I finished a long shower at my usual late night time. Around 11 pm, because I have trouble going to sleep if I can’t feel clean. This way I never have conflict with my roommate because he showers in the morning and sleeps early (my room is the one next to the bathroom).

So in my bathrobe, I decided to walk to the kitchen to toss my empty shampoo bottle in recycling. As I spin around the corner, I realize that there’s someone there on the living room couch. I catch my breath, pausing around the corner. I glance at my roommate’s room. It’s dark. Holding my breath, I turn around the corner and say, “Hey.”

She struggles out in a small voice, “Are you done? Bathroom.”

She was wearing a single black dress. Her legs curled under her as she read a book in dimly lit living room.

“Oh yeah sure,” I reply quickly dropping off my shampoo bottle and heading back to my room.

“So you have no chicken right…so uh…egg, tomatoes…no cheese,” I started saying.

“No cheese?? We require that all crepes have cheese!” he bellowed out to me.

I was slightly frightened and scanned the list again for a combination with no cheese. So I changed my approach, “What do you recommend with no cheese?”

“You must have cheese!” he said.

I let silence fill the void, blinking in uncertainty—but I don’t like cheese maybe I’ll just follow his recommendation. Then he interrupted my thought process, “Oh you don’t need to have cheese. I was just joking.”

“Oh…ok. Then onions, tomatoes, eggs. No mushrooms. No hot sauce.” I stiffened for a moment hoping he wouldn’t rebuke me.

He started making the eggs. I wanted to say Please don’t make them too scrambled, but was afraid of another joke at my expense.

He apologized as he handed me a completed crepe, “Here you go Mademoiselle. Sorry to have given you a hard time.”

“Sorry, I couldn’t help but be picky.”

I have a bad habit.

I nearly never finish any meal.

Any leftovers, I stretch it out to a day, 2 days, or sometimes 3 days. I plan as the meal arrives, almost unconsciously. I will eat only half of the rice. Eat only 3 pieces of the chicken so I will have something to eat tomorrow. Maybe this will go good with some pasta…and more seasoning…

Last weekend, I got the pork chop with sweet potatoes. The hunk of meat was so big. I started taking bites, cutting with a knife. As I reached the middle, by habit I started portioning. One small serving of sweet potatoes. One small serving of the pork chop. I automatically started thinking of how I would ask for a to-go container—would it be Styrofoam? Aluminum? Waxed paper box?

But I had to reel myself back. I was at a wedding after all.

I now know.

To not come in between them.

And suddenly I actually felt a sense of pride and success. Pulling out ivy.

Chris loves sawing, calling TIMBER, and carrying logs.

I like yanking.

It surprisingly gave a sense of achievement unlike the hedonist lifestyle I was leading of food and shopping. We really did feel better after helping out at the Golden Gate Park Lloyd Lake Restoration sponsored by One Brick.

In both high school and college, I was required to do community service. Why hasn’t that requirement traveled forward?

Next up: 9/20 Coastal Cleanup.

Every so often, he has a twinkle in his eye. Just like the ice cream trickery to the front row at the US open. I have hold back my usual habit of i can’t ask…i can’t ask such a question habit. In some sense, I wouldn’t lose anything by asking (except my dignity whenever I think of the situation). But if you don’t try?!

Some tips and tricks:

Blame someone else for doing something you didn’t intend to do.
Getting a free caltrain ride (although I got yelled at) for an unredeemed ride. I said that a friend told me that I could do it. Basically, it wasn’t me. It was someone else!

Don’t show any insecurity. Believe that it was valid!
Using a $8.50 movie pass for a single ticket of the nearly sold out IMAX showing of The Dark Knight. Unfortunately, I had read pages and pages of how it was a YMMV deal. I spent time drafting an counterargument to “Sorry we don’t accept that” when the guy just nonchalantly took my pass and gave me a ticket to the IMAX showing.

Say you belong there. Make up plausible stories. Speak in a foreign language. Dress the part. Lock the door.
And of course, the infamous night how we got box seats at the San Francisco War Memorial Opera House.

We lost our cellphones after the opera and came up with a plausible story so that we could not only check the ground floor, the box seats and the top tier…in the end, it turned out to be ok.

“Can I sit there?” he motioned to the seat next to me. I was already taking up three seats at the back of the bus when I plopped down with my grocery bags. Nodding, I shifted my bag over.

“I am glad I am not fat,” he said conversationally, a faint breath of alcohol. Or was it alcohol-laced cologne? He looked like a laborer. Probably going home from work. Service? Janitorial? That’s the type of people usually on the 49. He squeezed into the empty seat.

I looked straight ahead and nodded, letting thoughts of cooking my chicken tortilla soup wash over me. Black beans. Chopped green chiles. Saute the garlic and onion first. Medium saucepan.

“Are you from China?” he asked. I tensed. Despite growing up in a world lacking of racism, I had a habit of regarding the question…as an ignorant question especially when asked as introductory question. People around us gave a slight casual curious look.

“No,” I said and continued looking straight ahead watching for my street. The bus filled up when we got to 16th and Mission, but despite that I didn’t shift over and still sat next to the man.

“Korea? Japan?” he guessed.

Feeling a little sympathy, I bluntly said in American English, “No, I am from here.”

He looked at me and sensed my reluctance. “Are you from China?”

I paused while the bus rumbled and then said without making eye contact, “No I am from here.”

He laughed, “China eh? You’re Chinese!! Just trying to make conversation!”

“American. I am American.”

We were silent for a moments. Then he continued, “What’s your name?”

Pausing for a moment, I decided that my name was common enough that I wasn’t losing anything. I gave it to him. Chuckling, he said and extended his hand, “Oh you probably didn’t give me your real name!!! Well, I am Walter!”

I gave a light grasp almost just touching his fingers and shook his hand. Guilt washed over me for not being friendly. As the bus approached 23rd street, I pulled the cord. “Oh so this is where you live!!! Nice talking to you!”

And then I walked out in the once warm now chilly summer night.