Nnekay.com

Alameda is a strange, strange town, excuse me… island- in the middle of the San Francisco Bay Area. Literally smack in the middle. Floating along like a turd in the great toilet bowl of the bay.

As a disgruntled teenager, I would look across the water, and stare longing towards the highly visible San Francisco Skyline dreaming of my escape from the phallic shaped island. To my shock and horror, somehow I managed to find my way back post graduation. As a “grown-up” I’ve discovered this place is incredibly pleasant. Since Alameda is located IN the bay, there really is no reason for “outsiders” to come here, unless they are purposely coming to Alameda for a reason… you don’t just stumble into Alameda. This creates a very small town,”ya’ll come back now” type of feeling with many of the folks who reside here. As with most secluded towns, there used to be a colorful splash of racism, but luckily this is quickly fading out. The absurdity of this folksy, neighborhood feeling is the fact that Alameda is a city.

It’s not THAT small, ya’ll… we have three high schools for crying out loud. So while many residents may FEEL like they know everyone on the island, they only really encounter one or two familiar faces on a normal outing. The rest are just weird friendly encounters with strangers.

“Hello! The weather is great isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is! Have a great day, Buddy!”

Trader Joe’s is a lot like Alameda. How so? Well, it’s a corporate supermarket that thinks of itself as your neighborhood grocer. Everything is wholesomely prepackaged and marketed with down home wit. Heck, even the monthly newsletter looks like it’s been drawn by a crazy person and printed at Kinko’s.

Babies get balloons and everyone who works there has that same Alameda weirdly too familiar charm.

“Hey! Looks like your getting ready for a party! I love this type of paper napkin!”

Now, both are great when separated, because they serve as mini hootenanny vacations from true city life. That comfy everyone knows your name feel without everyone actually knowing all your dirty freaky deaky secrets. Yet, when the powers of both combine… something awful happens.

The freedom of TOO much familiarity starts to set in.

After going to the gym, I decided to buy a bottle of wine at TJs (among other things… I’m not THAT much of a lush, people). When I got to the check out, the cashier was a bubbly young man in a hemp necklace. His hair stood straight up, cemented in place by various products. He was pleasant, I was pleasant and the whole transaction seemed rather routine, until he got to the bottle of wine.

“Do you have an ID for me to check,” he smiled a cheesy Trader Joe’s grin, took my driver’s license, then proceeded to stare a beat or two longer than the usually once over most cashier exhibit. “What that…” he did a comical double take, then exclaimed, “YOOOOOU were born in ‘82?!?!?”

“Oh… come on…” it wasn’t necessarily the first time, I was questioned about my age, but it normally came from a person who was older, and old people generally can’t decipher a 15 year old from a 30 year old. This guy was young, and obviously born WAY after 1982. He continued,

“I thought you were MY age… but noooo, you’re born in 1982! This is crazy! I can’t believe it!” By this point everyone else in line started to take note, and since this was Alameda, the woman behind me had to add,

“you do look young for your age.” I didn’t like the fact that my 27 years of life was shocking.

Newsflash: 27 isn’t old.

“I mean, I have a girlfriend and all, so it’s not like that or anything… it’s just so crazy that you were born in 1982, I seriously, thought you were my age.”

With that comment, Junior McBabykins made me feel like a old hag pedophile.

I was not raised in a barn, as the saying goes. Which does sorta insult those who might have. Without getting too ridiculous on a PC wheel of fortune- simply put, I was raised to posses incredible manners- especially with strangers. With my friends and family this is a different story. It’s funny how shitty we treat the closest to us, but I guess it’s because we assume they know our true colors- no need to shine them up for display.

It helps that my brilliant manners co-exist with a deep desire to shy from conflict. These two mix together to become Polite Avoidance Soup- which is rather tasty on a summer’s day.

“Treat others how you would like to be treated,” another saying… maybe even the biggest saying- it is called the Golden Rule after all, even though gold isn’t as popular in this economic crisis.

Sounds simple enough, but I find this to be difficult- especially if people like being treated different ways. I for one rather enjoy being politely avoided by strangers. I don’t know you? Smile and move on.

The simple version of why this saying is flawed: people like different things.

One lady might like it when a strangers come up to her and talk about how lovely the day is; I don’t. Now, we’re in a pickle. I politely oblige to participate in her nonsensical musings, hating every bit of this interaction. While she continues, not quite convinced of my fake cheer. Both of us, leaving the interaction disappointed and annoyed.

Yet, sometimes I wonder if people actually truly adhere to this “rule”.

Miss, is it entertaining for you to smile then be met with a frown from an on coming person?

Ma’am, do you like it when someone is tailgating you, then abruptly cuts you off only to drive slow?

Sir, do you find it enjoyable when someone says unsolicited dirty things to you, that do not titillate, but instead disgust and insults?

Lady, you must really like it when someone says backhanded compliments about your body.

My default mechanism, goes directly to the fact that I pack a three discrimination punch- and more times than not, I’m probably right. I think most people apply the golden rule to people who are like them (a part of their pack… if you follow the blog… winky-winky), making an excuse to NOT treat people who aren’t, let’s say… on their level, with the type of respect they desire.

“Oh, he’s in his early 20s, he doesn’t know better, whatever…”

It also goes in reverse, we give more respect than we would ever expect for ourselves to those whom we aspire to emulate.

Instead of hoping for the world to one day magically turn around into a land of polite happiness… I end up wishing bad on a large sum of these people. I imagine throwing rotting apples at bad drivers, I secretly will assholes at the job to trip and fall, and I make up snappy comebacks to rude comments. Unfortunately, my inner vigilante is wasted, because all of these scenarios demand conflict.

The easiest way to ruin Polite Avoidance Soup is to stir the pot… maybe it’s time I fuck up a batch or two.

I was catching up with an amazing college buddy recently, and like good friends generally do, we got off the normal conversation path of “so what have you been up to?” and diverged into a wild range of topics, one being equal rights. She was amazed how many minorities didn’t agree with gay marriage, mostly because of the mirrored marriage laws that were applied to minorities in the not-so-distant past. She asked my opinion, and I agreed that it was incredibly disappointing that people would want to impose the same type of oppression on another group- but unlike my friend, I was not shocked.

Simply put, humans suffer from pack mentality.

Religion, tribes, groups, teams, clubs, ethnicity, race, family, clan, friends, fraternities, sororities, etc.

Call it what you will, but it all boils down to one thing: A Pack.

Back in the day when humans were just glorified gorillas out in the bush- the only natural protection we had was our disgusting tasting meat, and our gigantic brains… and like the phrase goes, two brains are better than one. So, it only made sense that humans joined together to create safety in numbers, creating packs. Since humans were built so smart, we quickly learned how to eliminate all natural predators. Just like a bored housewife, humans started to create their own drama to help stimulate these giant brains which were formed as a defense mechanism.

Dude, my pack is hella cooler than your pack.

Which essentially is the center of all human related conflict.

The Olympics? A friendly my pack is cooler than your pack.

Middle East Conflict? A long, bloody, and sad version of my pack is cooler than your pack.

No matter how you slice it, people are constantly trying to belong to one group and push away from another, and it’s usually due to the most inane reasons:

That pack doesn’t look like me. That pack worships something I don’t. That pack has different relationships than I do. That pack didn’t live where I lived. That pack doesn’t eat the food that I do. That pack listens different music than I do. That pack is louder than I am. That pack. That pack. That pack. That pack.

If our brains weren’t developed for defense in our primal years, I think human relationships would be incredibly different.

A semi outskirt-y friend of mine released a book. To celebrate this blessed occasion, he hosted a party. To try to re-connect, and honestly support someone who’s craft I not only admire, but wish to emulate; I attended.

I couldn’t help but feel incredibly, undeniably… outskirt-y.

I brought a compatriot, I came baring wine (albeit, basement barrel), and was even lucky enough to have friends who could be better described as “in-circle” to keep me padded comfortably in a nice little people bubble of belonging. Yet, there was this overwhelming sense of “outer edge” I just couldn’t shake.

How did I managed going through partial high school, college, and 5 years of post, being around this person, but never really honestly “knowing” him.  While my friends talked about being “old friends” and lumped me very generously into this category- I couldn’t help but wonder if I even was. Acquaintance seemed cold and annoying- I HAD to be more than that bullshit, but really…we’ve never hung out one-on-one.

Outskirt-y.

As I sat and sipped on my paper cup o’ vino, I realized I was having a very unique experience compared to that of the pocket of people I was surrounded by. I was not into the hippy endurance hug participation the rest of the party was exhibiting. I didn’t have the cushion of past memories with the host to ensure my belonging at the book release. Yet, the friend I brought, could completely rely on the fact that she was a third party, gently coasting on her anonymity. While I, experiencing a smattering of events through the years- made me both familiar and enigmatic.

Which is just a pretty way of describing awkward.

My roommate, Heather and I used to live in an apartment the size of a postage stamp. It was cute, with hardwood floors, and granite counter tops, yet it pretty much only permitted one person to move freely around the space at a time. Let’s say I had to go to the bathroom while Heather was headed to the kitchen for some cheese, our living room would dramatically morph into a two person rave as we politely maneuvered around each other to get to our destinations. This got old, along with the thin walls (so thin, I could hear my neighbor snore), and the piss smelling hallway caused by a scraggly old cat who had an affinity for our welcome mat.

So when we moved to a two story duplex, with a yard, and cheaper rent- a party was well overdue.

Since it was the summer and our first official house party, Heather and I went all out. No party is complete unless it has a theme- ours was Summer Camp, to which we outfitted our new apartment with all the required games and activities. For our indoor friends, we provided lanyards, crayons, and hemp strings to accommodate the mild chit chat. For our more rowdy outdoor friends, we decked our brand new yard, with hula hoops, chalk, bubbles, and water balloons. A friend of ours even lent us a kiddie pool to cool our feet, when running around like ten year old became too tiresome. The party went on into the night until Heather and I crashed in our newly appointed rooms.

The next morning was rough. Like any party aftermath there were plenty of discarded bottles, half eaten hot dogs, and a huge amount of left over weirdness created by drunk people: plastic cup towers, beer labels, bottle cap pyramids, watermelons filled with vodka, oranges used as ashtrays, stuffed animals doing obscene things to each other, and a floor gunked up with unidentified stickiness.

Feeling crusty and haggard, I wandered outside to tackle the biggest task of the morning; emptying the kiddie pool. I figured once I was able to dump out the disgusting foot water, I could handle just about anything else this party aftermath could throw at me. I ambled over to the cheerful blue plastic tub and proceeded to peer in.

My body jerked and I involuntarily kicked one foot into the air, my face squeezed into a knot as I flailed my arms around my body. All the while releasing a groan-cough-scream which sounded a little like a dying moose, because there… at the bottom of the kiddie pool was

a dead possum.

First things first, if you aren’t from the backwoods, and your third cousin isn’t named Scooter- you probably aren’t too familiar with what an actual possum looks like. Sure you might have seen one wibble wobble away into the bowels of the sewer from which it came from, but really… have you ever looked one in the eyes?

Two words: No Soul.

Saturday morning cartoons might lead one to believe that possums look similar to the average cuddly woodland creature:

When in reality they look like this:

A mongoloid rat that has been punched in the face.

It was morning, I was hung over, and now I was face to face with a giant water logged demon rodent marinating in my friend’s kiddie pool. I retreated back into the apartment- and calmly waited for Heather to wake up. In the mean time, I decided to look up pest control departments in the area. After trying to contact six or seven different agencies, I discovered: many were closed, a lot didn’t service my neighborhood, and all of them were assholes. 

“Here’s what you gotta do: put on some gloves, drain the pool, wrap the possum up in a tarp, and throw it out,” which roughly translates to “Screw you, weenie girl.”

Ugh.

So I waited… and I waited… while Heather continued her slumber. I putz around the house. Picked up trash and various sticky items- all the while dreading what I might have to do with the brewing possum soup in my yard. At first, I felt sad… the thing died because of me… only if I had dumped it out the night before, but like any grieving person I became angry- really angry.

WHAT A DUMBASS ANIMAL.

I thought to myself, carelessly throwing bottles into bags, and knocking down bottle cap stacks.

OH NO, AN INCH OF WATER… GUESS I’LL DIE IN IT.

How dare this ugly sinister creature hobble into my backyard and create this big hub bub.

STUPIDASS.

It scared me a little bit that possums just sorta wandering around in my yard.

POSSUM PARTIES ARE GROSS.

After pouting around in my living room for a while, I started to feel sad for the creature again… I mean… it was dead… Mr. Possum did get the short end of the stick. When Heather finally woke up, she found me looking rather sheepish and scared on the corner of our couch. After informing her of our newly acquired lifeless pet, she went to investigate. She reacted the same way I did, when she peered into the pool for a better look. There is no denying that a dead wet possum is pretty much the worst things ever.

Getting rid of this thing would not be easy… and I had to go to work in a few hours.

Quick fact: we live in close proximity to the local fire department. This, unfortunately isn’t every housewife’s dream. Sadly they don’t hose each other down in between cuddling Dalmatian puppies. Instead, they work out to Creed and other dated 90s rocks bands, grunt while playing basketball, and rev their motorcycles at 9 in the morning on Saturdays. Yet, my worry of dying in a burning building has pretty much been eradicated.

Being the genius that I am, I figured… well, firemen rescue live kittens from trees… scooping a dead possum from a kiddie pool should be a walk in the park. So Heather and I ventured over to the station. After several attempts, a mild mannered man finally answered the door- not with open public service arms, but rather “who the hell are you” eye signals. We told him about our predicament, to which he replied, “Here’s what you gotta do: put on some gloves, empty out the pool, wrap the possum up in a tarp, then trow it out.”

NOOOOOOO! We left dejected and incredibly annoyed.

Not to be a jerk, I wanted to help as much as I could before leaving for the biblioteca. We finished cleaning the house, delicately ignoring the Possum Soup- Heather taking the long way around the yard to avoid looking at it, while I shielded my face as if Mr. Possum might go zombie and spring to life. We got the house as clean as we could, before I had to go. I knew Heather’s boyfriend would be over later, and we both hoped he would man up- and help (ahem*do all the work*ahem) with the possum. As I drove away, I never felt more ecstatic to head off to the j-o-b.

Saved By the Bell.

So I tried to introduce a new segment discussing all the different coffee shops I would frequent during my winter break. I went to one, wrote a semi interesting post, then subsequently, it died.

Oh believe me it didn’t die a  quick, “Nah, that idea is stupid,” type of literary death. No, it was a slow, monologue spewing, limping bleed to death type of end.

Let’s start from the beginning.

Since I work for an academic institution I get long breaks… lucky? No, not paid. Sucky. Yet, I’m smart, and save up money so I can live like some poor socialite during these breaks. So, I figured I would write more- considering my other options were participating in solitary boozefests, watching Oprah, or stalking exes on Facebook. Like the mild narcissist that I am, I sometimes like to revisit my posts, after an afternoon of this is, I decided (strangely contrary to my narcissistic tendencies) that I write too much about myself.

This is what I did today.

This is who tried to hit one me today.

This what happened at my work.

me me me… me.. then some more me…

It was sicking, and honestly who the fuck wants to know THAT much about my lame ass little life in the bay area. So ultimately, I wanted to write about something that had little to do with my thoughts and opinions about the world. As I tried to sit down and write, I would find myself turning on Oprah, opening a beer, and checking facebook to er… see what my friends were up too… I had to get out, and thus my Java Junction was born.

Went to a coffee shop, grabbed my friend Tamar and knocked it out of the park. well, sorta… it was mildly amusing. So… sweet, all I’d need to do was go and do it again at another coffee shop- preferably one with a different sort of vibe, and more weirdos for me to talk about, because everyone loves weirdos… from afar.

Week later- went to a coffee shop in Berkeley. It was promising: packed with people, mellow atmosphere, and the barista had one of those semi braided goatees that strangely Brad Pitt is currently sporting. I sat down opened my laptop, and started to write what I thought would be comic gooold. After describing the barista’s case of curious facial hair- it happened.

I got bored.

Despite looking like a freaky freak- Mr. Barista was a rather diligent worker. He buzzed from table to table, cleaned dishes and greeted customers. Not really funny, and made me feel like an asshole for calling such detail to his beard. Honestly, though… I would like to observe the process one goes through when sitting down to braid their own facial hair. So, I decided to call attention to the patrons of the shop… they all were working diligently on something or another- which is great and wonderful for their productivity, but left me with jack. I stared at a man, who was steadily chewing with his mouth open… willing something to fall from his gaping cavity and plop onto to the table- but somehow he managed to keep it in check. Lame. Then it dawned on me that while people were steadily working, including Tamar… I was busy staring at everyone- and yes, my jaw was slack. While looking for weirdos I had become one.

The failed attempted hit me hard, and with the combined laze of the impending closure of my break, I wrote one final post about cheese farts, and closed my creative burst.

I was not happy that the most recent post on my blog about about cheese farts. So, I broke my pledge, wrote a post devoted only to myself (I mean, it is called nnekay.com), and killed Java Junction…

and it felt good.

Today, I was lucky enough to enjoy a rather nice Thursday Morning Brunch with another weirdly scheduled friend of mine. After ordering the Cheese Blintz, taking a wonderful bite of the stuff, and filling my coffee to the brim with cream, I couldn’t help but think, “Damn it! I hate myself!”

Naturally, I don’t actually HATE myself, but one would think that a lactose intolerant person might shy away from the Dairy Brigade of Breakfast I managed to woof down in 30 minutes. My brain loves Dairy (well mostly cheese) but my body despises it wholeheartedly.

It really is a sad, sad love story of a mild mannered girl and cheese, all sorts of cheese:

Sharp, Cheddar, Monterrey Jack (How I love just eating pieces of you), cream cheese, stinky cheese, Brie (you stuck up bitch, you), Munster, Colby, ricotta… I can go on and on like the monotone droll of that guy with the lazy lip in Forrest Gump- yet while he could enjoy shrimp with out worrying about some pesky shell fish allergy- I must wallow in my increasing intolerance to that hell beast, Lactose.

Why don’t you take Lactaid? The stuff just doesn’t work for me- I can never gage how much or when I will throw back some cream with my coffee or slice of cheese from that damn block tempting me from the back of the refrigerator.

I’m a cheese junky… and I suffer.

Sometimes, I find myself in a public bathroom willing the toilet to not automatically flush twice (or thrice) while I sit in discomfort. While other times I wish to be left alone in my room creating a cloud of personal perfume. Yet, mostly it’s the gurgles. After my lovely brunch I spent the rest of the day gurgling.

Oh lets try on this *gurgle* dress!

*gurgle* Have to seen this blush?

Man, that movie*gurgle* was really *gurgle* touching…

True, it’s a private struggle- which makes my consumption of dairy not as threatening. If I were passing poots all day instead of gurgling, I might have re-thought the second blintz with sour cream.

Oh… but it was so goooooooooooood. I know that my inability to process these products speaks volumes to the argument of: should humans consume food which is meant for baby bovines (No.) Yet, once again I must reiterate- it’s soooo… gooooooooood.

I’m weak and I know it, and I will continue to be weak until my gurgles turn to poots, and my poots turn to squirts- then maybe– just maaaaybe, I might have to pass on that cheese danish.

The horror.

Really, it’s simple… I did it through text message…

The people of Haiti didn’t have much to start with, now they have nothing.

Here is a Link

Remember that kid in elementary school who would call the teacher ‘Mommy’ all the time? Or what about the one that would always pee her pants? Yea?

Of course you do, everyone remembers those freaks:

The Kissy Boy

The Dirty Girl

The Obligatory Bully (who we later felt sorry for because now we know he was mimicking his horrible home life).

Well, I was one of those. Yes… yes… the token black girl, but more importantly I was,

The Throw Up Girl.

Every year from Kindergarten to 5th grade, I would vomit in class. Sometimes in an elaborate special effect worthy way. Other times in quiet self-reflecting ralphs. Strangely, I was never embarrassed. I would barf then play it up as my thing. Why? Because I was a showboat little kid. Post-puberty Nnekay should have taken a cue from Vommy McVom-Vom- laughing at yourself works.

In the second grade a classmate of mine (who I found to be very attractive) got pants in the middle of the school yard. Do I remember him for his boyish good looks? No. I remember him standing dead center of the playground bright red bawling at the top of his lungs while his pants remained clustered at his ankles.

Since I still live in the same town as where I grew up. I watched Senor Pantalones grow into a strapping wanna be thug. Did I this new machismo invigorate my old crush. Nope. He was still the weenie boy who cried when his pants were pulled down.

You know what?

If he merely laughed it off- I might be pregnant with thug babies right now… or not, at least I wouldn’t be writing a blog post about him.

Unfortunately, me and Senor Pantalones traded spots when the hormones kicked in. He learned to laugh things off in Middle School- while I, let every single comment stab me deep within my tween heart.

Are you looking at me?! Cry

Are you whispering about me?! Cry

You’re dressing better than me?! Cry

Cry Cry Cry Cry Cry

Pre-boobs Nnekay would give a crap if they called me ‘forehead’, but post-boobs Nnekay cared so much, I still have bangs. As a teenager I would spend hours upon hours listening to 90s techno alone in my room, trying to unlock the mystery of my downfall from Elementary popularity to Middle School pariah.

It was simple– I didn’t give a shit in Elementary School, “I barf all the time, who cares?! I’m still an awesome kid!” Luckily, I figured this out before college (right before college) and I blossomed. A piece of me wants to go and hug all the Middle School freaks, tell them it will be okay and not to give a fuck.

Yet, on the other hand, as an adult Middle School kids are sort of  annoying.

Last night before I went to bed at 12am, I decided to take a look at my e-mails (yes… plural). Two hours later, I found myself reading about the latest Tiger Woods crisis, and stalking semi-friends on Facebook. When I woke up this morning, I reached for my cell phone (which is basically a mini computer) to check my e-mails (yup… still plural). At the job, I constantly toggle between work and all the stupid shit floating around on the inter-bot. When I want to know the number for a restaurant: The Internet. When I want to get directions: The Internet. When I want to get a hotel reservation, a car rental, or airplane tickets: The Internet. How the hell did we function before this behemoth of physical nothing-ness existed?!

I spend so much wasted and meaningful time on the world wide web, I almost believe I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. Would I just sit staring at a wall silently crying?

Of course not…well at least for my generation and those that came before. We had the unique experience of actually being conscious when the Internet wasn’t THE INTERNET. So we remember how to use a phone book and other things only used by hipster and old people- like 45s.

I remember watching a video in the 5th grade about the future- which was going to include THE INFORMATION SUPER HIGHWAY. I thought, it was weird. I also remember watching the OJ highway chase on TV in that same class- but that’s another story. At the time, this information super highway, wasn’t something I was looking forward too because:

 1. I wasn’t a nerd.

2. I was ten, and more interested in picking my nose and watching cartoons (Yes, I was THAT kid).

Little did I know that two short years later, I would find myself giggling about boys with friends as we discovered chat rooms.  When I was growing up, so was the Internet- which made for a very unique experience. It allows me to say things like, “I remember when…” which is unusual for a twenty-something, but man do I love playing that card around the whipper-snappers.

The most interesting part about growing up along side the Internet has been watching the slow demise of other outlets of information. Honestly, I’m still mystified to how it completely took over. Products marketed on TV no longer flash a 1-800 number at you, but instead flash a website. Now that I think about it, the Internet has taken a lot of the wind out of the phone company.

No longer fresh and new, the Internet has settled into itself, as necessary means for information in our world- making some wonder what the next big thing will be, while I still would rather pick my nose and watch cartoons.