Thinking that it was a work colleague calling me after 6 pm on a Friday evening, I picked up the 415 number.

“Hello?” I said.

“This is Scott,” the voice said. At least I thought he said Scott.

“Um okay…” I said, at that moment thinking which Scott it was. Maybe it was a former colleague from a startup asking for help.

“Hi Jennifer?”

“Um, Scott who?” I said.

“Garrett, [my friend’s name]’s ex.”

“Oh,” I said and completely regretted picking up.

“Today the divorce was finalized,” the voice continued. “17 years wasted.”

For the next 40 minutes, I regretted picking up. There are some days that I wish that I didn’t have this desire to help. I wish that I was more cold. I also wished that I didn’t enjoy confrontation. All those mixture of feelings led to this ridiculous amount of time plus the fact that I feared for my friend’s safety.

“I am so sorry,” my friend said later after I told her what had transpired.. “Block the number.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “I should stop picking up unknown numbers.”

People talking on the phone while in the bathroom. The conversation enters into the bathroom was if nothing’s changed. Somehow flushing the toilet is accomplished. It’s unknown how one does it with one hand. Maybe it’s done on a headset. Maybe it’s just whispers into the unknown.

So according to recent news, it’s obscene. It’s rude. But is it akin to walking around naked with a disregard for any self-respect? Or does it harm others? To have witnessed going to the bathroom.

The conversation continues as if there’s no break. No need to call out the flushing. No need to call out the sound of the water flying about. It keeps going. Because the context doesn’t matter. The actual conversation will continue. Through the excretion. Whether it’s number one or number two. Through the flush. Through the flick of the faucet on. Then the soapy hands (how does one wash both hands? is it just one?). Then the rinsing. Then the faucet off. Toweling. Open door.

How is this even achievable to a level of valuable conversation?

For the record, I would put down the phone—whether it’s a phone call, Google Hangout, etc. Because I care too much about the phone (I swear that it would drop into the toilet or shatter into pieces on the tiled bathroom floor). It’s not that I care about the person on the other end. But it’s just known to me that the bathroom is my sacred place. For you know, only 5 minutes away from all prying eyes and curious ears.

Health insurance is not meant to be follow-up phone calls about why this and that isn't covered. Health insurance is about a peace of mind.

— Jennifer Ng (@jennism) March 21, 2017

Sometimes I think when people say healthcare is broken, it’s really about this. It’s about the cost that so many of us have to go through to get quality care.

Also customer service. When I speak to customer service as I did today, my language is devoid of any cursing or high volume. I speak in an even tone, as if I was explaining a concept to a student. But in it all, I said the words “I am disappointed” and asked “how can you help me?” But at some point out of frustration, I couldn’t help but say, “So it seems like incompetence has surfaced here. I don’t you as a representative have incentives to help your customers.”

What happened to: “I hear what you’re saying. I understand how frustrating it can be. I would feel the same way as you do.”

None in this case.

The house is warm, I think, as I climb the stairs. I push open my door and dump my bag onto the ground. I breathe and momentarily I am distracted. Put away clothes. Check email. Check phone. Drink water. Check plants. Water plants.

Oh time to take shower.

As I change into my robe, the furnace roars on and the warm air rushes out. I step into the bathroom across the cool tile and shower.

I know how it will be like and prepare myself when I re-enter my room. It’s certainly warm and my body has absorbed the heat from the shower. I push the buttons on my air purifier. Within minutes, the air is cooler and in my mind, I believe that the air is magically cleaner.

I put away my clothes. Then I hear the steps move across the hallway. Then back. The door closes and it’s the time. I open my door and tiptoe to the control panel. SEVENTY DEGREES. A post-it nearby says “65 DEGREES PLEASE. IT SAVES ENERGY.” No matter, I toggle the programs to check which program is running. The thermostat is set to 65 degrees, but the apartment is set at 70. I push the button around now it won’t turn unless the temperature drops to 60 degrees.

I feel a rise inside me as I think about the rising power costs.

No matter at all. Last Friday, I was scolded for people who can’t live 60 degrees or below because they will suffer. We won’t suffer, I guarantee it. We’re all young and healthy. You didn’t show me your blue hands. So you don’t have it. But just say so.

I didn’t like the assignment that much—the idea of going up to strangers and asking them if they want to sign up for a mailing list. But I did it anyway, because it was my assignment. After all, my goal was to support organizations dedicated to social causes.

Our “team” was of 4 people or so. Each of us were given a FAQ prior to the event which I read thoroughly and printed it out.

“Do we have a pitch?” I said.

“Oh I think that people will just say whatever they want.”

I grimaced, knowing exactly how that would go. Partly because I didn’t quite trust people to know how to involve people, make them feel empowered, and engage them at the right level. But instead, I shoved my distrust aside and just smiled, saying some words that I would say.

So with all the experiences I had in establishing rapport for user research, I dragged out the extrovert and approached people. All at once, with the first ten people, I chatted up people. Complimented their signage. Created a safe space where they could opt in freely without any pressure. Set expectations of the email message and/or text message frequency. And most of all, thank them them for showing up.

Interestingly, although it wasn’t a competition, I was able to garner more than 10. Credit, yes, for myself. But I thought about this—my most hated type of job to beg for support. And yet, success did arrive nonetheless. But I hope at least this wouldn’t be everything that I would need to do.

Last Friday, after a very successful phone call, I crawled outside my bathroom window onto an ledge that is surrounded by a wall of my building, the bathroom window, my room’s window and the wall of the neighboring building…and a small opening that overlooks the alley between my building and the neighboring building. In short, it’s an useless area that the architect decided to include so that all rooms could have a window.

It’s also an area where pigeons love to perch and coo ridiculously. And…with the recent torrential rains, rainwater collected. A few weeks ago, I had Chris roll the pigeon eggs out of the nest, just a few inches. Then two weeks later after I removed the eggs (and hilarity ensued), rainwater collected into a massive puddle.

Several years ago, I experienced an infestation of no-see-ums. I didn’t know where they came from. Mosquitos? In the cold San Francisco? I knew my window was not fully secure with its single panel of glass. And I knew that they loved standing water. Yet where would that standing water be?

Of course, in this alcove after I started kicking the pigeons out.

I went outside with a broom from the garage. In my waterproof hiking boots, I swept the water off the alcove onto the alleyway below. Swish swish. With satisfaction, I heard the drops of water splash onto the concrete, the hard splatter of water, and the drip of a wall that was still wet. I emptied out at least 7/8 of the puddle until I found the culprit which I removed with a gloved hand. Debris clogged up the drain and soon, the water swirled into the pipe until there was no water left.

I hastily climbed back up through the bathroom window, awkwardly crossing my legs and trying my best not to bring dirt inside by removing the boots. Then once inside, I pulled the broom out and ran downstairs to the garage, trying my best not to drip water, and returned the broom to its position in the garage standing against the tall chest.

Later, in the alleyway, I saw the door rug moved aside for the puddles to dry.

In the most awkward conversation possible despite the crazy recent PR issues, the female recruiter said this after hearing my emphasis on about what I was seeking (mission-driven company that aims to support underserved communities):
“So how about Uber? You seem to know a lot of people there.”

Needless to say, I was shocked.

Over the weekend, I worried about recent reports about how customs / immigration at the border to the US would be investigating social media accounts.

“You’ll have to be careful when you come back from Asia,” I said to my sister, warnings for their trip to Thailand, Hong Kong and other Asian countries. “You might want to delete the social media apps from your phone before entering Customs. Then put them back on when you exit the airport.”

“What really?” he said.

“Yes!” Chris added. “There was a report of a JPL employee being held at the border and he was forced to surrender his phone. The phone was JPL property, NASA’s work with confidential information.”

“And! He is a US citizen.” I said.

“Well, I mean, I don’t have a weird name like Ala-bar-kah,” he said. “Nobody will look at my name.”

We paused. “Well, he did have an Indian name,” Chris said.

“You might have to worry about my sister,” I said. “Her last name, after all, isn’t necessarily American. Plus they’re cracking down on the Chinese entering the US.”

This morning, my sister sent me a snapchat story from CNN outlining the facts about mobile device surrender at the border.

I am in a bubble of my own making, self-created from my college and postgraduate education. Then of course, living in one of the most expensive cities in the United States, plus my love of not shopping at big box stores (except for Costco) and refusing to watch mainstream TV. I am in my own bubble of liberals freaking out about everything. Because I am one of them too. (You see my calm exterior, but inside I am a big ball of messiness.)

But with all the recent events in the White House and the things overseas, is it possible? Or have we accepted, like my parents have, that there’s nothing we can do? Of course, there’s the phone calls, donations, etc. etc., but are we defeated?

Or with the recent events, is it pretty straightforward from here?

Straightforward from here:
1. Impeach Trump & Pence
2. Constitutional crisis
3. Call special election
4. Ryan v Clinton
5. President Clinton

— Sally Kohn (@sallykohn) February 15, 2017

For me, I know this:
1. Massive stuff happens in the White House that I pretend to understand and freak out all about
2. Have another “life” crisis, which on average lasts about 16 months
3. Write and submit another “Modern Love” essay trying to tie the analogy of the American presidential chaos to my life
4. Get rejected and moan (quietly) about it a year
5. Better president in the white house

Nearly an hour had passed, but I was deeply engaged in a conversation with friends about the plights of the world and particularly my strong opinions as we waited in line for a super popular ramen restaurant that had seats for just over 25 people. Who knows what I was being cynical about—whether it was the state of the world (not great) or about whether we should fight back in mugging (consensus: yes, of course while evaluating personal safety, and if the girl with you is deeply appalled, she probably wasn’t the right one anyway). It was chilly so I had the hood of my wool jacket on, hovering near the restaurant windows like a skulking pedestrian. Then we heard the sound of glass shattering. I felt something hit my head—hard, but not that hard because it felt like someone’s hand just smacking my head for attention. But like all my moments of unexpected events, I froze like a deer in headlights.

We looked up to see a shattered window. Being that we were in the tenderloin and in an urban city, the first thing that crossed mind was a fight. A fight that as a voyeur, I wanted to see. But it wasn’t. It was a woman who was trying to open her second-story window of her apartment. It was stuck, so she put some elbow grease and leaned her elbow against the glass. The window frame didn’t budge, but the glass did and it cut her hand.

I felt quite conscious and very alive—although it was later that I fell into an anxiety of whether I could have died as a silly foodie waiting over an hour just to eat ramen customized for San Francisco with kale.

“Everyone okay?” someone said.

I touched my face to make sure that I was okay.

Stunned, we all stepped aside from the glass. Someone pointed to a guy’s face where he was bleeding. “Get some antiseptic!” someone yelled into the crowded restaurant.

A server came outside to sweep the glass. The couple came downstairs to explain the situation. The woman said that they needed to go the hospital. And the guy insisted that if we wanted to sue anyone, we better get the information of his landlord. “I told him for months that our window wouldn’t open,” he said. “It must be the weather that made the glass swell.”

“Your eyelid,” a friend said. “It’s bleeding.”

“Is it?” I said and touched it.

“Go to the bathroom and check,” Chris said.

So I reluctantly dragged myself inside the restaurant. “Sorry,” I said opening the bathroom to find the other bleeding guy staring at the mirror and dabbing his face with a towel. “I am just checking whether I am bleeding.”

I stared at the mirror and just saw a small speck, barely noticeable. Later, after I took a shower, the blood swept away and I couldn’t even find the source of the cut at all.

We carefully brushed the glass shards off ourselves, shaking our jackets and sweatshirts. “Are you okay?” a friend asked again.

The guy told everyone below to move away from the window as he cleaned out all the remaining glass. The woman said, “Wear gloves!”

And we watched as more glass shards fell, crashing onto the pavement below.

I didn’t know how I was supposed to feel. Grateful? Numb? Apathetic? Angry? Sad? But surprisingly as we sat down, I was overcome with a feeling of coincidence. I am one of those people who can’t help but click on click-baity headlines. I will read “Ten ways people died from a freak accident including one you never expect”. I have read all of them. The fallen tree during the storm that crushed a woman on a golf course. Then there are the miracles. The time the large screws or metal objects fell from the temporary Bay Bridge, but miraculously didn’t hit any cars. I thought about an irrational fear lately which is being T-boned as a passenger or driver of a car. I echoed all of this suddenly to a friend whose father experienced a debilitating disease and his dog likely diagnosed with brain cancer. “I have been thinking of that too,” he said.

What if a large glass shard had fallen and hit my head with its sharp point? What if? I worried that I could be on tip of losing my mind as I had watched a friend lose his grip on reality after a traumatic bike accident? I didn’t want to be the person who was consumed with anxiety of living a regular life. “That’s dangerous,” that friend said, his voice rising in desperate anxiety.

There are moments that I have felt in the past year where I think that I could stare at home all day. I’ll be fine right here in my bed. I’ll be fine just eating the same thing from my refrigerator. And yet, I would miss the thrill of life right outside. I live in the city not because I am an extroverted person, requiring people all the time. But I deeply enjoy the convenience. The fact that people are outside within reach. I hear the roar of cars whizzing on the street. I hear the click-clakety of heels as people walk down the street. And yes, I still love my bike as I fly down Valencia, weaving, pumping my legs. I love the walk and the discovery of new things.

Earlier that day, a friend and I was feasting on chocolate at a parklet. Somehow instantly, a glass was thrown and shattered. We turned to find the source of the noise. There was the glass, yes. But who threw it? Was it the guy who deliberately dropped it? Or did someone throw it at him? Where did it come from? Nobody was around, but it was all to strange.

This morning, I googled, “Do people die from a shower of falling glass?” hoping that the Internet would answer my question. Instead, I only found stories of people falling to their death out the windows. A lawyer fell to his death as he was showing fellow law students that the glass windows of his high office building was unbreakable. But with his extra run and force, the glass window popped out and he fell to his death. I told myself that I would never be that stupid. But then again, it’s all luck isn’t it? To have been standing under the apartment window right at that moment?

I rarely win anything drawn by the lottery. But yesterday, I was in the right place at the right time. Isn’t that the summary of life anyway?