Lend me cash? (f)or gelato?

June 4. Day 339.

This is kind of embarrassing. But since I'm here to document, indiscriminately, my triumphs and their less exalting cousins (defeats, near misses and total fall on your face screw ups), here it is. In high-def slow-mo.

And consider, gentle reader, consider that it all started with a photo. A photo I shot for this project. To think!

And now... onward...

Judge as you please...

I was supposed to meet an acquaintance, a friend of a friend, for a midday chat over coffee or gelato. He works as a financial consultant, and I invited him out so we could catch up. I was going to be in his neighborhood, and I thought it would be nice to hang out briefly. I'd been working all day and I was definitely craving a walk. And he had told me to call him if I was ever downtown.

Since getting here Monday, I've spent most of the 100 euros I extracted from the airport ATM. One taxi ride to get to a spot with no metro, a few cocktails, some medicine for my cold, one lunch and dinner out, two ice creams, some groceries. Poof! Gone! Just two more coins were snuggling in the coziest recesses of my purse.

On the way to meet this individual, I was planning on stopping at an ATM. Instead, I ended up talking to an old lady about politics. She's the one who approached me. I was taking this picture (your next hint -- a dead giveaway, if you ask me. Better than any marble monument or postcard.)

"Are you a photographer?" she asked.

"Oh, no! I just take pictures for a project I'm working on."

"You're not from here."

"No. America."

"Ah. I have a son in Denver. Nice place. Big highways."

Over the next few minutes, we talked about politics, Obama, the students protesting university funding cuts right in front of us, how the city has changed for the better in recent years, the opera rehearsal she was about to attend thanks to a ticket her daughter-in-law snagged, and the recession. Now a universal "the," she specified, not "mine" or "yours" -- the recession is everywhere. She drove the whole conversation. I was just listening, answering and considering how nice it was to be accosted in a piazza by a random retired elementary school principle in a blue dress, a self-declared socialist, a person I'd never talk to if I were anywhere else but here and now.

I saw the gentleman across the street. Excused myself. Ran over.

We approached Grom, his preferred gelateria.

We stood in line, and he made his recommendation: vanilla with biscotti. I was leaning toward apricot.

All was bene.

And then I remembered. Never stopped at the ATM.

I had invited him. I had asked him to come down from his office for a break, I had suggested coffee or ice cream. And now I had 2 euros to my name.

Of course the place didn't take cards. And the cheapest portion was 2.5 euros.

So I asked.

"Listen... I feel terrible about this, but is there any way you can cover this? Or can I run really quickly to an ATM? I'm out of cash and I didn't make it--"

"Of course!!!!!"

"I'm sorry."

"Stop!!"

"I got held up and totally--"

"Stop!! Don't be ridiculous!!!"

Gained: Ice cream for two, courtesy of the person I was supposed to treat. $10. D'oh! Or as they say in this country... D'oh!

Share your campfire? Buy a drink with no ID?

May 24. Day 328.

My idea of a fun mountain getaway involves: cozy cabin, waking up to the sound of woodpeckers outside my window, making waffles for breakfast, going hiking or skiing, stopping for pizza and a drink at the local brewery, taking time to read, write, and think on the lovely backyard deck overlooking a crisp stream, topping it all off with homemade hot chocolate or a glass of wine by the fire.

Mr. A's idea is identical to mine, only he'd replace everything with one word: camping.

Since I'm not a camper, have never been a camper and (sorry, amore mio!) will never be "a camper," we compromised and booked the Forest Suites Resort, complete with spa and heated pool for me, and the word "Forest" in the title, for him. Close enough, right?

Jokes aside, I've been relatively open to the idea of trying to rough it. As long as I'm warm at night, and I don't have to carry twice my body mass in supplies, and the bears are on sabbatical, I decided to give camping a try. One day. (Hey, if I've slept in a mosquito infested hut in the Peruvian jungle, an overheated car in Mexico, and a hotel lobby couch on Halloween in San Francisco (long story), I should definitely be able to handle a sleeping bag in the High Sierras. Right??? Please say yes.)

Tonight, to give me a feeling of what camping would be like, Mr. A proposed we take a stroll through a campground by the lake as the intrepid adventurers settled in for the night.

Just after sunset, we wandered in. All around us, small groups of people were searing meats on their barbecues, sipping beers and talking in low whispers. Music played here and there. It did look relaxing.

As we strolled, I mentioned I hadn't asked for anything yet. Maybe I could come up with something here? See the inside of a mobile home? Have dinner with some strangers? Solicit advice for a potential first time camper?

I didn't want to ask for the sake of asking, so I thought about what I really wanted. And then it dawned on me: all weekend, I'd been smelling the burning wood of hundreds of campfires. And that's one thing we couldn't do at our hotel. Mr. A was on exactly the same wavelength.

We walked around the now dark lakefront property, wondering who to ask, "Can we share your campfire?" Then Mr. A suggested I refine it to "Can we share your campfire for 5 minutes?" Then, stay longer if they invited us to. That would give people a chance to test us out without committing, since we really didn't want to impose on their holiday. But who knows? Maybe someone would be up for it? Plus, if someone agreed to let us hang out, we'd offer to buy a few beers or food from across the street. And then chill out for an hour, or as long as we felt welcomed.

A family with kids seemed like they'd be quickest to reject us. We also decided to avoid couples, since it seemed likely they'd want the evening to themselves. That left groups of adults. Some had chairs set up, with no room for extras, so we walked by. Other groups were completely silent and it seemed strange to bust in.

For some reason, I was feeling nervous. People come to the forest to escape strangers, not commune with them.

Still, what was the worst thing that could happen?

We settled on a group of three guys who were in their twenties. Or so they seemed in the light of the fire.

We walked up, and they smiled as we approached. Or so it seemed in the light of the fire.

"Hi," I said, softly.

"Hey."

"We were just walking around, and we were wondering if we could share your campfire for 5 minutes. Just to warm up. Would that be ok?"

"Sure," one replied. Or so it seemed in the light of the fire. No wait, actually he really did.

They stopped talking, and it felt kind of awkward.

"Thanks a lot," I continued, filling the silence. "We're staying at a hotel nearby, so we can't have the campsite experience there."

"No problem."

Then, we were all quiet for a minute or so.

Next, a young man and woman walked out of the tent, and her body language screamed "leave."

"What are they doing here?" she asked her friends.

"They asked if they could stop by for a few minutes," one guy told her.

"We don't camp, but we were taking a walk and asked if we could share your fire for a bit. Do you mind?" I asked.

"Actually, that's weird," she said. "That's not normal behavior. We don't feel comfortable with you here. Please leave."

We thanked the guys and left.

Afterward, I started dissecting the interaction. What if we'd come earlier, so they could get a better visual read on who we were? What if we'd come with beers, or offered something from the start? Or maybe it's an unspoken rule of the forest: to each her own campfire.

"Relax," Mr. A told me. "Don't beat yourself up. You tried."

I guess.

To ease the sting, we headed across the street, to an empty bar. Rojo's Tavern. A reggae band was starting soon.

I ordered a cocktail, and when the bartender carded me, I realized I didn't have my ID in my wallet.

Where was it? Probably in the hotel.

"I'm almost 30," I told him. "Ancient. Can't you see my white hair and wrinkles?" I joked.

He laughed merrily.

"I believe you're almost 30, but I can't sell you a drink without an ID."

I really wanted to talk back. Both to question his reasoning and rail against the idiotic U.S. drinking system. Doesn't work, except to prevent legal drinkers with missing IDs from consuming a cocktail. Drinking age should be abolished, period. So there.

But what was the point.

We left.

I found my license in the car.

Next bar: didn't get even carded. This place, The Brewery, was packed, had delicious house cocktails and yummy appetizers, for great prices.

Gained: Two rejections in one night. Still alive!!

Hello. My name is La Roxy, and I'm an addict.

April 3. Day 277.

I spent the better part of today driving from post office to post office, on the phone with the federal passport agency and its idiotic robots, and rushing back and forth twice to "A-Official Passports," an expediting service located near the U.S. naval base on Point Loma.

Stop 0: The passport photo place conveniently located two blocks from my house. I even put on make up and smiled. Only because when I took my last photo, in 1999, I was running a fever and looked the part. For 10 years, people who saw my passport were kind enough to comment, "God, you looked so awful!" Thanks, dears.

Stop 1: Hillcrest Post Office. Run in, ask if they accept passport applications. No. Mission Valley Post Office does.

Stop 1: Mission Valley Post Office. Line 1, Line 2. Clock ticking. Time's a-running out. Finally, a gentleman with a santa clause beard and a veeeeeery relaxed demeanor (good for you! yipee. just don't be relaxed on my shift. deal?) tells me that if I apply for a passport, I probably wouldn't get it by the 13th. Some private companies can do it faster, for a fee.

Stop 3. "A-Official Passports." The lady informs me that she can get it back within 10 days, for the government fee plus $70 plus $40 for FedEx fee. "Is this negotiable?" I ask flat out. "No."

Stop 4. Home. I decide to call the passport agency in L.A, to see if they can fit me in. After about an hour on hold, they give me an appointment next week. But next week?? That's three days before I leave!! Cue the fear and trepidation.

Stop 5. Back to "A-Official Passports." I've just done the math, and driving 4 hours (round trip) plus $25 for gas plus who knows how much on parking ($2 meter? $30 garage?) isn't much better than spending $110 extra to get it done in San Diego, and work that whole day. Plus, what if the federal passport agency in LA is inefficient? I'm about to give her a check when we confirm the date I'll get it back.

"Seven to ten business days, so that would be April 14 at the earliest."

"Business days! Noooo! I'm leaving the 13th!" I wail. "Is there any other option?"

"We do have a courier service. That would get it back within 5 to 7 days. Still cutting it close. That would raise it to almost $200 above the base rate."

"Oh my god," I moan. I am not acting. I am not angling for sympathy. This is bad. I don't have money for last minute passport renewals! Not when --

In case you're wondering what this is all about. Yes. I'm crazy. A certified travel addict. But I'm going to Europe for a week.

My passport expires on May 9, and I'm about to leave the country for a week. In slightly more than a week.

Holy, as they say, crapola.

I'm not usually such a globetrotter, but things have just conspired strangely, wonderfully, this year. La Divina's visit, which prompted Hawaii. Then Mr. A's last minute and totally wild suggestion that I meet him in Athens. Now this. My mom, my exhausted mommy, is craving a vacay. And just when we were planning a staycation, complete with a visit to the San Diego zoo and a drive up the coast to see some friends in L.A., she got an email. From AirFrance. $270 LAX to Nice, with a $10 stopover in Paris. Frankly, it's not the wisest of moves, for either of us, but here's what she told me: "If I don't travel now, when will I?"

You know what I say?

Vive la joie de vivre!

But first, back to reality. Will my new passport actually cost $300???

"Please," I beg. "Is there anything you can do? I bought this ticket two hours ago and thought the post office does rush renewals, but they don't. Can you take anything off this price?"

"Don't do it here!" she says, suddenly girlfriendy. "Go to L.A. Same day service."

"Really!?"

"Yes. You cut out all the extra fees. They're great."

"Really? I thought maybe it takes a while."

"No! It's the best option out there. As long as you can get to L.A."

"Of course I can!! You are so kind to tell me this. I will remember your honesty and pay it forward."

She smiles, and I'm outta there.

Gained: Nothing, of course. How can I be building net worth when I'm always traveling and letting things expire? At least I figured out how to do the least damage possible to my wallet for this impulsive European adventure. Estimated costs: $70 regular passport fee. $60 rush fee. Gas
for 200 miles times 30 mpg @ $2.20 per gallon is around $25. Lost time -- well, I just won't let myself lose it, dammit.

Reflections, post-game.

1) Yay, private sector. I have never encountered a worse phone menu than the federal passport agency's.

2. Yay, public sector. I'm impressed they do same-day passports. I looked online and the LA agency has great reviews from average josephines in a hurry, just like me!

3) I solemnly swear I will never let my passport expire again.

Goofus and Gallant, may I have your chair?

March 27. Day 270.

I had drinks tonight with a friend at Tower 23, the waning but still hip beachfront bar with excellent raspberry margaritas. Metrosexuals abounding. The perfect place for La Roxy to play wingwoman to her saucy friend, La Senorita, for an evening.

On the patio, we spotted a single table and no chairs. Fortunately, there were two empty chairs on opposite ends of the bar. We each tackled one.

I asked the woman sitting next to one at the far end of the bar if I could take it.

"No. It's his," she replied, nodding toward a man who was standing nearby. I left.

La Senorita went after the other chair, which was next to a pair of men. One was sitting; the other was not, but had his jacket draped across it. Surprise surprise, she got the chair.

Gentlewoman that she is, she didn't sit down, and of course I didn't either. Not with one chair between the two of us. The guys who gave her the chair came up and teased us. "You wanted a place to hold your purses?"

"No! It's just that she won't sit in it because I don't have one. She's too sweet!" I said, laughing. You know what they did next. Gave us their only other chair.

No quid pro quo. No creepiness or trying to butt in on our conversation. Just nice guys, who will be honored into perpetuity on this blog.

Once we thanked them and sat down, I glanced back for a moment, out of curiosity, to see if the first guy was still standing by his chair or using it. He was standing.

What was this? He quickly walked up to our table! Did I miss something?

"Excuse me," he began. "I don't want to be too forward, but I noticed you were looking at me. Are you coming on to me?" He really said this. I have witnesses.

"No, I just wanted your chair," I replied.

"Oh. Because I thought I saw you staring at me."

"No, at your chair," La Senorita replied. "We were curious why your girlfriend wouldn't give it to us, when you're not using it."

"That's not my girlfriend. Do you ladies mind if I join you?"

"Actually we do. We haven't seen each other in a while and we were looking forward to catching up tonight. But you have a great evening," I explained.

Gained: Two chairs. And a story.

Who farted?

March 16. Day 259.

Months ago, I invited anyone from Asker, Norway who glances upon this site to drop me a line. Today, I got my first answer ever! It's from Tom, an authentic Askerite! Askerino! (I'll have to, er, ask him which is right.)

Here's his message:

Hey!

I'm from Asker in Norway! I've lived here all my life... 25 years. I like it alot! ;)
There are many beautiful places in Norway and Asker is one of them! We have nature right out side our doors, lakes and even the ocean!

Well... Just thought I would drop you a line, since I found your site ;)

Regards,
Tom

That totally made my day. I will write back once I finish this chapter draft. I've told my self NO EMAILS until I finish this damn chapter. So. Close!!! (Also why I've been slow to update, lately.)

***

Starting this project, I imagined I'd be asking for: a better starting salary or a better deal on a car, among other things. Certainly not this...

But here are the facts you need to know before passing judgment:

Around 3 p.m. in the neighborhood of Normal Heights, I found myself sitting next to three individuals in a popular cafe. They were:

1) a young man with a video game addiction
2 & 3) a pair of work colleagues editing some digital videos, passing a pair of chunky headphones back and forth and making comments.

They all sat down at roughly the same time. Roughly ten minutes after they joined the area of this cafe where I was sitting, a foul stench permeated the region.

I brushed it off (so to speak), chanted "mind over matter," and dug deeper into my work.

Until it happened again. And again.

Now my mind was racing.

Was it the guy? Classic dweeb, dressed in a computer contest shirt, focused on his Warcraft to the point of refusing eye contact with people who tried to walk past him and needed him to move his knees. Self-absorption to the point of solipsism. Prime candidate. Yet -- I hate to stereotype.

So was it one of the video duo? Under deadline. Focusing so hard. So hard. Whoops. There goes another. ...Yes, it was possible, but less likely. The whole "negative peer pressure" thing went against that theory. Or did it? Because precisely that theory incriminates one of them. No one would think he would be so bold, sitting so close to a colleague -- so all the more reason to go for it?

I found a paper and actually fanned myself for a few moments, but to no avail.

Half an hour into this assault, a man walked up to me and tried to get by.

"Is anyone sitting there?" he asked, and pointed to a rare empty seat in the cafe.

"I don't think you want to sit there," I said, not too loudly -- but certainly within earshot of my closest neighbors. "It smells bad. I think someone --" And I glanced their way.

I didn't know how else to put it. And I hoped that would be a hint to the offender that yes, everyone within 15 feet can feel it.

That man, meanwhile, retreated to a different section. At one point he looked at me and shrugged amicably, as in "What canya do? Sucks to be you."

The cafe was full. Except for two seats -- one next to the computer player, and one next to where that man had spread out his stuff.

I rushed over.

"Can I sit here?"

"Of course. I'll just scoot over."

"Phew. Thanks!"

Gained: Oxygen!!!

Can I have one?

March 11. Day 254.

I can't believe just did this. Even I am shocked. But desperate times call for....

The day flew by and I asked for nothing. I spent a few hours in my new favorite haunt, a Starbucks with free parking and crappy wifi conveniently located next to a Trader Joes. A one stop shop.

But, nothing needed or wanted there, so I kept my mouth shut.

Around 7, Mr. A called from work, suggested we go out for dinner. Great! Besides seeing him -- which is the only reason I said yes, I swear -- I'd have the added opportunity to identify a need or want, and ask for something.

We went for Thai food, and then we decided to switch places for dessert. We ended up at IHOP. I still hadn't asked.

We ordered -- two fried cheesecakes with bananas, strawberries and caramel sauce -- and still, nothing.

At a certain point as we waited for our desserts, I don't know what motivated me to do this, but I turned around and glanced at the booth behind me. There was a woman, a woman with long black hair, waiting for her date to come back from the bathroom. This woman had just received a basket of mixed appetizers and a few entrees. Appetizing appetizers. And then, before it was too late, before whatever accursed boldness melted away like the butter on her pancakes... I asked.

"At the risk of sounding very rude or strange, could I please try an onion ring?"

She froze. I froze.

"I'm just curious how they are," I added, as if that could make the supreme discomfort shared by both of us somehow fritter away.

She daintily reached for the one sitting on top of the pile and handed it to me. Much easier than arguing with the crazy lady.

"Thank you," I replied, and smiled. She turned back to her food. Her hubby came back and they spoke in hushed tones in a foreign language.

Not the reaction I was hoping for. Maybe a laugh, a "Sure, they're totally addictive!" or "Only if you trade me for a bite of your dessert, hardy har!" Instead, I think she thought I was very odd indeed, or making fun of her.

Once again, tested the limits of propriety and social decorum. Sank where I never thought I'd sink before. Mortified myself, my dinner companion, and an innocent diner. But gained: a yummy onion ring!

Exqueeze me? Please, which way is Greece?

February 12. Day 227.

Two highlights from my first hours on Greek soil:

Before dinner, while Mr. A was at the conference, I walked around the Plaka, an ancient maze of alleys filled with cafes and boutiques under the Acropolis, occasionally murmuring "Pardonakis" when I wanted to get through a crowd. I have no clue why I thought this means "Excuse me." It sounded right.

Oops.

And at the Athens airport, when I first arrived, I stopped to ask for directions. To Greece.

The airport train station was deserted, and so I asked a lone young woman if she spoke English (in English).

"No," she managed.

My turn to try.

"Parakalo? Metro?" I asked and pointed to the train platform. ("Please? Metro?")

"Ne!" Yes! she replied.

"Aha. Metro... pros hellas?" Roughly: "Aha. Metro to Greece?"

She pointed to the metro again, to show me where it was. But I needed to know the train's direction.

"Hellas?" I asked again. "Greece?"

And then I caught myself... "Atena?"

"Ne!!" she said, and laughed.

That's the problem... I know just enough Greek to get into trouble. A few words, a pronoun or two. Just enough, that is, to talk to someone who doesn't speak English and think I'm communicating.

Gained: Directions for this silly tourist.

What's the silliest thing you've said or done, as a tourist?

can you/would you/wouldn't you/couldn't you/please do/please don't/ARGH!!!!/AHHH...

January 10. Day 194.

I would love to do a proper narrative of Saturday's events, because it was quite a day.

But I'm on vacation. In Hawaii... Outside, I hear rustling waterfalls and birds chirping. My arms and shoulders are exactly at that delicate border between sunkissed and sunburned. I am happy.

I should not be holding a computer in my lap and typing. I should be out frolicking, imbibing mai tais or cliff diving into crystal clear waters. Or both.

So how about I keep fast forwarding through the past days, rather than doing the normal write ups, since I reeeeally want to get to here and now.

Mr. A and I have moved in, as you know, together. After doing about a fifth of the move on Friday, Saturday was all about disassembling, moving and reassembling furniture, retrieving all my stuff from my mom's house, and packing the final loose ends (i.e. more than half of our possessions were still left over). Meaning enough work to fill a week.

And I was leaving the next morning at 5:30.

This rushed situation, and the fact that our small aesthetic differences instantly became a practical rather than theoretical subject, led to not one, but maaaany requests, implorations and exhortations, on both sides, all day long. INPO (in no particular order):

Can you make room for my chair?

Can you make room for my rugs?

Can we throw away this lamp?

No, how about we keep the lamp?

Do you really need this?

Well, do you really need that?

Can you help me clean up the kitchen?

Would you stop worrying about the kitchen?

Would you start doing this/that?

Can't you see I'm doing something else?

Can you come here and do that/this?

Would you stop telling me what to do?

Would you tell me why you're pissed off?

Would you just piss off?

At midnight, we climbed into the truck for the final transport, and the silence hung heavily upon our brows.

At 1 a.m., we were putting things away in the new house and shooting meek smiles at one another.

At 2 a.m., Mr. A went out to get a snack and I started packing again -- for Hawaii. I could only find bikini halves, no t-shirts, no flip flops, no sunscreen, so I just grabbed what I could and shoved it into my weekend bag.

At 3 a.m., I crashed on the mattress and fell asleep a second later. At some point after that, before we woke up at 4:45 to go to the airport, I remember him curling up next to me, and I remember smiling.

Gained: Moving day -- Finito!!! We talked, we asked, we argued, we pleaded and we negotiated. I didn't always get my way, he didn't always get his, but we both have something way better: each other!

Free mini pastry?

December 18. Day 171.

A few months ago, I went to the Living Room, asked to sample their cheesecake, and got rejected.

So what did I do last night, when I happened to end up at the Living Room? Ask to sample their cheesecake, again, and get rejected.

This time, it seemed like the perfect opportunity: they had an entire tray of miniature pastries sitting on a shelf next to all these massive cakes. These didn't look like they were individually prepared -- just, tiny pieces of a larger cheesecake. So, I ordered my food and then inquired, "Are those little pieces down there samples?"

"They're .$75."

Case closed.

Grrr. I totally should have phrased it differently, for example "Could we also have a couple of those samples? They're not samples?! Could I try one anyway?"

Or: "Could you also throw in a mini pastry? It's $.75? Really? That's so funny... I'd never pay more that a dime for that puny handful of calories. I mean, if I could try one maybe I'd come back for more, but otherwise forget it..."

But I was meek, and asked expecting a no.

Sad.

Gained: Nothing, again. Exactly what I deserved.

Stop locking my phone?

December 1. Day 154.

Standing in line at (you got it) a cafe, I reached for my cell phone to make a call and noticed the keypad was locked. This could only mean one thing.

Mr. A was glancing the menu on the wall in front of us, looking forward to an iced coffee, or maybe a smoothie. Blissful. Still.

"Hey, could you not lock my phone?" I asked.

"No."

"I'm asking."

"I'm refusing."

"Please. It's really annoying when I have to unlock it. I don't change your phone's settings."

"Locking it is not a setting."

"Yes it is."

"Not blocking your cell phone is not a mental priority for me."

"I won't lend you my phone anymore."

"Fine. Next time I forget my phone we'll turn around and get it. Even if we're an hour away."

"Not if I'm driving."

"OCD."

"I'm not OCD."

"OCD."

Gained: A racing heartbeat and flushed cheeks, but not for the reasons I wish.

PS: A few moments before this exchange, the customer before me asked the barista, "Is your medium here a large or a small?" Crazy, crazy times.

Asked for an asking

November 14. Day 137.

Short version, in case you're in a hurry:

Another retail attempt. Another bust.

Here's how it went down:

I ended up at Cost Plus with my mother, to look at some rugs. They have some nice wool ones with persian-esque designs, which had caught my eye some time ago. Fortunately, almost all were 25% off! Unfortunately, not the one I wanted. (The ones pictured are from another store, but I liked the image.)

I found a salesgirl walking the floor. She had rung up my purchases in the past and had always been friendly. I made my case.

"I noticed that all the rugs are on sale except for this one. Do you know if maybe it's a mistake?"

"It looks like just this series is full price, that's so weird," she said, checking the prices.

"Well, do you think I could get the sale price on this one, anyway? Even a smaller discount would be great."

"I don't... think you can do that." She looked doubtful, but in a way that gave me hope.

"I'd be willing to make it a final sale, or pay in cash?"

"Cash doesn't make a difference for us, I'm afraid."

"I mean, I could walk out with it today, like a clearance item, and never return it. If you could get the price down a little."

"I don't think we can do that."

"Argh, that's too bad! I love it. I would totally buy it if it were just a little cheaper. Is there any way the manager can come up with a discount? I've heard that sometimes they have special powers."

She smiled. "I can ask for you, but I can already tell you the answer will be no."

"Would you... mind asking?"

I got the feeling I was starting to waste her time. "I can, but he's almost definitely going to say no."

"That's ok. It would be worth a try. If you don't mind."

"I can. But I can already tell you he's going to say no." And then her eyes lit up. "If you open a charge card with us, you get a discount. Or, if you sign up for e-mail promotions! Or, it might go on sale later? They go on sale at random times."

"Thanks. I guess I'll wait to see if it goes on sale." Easy out. In a sense, I like that she offered alternatives -- she was an asset for her company by dissuading negotiation and quickly pointing me to their credit card. And at the end, she seemed to genuinely want to help me get the price down with all those options. Except by asking her manager.

I took her word that he'd say no. I think that was a mistake. Perhaps by asking her to ask, he would have come over and I could have gotten a different answer. Or perhaps by asking her to ask, she would have starting thinking that prices, even those printed in ink, are not set in stone. Could be good for her shoppers, and in her own life. Instead, I respected the status quo and rested my case as quickly as you can say "Loser."

Gained: Practice, I guess? Practice at taking rejection? Arrrrgh. Practice at not persisting? AAAAK! Do any of you readers have ideas for retail bargaining? Is my approach all wrong, or is it just a lost cause?

The violinist replies

November 8. Day 131.

Haven't asked yet. More on that later. But first, an update:

The violinist I wrote about yesterday wrote back! His name is John, and after googling him I discovered he was the musical director of the cafe's gigs, and quite the opposite of the indigent invalid and/or washed up dilettante I romantically imagined he could be.

He returned the favor, offering these speculations about me:

Now if I may, let me make some assumptions regarding those who would blog in this manner! They might be cowardly because they choose to remain anonymous and obviously fear confrontation of any kind. Perhaps they are full of themselves, with the words ”some dissertation work“ in the first sentence and “dissertate" in the last sentence of their blog. One could imagine writers such as these were abused as children, and are now egomaniacs with inferiority complexes, full on narcissists even, although I’m not a psychologist.

Moi? A pretentious narcissist? J'adore!

Wake up call, Roxy. It's one thing to be bold and learn to speak up or negotiate; another to take jabs at strangers from behind a curtain of the Internet. So, I owe him an apology. A new guideline will be: treat every word I write as something the subject and his/her family (or lawyer) might read. Aiming not for censorship, but consideration. Not inhibition, but integrity. Reporters do that. I don't think bloggers, anonymous or otherwise, should be held to a different standard. That was always my intention; how could I have gotten so careless?! Yikes.

As for anonymity, I don't particularly care if people know who I am offline, once I've asked. But I'm keeping my name under the radar because I'd like to make my requests as a regular person for this experiment -- the same way I'll be doing once this project ends next July, or just as any of my readers might be doing already -- without the potential clout or liability of "being a blogger." Basically, publishing my first name alone makes this whole shabang possible.

If the invitation to go for a latte at Twiggs still stands, John, I'd love to!

xo,
La Roxy

For today's asking, please stay tuned. I have an idea, for once not centered around food or coffee, but we'll see if it works out...

UPDATE: My plans were thwarted by a very long nap I took. I ended up asking for something just for the sake of asking: a ride. From my aunt. Of course she said yes.

Must shake things up on Sunday.

GAINED: A ride offer; a reply.

Fraid to ask? Fake it till you make it. (And, a retail bust.)

November 3. Day 126.

Mr. A called a little after noon today with a mission: Dry clean his suit and buy him a blazer or whatever else is necessary for a business look, since he's taking off for a week-long conference in Prague and has been consumed by deadlines and would I mind helping him with this?

Of course not!

I looked in his closet and made a mental list of what would fill in the blanks -- a black blazer? A warm jacket to face the Bohemian autumn? A white or soft blue shirt, but not in a boring "Dockers" cornflower shade. Maybe something in bordeaux, since it's a color that looks great on him. And everything had to be comfortable. He detests ties.

I glanced online to learn about collars and pleats, because frankly, what do I know about menswear? I can recognize a well dressed man. I greatly enjoy recognizing a well dressed men. Whenever Mr. A is said man, paradoxically, I quickly want to change his status from dressed to its opposite.

My male fashion expertise stops there.

At Nordstrom Rack, I got some advice from shoppers and a salesman. What to look for in a shirt in terms of quality. How long pants should be. What's comfy but crisp. The benefits of wrinkle free.

As I started pulling out some shirts and checking them against the jackets I chose, an unexpected feeling crept up on me: embarassment! I started imagining what the guys around me were thinking. "She must be the controlling type." "She won't even let her boyfriend pick his own tie." "I bet she lays out his outfits every night."

I wanted to shout back. "But he asked me to!! He's working overtime and I love shopping! I'm not his mother! I'm his girlfriend! Just look at my purple suede heels, which I selected before heading out today to send you a subtle message about what an individualist I am!

"I wear purple!!

"I believe in the freedom of fashion!!!"

Of course, it was all in my head. Everybody I talked to was unperturbed by my presence. Friendly, even. One guy around my age exclaimed, "He gets a personal shopper? Nice!" An older man: "I wish my wife shopped for me, but she refuses to."

Which brings me, in a roundabout way, to a word I've been thinking about today: Expert.

Being an expert in something -- be it menswear, purple pumps, quantum game theory or shopping cart ergodynamics -- isn't just something your earn by studying or practicing. It entails being publicly comfortable with your exceptional knowledge in an area. It's entails representing that area. It's membership, it's access, it's entitlement. It also comes with certain responsibilities.

In any case, you have to claim that status. Some people claim it without working for it. Others do the opposite. I believe they should go hand in hand. But, I realized today that I'm unfailingly shy to profess expertise, or even experience -- because I don't want to benefit from the corresponding access, entitlement, acknowledgement. It's costed me professionally, intellectually, socially.

People in the shirt aisle weren't judging me negatively; I was doing that on my own. I was excluding myself from the circle of people who should shop for men's clothes. I decided, essentially, that I was intruding in an area I shouldn't be an expert in. Yet, no one else thought to question my place there!

And that makes me wonder: how often do I close doors? "I don't know much about that subject, so I'll keep quiet." "I'm not experienced in that, so why don't you two do whatever makes you happy?" "You're the expert, so whatever you think is best!" Etc, etc, etc. It's safe, it's deferential, it seems to be better for the system. And it's a strategy I've adoped too frequently in the past. But maybe the decision makers weren't more qualified; they just had louder voices, more swagger, or a greater opinion of their abilities.

When it comes to asking, I think my new approach is going to be: "Fake it till you make it." Act like an expert in negotiation, until I become one. For minor requests, I know I'll probably get them, so I'm already fearless. But what about the big ones?

For Mr. A's purchases, I asked for a discount at the cash register, at two stores. But I was shy. I seemed unconvinced. And I was flatly rejected.

"We don't do that here."

"You can get discounts at department stores, not here."

Gained: A refinement to my strategy. My new goal isn't just to ask, but to ask expecting to hear yes, even when I secretly think the answer will be no. With each new type of challenge, I must present myself like I've asked for that 100 times. Believe in yes.

Too old to "Trick or Treat"?

October 31. Day 123.

All-time favorite costume: Snow White, sewn by both my grandmothers when I was four. One grandma may be reading this from her celestial perch even as I type, for all I know, and the other will see it tomorrow, when she heads to the computer room of her senior home and checks her email. Hi, Grandmas!!!! Thank you again for making me such a beautiful costume!

This year, I dressed up as an angel and Mr. A was a witch. It was his second Halloween in disguise, after growing up without such merriment in Europe and then Canada.

We were invited to A&K's for a ghoulish potluck. Mr. A got there a little late, since he had a long day at work, so I left the party to help him find parking. As we walked back, we spotted them: Two trick or treaters! With bulging bags of candy. Leading the way.

"We should go trick or treating before we get to their house!" I suggested.

"No."

"It's an American tradition," I pressed. "All the kids do it. Don't you want to try it, once in your life? We're not too old!"

We ended up following the kids to the lit doorway and climbing the apartment steps with them. Only they didn't knock on the door. They opened it and walked in. And they weren't kids. They were petite adults. Headed to a party.

"Trick or treat?" I yelped behind them.

"We don't have any candy," the man said, as a few people standing around him looked out to see what the commotion was.

Mr. A turned around and bolted. I wasn't far behind.

"Holidays are way cooler in my country," he later informed me. "We go door to door singing Christmas carols and receive sweets."

"Carols? Please. In this country we get candy on Halloween just for being cute."

"Right."

Gained: A botched attempt at giving my Euro boyfriend an All-American Halloween. There's always next year. Mu ha ha ha!

Write me a rec letter?

October 28. Day 120.

I can't believe I forgot to include on yesterday's post that I have an official hangout in Seattle! Bauhaus. Books up and down the walls, nooks and crannies full of alterna-nerds, excellent caramel lattes and nice music. I owe it to one of the people I met at that dinner, who told me to check it out, so thank you! Discovering Bauhaus was totally worth $13 =)

Today, I asked for a recommendation letter. I absolutely hate doing this, since I generally hate promoting my own work. And, I can't imagine why anybody would ever want to take half an hour from his or her busy day to write, "Roxy rocked." How cringe worthy! With this blog, it's been an interesting opportunity to mention, here and there, "I have a blog," but I feel strange doing it.

Contrast that to: dude in a cafe who saw me looking at a Seattle event website. He came up to my table and announced, "That's a great site, isn't it? I designed it!" Really.

New recommendation system I propose: I will have a folder with a page for every job, and whenever I do something noteworthy I'll get a sticker. Then, I'll show that folder to prospective employers. No more imposing on former bosses.

Anyway, the answer came shortly thereafter: "I'd be happy to, but why didn't you ask your main boss?" Ak! Because it seemed the work I did for this supervisor was more along the lines of the job I'm aiming for.

He replied, encouraging me to ask the main boss anyway, since he knows my work better (and his word carries more weight).

Gained: career advice? a rejection? not sure if his answer was a good one or a bad one.

Don't you see we've been robbed?

October 27. Day 119.

I was robbed tonight.

I went out to dinner with a group of people La Sorella is getting to know in Seattle -- friends of a friend -- and when the bill came, I wondered if I should suggest we each pay our share (mine was $18 or so) or take one for the team and split it evenly.

Of course, as always happens when some people get trashed and others hold back, the vocal minority voted to split it, and we all put our cards down. That came to $26 a head. An $8 pseudo friendship fee? Fine.

Only, when the card came back, I saw the waiter had charged $31. I glanced at some other receipts, and they had the same amount. Apparently, someone hadn't paid.

I didnt know anyone in the group. I'm the tourist from San Diego, after all. And La Sorella was trying not to rock the boat, since some of the girls in the group are actually nice. But I couldn't say nothing.

"Was there a miscalculation? I was charged $31. Did anyone else get that?"

"Really?" They were all surprised. "It must be that they added the tip to the $26."

"No, the tip was already included. Maybe someone forgot to pay."

"I don't understand," said another girl, a pretty thing with long loose curls. By then, I had counted the receipts and saw she hadn't paid.

"It's ok," I replied. "I do."

Later, I heard that her boyfriend said he'd pay for both of them and only covered one meal. And then they both played dumb.

Lost: $13.

Gained: I didn't have the courage to explicitly say, "You didn't pay. You are robbing me. You're cheaters." Once I opened my mouth and pointed out the injustice, if everyone else at the table deemed it fair, I went along with it. The charge on my card had been made, and I decided the social cost (appearing cheap and unpleasant) would have affected my sister's chances of befriending the two nice women at the table.

But I am leaning more and more toward paying my own way at group affairs, unless they're all friends I trust. Too many brazen theives out there.

Or maybe next time that happens, I'll flat out refuse to play along.

May I butt in? (Part II)

October 19. Day 111.

Maybe I felt bolder after yesterday's invitation, or maybe it's hard to find bargains or ask for a raise on a lazy Sunday. So I decided I'd ask for something with a social twist.

After stopping for a mid-afternoon caffeine jolt with some friends, I headed over to D.G. Wills, one of the coolest independent bookstores in America. On par with Shakespeare & Co, Powell's and Raven Books in terms of stock and mood, but with a great string of readings -- Gore Vidal, Allen Ginsberg, Norman Mailer, Derek Walcott -- and in a few minutes, Billy Collins.

People had filled the store, the driveway, the entire sidewalk for half a block, and were starting to stand in the street by the time I arrived. Dennis, the store's owner, sets up speakers, so it's no problem. I found a comfortable spot leaning against a clean white van, with an unobstructed view of Collins through the window.

In front of me, a woman dressed in black was talking to a younger couple. They had arrived separately and started chatting before the reading, the way people do at these things.

"...genius. Really, a genius. There's not a subject he doesn't know about. You know, he's acerbic and terribly funny. He's British, but he came to America in his youth. His most polemical views are on torture, atheism --"

"Christopher Hitchens?" I asked.

They all turned to look at me and she gave a quick nod. Then, turned back to one another.

"And he writes these extraordinary pieces in which he uses himself as a guinea pig. Got all the hair waxed from his back. And then he tried waterboarding. It was for that magazine he writes for..." she paused there, searching for the name it seemed.

"Vanity Fair?" I offered. "Those were great articles." I subscribe to VF and had read those very pieces. How lovely to find someone at a poetry reading who reads the same wacky articles you do!

And then she turned back to the couple.

These people, about my age, were listening with polite smiles and nodding once in a while. Just not that into her.

Why?? Why did she want to talk at them, instead of with me?

Anyway, I was quickly delivered from my feeble attempt at inserting myself into that conversation by the reading, which was phenomenal.

Gained: One more opportunity to be a social parasite, with nothing truly gained and nothing truly lost.

Wine without an ID?

October 17. Day 109.

Three words that entered my consciousness, INPO:

I. Career day, 1988. Third grade. Lunch tables, over by the fence. Between the fire-fighters and nurses, one of my friends is carrying a clipboard and wearing a blue suit. I'm stumped.

"What are you, a secretary?" I ask.

"I'm a lawyer!" she exclaims.

Lawyer? What's that?

II. Karate class, 1991. One of my favorite moments is storytime. And sparring. Yarrrr!

Sensei tells us a parable about a special bird flying next to each of us: "You all have an eagle. For some, and you know who you are, this eagle is very big. It's way up here, bigger than you are, and that can cause some problems. Others have small eagles. You keep them in check. You help others. You say thank you. That's what I want to see: tiny eagles, everywhere."

For years, I envision a bird hovering over my shoulder. Then I realize he was talking about my ego.

III. Second grade. A girl reads a poem about a pair of bunnies in a forest.

"The gay little bunnies hopped and hopped," she says. And two boys start snickering. "They're gay!" one says, and more boys laugh.

Sr. Mary Lou tells them to be quiet, so I conclude that interrupting a poem with my own reaction is not acceptable.

All this to say: My asking today is paltry, so I've decided to regale you with miscellaneous facts about myself. I'm sure you care.

I ended up at TGIF for dinner with a group of friends, where I noticed a wine I actually like on the menu. Ménage à Trois, fruity and round, in a style I find immensely drinkable.

My turn came to place a drink order, and the waitress asked for my ID before I could open my mouth.

I didn't have my driver's license on me, so I made this pitch: "I'm almost 30. I forgot my ID. Can I have a glass of wine?"

Honey, so much sympathetic, empathetic, you're-pathetic honey, oozed out of every pore, every hair follicle, from the very core of her soul.

"I'm sooooooo sorry. Not without an ID."

I know, it's not her, it's her boss. It's not her boss, it's the owner. It's not the owner, it's the liquor license. It's not the license, it's the lawmakers. It's not the lawmakers, it's the lobbyists. It's not the lobbyists, it's the drunk drivers.

Cry me a river.

Maybe my tender ego should be flattered she carded me, maybe I should become a lawyer to argue the drinking age away, but I just think that's so...

Gained: A glass of water, which I had to ask twice for. Yuck.

Can I borrow your segway scooter?

October 5. Day 97.

I've had this asking on my mind for some time, and tonight was the perfect opportunity.

After biking on the beach and reading Vanity Fair over a latte at Peet's, I went for a walk downtown to clear my head. It's been a complicated weekend.

On one of the quieter streets, I saw a police officer standing next to a Segway. Another man, a few feet away, was barking into his cell phone. Were they interacting? Was a fine in progress? An arrest?

I turned the corner and casually lurked.

After a few moments of listening in, it seemed they weren't talking to one another, so I gingerly approached the officer with my request.

"Hi," I started.

"Hi."

"Am I interrupting you? It looks like you might be busy."

"Oh no, he's just getting his car towed. What can I do for you?"

"I just had a quick question. Would it be possible for me to try your segway, for just a second? I've always wanted to know what that's like."

"No, I can't let you, sorry."

"No worries. Thanks anyway."

180 degrees. Bye bye.

Guess I hadn't really picked the best target, after all. A police officer? Someone who's supposed to keep people safe? Giving a scooter to a random woman for a test ride? During a law enforcement procedure? Good thinking, Roxy.

And it was a lazy asking, if I've ever seen one.

But if that's the last time I try to bum a segway sample, my name isn't The Daily Asker. Oh, wait... Anyway, you know what I mean.

Gained: Zero service from one who should protect and serve. Fine, that's harsh. How about: nothing I particularly merited.

Passion fruit cocktails and bulk bead discount?

September 26. Day 88.

First things first: Recipe for a really good passion fruit cocktail. This is adapted from my aunt, who got me hooked on these with the fruits from her very own vine.

One wrinkled passion fruit.
One glass of chilled tonic
Splash of gin, optional.

1. Pour tonic into a glass.
2. Cut passion fruit in half and swirl a knife around inside, to agitate and loosen the pulpy juices.
3. Pour over tonic, stir, and add gin. Strain, optionally, or else crunch the seeds.

Yum!

Now that we both have a drink, let's sit back and chill for a moment. I've been thinking, over the past months, about what is an asking. Some interactions obviously test my limits, some make me uncomfortable, but others seem routine. Sometimes I'm going out of my way to ask, but other times the opportunity falls in my lap. The least common denominator is that they're all things I would have hesitated to inquire about before this July. Maybe I hesitate today, as well, but I push myself to try, instead of being polite or 'knowing my place.' Or maybe before it simply wouldn't have occurred to me. So, I guess, this is putting me in tune with what I want, and forcing me to be braver in tiny and not so tiny ways.

I also notice this experiment is starting to morph, slowly, from something focused initially on money, into something more experiential. Can I see the inside of your house? What would you do with $10,000? Can I borrow your dog for the day? Those popped into my head right now, and I'm getting excited about the possibilities.

Finally, I realize these early posts will appear -- once I look back on them in a year -- just like the first postings of every blog. Tentative, wobbly, so transparent. Pudgy baby steps. I wonder what the last post will look like.

Today, I spent the afternoon with my Mama. We went for coffee at Pappalecco, which I'd missed on my New England romp, and then in Old Town, which is San Diego's traditional Mexican quarter (read: super-touristy pseudo-authentic money-making machine). But amid the fresh tortillas and stale shot glasses, there lies a gem of a store: Shepherdess Beads.

My mother, by the way, is a computer guru day and a jeweler by evening-to-midnight. She just launched a website, bobobijoux.com!

As I tried on different combinations of beads and tried to imagine I was that creative, she collected about two dozen strands of pearls and chrysoprase and other semi-precious stones. The total 'dollar value,' as they say, was a little dizzying, so I asked her if I could ask for a discount. It would be my first chance applying some the principles learned yesterday: be persistent and don't act impressed.

As the sales woman jotted the prices of our items on a log, I started talking with her about her jewelry. Figured it was a way to get her in a generous mood.

"Did you make your necklaces?"

"I did!" she said.

"They're beautiful." They really were. Silver and turquoise and coral, I think. Very delicate. We kept on chatting, about gems and beads, and then I went for it:

"Before you write down the total, can I ask you something? Is there any flexibility on the price, since we're getting so many?"

"You are," she agreed. "Let me see. I'm just the lowly sales girl," she added, smiling, "and I can't promise anything, but I'll check with the manager."

She came up with the tally, but then, suddenly she 'realized' something.

"You're already getting the frequent buyer discount!"

"Is there anything we could do, beyond that?"

"The employee discount is 20 percent, but I can't give you that."

I persisted: "What about meeting halfway? Anything you can do you would be very appreciated."

"You know, I just can't do anything beyond the discount you're already getting."

I didn't push it.

Gained: Not a thing! Was it my approach, or just the circumstances? Was I too eager, or was her manager just a hawk? I've been asking myself that a lot, lately. In any case, I've been planning on picking up Ask For It, the book written after Women Don't Ask, which provides concrete tools on this topic. I hope I'll find some ideas there.

Onward...