"Unmask that woman!"

Finally, after hours of grueling, repetitive testimony, and the day after we were scheduled to be finished with deliberations, the judge told the defendant her cross examination of the landlady would end at 3:30 on Friday afternoon. And then, when she wasn't finished, he cut her off. He was finally taking action.

The last action of the day was for the judge to read the stipulations - the specific legal facts of the case that both parties agree are true. There were three:

• the inlaw unit was an illegal unit;
• the tenant denies she was aware it was an illegal unit when she moved in;
• the parties' verbal rent agreement was illegal.

We were given instructions to return on Tuesday morning and let go for a long weekend. I was a little disappointed that we weren't done by Friday, because I couldn't wait to talk about this case, and three more days of silence seemed unfair.

We returned to court on Tuesday morning and I think it's fair to say the jury was ready to be deliberated and back to our regular lives. The judge read to us several pages of pre-deliberation instructions, and then the plaintiffs' attorney made his closing statement. He reiterated the three issues at hand: the tenant had not paid rent for two months of her tenancy; she was a nuisance to the family; and the unit was illegal and needed to be removed from the housing market.

He noted that the tenant hadn't provided any evidence to prove that she'd paid the rent. That she had harrassed the family and their son. And that she needed to move out.

And the the defendant started her closing statement. She claimed that the level of defamation to her character by the plaintiffs and their attorney forced her to represent herself, because she was the only one who knew the truth about their vicious attacks on "my character, my name, and my years of community service."

I found that phrase particularly ironic, given that the tenant hadn't provided her name or photo ID to the landlord and landlady, and she had two aliases listed on the court papers. Throughout the trial, the landlord and landlady referred to her as J, and claimed they didn't know her real name.

The defendant continued by restating some testimony and raising the same issues she brought up during cross examination. This was the briefest part of the past eight days. She spoke for less than an hour.

And then the plaintiffs' attorney got a chance for rebuttal. In a few minutes he outlined the parts of her argument that he felt were false. He mentioned again the harassment of his clients and their son. He reiterated the damage done to this family by the tenant. And then he called for us to "unmask that woman!"

The plaintiffs family applauded, and I tried to hide my smirk. That was the most drama we'd seen from him all trial.

We got our deliberation instructions and the bailiff led us to the secure deliberation room. It was roughly 2 pm on Tuesday. We had the facts before us. We had the three issues on which we were to decide. And we knew that a decision required nine yes votes - and not a unanimous 12. We were ready to deliberate.

The testimony

The plaintiffs' attorney brought forth four witnesses: the plaintiff's niece; an expert witness to speak on Department of Building Inspection procedures and rent codes; the landlord (mostly to determine that he had early stage Alzheimer's and had had no dealings with the tenant); and the landlady. Their testimony was brief, straightforward, and demonstrated that yes, the plaintiffs knew that the apartments they built in their garage were illegal. They understood that because of zoning laws in their neighborhood they could never rent out additional units in their house. Yes, they had an illegal rental contract with the tenant. Yes, they were trying to take the unit off market, but they couldn't. Because the tenant was refusing to leave.

And then the defendant began her cross examination. It was full of questions posed as double negatives, and sentence fragments. And launching into arguments with the expert witness, claiming that his "opinions" were in opposition to building codes and city laws. And intimating that the family was abusing their developmentally disabled son.

And then we got to her cross examination of the landlady. And we learned that the tenant refused to provide identification to the landlady when she moved in. And that she never provided the landlady with her name; the landlady only knew her as J. And that the landlady wanted the rent in cash. And that their "lease" was a verbal rental agreement (illegal in San Francisco). And that the landlady maybe told the tenant she wanted to rent to somebody who was Chinese (as were the landlord and landlady). And we learned all of this through an interpreter, because the landlord and landlady didn't speak enough English to testify in that language. And translations take forever.

Basically, we learned that both parties were sketchy at best. And, over three days of increasingly hostile and decreasingly lucid testimony, the landlady and tenant painted an ugly picture of threats and harassment on both sides, and possibly a physical attack by the tenant against the landlady. Or perhaps the landlady threw herself on the ground and then alleged that the tenant did it. And maybe the landlady was following the tenant and eavesdropping on her phone calls. And maybe the tenant claimed to know important people in the city government, and said she could cause trouble for the landlady. In any event, the landlady claimed to fear for her safety while the tenant occupied the premises.

The tenant really only asked about a dozen questions over the three days she cross-examined the landlady. Her questioning dealt with a few disjointed events and she spent more time making long, confusing statements and arguing with the landlady rather than actually asking questions. By the end, I could have testified in the landlady's place. My level of frustration was through the roof, and the plaintiffs' attorney wasn't so keen on objecting or otherwise stopping her repetitive questioning. And the judge seemed to be bending over backwards to be accommodating to the tenant because she was representing herself. And the jury was getting restless.

Juror number 6

I walked into the courtroom last Monday morning, and as soon as I heard the judge say the case we'd be deciding involved a landlord-tenant dispute, I was pretty confident I'd be dismissed. I was kind of sad, because he also told us the defendant (the tenant) would be representing herself, and I wanted to watch what I was pretty sure would be a fiasco.

I went through jury selection, and as the attorney for the plaintiffs (the landlord and landlady) asked the jurors questions about their own problems with landlords and tenants, I was pretty sure I'd be dismissed.

When the attorney got to me, and he asked me about any problems I may have had with my landlords, I was honest. About the burglary. About the fire. About his repeated illegal entry into our units. About how he paid me the purchase value of my stolen goods so that I wouldn't sue him - because he knew he was at fault. And through the questioning, I was pretty sure I'd be dismissed.

And then all of a sudden I was sworn in. And I'm still baffled as to how that happened.

We were seated in the jury box and issued our pretrial instructions, along with a court-sanctioned notebook and blue Bic pen. The plaintiffs' attorney began his opening statements by explaining that yes, the inlaw unit the tenant rented from his clients in the garage of their Sunset district home was an illegal unit. Yes, the verbal rental agreement the tenant had with the landlord was also illegal. Those facts were indisputable.

However, the tenant hadn't paid rent for two months this year. And had been harrassing and threatening the plaintiffs and their developmentally disabled adult son. And had been making allegations of illegal goings on in the landlord's home on the main level of the house. And hadn't moved when she'd been issued several 30-day and 3-day notices to quit.

And the landlord and landlady were now being forced by the city to remove the illegal units (there were two in the garage) and return that space to its original purpose. The tenant in the other unit left months ago. And now the landlord and landlady had taken this tenant to court in an effort to get the system to agree that she did, in fact, have to move out. Because her apartment was being taken off of the rental market. And the unit was being demolished.

And then the defendant started her opening argument. And it made no sense. And it lacked complete sentences. Or logical thought progressions. And I knew in that instant, on Monday afternoon, that this case might take days longer than the four the judge estimated we would need to complete it. And I still couldn't figure out how I got sworn onto this jury in the first place....

Das Boot

I'd been planning to go to Oktoberfest for weeks. I'd lined up a discount ticket. Some friends were committed to joining me. It was going to be a rousing good time. The last time I went, we gathered a group of about 30 people together and had a blast. We also had a friend working one of the beer trucks, and she was very generous with discounts.

This year most of my friends bailed. And I headed there last night by myself, knowing one friend was coming, but kind of sad that a whole crew of people weren't joining me.

But in this city, I never seem to be anywhere by myself for long. I walked into the venue - the building at the end of Pier 48 out by the ballpark - and ran into a friend. She was selling the tokens used to buy food and beer. And she sold them to me at a steep discount.

And then my friend got there and we were having fun checking out the scene. And I saw this guy carrying a really cool boot shaped mug. I was standing behind him about to tap him on the shoulder to ask where he bought it when I realized I know him. And I haven't seen him in five years. He's a good friend of an ex-boyfriend, and I was both thrilled to see him and really happy I'd bothered to do my hair.

We caught up for a bit and went our separate ways, then met up again on the dance floor and ended up spending the rest of the evening together. My friend knew some of his friends, which is often how things work for me in this city. It's small enough that if you play the name game for a few minutes you're bound to discover that you're some sort of friend or relative of somebody's.

So we're standing there, singing and dancing and having a blast, and I notice this girl in a really cute dress. But it's not a traditional German one. She's wearing an Irish dancing dress. And I know her. She and her husband are also good friends with that ex-boyfriend. And I haven't seen them in years.

And so what could have been a sad tale of woe, a night spent by myself at one of the biggest parties in the city, ended up being one of the most fun nights of the year, spent with people I never get to see. Obviously, I need to go out by myself more often.

All's quiet in the jury room

On Monday morning I reported to jury duty. I was assigned a courtroom, selected, and sworn in before mid-afternoon. I've been in trial all week, hence the silence over here. I can't wait to finish with this case, so I can tell everyone I know all about it.

But in the meantime, I found out this morning that the San Francisco Outrigger Canoe Center is having a newbie day on Sunday for people who want to know what paddling is all about.

I spent a lot of middle school and high school in a canoe. I paddled an outrigger for just a short time in Hawaii earlier this year, and I loved it! I won't be making any commitments this weekend, but I won't lose anything by going down to say hi. Maybe they'll even let me into a canoe for a little while.

Acceptance

We left the football game on Friday night pretty dejected. After driving 200 miles to watch Cal play in Reno, Cal lost. By a lot. And it was ugly, and far removed from our expectations of another easy victory. We'd traveled all morning, met up with friends at a bar in Reno, hung out for a few hours, and made it to the stadium with time to get settled in before kickoff.

The 7 pm game ended around 10:30, and it took about 45 minutes to get back to our hotel. As we walked through Reno, my friends talked about the plans for the rest of the evening. Maybe they'd check out a casino or two. There was definitely time for another beer at the hotel bar. Who wanted to play craps for awhile?

I kept silent, but as we reached the elevator, I said my goodbyes to everyone heading out for the evening. My roommate put on some makeup while I got into my pajamas. She asked a few times if I was sure I didn't want to join them. Was everything OK? Did I really want to go to sleep? I could barely keep my eyes open. I think I laid in the lumpy hotel bed for about seven minutes before I fell soundly asleep. I didn't even roll over when my roommate came home.

I've always needed a lot of sleep. Nine or sometimes 10 hours a night makes me very happy. And I don't so much like to stay up late. But I used to. Or at least, I used to be able to sometimes. But not anymore. Not since the mono. I've been trying to fight this lately, and I've seen over the past few weeks that it just doesn't work.

I should probably mention that there's nothing else wrong. No abnormal thyroid or any long-term problems related to the mono that might be a problem. I have had the tests to rule out everything. I am very healthy. And I am tremendously grateful for that. I just need a lot of sleep. Way more than most of the people I know, or at least most of the people I socialize with, who plan a lot of nocturnal events.

So I give up. Or I give in. I get it, and I'm going to stop trying to fight it. I'm going to get back to my early to bed and early(ish) to rise schedule, and I'm going to be a very happy girl. I'm just not going to be a very social one. Unless you want to get together for an evening that starts at 4 pm. In that case, count me in.

Seal Rock

You know it's a good day when the rock is visible from shore.

Are you sure that doesn't hurt? You must have a really high pain threshold

Perhaps I should have been concerned at the beginning of my massage, when the therapist continually asked if the pressing and poking she was doing on my left leg hurt. Maybe I should have thought more seriously about requesting the practitioner who specializes in trigger point myotherapy. But after doing some research, I was pretty sure it would help my foot. And probably only leave a few bruises. And it couldn't hurt that much, right? 


It did hurt, but it turns out, it didn't hurt nearly as much as it was supposed to. She kept asking if it hurt as she pressed her fingers and elbows (I think) along my calves and ankles. Then she'd remark about how tight I was. Then she'd ask again if I was sure it didn't hurt. At one point she remarked that my left side was particularly tight and knotty. Was I undergoing any stress, she wondered? Because the left side of the body is very tied to emotions. 


I laughed, and then winced when she hit a particularly tender spot in my back.


And then, because I was a little uncomfortable and I needed a distraction, we started chatting. She thought I looked familiar, and when we got around to discussing her artistic pursuits, we realized we met at an art show last year. She's an awesome artist. She's also an amazing massage therapist. She only left two bruises, but my whole body feels so much better. Sore, yes, but so much looser. 

And my foot? The one that's getting better, but is still uncomfortable? It's still sore, but so much better. I had a credit at my old gym that covered this massage, and it'll cover two more. I can't wait to go back. Only, maybe next time I'll schedule a weekend appointment. There'll be less people around to watch me limp to the bus stop.

And when that fog horn whistle blows......

It took three trips to the bike shop to sort out my flat tire/busted tube issues. But my bike is now back in action. And I'll be taking another bike maintenance class soon. Apparently, I need to learn by doing, and not so much by watching.

On Friday, the weather was spectacular. And the bus that gets me closest to the bike mechanic wasn't coming when I needed it to. And the weather was spectacular - warm and sunny without much of a breeze.  So I walked. But I could hear the fog horn in the distance, yet there wasn't a cloud in the sky.

And then I saw this. It was probably about 80 degrees and sunny on either side of the bridge that day. But the mid-bridge forecast was probably about 50 and foggy.

I'm pretty sure this is the photo-definition of low clouds and fog. I'm sorry I wasn't appropriately dressed to walk through it.

Quitting while I might still be ahead

Last week, a block from my house at the end of a bike ride, I hit a ditch with my rear wheel and heard a popping noise. I got off my bike, moved to the sidewalk, and checked for damage. Nothing was visibly wrong and the tire wasn't flat, but I walked home anyway.

I've checked the rear wheel each time I've ridden since, and I haven't had a problem.

Coincidentally, I had just registered for a free bike maintenance class. The class was on Wednesday. I learned a lot. Then yesterday, two miles away from my house, I heard an odd thunking noise coming from the rear of my bike. Since my rear rim is a little bent (thanks to the bike shop that shabbily packed my bike for shipping) my bike rides a little oddly. But I felt like I was bouncing all over the road.

I got off the bike, and sure enough, the rear tire was very flat. Happily the sun was shining, and I wasn't too far from the Golden Gate Bridge, so I decided I'd walk to the Bridge and get on the bus. Having just learned how to fix a flat the night before, I wasn't confident enough of my skills to put them to use on the side of the road. I was also lacking a few items necessary to the task.

I walked about 15 steps before a guy stopped to help me. He was riding a rented bike and had a great repair kit, including a portable pump. He pumped up my tire, and I figured I had enough air in this slow leak to get safely home. Or at least to a closer bus stop. I gave the tourist directions to the Bridge and turned in the other direction to head home.

And then, as I reached the turn that would get me home in just a few minutes, I learned that going in the direction I wanted to head, bikes don't have access to that road. And I had to go about four downhill miles out of my way to get out of the Presidio. And I had about two miles before my tire went flat again. Awesome.

I spent another few minutes being thankful it wasn't raining as I cruised down the hill to Baker Beach. And then I got off of my bike and walked. Past the beach. Pass the Baker Beach Apartments. And out of the park. And then I walked another three blocks to the bus.

I got home and showered and got to work fixing my flat. I got the rear wheel off of my bike. I got the dead tube off the rim, but it took about 45 minutes of struggling. And the rim tape - the layer that protects the tube from the metal rim - came off too. And then my hands were sore and I wanted to cry.

So I gave up. Or at least I stopped, lest I break something. This morning I went to Sports Basement and bought a bunch of tubes. And asked advice about the rim tape. And bought a roll. And I thought I was really ready.

I came home and got to work. And the first tube I tried to put on tore in two places. Then I finally got the second one on and got the tire on over it (which was way harder than it looked in the class I took the other day) and I thought I was victorious. I may have even done a small happy dance around my apartment.

And then I started to pump. And I could hear a faint hissing sound. And the tire isn't inflating.

So I've stopped now. I'm admitting defeat and going to the bike shop tomorrow. And taking another maintenance class.  Because I don't think I can spend an hour - and go through two tubes - if I'm ever stuck with a flat on the side of the road in the fog.

Baker Beach

I haven't done enough hiking this summer, but I finally got the opportunity to hit my favorite trail last weekend. In the sunshine!

After the casseroles

Note: I don't have very happy things to say today. If you're looking for something fun or uplifting, may I suggest some funny photos of cats.

If you're sticking around, well, thanks for listening.

If I ever write a book, I think it's going to be an instructional manual. I think I might call it "How not to be an Asshole," with the subtitle "helping, not hindering your family and friends in a time of grief." Because the world has kicked my ass the past few weeks. And people are stupid.

OK, that last sentence is a huge overstatement. Most of the people I know are incredibly intelligent. And kind. And caring. And a lot of other wonderful superlatives. So why is it that the people who aren't kind or caring or sensitive, but who are selfish or insensitive, are the ones who make the biggest impression on me?

I've been stewing about some things for awhile, and I realized yesterday that I'm kind of mad. Or maybe sad. Or both - it's hard to tell sometimes. And I'm hoping that someday down the line, all of my personal turmoil will serve a bigger purpose than just leaving me sobbing into my pillow in the middle of the night. But for right now, maybe there's somebody in the blogosphere who could use some assistance in helping a friend. And I'd like to share some wisdom from the journey I've been on the past two years.

Yes, my dad is dead, and it sucks way more than I can put into words. But all those memories, all those funny stories and pearls of wisdom, they shouldn't be buried with him. My dad was a funny guy, and those moments need to be shared. It's not weird or uncomfortable to talk about my dad, or any deceased loved one. What is weird, and incredibly uncomfortable for me, is the absence of talking. If I bring up a funny dad story - and since dad had an anecdote for almost every occasion this happens sometimes -  and you get all weirded out and change the subject, I'm probably not going to drop it. In fact, I'm probably going to continue telling stories. And maybe even making really awkward dead dad jokes. Because if I've had to learn to deal with it, I'm not going to let you take the easy way out.

I recognize that talking about him can be painful, but completely avoiding any mention of somebody who was a pretty big part of my life just isn't realistic. And it's insulting to me. And it would be insulting to my dad. He loved a good story.

I've been reading a lot about the grieving customs in American society, and the sad fact is that we don't really have any. Most religions have rituals, but there's nothing cultural that ties us all together, and as a result, I think many people don't know how to deal. They don't know what to do or what to say or how to act. And that's OK. But if you're in that place, admit it. Don't try to hide it behind placating statements or run away from it by dropping all contact with somebody who's suffered a loss. Own up to the fact that you don't know what to do. And then ask how you can help. And say you're sorry. Those two little words mean so much.

The hardest thing about this process is that once the casket is buried (or whatever your custom is) and the casserole dishes have been returned to the neighbors, everyone else just goes back to normal. And here I am, almost two years later, just regaining my balance. My "normal" has been permanently redefined. Or it's in the process of being redefined. It's a rocky road at best, and a steep incline along a sheer cliff a lot of the time. But I'm working really hard. And I am so very grateful for all of the family and friends who are along for the journey. I am tremendously blessed with some awesome people in my life. But I'm sorry that not everyone in my life has chosen to work with me. Because it would be a lot easier to get my footing on this cliff if we were all working together.

Canned

I'm a city girl at heart, but I love some time in the woods. Or mountains. Or, really, any little break from civilization and some wide open spaces makes me very happy. So when friends invited me to visit their farm, how could I say no?

But maybe I should back up a minute. Community supported agriculture is very popular in my part of the country. About a third of my friends are members of local farms, and they get weekly (or every-other-week) deliveries of fresh, mostly organic produce (and eggs, and sometimes other items as well)  from these farms. A lot of the Northern CA farms host open house days for their members. And Saturday was a tomato day at my friends' farm. We were invited to bring mason jars and some ingredients for tomato dishes - mostly sauce - and to can tomatoes.

The drive to Vacaville took close to two hours, because weekend traffic was rough. But the farm is less than 65 miles from the city, and though it's not that far off of the freeway, it felt like we were in the middle of nowhere.

It's a small, organic farm, about 65 acres, and we were greeted by the farm owner. He puts on several of these events each year, and even invites members to camp on the farm and stay for breakfast. We were, sadly, only there for the day.

We set up our camp stove, chose some good looking tomatoes, took advantage of the onions and basil available to us, and got to work.

We had our pick of hundreds of boxes of tomatoes.

We chopped and rinsed and plotted how to make the best tomato sauce, and then set everything to simmer on the camp stove.

Basil and onions courtesy of the farm. Cleaver from my friend's kitchen.

Simmering on the stove.

The process took a few hours, during which we got to hang out, talk with some other farm members, and enjoy a day in the hot sun. In the end, we canned 12 quarts of tomato sauce.

It was still boiling as we packed it in the car. It was still boiling when I got it home. I'm very excited to try it, but I've got a little more than I can eat on my own. Who wants to come over for dinner?

Through the sprinklers....

In Golden Gate Park

On my bicycle.

With my waterproof camera.

Let's pretend

Let's pretend to train for a few fall races. We'll get suited up for awesome morning (or midday) workouts, lust after new gear, and plot race strategy. And then, at the end of the summer, we'll realize the race season is probably finished.

I had my eye on a few fall foot races and at least one duathlon, and maybe a sprint tri. But I didn't register for any of them before I was laid off, and now race fees aren't in the budget. And that's fine. I knew it was a possibility for this fall, which is why I took such advantage of the spring and summer race calendar.

And then, a few weeks after the See Jane Run half, while I was still in recovery mode, my foot started to hurt. Again. The plantar fasciitis I worked so hard to heal last year, which didn't bother me at all as I was training for two half marathons, reared it's ugly head (or foot, as the case may be) earlier this summer.

I wasn't walking a lot, and I always wear my orthotics. I was stretching and rolling and doing everything that prevented problems while I was training. So why did my foot hurt? It took me a few weeks to figure out that my new-ish sneakers were the culprit. So I've switched back to the old sneakers, and I'm still stretching and rolling, and now I'm icing and taking anti-inflammatories too, and my foot feels much better. But not best. So I'm hanging up my end-of-season race goals and spending lots of time in the pool and on my bike, and asking my doctor about physical therapy when I visit her in a few weeks.

Fall is the best time of year to race in San Francisco, and there are some really fun races almost in my backyard, but it's OK. Last week I surpassed all of my pre-mono bike, swim, and weight lifting benchmarks. If this is the trade off for staying off of my feet for a few months, I'll take it.