“She’s been hurting you and I,” I heard recently.

It’s not the nature of the statement. Nor the hurt. But it’s the last three words that bother me.

Lately, I have been hearing people using I incorrectly. Where it’s supposed to be me like she’s been hurting me.

I am not quite sure whether I want to reach into the television and slap people. Or whether at a party, I want to reach across the table and get a swift kick. Or walk up to the podium in front of 1000 people and speak into the microphone that he meant you and me.

I hope it doesn’t become natural slang.

Rarely is there something that kills my day. But the thing that does is simply allergies.

Once my nose starts running like a leaky faucet. There is nothing more. My nose is itchy. My eyes watery. I want to lie down and disappear, wishing the uncomfortable feeling to go away.

And yet, I have been having horrible hay fever ever since I was a teenager. Coping is all that I can do.

I remember distinctly one of my birthdays at Chevys where they gave me a Mexican hat. My nose was drippy and I couldn’t see straight as the waiters sang happy birthday to me. I smiled despite some sneezes in succession.

In high school, I became smart and would carry portable kleenex with me. Yet, there were times that I was stranded without any. And in a stage where I feared getting out of my seat to go to the restroom, I would put my head on my arm on my desk—trying to hide the fact that I was letting my runny nose be soaked up by my sleeve.

But with this Chinese diligence running through me, I have rarely put aside days because of allergies. I would drown my sorrows through kleenex and medications that only worked 50% of the time. Then I would lie down with a wet towel on my face, in hopes that humidity would cure my ailment.

And today, as I worked on the farm, it acted up again. My nose ran. I went through half of my portable kleenex. And the sneezing…letting my lungs ache. But I charged on, weeding the corn and the squash. Looking back, it was ridiculous. But I kept everything to myself. It was the best I could do.

On Thursday, I took the caltrain to 4th and King. Upon arrival, I swung out the doors and walked rapidly to the bus stop. I followed a man with a briefcase and a frantic look on his face. He was on the phone, yelling almost…I am coming, I am coming…

I gave the bus driver my token and he handed me a transfer. Walking down the aisle, I looked at my transfer. Only 9:00 PM. I hesitated. Was that only an hour? No it was two hours.

At Sutter and Kearny, I got off, spotting a bus coming up behind. The 3! I rushed over, worried that like a few muni drivers would leave me behind. I felt guilty once I got to the door, knowing that I was behaving like self-entitled yuppies.

I took a seat in the back—usually a rare instance because the back of the buses I take often are populated by the alcoholics and the druggies. But this was the 3. We went through Nob HIll and I felt yet another twang of guilt as we went past Cafe Andree. It was empty, devoid of any Dine About Town participation. Then I saw a Japanese place, completely packed, so unlike the restaurant my sister and I went to Wednesday.

A talkative woman sat next to me. Her friend, also a dyed redhead, sat across from her. They made obvious comments, talked about the event they were attending, called the other attendees.

Then a heavyset man sat next to me. I was holding my hands in my preferred position, with my hands almost in a pseudo-handshake, almost hugging myself. It was my non-confrontational version of arms crossed. The man spilled into my seat, but my unflinching elbows jabbed his sides. After a moment, he moved to the row behind me.

I arrived at Fillmore and got off. I found SPQR easily. It was 7:12 pm. It was still early. I resisted the temptation to make a phone call, because it would not make a difference. I glanced around for a grocery store to prepare food for both Friday and Sunday, but did not see any. Only the large gleaming displays of Kenneth Cole, Japanese-imported makeup, and home designer furniture.

Eventually, I put my name on the list inside SPQR, almost ready that they would reject me for not having my entire party present. But they didn’t, happy to take my name in consideration. I had to let another party of 4 go ahead of me…but there was no angered rays of this is an inconsiderate customer. But…I paced slightly. Three buses passed by, heading north. The 22. The 3. Where was he?

I stretched my head trying to see if he was in the incoming 22. No he wasn’t. Just only a man dressed with a sports jacket and a pair of mismatching pants. Then 10 minutes later, another 22 came. There I saw him. His back to me, he was facing the exit. Ready. I craned my neck, waving…trying to get his attention.

He sensed me and saw me. His face immediately lit up. I was giddy again. I counted the time that it would take for him to disembark, cross the street and meet me. I spotted him finally walking down. I waved again. And like it always happens, he would speed up his pace. From a regular walk into a jog, then a run…a desperate run…that said he didn’t want to waste any more time being alone.

“I think that I want to live in Nob Hill, Russian Hill or North Beach,” someone would say. “Those seem like really cool areas.”

Then slowly deep scorn would pass across my face. I am not sure why there is some kind of derision. The kind that expresses my belief this person is ignorant…and yet I allow myself to be so narrow-minded.

This is not to say that I completely and utterly love the Mission. In fact, there are times that I have thought to move out. But I keep the sharp tongue in and suggest that Potrero Hill, Mission and Noe Valley are all great places.

When looking for apartments, I saw a large room with an included parking space in the Western Addition/Fillmore District. The roommates had lived there for a little over a year. When I told them that I was temporarily working in the Mission, one of them offered to pick me up.

He said, “Oh, I work near there! You mean 2nd and Mission?”

I narrowed my eyes slightly and said over the phone “No it’s in the Mission, you know like 22nd and Mission. That area…”

“I don’t know where that is…”

The room was huge and space was ample. The rent was surprisingly cheap. The roommates were normal except for one thing. They did not know anything outside their neighborhood and where they worked.

One said, “I went to the Mission once. A friend took me there. It was weird.”

There are people I still meet like that. The kind that don’t show interest in knowing their city. I don’t claim that I am a Mission-ite, never leaving this neighborhood. I go out to the Sunset and Richmond regularly. But then there are the classic San Francisco neighborhoods. The kind where I think people are trapped inside their hills, their apartments. At least it’s not as worse as the Soma apartments near the caltrain and ballpark where they think that a city means to live near Panera, Safeway and Borders. “I love living here,” they say as they drink coffee from Seattle’s Best and a sandwich from Asqew Grill.

Nobody else I know likes to detail our day like lists.

Things like:

The names and roles of all the people I met in Las Vegas
The buffet restaurants that I ate at Las Vegas
The reasons that [insert person’s name] is annoying (one reason: he spits when he talks)
The restaurants I like in San Francisco
The ice cream places in San Francisco
The flavors if ice cream (that I like)
The best streets to park on in the Mission
The people I know in San Francisco
The people I know in New York City and how I know them
The cities I have been to in the East Coast
The last things I must do before moving across country

“I have never met your roommate. Do you have one?” one person would say.

“You never talk about your roommate so I never thought you had one,” a coworker once mentioned.

And in response, I only say as if most people never entered my foreign world, “That’s the way it is.”

In the late summer of 2006, I decided that I could no longer live at home. The excitement of the city and the potential serendipity was only there…not caught in the suburbs 25 miles away. So after 2 months of failure from being set up with a roommate to interviewing for room shares, I decided that I wanted to find a place on my own terms.

Out of all the roommate flakeage and disappointments, I decided that I couldn’t keep interviewing. I wanted it my way. On craigslist, I wrote a simple ad:

Looking for a roommate or room

I described myself—my so-called long hours, my preferences (I did not want cable TV), my budget, my living style. Then I waited.

I got a response from a place in Glen Park. Then a 30 year old African American male. And a few people who were relocating across country sight unseen. Then I got an email from a 26 year old guy who was in a similar situation as me, living at the parents’ house locally, but wanted to move to the city. He picked me up from work and we had a quick dinner at Dolores Park Cafe.

My most important question was What are your pet peeves?

I said mine was an empty toilet roll paper and time left on the microwave. He said that he wanted the toilet seat cover down.

At the end of the dinner, I remember saying like one might say at the end of the interview, “We’ll be in touch.”