Farewell Football

This past Saturday was my last day at football out here in the Yay.  I’ve loved, absolutely loved going to football each week.

The Legend brought me along about 10 months ago or so.  He knew I’d been wanting to play.  I’d never actually played football before, other than middle school gym class – which was incredibly intimidating as a future NFL quarterback was in my gym class.  - But I’d really wanted to try playing because I was having such a hard time finding football fans out here.  I figured people who play football were likely to be fans.

Not only did I find football fans, I found an amazing group of people who were welcoming to anyone who showed up.  As long as you were willing to get on that field and try, you could play.  No one asked “so, where are you from?” or “what do you do?”  like they did at every other Bay Area meeting, group or event I’d been to (aside from church).  I felt so happy; I didn’t feel like an outsider.

The group changes every week.  It’s whoever shows up for some amount of time between 1pm and sundown, even though we rarely actually start playing until well after 2pm.  Some weeks, we have one game at a time with teams of 5 or 6.  Other weeks, we have two games at the same time with teams of 7 and several subs.  Often, the number of games and sizes of teams fluctuates through-out the afternoon as people come and go.  That only adds to the welcoming atmosphere.  Come for as long as you can, even if it’s only 30 minutes.

This week was extra special.  I arrived shortly after 1 and stayed all afternoon until we didn’t have enough people remaining to keep playing.  It was after 8pm by the time I walked off the Berkeley high school campus.  Several of the other players declared that since it was my last day, I didn’t have to rotate out if I didn’t want to, so I played most of the day.  (People sometimes argue about rotating out, so I usually volunteer to go to the sidelines so others can play.)

My team insisted I try quarterbacking.  “This is ridiculous,” I insisted back.  Our team of 8 players had 4 or 5 decent quarterbacks.  The other team had one, The Legend, who’s usually only a fill-in QB.  They kept urging me to give it a try.  “I can’t throw.”  “Just one drive.”  That one drive turned out to be one play.  We scored!

- I better not try playing QB ever again; I’ll ruin my 100% completion record. ;)  -

There was also more extra fun.  One of our usual quarterbacks brought her camera and herded everyone together for a group photo so that I could have a picture of everyone.  That was quite the task!  And, in addition to the photo, I got the sweetest present ever.  Another one of the usual quarterbacks got a small autograph football; everyone wrote little messages and signed it.  Absolutely perfect present.  I felt so special.

I am really going to miss this group, and playing football.

How Old are You, Again?

When I was younger, everybody always thought I was older.  Now that I’m older, people always think I’m younger.  I’m starting to wonder if I’ve been 25 my whole life.

When I was younger…

Drinking in the nsakas of the nearby pub was a common activity at the close of a long day of Peace Corps training.  Most of my fellow volunteers had their beer of choice: Mosi, Castle or Rhino.  A few had a softie: Fanta or Coke.  And I usually had a box of long life milk or a plastic carton of Super Maheau.

One afternoon, near the end of training, two of us sat together in the nsaka, waiting for the others to arrive.  Myself and the person I felt I had grown closest to during our 2 months in training.  “How old are you going to be?” My friend asked, referring to my upcoming birthday.  “23.”  “You mean you’re only 22 now?!  I thought you were older.”  She went on to explain that she didn’t mean it in a bad way, that I didn’t look old, but that I acted older, more mature.

Now that I’m older…

My roommate, The Legend, is a bit younger than me.  Just a few months older than Alfred.  He constantly forgets how old I am.  But he doesn’t just forget how old I am, he forgets how old I am in relation to him.  He always thinks I’m younger than him and that Alfred is the oldest in my family.

On more than one occasion, we’ve had conversations that go something like this:  “Alfred’s your older sister, right?”  “No, Alfred’s younger than me; she’s your age; I’m the oldest.”  Puzzled look from The Legend.  “Wait, how old are you again.”  I tell him, his face screws up into some sort of distorted I’m-thinking-but-I’m-still-confused-did-a-bird-just-poop-on-my-head look.  He spends the next 10 minutes or so trying to figure out why he can’t remember that I’m older than him and all his friends.

Always 25…

In some ways, being mistaken for younger makes more sense.  I’m such a kid at heart,  I love to play and pretend and have fun.  Mommy has referred to me as the biggest 5-year old she knows.  To which Munchkinhead quickly chimes in that I need to be at least 7, otherwise she isn’t born yet.

At the same time though, I’m slightly offended by The Legend’s inability to grasp that I am older than him.  Perhaps this is partly because I feel so much more mature than him.  And perhaps partly because I have always been the big sister, “the oldest”.

Throughout my life, I have always looked to my superiors around me for role models and examples.  For most of my life this meant adults, people older than me.  These have been the people I turn to with questions, the people I watch, the people I try to emulate.

Recently, I realized that more and more often, the role models I look to for guidance are no longer older than me.  They’re my age or younger.

This doesn’t really bother me.  I look for people with experience and knowledge, and I generally don’t take age into consideration.  But I have to wonder, is part of the reason people think I’m younger?

 

Maybe it’s a bad thing to be thought of as younger.  But maybe I’m content to be perpetually 25.  Half grown-up, half kid, all me.

The Decoy

Compliments are nice; a girl likes a little positive feedback once in awhile. But, there’s a big difference between “excuse me, I know it’s none of my business, but you have nice legs,” and “hey, how are you? can I get your number? maybe I can call you sometime. when are you free?”

Sometimes, a girl just reaches a breaking point. For me, that breaking point was when I was walking past a guy and his two kids pushing a shopping cart in the super market. The dad told the kids to go back by their mom and then tried to holler. Umm.. no. That’s it. This has got to stop. So I have a decoy.

Sitting on my dresser, in its small black box was an old diamond ring from a previous life. I kept it there with a ticket stub from Blood Diamond to remind me of the things other people sacrifice so we can live our lives of privilege. I hope the gentleman that gave it to me will forgive me for wearing it again, but that diamond ring is now on my left hand. And so far, it seems to be working!

I’ve been able to ride BART and the bus without anyone hollerin'. I did get a few comments walking from the ICP concert to the club where I met my roommate, but I realized my hand was covered up. And at the club, boy was I happy to have that ring.

Mr. Trizzle says he doesn’t even notice it, but I think things are different when you’re at a club or trying to holler. In those instances, your looking for clues, hints that let you know if the person is available or not. (Most of the time, not always.) So even though Mr. Trizzle and other people I see frequently might not notice, people at the club certainly did.

One guy I was dancing with asked, “where’s your husband?” I just smiled and said, “not here.” (Not exactly a lie, but not giving me away.) He walked away! Awesome. Another guy I was dancing with asked if I left my man at home. Someone else made a comment too, but I forgot what it was.

I managed to leave the club having danced with more people than I could count. I think my decoy contributed to that because it made it more likely I’d find the people who were just there to dance instead of the people who were trying to get someone to take home and would pick a target, pounce, and not let go.

We stayed at the club until closing (my roommate managed to lose his glasses off his face without realizing it and we had to wait ‘til the lights were on to look for the glasses, which we didn’t find.) I left without having given anyone my number or having anyone buy me a drink. I was very proud. My roommate was annoyed and said I was again being the epitome of everything he hates about women. Good.

The best part of the club was the guy who tried to buy me a drink. I had already ordered my water when he sauntered over to the bar. Seeing that the bartender was getting me something, he said, “make it 2” and tried to pay. I gave the bartender her tip and walked away chuckling as she tried to explain to the guy that there was nothing to pay for because it was just water. She was still trying when I came back for my refill. The guy was befuddled. I was highly amused.

The club was great, and my little decoy is making traveling around the Bay and going out much more bearable. It sure beats dressing skuzzy, which I was starting to think might be my next option.

(By the way, I think the only reason I attract more attention here than I’m used to is because I stick out above the tops of most crowds. I’m taller than the average out here and, unlike pretty much everyone else, I wear heels all the time.)

Pse Tlyde Pte and Other Funny Prefixes

The other day I was helping my new roommate, The Legend, move.  Well, I was trying to help.  However, The Legend is a guy, and being such, he had absolutely nothing packed, practically refused to use boxes, and when he did agree to use a box obstinately insisted that it was assembled correctly and was supposed to have wings.  (Really, it isn’t this difficult. plhhh, men.)

So basically, my helping consisted mostly of driving the car.  And waiting.  Waiting for him to scoop whatever mass of fibers, metal and who-knows-what off his floor and into giant bags.  While waiting, I discovered two wonderful things.  The first was the remote to his mother’s television.  This remote was the most ridiculous thing I had ever seen.  It was HUGE!  Practically as big as the tv screen itself.  It was so big, I assumed it was a toy and was quite surprised when my pushing the power button caused the television to turn on.

There was my second wonderful discovery, a PBS show called Dinosaur Train.  It’s a bout a family of Pteranodons, or something else I probably can’t pronounce, and their adopted T-Rex that hatched in their nest.  The family goes on different adventures on the Dinosaur Train, which allows them to time travel, too.  In this particular episode one of the young Pteranodons, Tiny, was upset because he lost his special place as the littlest to a microraptor the family visited via the Dinosaur Train.  I could sympathize with Tiny.  He felt about the little microrapter just like I did on Sunday about Mr. Trizzle and the Legend when they took away my job of organizing the packing in the moving truck.  We all need our special roles.  In the end, the littel microrapter and Tiny worked together to save the day.  (And Mr. Trizzle, the Legend and I worked together to pack the truck up nice.)  Oh, and I learned that “micro” means “small.” ;)

I really liked the show.  I kept wondering if Alfred would like it, too, since it’s about dinosaurs; or whether it would upset her because she’d be pointing out all the things wrong with it.  “A T-Rex egg wouldn’t just show up in a Pteranodon nest!” she’d say.  But the show made the Pteranodons travel through time on the Dinosaur Train in order to visit the microraptors (since the microraptors have wings and feathers, I’m assuming they are from a later time period), so Alfred should be pleased about that.  I got the show for my Zune, so maybe we can watch it together after Christmas.

Hallo Weeeeeeee Een

I wasn’t expecting to have a very fun or exciting Halloween.  After all, Mr. Trizzle was moving away that weekend, and there’s nothing fun about that.  But life is always full of surprises, and Halloween weekend turned out to be pretty great. …even with the depressing move.

Mr. Trizzle’s friend, The L E G E N ol (who, for sake of typing ease I’m just calling The Legend) needed help with his Halloween costume.  At the suggestion of Mr. Trizzle (who’s too good/lazy/busy for Halloween costumes), The Legend was dressing up as Rick Ross.

This is Rick Ross –> 

He’s a rapper from Miami. 

As you can see, The Legend needed a giant chain of his/Rick Ross’s face.  Enter goldenrail and a trip to Jo-Ann Fabrics.  (You know I’m always looking for excuses to go there.)

Several days and two bags of rhinestones later, Rick Ross appeared in our apartment.

As it turned out, Mr. Trizzle and I got to be Rick  Ross’s entourage for an exclusive party Friday night.  Neither of us had costumes, but that didn’t matter.  Mr. Trizzle just claimed Recession Halloween and my cute owls were festive enough.

But Halloween weekend didn’t just involve parties and moving boxes; it also included that staple of all Halloweens: pumpkin carving!!!!

On Saturday afternoon, my new friend came over to carve pumpkins.  He’s from Nigeria, so he’d never carved a pumpkin before.  (Pumpkins are food over there, not decorations.  Interestingly enough, that’s two years in a row I’ve had a Nigerian pumpkin carving day.)

He did one, and I did two, one for me and one for Daddy Bunny.  Daddy Bunny’s Grandma suggested he join in, but then remembered pumpkin carving is very messy and he doesn’t bath well.  So, Daddy Bunny designed his vampire bunny pumpkin, and I helped him out by carving it for him.  Here are our finished pumpkins.  (Unfortunately, since it was day time, you can’t tell they’re lit up.)

Sunday was moving day all day.  That wasn’t bad.  Though it was sad to say goodbye to Mr. Trizzle, I got to drive his car (with his awesome stereo) the two hours to Merced while he drove the moving truck.  Woo hoo for subwoofers!  Mr. Trizzle’s getting settled in now and we’re all excited for him and his new job.

 

 

photo credits: Rick Ross cc-by adroed availble at:  http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/g4Pn-KiGXT8h_0rxmZ47Kg)

The Legend as Rick Ross and Carved Pumpkins cc-by goldenrail

Group picture courtesy of The Legend’s facebook.

 

Birthday Boy’s Birthday Party

Last night was The Legend’s birthday party.  In a big improvement from last year, he actually showed up.  He arranged a fun night out at a club in San Francisco.  The party was small, but it was a good group of people.

It was a lot of fun.  Up until about midnight, maybe 12:30.  By then, people were starting to crash, hard and I had had it with being pushed, shoved, stepped on and generally assaulted.  (And Mr. Trizzle, don’t even give me the ‘battery vs. assault’ lecture.  I mean the word in the general everyday way, not the legal way.)

This club was very different from any I’d ever been to before in two ways.  First, I’ve never been in a club that packed.  Clubs with packed dance floors, yes.  But clubs where the whole place is so packed you can hardly stand still without being jostled, let alone wiggle a little bit, no.  I was starting to think Kunte Kinta had more personal space on the Lord Ligonier.

Second, I don’t think I have ever been in a club with so many white people!  Ok, maybe that’s not quite accurate because I’ve been in bigger clubs.  I guess what I mean is I don’t think I’ve ever been in a club with such a high percentage of white people.  Now, in general, a club full of dancing white people really isn’t a big deal.  However, this club was too full. 

You see, white people have this thing, especially common when the DJ plays their favorite hip hop songs, where they just have to do whatever is being talked about on the song.  This results in most of the room attempting to “back that *vampire* up,” “drop it,” or throw their arms up and jump at the same time.  Suddenly, all these people are taking up twice as much space as they were before because they’re bent over, squatting down or flailing around like maniacs.  Splendid.  Cuz I wasn’t getting shoved or pushed enough before.  Mr. Trizzle reprimanded me for throwing ‘bows, but 8ft-Red agreed it was a good move.

And yes, the DJ played quite a number of songs from that favorites list linked above.  He did a lot of weird stuff too, like playing the Beatles “Come Together” split up with Biggie’s “Hypnotize” so that it altered between the two.  He also took out the good dance beat in “Grillz” and replaced it with some weird electronica beat that did not match the cadence of the rap at all, but he left on the beat for “A Milli”!  That is the worst beat ever in the history of Lil Wayne and hip hop, and you sure as heck can’t dance to it.

Luckily, it seems The Legend doesn’t mind being bumped against or whatever.  (And I’m convinced guys really don’t know how annoying it is because they have almost no bare skin in the clubs, unlike girls.  So when that fat, sweaty girl brushes against their arms, they don’t even realize their shirt is all wet, whereas I’m left with a greasy arm and an overwhelming nausea caused by the gross violation of my body.)  The Legend was having tons of fun, chatting it up (in a club, I have no idea how!), dancing with girls, buying drinks for girls… oh wait, for himself because she disappeared… and generally having fun.  He was having so much fun, he didn’t even seem ready to leave when the club closed.  And that’s good, cuz it was his birthday.  Happy Birthday! :)

Buy Me Some Peanuts and Cracker Jacks

Sometimes Mr. Trizzle is so much like my daddy, it scares me. It’s not stuff I knew about, like not apparent when we started hanging out together. (My daddy does not listen to hip hop or wear grills.) In fact, when Mr. Trizzle and I met, probably the only thing I thought he had in common with my daddy was going to law school. But lately, daddy-like traits have been coming out of the woodwork!

Yesterday, Mr. Trizzle and I went to the A’s game (A’s vs. Giants in Oakland). We were late (not like my daddy) and I was a bit annoyed cuz I like baseball and I wanted the free McGuire jerseys. Oh well. We met up with Mr. Trizzle’s friends, including The Legend, and were enjoying the game. Then, in the sixth inning, Mr. Trizzle turns to me and says he wants to go soon cuz he wants to beat the traffic. We took BART! So like my daddy.

Daddy once made us leave a tied Bucks game in overtime so he could get out of the parking garage easier. Chances are, if you go to a sporting event with Daddy, you will be leaving before it’s officially over. Apparently, the same goes for Mr. Trizzle.

Mr. Trizzle was feeling generous last night though and we stayed until the 7th inning stretch so I could sing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” (no polka songs). Then we left.

No peanuts or cracker jacks, but I did have a snowcone and cotton candy. By the time I got home, I felt like my teeth were going to fall out!

By the way. The A’s have these three guys dressed as dots that race during one of the breaks. Colored dots are so not as cool as running sausages. ;)

HO(me) Up, G’s Down

Fried chicken for breakfast? Yup. Fried chicken that’s so good you have to call the restaurant, not to reserve your table, but to reserve your chicken. Mr. Trizzle took The Legend out for breakfast to thank him for helping us unload my truck. I tagged along with them to Jodie’s, a local legend restaurant. One of the closest things to Southern Food you’ll find up here. My very spicy eggs were pretty darn good, and very cheesy. :)

We enjoyed our fabulously unique breakfast out on the sunny sidewalk. (Thank you Bay weather for cooperating and making it gorgeous today!) Chatted a bit with Jodie. Watched Mr. Trizzle run into a guy he went to HS with who’s now in law school and interning at a firm founded by a Vandy alum. Watched The Legend and some random girl try to figure out if they knew each other and fail. Fun times had by all. If you're ever in the Bay Area (ahem, Mary Ruth) I suggest you check out Jodie’s!

After breakfast, Mr. Trizzle and I went out to play house: laundry mat, grocery shopping. We have laundry in our building, but the one washing machine seems to have a special fondness for big fluffy things. It’s already chewed up over $200 worth of bedding. I wasn’t feeding it anymore. Especially not my quilts made by Mommy and Grandma. So, we packed up the rest of the bedding and the few other things that didn’t get washed earlier in the week and headed to the laundry mat.

I was a little apprehensive about going to the laundry mat. I mean, I already know so many Matts; I didn’t really want to meet a new one. Plus, I’ve always thought of laundry mats as scary, sketchy places for one of two types of people: poor people (I am poor, but I don’t want to be that poor, yet) and lonely old people who have no one to care for them (and by old, in this sense, I mean like 40).

The laundry mat had some of those people and some others. I guess it was ok, but I’m still a little weirded out by taking your dirty laundry out in public. It’s generally all balled up and in some sort of bag or basket so people don’t really see it. But then, when you start folding it there, everybody can see everything. This also greatly creeps me out. I’m glad the bedding’s washed. The washing machine in our apartment complex doesn’t seem to like the taste of regular clothes, no chewing there.

Grocery shopping was great fun, as always. For people with such different diets, I think we do a remarkably good job of making meals and buying groceries. Daddy would almost be proud of me, we saved 26% by using the in-store flyer to get things on sale. And, I’ve started saving coupons at home. :D

After our errands were done, we rested for a bit and then attacked the massive disaster in the back room. It’s looking pretty good now. Mr. Trizzle got a long, plasticy, table to serve as a desk and go his office part of the room all arranged like, well, like an office. Once that was done, I was able to get to my side of the room. I finally have a sewing table instead of a big mound of stuff. Soon, we will have curtains! There’s still a few things out of place - pens without a pen holder, random boxes - so no pictures yet.

A very good, productive, yet fairly relaxing Saturday. Oh yeah, and there was an earthquake, centered in El Cerrito!

Tutor Tuesday

I mentioned in an earlier post that we had an official BLSA event this week tutoring.  BLSA used to do a weekly event called Tutor Tuesdays, but I never went.  A 1L, not knowing we used to do this, organized it again, so I decided to go.

The tutoring is part of an after-school program called YES.  The elementary students do activities earlier in the afternoon, and by the pictures on the wall, I guess they go on field trips sometimes, too.  When we arrived they were getting ready for study time.  They each had a folder of special center work.  They're suposed to do a certain amount of work from the folder and then they get a treat of getting to read a story book from the bookshelves.

I sat at a table with My Rhyming Twin, which confused the heck out of the girls at our table, because of the whole rhyming thing.  One of them was convinced we were sisters.  (She also wouldn't believe my braids aren't my hair.)  That girl was in 5th grade, and despite being a bit of a bully and full of attitude, managed to do some work with My Rhyming Twin. 

My girl made me feel hopeless.  She was in third grade and just kept saying she couldn't do anything.  I tried to get her to read, but she couldn't read anything over 3 letters long.  We tried sounding out words, but she couldn't do that either.  Plus, she was constantly getting up, going to get a book, turning pages and putting check-marks on everything.  There were girls like that in my classes in grade school; by the time they were 16, they had kids and drug habits.

Despite her not wanting to work at all, the girl kept talking about how much she liked going to the center.  It made me wonder if she just didn't want to go home.  She was only one of two white children at the center, and she ran right up to my table when she got in the room.  I was kind of curious why she came right up to me, but I didn't ask.  Maybe it was because I was only one of two white volunteers (the other was a middle-aged man).  In any case, it made me feel, for once in my life, like my skin had something to offer.

Most of the time I was sitting there (trying to figure out what to do with this girl), I was thinking about The Legend.  They must have programs like this in the East Bay, and this seems like exactly what he needs.  A job doing anything that pays something, and then a place to volunteer and work with kids the rest of the time.  He would have known what to do with that girl.  I was completely at a loss.

Fear of a Black (with) Hat?

In case you haven't been following along for the last couple of months, I live in Africa.  Everyday, everywhere I go, I am surrounded by black people.  This is not the first time I've lived in Africa, and I also spend plenty of time at home around black people.

Hold on.

I'm not going to go into one of those so-see-I'm-not-racist tirades that often come after someone explains that they have a black friend or two.  I am just trying to explain that I am used to walking down the street and seeing black people, and they don't scare me.  Not saying not racist, just saying not scared.  Got it?

Ok, still think I'm heading down some sort of racist/prejudiced path?  Maybe I am - and that's the problem.  That's why I'm writing this.

The other day I was walking to an American-styled (and priced!) internet cafe on the other side of town.  It's about an hour walk down some pretty busy streets.  I passed lots of people, people carrying things on their heads, people pushing wheel barrows of sugar cane, couples out walking, groups of friends, and the occasional chicken (actual poultry with feathers and stuff).  Some people I greeted, some people I just passed, but mostly, if their presence affected me, it was because a greeting had made me smile.  Even though it was dusk and these were all strangers, I wasn't scared.  I was just walking.

Then, something happened. As I headed up one of the last main   streets, I saw a man wearing a stocking cap approaching my path.  Immediately, my heart started pounding.  My eyes darted around, looking for an escape route.  My legs wanted to freeze and run at the same time.  My body was automatically going into panic mode, adrenaline was flowing.

All these reactions happened before my mind had a chance to think.  Something had triggered my flight-or-fight mechanism.  Luckily for me (and probably for the guy, too), my mind quickly regained control, and I kept walking towards the cafe.

But as my heart started to calm down, my brain started going.  Why did seeing a black man in a stocking cap cause such immediate (and irrational) fear?  Would I have reacted the same way if he had been any other race?  Am I afraid of knit hats?  Maybe just headwear in general?

Clearly, I didn't react that way to anyone who looked similar but wasn't wearing a stocking cap.  I have to admit that I really doubt that just anyone wearing a stocking cap would make my heart race like that.  And I know that seeing people I know, of any color, in a stocking cap doesn't scare me.  It has to be something about the combination.  But why?  What has programmed my body to fear stranger+black+stocking cap so strongly?

Thinking back to an account by one of my friends, I can only comfort myself with the fact that I'm not the only person with irrational fears.  Great comfort. :-/

At least this made me laugh:

"Are the majority of black people messed up or is it just where I live?

I live in Oakland, California..."

(Well The Legend, that may explain why that Asian lady yelled at you...)

[*Fear of a Black Hat; Photo from http://blogs.kansascity.com/crime_scene/robberies/index.html]

Half Full, Half Empty, or Twice as Big as It Needs to Be

In keeping with my recent topic of how different people have different perspectives (see How People See Others), I would like to offer for your comparison, two different discourses by two different people on the same topic. Feel free to read in either order.

First, my entry on a friend who missed his own birthday party. At the time of writing this, I had not yet learned that he had gone home to take a nap and just didn't wake up 'til about 10:30 the next morning. A Different Kind of Surprise Party.

Second, his entry on people's reactions. Thin Ice.

I am very interested to hear other people's take on the differences in perspective, so please leave a little indian below.

[Other discussions about different points of view:
Looking Through Rose-Colored Glasses or Tinted Windows
Do Those Boxes have a Purpose
An Outsider's Perspective after 1 Week in the East Bay]

A Different Kind of Surprise Party

I went to my friend's birthday party last night. It wasn't a surprise party for the birthday boy; it turned out to be a surprise for us. He knew about the party. He arranged the party. He invited the people. He was in charge of bringing the alcohol. But, surprise! He never came. Well, at least not by the time I left at midnight.

People warned me, people that have known him a lot longer than me. (Technically he's the best friend of my good friend, but I figure I've hung out with and talked to him enough to call him a friend.) The party was supposed to start at 8pm, so I was planning to go then. But my good friend warned me not to count on that. By twenty after six, no one had heard from the birthday boy, not even the girl who was hosting the party. At 7:30, a mass text:

"Sorry i haven't been in touch... Been a long day. Everything's on for tonight but i probably won't be there til after 9."

'That's a new one,' I thought, 'how you gonna be late to your own birthday party?' By 9:30, he still wasn't there. It's common for him to be late, and other people I know where starting to gather at the house, so I figured I'd head over anyway about 9:45. After a little trouble finding the place, I made an entrance to the sound of "Oh your not ----." Nope, I'm not. My good friend was already there, as well as some people I know from watching his basketball games and from the surprise birthday party he had for me last time I was in the Bay. It was all good, and I figured birthday boy would show up any moment.

Three entrances and several phone calls later, the party had grown. Still no birthday boy. No call, no text, nothing. His birthday pie was nearly gone. There was no alcohol, and the only food in the house was cereal. About half the group headed for Safeway. (You can buy alcohol here after 9pm.) My friend and I decided it was time to go. He has to study all day tomorrow, and I have church. The remaining people began playing some card games. It was the lamest birthday party I have ever been to. It may even have been worse than the pool party we had once where only 1 person came.

I think I have more patience than most when it comes to dealing with friends, with relying on them and having things fall through, with losing touch, with flake outs. But I'm already getting to a point where I don't want to bother, where I don't think it's worth my time to try calling or emailing him. I've only been here a month!

The worst part is, something really terrible could have happened to the birthday boy, and no one would know. Apparently, he does stuff like this all the time. Says he's going and shows two hours late, if at all. Disappears into the abyss of disconnected cell phones and no email. What do you do with someone like that?