This woe comes to me from SS, who informs me that the blog she writes for (vegansaurus, yo — check it!) just won a Best of the Bay award. Sadly, she won’t be able to attend the celebration because she has to referee lube wrestling.

Woe: Can’t celebrate my blog’s success ‘cause I gotta regulate lubed-up ladies.

I feel your pain.

(source)

Some days, transit’s a breeze.* My train arrives promptly, I’m able to grab a seat, and I don’t suffer the 40-minute trip with some dude’s crotch in my face. Other days? Ooooooh, boy: watch out. If the L doesn’t get me down, the F steps up to the plate.

As today: after disembarking the L, I waited almost 20 (yes, 20: barbaric) minutes for the F to arrive. When it did, it appeared to be crammed with tourists. I say appeared because the car wasn’t actually full — the tourists, in typical form, were just spread out, occupying way more than their Allotted MUNI Space. After running to the back door and getting my leg caught as the door closed (yowch), I crammed in amongst those clad in Old Navy and Jansport.

At Market and First, I snagged a seat(!) The bitchery ends there, right? WRONG! I’d been seated for no more than two minutes when two tween boys** positioned themselves right in front of me. Sure, they exchanged the same commentary that on some mornings I find charming and on others I find distasteful; they expressed enthusiasm for the wax museum and The Rainforest Cafe. But that’s not what unnerved me.

Nope. What made me cross was that these lit’l dudes kept dropping shit on my feet — and lap. Duder one dropped his iPhone on the floor and nearly managed to tangle himself in my coat as he retrieved it. Duder two dropped his earbuds on my lap, not even pausing before snatching them back. Jesus! I’m not surprised by much, but interfacing with strangers’ laps? Without asking first? NO.

Of course, because these boyz were fiddling with their gadgets, they weren’t holding onto the railings. Consequently, every time the tram lurched, so too did the tweens. You know what happened then. Yes, they trod on my toes. Multiple times.

Fortunately, the car cleared out at Pier 33 (aka, OMG IS THIS WHERE WE GET OFF FOR THE ALCATRAZ TOUR? HONEY, I THINK THIS IS WHERE WE GET OFF FOR THE ALCATRAZ TOUR!). I had a few minutes to collect myself and wipe the glare off my face before entering my office. But don’t let my currently peaceful demeanor fool you — Tween boys, I’ma fuck with your shit the next time you wreck my commute.

PS: This morning’s ride had one interesting (positive?) trait: one of my fellow passengers was a deadringer for John Galliano.

***

*This statement might be overly optimistic. Revised: On a few rare occasions, commuting in the city has been less-than-awful.

**Is “tween” still a word?

My job requires me to run documents through a plagiarism-detection website, which is a good policy — I’m not arguing with that. (Plagiarism: BAD.) No, I don’t find fault with the website, flukey as it is: I find fault with the instructors who, without fail, send me documents in Word 97-2003 format instead of .docx. This website doesn’t recognize the former format, and you know why? BECAUSE IT’S ARCHAIC. Why people don’t save docs as .rtfs or .docx is beyond me. Just, yeah.

Also woeing me out: MSWord. In every possible way.

You know what really grinds my gears, especially now that the weather’s nice? Path Hogs.

Recently, I’ve gone from hittin’ the gym to hittin’ the trail (er, path); not only is outdoor running more scenic, but it smells better than my poorly ventilated fitness centre. Nothing compares to the Panhandle at dawn: the flicker of the bug-mottled streetlamps, the intermingled scents of eucalyptus and bum urine!

For its many virtues, running outside has a major pitfall: dealing with those bitches who hog the path. You know who I’m talking about: people with 1) dogs; 2) strollers; or 3) insane walking habits. Let’s discuss.

1) I love dogs. Really, I do. If my boyfriend building allowed them, I’d totally have a pug and I would dress him up in an adorable and miniature bumblebee costume! I do not love unleashed dogs that traipse all over the path while their owners amble, heads in the clouds [up their asses]. I do not love dogs that jump on me while I’m running. Protip: if your dog can’t contain himself around strangers, leash him.

2) Is there anything more insufferable than a woman walking slooooooowly, straight down the middle of the path, chatting on her Blackberry while pushing a doublewide stroller? Didn’t think so. A hobby of the Lululemon and Hunter set, hogging the center of the path isn’t just rude — it’s dangerous. Why? Because I might accidentally nick you as I try to veer out of the way. I have nothing personal against strollers; I have nothing but hatred for those who block the path with them.

3) I’m not hating on the locomotively challenged. I am hating on those who zigzag all over the place, disrespecting the “lanes” of the trail. Have you never walked before, people? (I’d understand if you haven’t — this is America, after all.) PSA of the day: if you’re strolling through the Panhandle, don’t weave all over the path/refuse to pay attention to your surroundings/get all huffy if a cyclist or runner stumbles around you.

Phew! I feel so much calmer. Calm enough, in fact, to contemplate a post-work run…

Recently, my office “upgraded” the bathrooms. Upgraded is encased in quotes because the so-called improvements have made life (by which I mean using the can) waaaaaaaaaay more difficult than it should be.

Where normal, manual toilets once stood, we now have auto-flushing toilets. Nothing wrong with that, right? WRONG: those motion-activated monsters tend to flush before the user has risen from the seat, resulting in an unintentional “undercarriage cleaning.” And, as one of my friends has pointed out, the toilets rarely flush what needs to be flushed. Ineffectual, they make a lot of noise and splash a lot of water around but don’t take care of business. Typical.

Similarly, the new motion-activated sinks piss me off to no end. I’m sure that said sinks are thought to be more hygienic than the manual kind, but they’re not (for real — read the study here). What’s more, the new sinks don’t allow the user to control water flow or temperature, resulting in a tepid, wimpy stream of water. Blech! I’m getting creepy-crawlies just thinking about my next potty trip…

Don’t you hate it when your yoga class is actually just yoga-flavored exercise?

Rainy days are a bummer for two reasons: first, they require me to take MUNI instead of bike commuting. Second, and relatedly, they bring out the worst behavior in my fellow commuters.

Easily ruffled by public displays of annoying behavior (e.g., sidewalk hogging, conducting loud phone conversations, whacking others with giant shopping bags), I’ve lately adopted a Zen approach to commuting. When weather forces me to take the bus, I remind myself that everyone on said bus is trying to get to work, just as I am. Then I pop a stick of Orbit Bubblemint, crank the volume on my iPod, and let my thoughts drift to non-transit situations.

Today, though, no amount of upbeat self talk could have made my commute sunnier. The F I took from Market/New Mong to my office was howlingly, shudderingly uninsulated; the car moved at a slug’s pace; and the woman who plopped down beside me was a soggy commuter.

Having waited for some time in the rain, she was covered, top to toe, with raindrops. (Lest you feel bad that this woman got soaked, don’t — she was wearing a Longshoreman-style, floor length raincoat. Only her outer layer was soaked.) Moments later, I was too — because this woman smushed herself into me. Not only that, she plopped her dripping totebag onto my left foot. Egads! At least she had the decency to remove the bag from my foot and mumble an apology.

Words of Wisdom: It will always rain in San Francisco, but don’t let shitty weather turn you into a Commuter from Hell — be polite! If bench space on the F is tight, stand! Place wet umbrellas on the floor (or under your seat)! Don’t rub your wet garments up against other riders!

I’m toasty and dry now, but in T-2 hours, I’ma have to face the commute all over again. Pray for me, friends.

Woe: An Inadequate Online Following

(via stickycomics)

From my friend Jane: “Mango Kombucha gives me a yellow mustache.” Milk mustaches are a thing of the past, people! That is, unless the milk is organic and cream-topped.

Our coffee table is littered with magazines, mostly unread. I’m not exaggerating: the current contents of our tabletop include (in addition to two place mats, my digital camera, and some granola bar crumbs) the latest issues of Food Network Magazine, Whole Living, Women’s Health, the New Yorker, Good Housekeeping, and Fitness. Contrary to what you might think, our cabinets are in a state of partial disorganization, I’m not up on new book releases, I freaking still have not made time for meditation, and I haven’t banished that stubborn bra fat. WTF, magazines: you were supposed to make my life easier, and all you’ve done is clutter one of three flat surfaces in our apartment.

If you’re wondering why we have so many magazine subscriptions, I’ve got two words for you: AmEx points. To use up points, Hook ordered a few magazines. GH was an Xmas gift to me (thanks, I think? Although I am too young to read this? Also, my housekeeping is fine as is, thankyouverymuch?), and the fitness/lyfe management glossies: what can I say? I like to pretend that I’m the sort who does yoga before preparing a modest breakfast of wheatberries steeped in almond milk (and garnished with low-sugar Craisins), whose bedroom closet isn’t jammed with grocery bags of unsorted crap. Yes, I’d like to have sleek, sexy abs (in time for SWIMSUIT SEASON!), but for now, a tabletop of periodicals will suffice.