Bobo Woes

Chronicling the gripes of the educated leisure class, Bobo Woes is a collection of those small dissatisfactions that grind the gears of the Whole Foods set. Read 'em and weep.

[bobowoes-blog]

Woe: See Below

This woe comes to me from SS, who informs me that the blog she writes for (vegansaurus, yo -- check it!) just won a Best of the Bay award. Sadly, she won't be able to attend the celebration because she has to referee lube wrestling.

Woe: Can't celebrate my blog's success 'cause I gotta regulate lubed-up ladies.

I feel your pain.

[bobowoes-blog]

Woe: A Tourist-Crammed F

(source)

Some days, transit's a breeze.* My train arrives promptly, I'm able to grab a seat, and I don't suffer the 40-minute trip with some dude's crotch in my face. Other days? Ooooooh, boy: watch out. If the L doesn't get me down, the F steps up to the plate.

As today: after disembarking the L, I waited almost 20 (yes, 20: barbaric) minutes for the F to arrive. When it did, it appeared to be crammed with tourists. I say appeared because the car wasn't actually full -- the tourists, in typical form, were just spread out, occupying way more than their Allotted MUNI Space. After running to the back door and getting my leg caught as the door closed (yowch), I crammed in amongst those clad in Old Navy and Jansport.

At Market and First, I snagged a seat(!) The bitchery ends there, right? WRONG! I'd been seated for no more than two minutes when two tween boys** positioned themselves right in front of me. Sure, they exchanged the same commentary that on some mornings I find charming and on others I find distasteful; they expressed enthusiasm for the wax museum and The Rainforest Cafe. But that's not what unnerved me.

Nope. What made me cross was that these lit'l dudes kept dropping shit on my feet -- and lap. Duder one dropped his iPhone on the floor and nearly managed to tangle himself in my coat as he retrieved it. Duder two dropped his earbuds on my lap, not even pausing before snatching them back. Jesus! I'm not surprised by much, but interfacing with strangers' laps? Without asking first? NO.

Of course, because these boyz were fiddling with their gadgets, they weren't holding onto the railings. Consequently, every time the tram lurched, so too did the tweens. You know what happened then. Yes, they trod on my toes. Multiple times.

Fortunately, the car cleared out at Pier 33 (aka, OMG IS THIS WHERE WE GET OFF FOR THE ALCATRAZ TOUR? HONEY, I THINK THIS IS WHERE WE GET OFF FOR THE ALCATRAZ TOUR!). I had a few minutes to collect myself and wipe the glare off my face before entering my office. But don't let my currently peaceful demeanor fool you -- Tween boys, I'ma fuck with your shit the next time you wreck my commute.

PS: This morning's ride had one interesting (positive?) trait: one of my fellow passengers was a deadringer for John Galliano.

***

*This statement might be overly optimistic. Revised: On a few rare occasions, commuting in the city has been less-than-awful.

**Is "tween" still a word?

[bobowoes-blog]

Woe: Shitty File Types

My job requires me to run documents through a plagiarism-detection website, which is a good policy -- I'm not arguing with that. (Plagiarism: BAD.) No, I don't find fault with the website, flukey as it is: I find fault with the instructors who, without fail, send me documents in Word 97-2003 format instead of .docx. This website doesn't recognize the former format, and you know why? BECAUSE IT'S ARCHAIC. Why people don't save docs as .rtfs or .docx is beyond me. Just, yeah.

Also woeing me out: MSWord. In every possible way.

[bobowoes-blog]

Woe: Path Hogs

You know what really grinds my gears, especially now that the weather's nice? Path Hogs.

Recently, I've gone from hittin' the gym to hittin' the trail (er, path); not only is outdoor running more scenic, but it smells better than my poorly ventilated fitness centre. Nothing compares to the Panhandle at dawn: the flicker of the bug-mottled streetlamps, the intermingled scents of eucalyptus and bum urine!

For its many virtues, running outside has a major pitfall: dealing with those bitches who hog the path. You know who I'm talking about: people with 1) dogs; 2) strollers; or 3) insane walking habits. Let's discuss.

1) I love dogs. Really, I do. If my boyfriend building allowed them, I'd totally have a pug and I would dress him up in an adorable and miniature bumblebee costume! I do not love unleashed dogs that traipse all over the path while their owners amble, heads in the clouds [up their asses]. I do not love dogs that jump on me while I'm running. Protip: if your dog can't contain himself around strangers, leash him.

2) Is there anything more insufferable than a woman walking slooooooowly, straight down the middle of the path, chatting on her Blackberry while pushing a doublewide stroller? Didn't think so. A hobby of the Lululemon and Hunter set, hogging the center of the path isn't just rude -- it's dangerous. Why? Because I might accidentally nick you as I try to veer out of the way. I have nothing personal against strollers; I have nothing but hatred for those who block the path with them.

3) I'm not hating on the locomotively challenged. I am hating on those who zigzag all over the place, disrespecting the "lanes" of the trail. Have you never walked before, people? (I'd understand if you haven't -- this is America, after all.) PSA of the day: if you're strolling through the Panhandle, don't weave all over the path/refuse to pay attention to your surroundings/get all huffy if a cyclist or runner stumbles around you.

Phew! I feel so much calmer. Calm enough, in fact, to contemplate a post-work run...

[bobowoes-blog]

Woe: Automated Bathrooms

Recently, my office "upgraded" the bathrooms. Upgraded is encased in quotes because the so-called improvements have made life (by which I mean using the can) waaaaaaaaaay more difficult than it should be.

Where normal, manual toilets once stood, we now have auto-flushing toilets. Nothing wrong with that, right? WRONG: those motion-activated monsters tend to flush before the user has risen from the seat, resulting in an unintentional "undercarriage cleaning." And, as one of my friends has pointed out, the toilets rarely flush what needs to be flushed. Ineffectual, they make a lot of noise and splash a lot of water around but don't take care of business. Typical.

Similarly, the new motion-activated sinks piss me off to no end. I'm sure that said sinks are thought to be more hygienic than the manual kind, but they're not (for real -- read the study here). What's more, the new sinks don't allow the user to control water flow or temperature, resulting in a tepid, wimpy stream of water. Blech! I'm getting creepy-crawlies just thinking about my next potty trip...

[bobowoes-blog]

Woe: Faux Yoga

Don't you hate it when your yoga class is actually just yoga-flavored exercise?

[bobowoes-blog]

Woe: Soggy Commuters

Rainy days are a bummer for two reasons: first, they require me to take MUNI instead of bike commuting. Second, and relatedly, they bring out the worst behavior in my fellow commuters.

Easily ruffled by public displays of annoying behavior (e.g., sidewalk hogging, conducting loud phone conversations, whacking others with giant shopping bags), I've lately adopted a Zen approach to commuting. When weather forces me to take the bus, I remind myself that everyone on said bus is trying to get to work, just as I am. Then I pop a stick of Orbit Bubblemint, crank the volume on my iPod, and let my thoughts drift to non-transit situations.

Today, though, no amount of upbeat self talk could have made my commute sunnier. The F I took from Market/New Mong to my office was howlingly, shudderingly uninsulated; the car moved at a slug's pace; and the woman who plopped down beside me was a soggy commuter.

Having waited for some time in the rain, she was covered, top to toe, with raindrops. (Lest you feel bad that this woman got soaked, don't -- she was wearing a Longshoreman-style, floor length raincoat. Only her outer layer was soaked.) Moments later, I was too -- because this woman smushed herself into me. Not only that, she plopped her dripping totebag onto my left foot. Egads! At least she had the decency to remove the bag from my foot and mumble an apology.

Words of Wisdom: It will always rain in San Francisco, but don't let shitty weather turn you into a Commuter from Hell -- be polite! If bench space on the F is tight, stand! Place wet umbrellas on the floor (or under your seat)! Don't rub your wet garments up against other riders!

I'm toasty and dry now, but in T-2 hours, I'ma have to face the commute all over again. Pray for me, friends.

[bobowoes-blog]

Woe: An Inadequate Online Following

(via stickycomics)

[bobowoes-blog]

Woe: Kombucha Moustache

From my friend Jane: "Mango Kombucha gives me a yellow mustache." Milk mustaches are a thing of the past, people! That is, unless the milk is organic and cream-topped.

[bobowoes-blog]

Woe: Too Many Magazines

Our coffee table is littered with magazines, mostly unread. I'm not exaggerating: the current contents of our tabletop include (in addition to two place mats, my digital camera, and some granola bar crumbs) the latest issues of Food Network Magazine, Whole Living, Women's Health, the New Yorker, Good Housekeeping, and Fitness. Contrary to what you might think, our cabinets are in a state of partial disorganization, I'm not up on new book releases, I freaking still have not made time for meditation, and I haven't banished that stubborn bra fat. WTF, magazines: you were supposed to make my life easier, and all you've done is clutter one of three flat surfaces in our apartment.

If you're wondering why we have so many magazine subscriptions, I've got two words for you: AmEx points. To use up points, Hook ordered a few magazines. GH was an Xmas gift to me (thanks, I think? Although I am too young to read this? Also, my housekeeping is fine as is, thankyouverymuch?), and the fitness/lyfe management glossies: what can I say? I like to pretend that I'm the sort who does yoga before preparing a modest breakfast of wheatberries steeped in almond milk (and garnished with low-sugar Craisins), whose bedroom closet isn't jammed with grocery bags of unsorted crap. Yes, I'd like to have sleek, sexy abs (in time for SWIMSUIT SEASON!), but for now, a tabletop of periodicals will suffice.

[bobowoes-blog]

Woe: The Inability to Hail a Cab After a Recreational Grocery Shopping Trip

Yesterday was my first trip to Rainbow. (I know, I know: that's a pitiful confession if ever there was one.) My friend SS accompanied me to this mecca of flax products, and I was glad not only for the company but for S's guidance: such is the vastness of Rainbow. I can best sum up my feelings for this grocer as HOLY SHIT. Most of you [probably] shop here already, but if you don't, drop whatever you're doing and get there schnell. In the market for organic chocolate extract? Dried sea lettuce? Bulk potato starch? You'll find it all at the Rainbow.

Confession #2: I didn't quite need any groceries -- I was simply in the mood for some recreational grocery shopping. What did I come home with? Oh, some Cascadian Farm cinnamon squares cereal (the hippie parent's answer to Cinnamon Toast Crunch), organic pea shoots, cornmeal, organic bananas, a wheel of farmstead goat cheese decorated with edible flowers (ZOMG), harvest-themed granola bars, and two bundles of udon noodles made from heritage-variety, organic wheat. You know, just the basics.

Wherein lies my woe? My tote laden with goodies, I hoped to catch the 21 home. Inexplicably, the buses weren't running. WTF, I thought. Drawing on my endless supply of resourcefulness, I tried to catch the 5, but the bus was more crowded than any bus I've seen (even a 30 at rush hour). (Which, incidentally, I can't imagine anything in the city that could have smelled worse than that bus, OK?)

Muttering curses at MUNI, I tried to flag a taxi. Six or seven passed me by before a kindly cabbie U-turned and picked me up.

"THANK YOU," I said. "It's been terrible getting a cab. What's going on?"

"Oh," the cabbie said, fiddling with his iPhone, "I think it's that St. Patty's festival."

St. Patty's Festival? Are you kidding me? A bunch of Bud-swilling frat dudes celebrating on the wrong freaking day nearly caused my cheese to melt? I was aghast, but at least I was aghast in the back of a cab.

Perhaps I should have identified today's woe as "Incorrectly Scheduled and [Frankly] Pointless Festivals that Fuck with the Transit Schedule." Consider that the alternate classification.

[bobowoes-blog]

Woe: Whole Foods Doesn't Carry My Semiobscure Welsh Cheese

Do you have a favorite cheese? Is it something boring, such as mild cheddar? Is it not-cheese, such as Pasteurized American Cheese Food Product? Or is it something enviable, such as this attractive wheel of Harlech? For all of our sakes, I hope your cheese-love is something enviable.

In case you missed the memo, Harlech is cheddar mixed with parsley and horseradish -- badass, right? What would exceed this cheese's badassery is if our local Whole Foods actually had this cheese in stock. 

Last week, Hook hit up WF's cheese counter for a wedge of Harlech, only to return empty-handed. (Note: He didn't actually return empty-handed. Instead, he bought mustard cheese, which itself was awesome, but which failed to sate H's intense Harlech craving.) We were at Whole Foods a few days ago and again inquired after this cheese. The cheese counter lass informed us that, No, the cheese is not yet in stock, but that another patron had also requested it. RELIEF! TORRENTS OF BLESSED RELIEF! Long story short, the cheese gal* will "give us a buzz" when the cheese arrives.

Until then, we wait. We'll satisfy ourselves with Pepper Jack from Sonoma and Farmstead Blue from Point Reyes and hope that The Country of Wales sends a hearty shipment so we can stock up on Harlech before other Whole Foods shoppers catch on, depriving us of our blessed stock.

*She goes by so many names, that lady.

[bobowoes-blog]

Woe: An Undeniable Urge to Buy [Another] Bike

Isn't this bike beautiful? Well, isn't it? Even if you don't agree with me, this bike's beauty isn't in question -- its utility is.

I love cycling. Formerly a summer-only rider, I now bike commute to work year-round (a habit aided by my city's temperate weather). I have a very good, relatively new bike. During the past few months, I've made certain upgrades to Candy Battle (e.g., getting a full tune up, having a rack installed, buying panniers for schleppin' purposes) to ensure its continued functionality. There is no question that I do not need another bike.

BUT (and there's always a BUT) as I scrolled through Google Reader this morning, I came across a link to BikesDirect.com, which is selling the above-pictured bike for a mere $299.95 -- that includes shipping, people! (For those interested, the MSRP is $795.) I'm a sucker for a good deal, even if said deal is for an item I do. not. need.

Herein lies today's strife: I have a perfectly good bike, but I'm coveting this new one so hard. It's blue! It boasts awesome, old-timey style! IT'S ON SALE! What to do? My instincts are telling me to be satisfied with my current ride, but my other instincts are urging me to BUY, BUY, BUY. I'll sleep on the decision, my dreams paved with greenways.

[bobowoes-blog]

Woe: Skimpy Tax Refunds

The good news: I got my act together* and did my taxes this weekend.

The bad news: my tax refund is not going to be as much as I thought it would be.

(This picture represents my refund -- just imagine the tax form holding the bill's severed arm and raising it triumphantly overhead.)

That's right: I'm not frustrated about getting NO refund. I'm not frustrated about owing the government money (which, thank god I don't, because Uncle Sam would be waiting for that "check in the mail" for a loooooong time). Nope: I'm upset that this year's refund won't be as much as last year's. BOBOWOE!

I guess it did pay off, in a very literal sense, to have spent half of 2009 in grad school and another quarter of the year unemployed. #retrospectivegreenerpastures.

Now, instead of splurging on that fixie I wanted, I'm going to settle for a government-funded trip to the hot springs. I'm sure I'll survive.

***

*Was cajoled into doing my taxes "early" by being presented with a summary of my behavior last April 14th, when I couldn't locate my 1098-T and started screaming. Actually screaming.

[bobowoes-blog]

Here's a woe for all you married folks:

Aren't you bummed that you tied the knot before Toms released their wedding line? I'll bet you are. Don't fret, my pets: you can always renew your vows.

[bobowoes-blog]

Woe: I bought too much kale and now it's going bad.

Today's woe was suggested by one J.G. Stout: killer home chef, snappy dresser, social psychologist extraordinaire, and good friend of mine. The other day, J. asked me, "Don't you just hate it when you have too much kale and it's going bad so you're forced to make kale chips?"

Short answer: YES.

After a weekend of endless coffees, online shopping browsing spurts, bottomless mimosa brunches and happy hours and beery picnics in the park, movies, lunch dates, and general bummery, I'm prone to repent my excesses. Come Sunday afternoon, I drag my remorseful carcass to the grocery store with detox on ma' mind.

Filling one's cart with wheatberries, no-sodium-added Cannellini beans, and bunches of greens (rather than Cheetos, Fritos, and Dorritos) seems like such a solid idea. After all, if these healthy options are readily available, I'll be sure to eat them. Right?

Sometimes. Sometimes, a big bowl of wilted kale seasoned with tamari and flecked with sesame seeds is just the thing. Other times, Irving Pizza is the thing. More often than not, beautiful bunches of kale grow limp and shriveled in the crisper. On occasions like these, one must make kale chips or face the prospect of joining the ranks of FOOD WASTERS the media is all hyped up about.* One must also come to terms with the glaring truth that one did not meet one's weekly goal of ueberhealthy living. #BURN.

Kale chips are tasty -- if you overlook the minute failure they represent. (They are not, however, as tasty as real chips. Ever.)

*Americans waste approximately 26% of edible food, according to one study.

[bobowoes-blog]

Woe: Inadequate "Cream" Choices @ the Coffee Shop

When I started drinking coffee a decade ago (whaaaaaa?!?), I took it black. How I stomached black coffee as a 16-year-old is incomprehensible, but whatevs. That's off-topic.

Now, I take my coffee with cream and sugar almond milk and sucralose or stevia, depending on my mood. Yeah, I know sucralose will give me face cancer, but you know what else will give me face cancer? THE SUN.

Pet peeve: coffee shops whose diluter ("cream") and sweetener ("sugar") selection is lacking. A properly-equipped shop should have (in addition to whole, low-fat, and non-fat milk) soy and almond milks. Besides offering sugar and sucralose, a shop should consider offering Sugar in the Raw, stevia, and honey. Bonus points for Agave nectar!

The absolute worst situation (coffeewise, anyway) is when the only diluters available are those unrefrigerated plastic cups of half and half. I have a feeling that "half and half" is really just thinned-out correction fluid. How else would that stuff not spoil?