto his floor because, why? Because Mr. Cell Phone-aka-John was too important, that’s why!

It will never cease to amaze me why people who are trying to talk on their cell phones in elevators do not understand the fact that their signal, if they have any, will be very, very poor. And I consider it to be bad professionalism to attempt to carry on a work-related conversation in the elevator when all that will result will be the “professional” person sounding like a broken record. Later, that person will only have to call again to ensure that everything was heard correctly. I have heard this obnoxious conversation countless times:

“Uh, yeah. Hey, I’m actually getting into an elevator right now. No, elevator. Yeah. So I might lose you. What? I can’t hear you. I might lose you. Hello? Are you there? Hello? Damn.” Cell phone flips shut.

Don’t these people understand? It just ain’t gonna work in there.

The Boogeyman

Yesterday morning I saw the Boogeyman.

I have a habit of closing all the closet doors in my bedroom before sleeping – a habit that I developed after reading the story of the Boogeyman in 3rd grade. Combine that with seeing the cover of my sister’s copy of the book Cujo, and I was definitely sure that there was something lurking in my closet. Not that I believe there is anything in the closet now, I just have a general feeling of uneasiness if I try to sleep with the closet door cracked slightly open.

Another thing that makes me feel uneasy is a dark bathroom. The bathroom is one of those rooms that have been thoroughly tainted by horror flicks. Starting with Psycho, I don’t think that the bathroom can ever be viewed in the same way. From Bloody Mary legends to enlightening scenes from What Lies Beneath, the bathroom can be a very scary place.

So yesterday morning at approximately 6:11 am, I woke up to use the bathroom. After finishing my business, I turned off the lights and proceeded to feel my way back into the bedroom. And that’s when I saw him. The Boogeyman. A shadow that passed in front of me and was about five feet away.

Usually when I am startled and caught off guard, I gasp loudly and freeze. But for some reason, this time I decided to scream. Not one of those high-pitched screams, mind you. Just an “Ahhh!” that might be heard when a sports team I’m rooting for is losing. And to startle me even further, the Boogeyman started yelling back.

“Ahhh!” I screamed.
“Uhhh!” the Boogeyman yelled.
“Ahhh! Ahhh!” I screamed even more.
“Uhhh! Uhhh!” the Boogeyman continued.

Now, on some unconscious level, I knew that the Boogeyman was really Edwin. When I first saw his shadow, I’m sure I knew it was Edwin. However, I was so shocked at seeing a moving object where I knew nothing would be that I couldn’t help but scream.

Good thing that Edwin had the sense to flick on the light switch. When he did, I’d never seen such a look of shock on his face, or his eyes so wide. I started laughing uncontrollably while continuing to make leftover screaming noises.

I was picturing this: two very sleepy people in the dark. One just finished using the bathroom. The other one needs to go. They run into each other and start screaming bloody murder.

This totally sounds like something that would happen to me.

Last night Edwin was trying to figure out why I started screaming. Apparently, his grunting sounds were a result of not knowing what the hell to say because, well, how did I not know it was him? So he started asking me what I thought he was. Did I think he was a burglar? A ghost? A monster like in Monsters, Inc.? No, no, and no. Finally he asks if I thought he was the Boogeyman.

I think about it for a moment. Yes, that’s it! I really thought I had seen the Boogeyman. Childhood frights revisited. After all these years, the Boogeyman still comes back to haunt me.

A Repented Homo Who Has Found Jesus

I actually saw a man wearing "A Repented Homo Who Has Found Jesus" on his shirt today. He and a buddy were wearing these shirts and carrying around picket signs with “I Love Jesus” written on them, marching in circles in front of the New York Stock Exchange. And as a straight, non-religious female, I was somewhat irritated and offended. One of my biggest annoyances is unsolicited advertising. I’m not talking about the pop-up screens that appear when browsing CNN.com, or even telemarketers (although that could start a whole new diatribe), but the people who try and tell me what I should believe in.

For example, I used to be staffed on a project in Richmond, VA. As I was working with the state government, I would walk by the capitol building every day to get to the office, which was across the street. On a nice, cold, wintry day, I was walking to the office when I saw protesters in the distance. Now, I don’t have a problem with protesters. But I do have a problem with anti-abortion demonstrators or as they so fondly like to call themselves, people who are “pro-life”. As if the rest of us are pro-death. At any rate, I recognized these “anti-choice” demonstrators about 40 ft away when I saw pictures of large, dead fetuses on their picket signs. Getting enough of this on Sproul, I was used to seeing these graphic images.

As I got closer to the demonstrators, I realized one thing – they were all men. There was not one single woman amongst them. Not only that, but the people who tried to give me anti-abortion literature were young men. Fifteen at the oldest. My first thought was, “Shouldn’t you be in school right now?” And my next, and more striking, thought was, “What do you know about sex, abortion, and rape?” What were these 15-yr-old boys, these brainwashed children, doing advocating anti-abortion? Who were these kids, being spoon-fed beliefs by their parents and pulled from school so they can educate females on how to treat their bodies?

I once saw a sign that said something like “If you were a woman with syphilis, had several children already who were all deaf and mute, and was found to be pregnant, would you abort your unborn baby?” And the next line read, “You just killed Beethoven.” Now, I’m a big Beethoven fan, but if you had killed Beethoven, then who would ever have known? How could you miss something that you never knew existed?
I just hoped that the creators of that sign were not thinking that they were going to find anyone stupid enough to think that if they have syphilis, they should keep their unborn babies because they're going to give birth to the next Beethoven. Pregnant women should be cognizant that major health issues will result from a birth in those conditions.

I believe that everyone is entitled to their own opinions that some people will naturally have opposing viewpoints. All Christians should be allowed to believe in Jesus and think that everyone else is going to go to Hell; homos should be allowed to “repent” and find Jesus; men should be allowed to think that they know what’s best for a woman’s body. But I do not think that blaring their messages in others’ faces is the way to convince others to believe the things they do. Wouldn’t they rather that a person convert to their viewpoint naturally and sincerely of one’s own volition, rather than by constant poking and prodding?

As a person who’s childhood was not too far in the past, I know that constant poking and prodding is the fastest way to get you nowhere - and I’ve learned when to stop. I just wish everyone else would too.

Sense of Belonging

Why is it that humans (well, most humans) need to feel a sense of belonging? Whether it be to a place, a person, or a group of friends, people have this inherent need to belong. And when a person finds his niche and feels that he has a place in this world, one of the saddest emotions is to feel the loss of that where place he was actually wanted. Or needed. We are such a needy species.

Last night I had a dream. I actually dreamt about Berkeley.

I was in Berkeley with a friend who was going there for the first time. However, in the dream, I was not a real person, more of a ghost watching over this friend. After traveling to Berkeley from Orange County, she was walking around downtown Berkeley alone, exploring the city through a tourist’s eyes. And I could see all the things I thought she was doing wrong – that only a tourist would do in a new city.

Wrong thing #1: Walking around Shattuck and Dwight at midnight, alone.

After finding her way a little more, my friend walked up Dwight towards Unit 2.

Wrong thing #2: Walking on the People’s Park side of the street.

And then after reaching the more student-populated area, I realized that we had no place to sleep that night. This is when I began freaking out. And all of a sudden I was not just a ghostly observer, but instead a real person, traveling with this friend, and we had no bed to sleep in that night. I realized that we were having a conversation. We were arguing about what to do about a place to sleep.

“Just because you know the area doesn’t mean you know the best places to stay,” she said.

Apparently I had been insisting that we go to my old apartment building on Haste and Piedmont, because I was convinced that we would have a place to sleep there. Why I thought that is a mystery, but hey, it’s just a dream.

At this point, I actually eyed People’s Park as another alternative. And then it hit me:

Why didn’t I have a place to stay in Berkeley?

Did I not spend four years of my life here? Where were all the people I once knew? Did I not have a place to stay because I no longer belonged to Berkeley? Where the hell was I from, anyways? Apparently I knew the area, but I didn’t know anyone who lived there anymore.

And now I know why I had this dream. The mobility of people scares me. The idea that a person can just pick up, leave with one suitcase, and move across the country, is frightening.

With the technological revolution, it’s less and less common for people to belong to a place. When people ask me where I’m from, I honestly start stuttering because I’m confused as to what my response should be. I’ve slowly started adjusting to answering with New York, but not without a little nervousness of someone shouting at me, “You’re not a real New Yorker!” and exposing me as a fraud. I even agonized on what I should list as my “Hometown” in my Friendster profile and must have changed it at least three times.

I keep in touch with my group of friends I belonged to through emails and cell phones. With all cell phone plans coming with free long distance calls, it’s not unusual for a New Yorker to have a phone number with an (510) area code. So who knows who is from where anymore.

I now belong to my computer and my cell phone. The conveniences of technology. What a great thing.