Can you deal with this?

November 5. Day 128.

I got a note today from FedEx asking me to drive to their depot to pick up a package I'd ordered. Only. My car isn't working and I'm using Mr. A's today. I reeeeally have to work on my dissertation. And the people who sent the package messed up, since I didn't ask for delivery confirmation. Why should I spend an hour fixing their mess?

I did initially consider making the treck rather than pushing it back into their court. But come on... I'm not The Daily Asker for nothing. Here was my email:

Hi Cheryl,

I received a notice today from FedEx saying they tried to drop off a diploma at
my house. I am not there, and my car is currently in the shop. That means I
won't be able to pick it up!

I spoke to someone at their office, a customer service representative named Pat
Xxxxxx, who told me that if you call and remove the signature requirement,
they can deliver it again and leave it at my door.

Phone: 18004633339
The "door tag" I was given: xxxxxxxxxx
Delivery address: xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Otherwise, I'm afraid there is no way for me to receive this diploma, and I'd
hate for it to get sent back to you, or lost!!

Thank you very much for your help,

Best,

La Roxy

I really hope this works. She needs to know I can't resolve this problem. Shouldn't be my headache. Period.

Gained: An hour for my dissertation. One valuable hour.

ASKING UPDATE:

I dropped off two huge bags of clothes at Hillcrest Cleaners. Spotted a sign that they impose a 25 cent per item surcharge if you don't prepay. I asked them to waive it since I'm a first-timer.

Gained II. $4.50.

An asking for the ages! And my own tiny victory over prejudice.

November 4. Day 127.

What a day! What a night! What an asker!

I generally try not to get political here, since negotiation is all about bring opposing sides together. Seller and buyer. Boss and employee. Right and left. Basically, I don't want to ramble about my personal views (unless the those views involve asking, raspberries or cruel library workers).

But... Let me just say this... A black man from Chicago asked people to vote for him. The grandson of a Hawaiian secretary-turned-exec asked for change. A junior senator with magnetic oratory skills asked America to listen.

And America did!!

From a purely intellectual standpoint, Obama's campaign and his quest for the White House have a lot of takeaway points for my own project: Persevere. Believe in what you ask for. Make givers (voters, in this case) confident there's something in it for them. Learn from those who are more experienced. Stay civil and focused on the target even when you think you're going after an impossible goal. Know that nothing is impossible.

I spent Election Night at a GoObama party, where I met a man who butted into my conversation with a friend in a most brazen fashion. Middle aged, white, buzz cut, in the military since high school.

I asked him why.

Because he graduated from school with an interest in accounting and electronics, and the military offered a career doing electrical work on ships. He joined, got money for college, and then went back to the army because he wanted to make a difference. A seasoned fighter. He deployed to Afghanistan on 9/11, he's been to Iraq 5 times, and he's proud to be in the military and fight for America abroad.

I asked him why.

Because he belives in what America is doing. He believes the military has the Middle East's priorities at heart. Democracy, not oil. He has to believe it, or else his career and so many lives would have been lost in vain. But he doesn't agree with the methods. He thinks they should help the Iraqis govern themselves and then phase out. Stop fighting. Reduce the majority of troops. And stay the hell out of Iran.

I asked him why.

Because Iran can fight back. Because he's seen too many of his friends die. He just buried two of his closest friends at Rosecrants. He's had enough. He knows we'd be in trouble if there was another war. Most of his coworkers agree with him on this. Most people would be surprised at how many people in the military are are voting for Obama.

I asked him why.

Because they've also had enough.

It was an intriguing conversation, because his perspectives and opinions are different from most in my social and family circle. I don't know anyone in the military, and talking to John opened my eyes in a new way to the thoughts of someone serving in the armed forces. I never suppored this war, but when I meet someone who faced gunfire and worse, with the earnest belief he's helping someone like me cross the street in safety-- be it someone in California or in Fallujah -- I have to respect him.

Gained: A new president. A more nuanced view of what it means to fight for what you believe in.

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.

What shall it be?

November 2. Day 125.

I'll be honest with you: I'm still trying to decide what I asked for today. I have a few options, but nothing that was established in advance. Nothing that shouts, "Asked!"

Sometimes I set out with an asking in mind. I start a conversation, or approach a scenario or event, with a clear goal. Other evenings, I look back and start thinking. If I don't have something satisfactory, I head out to find a worthwhile opportunity. This option has also worked fine, leading to adventures with sororities, Segways and New Yorkers. Fate has its way of rewarding my procrastination. When it comes to this blog, at least.

But today, gentle reader, I invite you to be part of the process. I could say I asked for a cooking lesson. I went to lunch at my mother's house, and there I got a chance to speak to her new tenant, a PhD student from Italy. We got around to chatting about tiramisu, and when she said it's an easy dish she loves making, I chimed in to request a cooking lesson. I offered a briefing on American cuisine in exchange -- hamburgers, for example -- and everyone laughed. (I was only half kidding, but anyway. Come on. A tender, juicy patty smothered by gooey cheddar and meaty mushrooms, or a portuguese bun smooshing together some caramelized onions, a thin patty and brie? There are so many worthy variations on that theme!)

Later, I had coffee with a friend and colleague, a former grad student in my department who survived the dissertation. We talked about departmental politics, job searching, writing schedules, and for an hour I drilled the poor man about how he managed to finish, what strategies he used to stay motivated, how he managed to concentrate, all that. That could definitely count as an asking.

Both of my questions seemed, well, inconsequential. Not irrelevant or uninteresting -- quite the contrary -- but nothing I would have been shy to try before July. So maybe today was a failure, in terms of this project. Yet, it doesn't entirely feel that way...

Hmm... What do you think?

Did any of these catch your eye? And should I aim for every day's question to be outstanding, or is that too much to ask for?

Gained: Perhaps a cooking lesson. Definitely, motivation to get cracking on the thesis.

Gelato, per favore?

November 1. Day 124.

The best time to ask for something, I'm started to gather, is:

--when someone seems happy to provide knowledge, access, goods
--when someone has slighted you and cares enough to make up for it, or

--when someone has something clear and direct to gain by giving.

People so far, on the whole, are givers. I'm totally impressed and humbled by seeing how the average joes and josephines around me, people I've never met before and may never meet again, react with kindness and generosity to my strange, gratuitous or fair requests, as the case may be.

Today was another story.

Twenty minutes after Mr. A and I ordered lunch at Pappalecco, an Italian gelateria and caffè I have previously raved about, there was no sign of our food. When we checked with the waitress, she said that ooooops, she forgot about my sandwich, but that Mr. A's croissant and drink were coming right up. Ten minutes later, my food arrived -- cold -- and his stuff was still missing.

Then, she forgot again. We reminded her. She ran off. She forgot again, we reminded her, she ran off!!

Finally, I made it clear I was unhappy, Mr. A was starving, and there was one way she could make it up to us: free gelato.

"We've been waiting half an hour for his croissant. So, could you give him a gelato, as a gesture?"

The smile melted for just a second, in the eyes if not the lips, as if to say: "So that's how it's gonna be." Svergognata!

And then she conceded: "Okay, okay."

His croissant arrived eventually, slightly burned (?!), but at least the ice cream wasn't soup by the time she brought it out. Some people might have walked out or asked for the meal on the house. But. It was sunny outside. The farmer's market beckoned. Why bother? Anyway, I ended up getting a gelato and a blog posting out of the ordeal.

Gained: One chocolate chip gelato for my amore.

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!

Turn down the fans?

October 30. Day 122.

I'll never forget the moment I vowed to spend my life somewhere far, far away from San Diego.

I was 17, and I'd just come back from a week in New York with a group of high school friends (soon to be a college freshman and feeling sooo grown up). In the Village, we talked our way into a jazz bar with our fake or nonexistant IDs (loved it). We had dessert at midnight in Midtown (devoured it) and watched Les Mis (yawn).

My first evening back in San Diego, a Monday in early August I think it was, I stood with a friend at the intersection of 5th and University -- which is the heart of hipster/gay/chic/yuppie ville -- at 7 p.m., trying to figure out where to go, what to do, and there wasn't a place we could get a decent coffee and dessert. Hang out for the evening. Live a little. The only cafe I knew, my beloved "The Study," had closed down, and a Starbucks had recently opened a few blocks away. Every store and boutique was closed. Every venue was either dinner, family oriented, or an empty bar. I felt like screaming.

A month later, I left for 10 years, to college and then grad school, because of the repulsion I felt that night and for so many other reasons, and I moved back this summer after too many arrows in my life pointed west.

Which brings us to my first night back in San Diego, after a week in Seattle.

"Does it feel like you're coming home?" Mr. A asked.

Home? Of course. This will always be home. But this time, I was happy to be back. San Diego and I have both evolved, I dare hope.

After dinner, we headed to a new French pastry shop with a promising name, Mille Feuille (one of my favorite pastries ever!), which was at the same intersection as that fateful night: 5th and University.

At 10 p.m. it was closed, which didn't bode well for this neighborhood after all. We walked a block to the Crest Cafe, a diner I'd heard about years ago, but never tried.

The place was empty. The only waiter around was chatting with some friends and someone from the kitchen when we walked in.

"Are you closed?" Mr. A checked.

"No! A table for two?"

"We're just here for dessert. Is that okay?"

"Of course it is!" Our waiter was lovely. Even before we sat down, he brought out a tray of sweets and hinted which of the chocolate cakes to go for. We also ordered a peach cobbler.

It was a perfect homecoming.

With one exception: I've been battling a nasty cold, and the fans were on at full speed. I asked if he could turn them off.

"I don't think I can!" he said. "The fan is connected to the lights, so if I turn that down, the lights have to go, too. It's just our old wiring. The owner would kill me if I messed with the switches."

"It's ok. No problem," I said. We were leaving soon, anyway.

"But what I can do," he added, as an afterthought, "is just dim the lights! That should lower the fan's speed."

On came the mood lighting, off went the the fans, and we finished our desserts in the empty, cosy diner.

Gained: Like I said, a perfect homecoming. Beat that, NY.