Are you a vegan?

First off, I am not officially a vegan. I can't claim the title, even if I do eat a mostly vegan diet because at any time, if you open my fridge, you will find eggs, yogurt, and sheep's milk. I'm a lactose-intolerant vegetarian. I often teeter on the edge of crossing that line--my body seems to be telling me to make the leap by rejecting most processed dairy products anyway. But so far, I still hold on to that feta and yogurt. Oh, how I love greek yogurt! And it's good for me!

Anyway, that is just to explain the conundrum which occurs when people notice my mostly vegan diet and ask, "Are you vegan?" Being an avid over-discloser, I promptly explain that I am a vegetarian and also lactose intolerant.

Every Monday night, I attend this new-agey self-help group in a neighborhood far away from my regular Saint Paul co-op. I have adopted a ritual of stopping in at the unfamiliar co-op in that neighborhood and hanging around the deli, often ordering something which happens to be vegan, before going on my merry way to my group. The same guy is always behind the counter.

This week, I ordered a sandwich with hummus and vegan cheez. (I don't even like fake cheese. I only ordered it because I felt like if I was going to pay to have someone make me a sandwich that I could have made myself, I might as well "cheez" it up as much as possible.)

So I wrote down my order and handed it to the Deli Guy, who was by now familiar to me but with whom I had never really exchanged conversation.

A few minutes later, Deli Guy came out from behind the deli counter with my sandwich in hand. He gave it to me and asked, "Hey, are you a vegan?"

Because we had never had any personal interaction, I assumed this was about business. I figured there was a trace of butter in the something-or-other and he was making sure I knew what I was eating. Eager to reassure the Deli Guy that I can, yes, eat a trace of butter, I said, with a wave of my hand, "Vegan? Me? Oh, no, I'm not."

Shifting from one leg to the other to support the basket of things I was about to purchase, I was suddenly awkwardly aware of the vegan nature of every single item I was carrying. What's that? Vegan bakery? Oh, and that? Meat-free, dairy-free Amy's pizza? Rice milk? Vegan kimchi? A sandwich with cheez? And are those vegan Earth shoes?! I felt like I had been caught, red-handed (to use a very non-vegan expression, ugh, yuck, don't think about it too much), with a basketful of tell-tale vegan products and a blunt denial. I mean, it's true; I'm not a vegan. But I felt silly standing there, like a poster-girl for vegan shopping and denouncing the title.

So I quickly explained with a sheepish smile, "I am lactose intolerant," and then I turned and walked away.

At this point, I realized that Deli Guy had not been asking for business purposes. He may have been striking up a conversation with me, which I abruptly had struck right down.

In fact, I began to consider the other factors of the question: he had walked out from behind the counter to personally hand me my sandwich, rather than just handing it to me over the deli case, like usual, and then had asked me a very personal question. I am quite obtuse when it comes to the murky waters of heterosexual flirting, but, could he have been flirting with me?

I considered this for a moment, then shook it off and proceeded to the checkout.

Suddenly, Deli Guy appeared behind me. "Hey, I'm so sorry, but I totally forgot to put the 'Cheez' on your sandwich," he said, making finger-quotation marks when he said "cheez."

"Oh, it's okay," I said. (Remember, I don't really like Cheez anyway.)

"No, seriously, it will take me 30 seconds," he said.

"Um, okay. Thanks," I said, handing him back the sandwich.

I bought my other things and then waited for him to come back. I still felt silly about blurting out my lactose intolerance and running away. I spent a good sixty seconds, at least, re-playing the events of the deli counter over in my head, trying to figure out what meaning to take from the whole interaction.

Deli Guy reappeared, Cheez-laden sandwich in hand. He gave it to me and said, "Liz, have a great day. I'll see you next week."

"Uh, thanks," I stammered. I took the sandwich and quickly walked out the door, thinking immediately that I should have politely asked him for his name, but I didn't. He knew my name, and he remembered that I come in every Monday. I felt like the most awkward, or rude, person ever as I carried my groceries to my car.

This guy knows my name, one part of my weekly schedule, and that I am lactose intolerant and choose to eat vegan foods most of the time. That's a lot to know about me!

Unfortunately, he doesn't yet know I am a lesbian.

Conjugation/Broken Bones

In Spanish class today, I told the kids a story about a casa. One kid repeated the word by changing one very important letter, thereby stating, "caca," which is second person present tense of "to shit." It means, "He or she shits."

I kept my best disaffected teacher face and corrected him, "Oh, you mean casa, Joey."

"No," said Joey, with a big grin on his face. "I mean caca."

Narrowing my eyes, I realized that Joey and I had an understanding going on here. None of the other kids got the joke. "Joey," I said, suspiciously, "Hablas espanol en casa?" ("Do you speak Spanish at home?"

Grinning, Joey said, "No."

But I was on to him. He knew exactly what he was saying.

Suddenly I faced a dilemma: how would I properly discourage him from using that sort of language in Spanish class without, as a result, teaching the rest of the class the meaning, or at implying to them the taboo nature of the word? The last thing I needed was a roomful of four-year olds learning how to conjugate excrement. (Trust me, they do enough with the subject matter already.)

I let it slide. I just moved right on, and Joey forgot all about his little second-language show-off moment. I suppose this isn't completely resolved. I'll let you know how next week's review session about the story about the casa goes.

And my second tidbit from the day is about another kid, this one five, at the pre-school who broke his arm last week. Poor guy! He told me proudly this morning that he broke it in two places!

"Oh, that's awful!" I said, wincing with empathy. "How long do you have to wear your cast?"

The kid frowned and gave a dejected sigh.

"Three years."

Craigslist Etiquette

I finally posted an ad on Craigslist about my cats. In the ad I say that they have been my best friends and that I am moving and (heartbreakingly) can't take them with me.

I immediately got this response in my email, from "Susan" with a comcast email address:

"they cant be youur best friends then can they if you are so willing to gve themm uphave you ever herd of petfriendly aparments or what"

That's it. That was the complete email. No salutation, no last name, no contact information besides her email address. Of course, upon reading this email this morning, I burst into tears, because I don't want to give up my cats, and if I could sign a one-year lease in a pet-friendly apartment I would do it, and because she has no fucking idea what my story is, and it's none of her business anyway, but somehow this invisible woman who knows nothing about me succeeded in making me feel like the worst pet-owner ever!

I have always had really good experiences with Craigslist. Until today, I have only had professional interactions (save for the occasional "give me your bank account number so I can send you money from overseas" scam attempt). I have found a few places to live via craigslist and found heaps of jobs (piano students, nannying gigs, etc).

What bugs me the most about this response is how completely disrespectful it is. Her response was completely unwarranted.

My first instinct was to delete the email and pretend I never saw it, but once the tears started, I couldn't get her biting, un-punctuated, mis-spelled, rude run-on sentence out of my head.

Then I really wanted to respond to her, but I quickly realized that would be a bad idea. This woman doesn't deserve my time. Also, she doesn't deserve to see my email address (I never publish my email address on Craigslist.)

My friend Meg suggested to think of this lady as the drunk person who saunters across the street in the middle of traffic--you have to slow down for her because she just up and puts herself in front of you when you are enjoying your forward momentum, but it's incredibly irritating. If she would just follow protocol and cross at a crosswalk (or only respond to an ad if she had something relevant to say), then no one would be in danger of getting hurt. But she insists on stopping traffic, on interrupting your day to make you acknowledge her and to make you reconsider your speed and courtesy for pedestrians. And she makes you feel like you are the one who is going too fast, who is unconcerned about the safety of others, and who is too wrapped up in arriving at her destination as swiftly as possible. But really, you are the one who slows down, who lets her cross because she just planted her body in the middle of your track, and when she successfully moves out of the way, you can continue.

Susan with a Comcast email address doesn't know what I have been through these past months. She doesn't know that me coming to the decision to give up my cats is for their best health and safety, not for mine. I went to the opera on Saturday night. This is really dorky, but I was thinking about my cats. In the opera (Abduction from the Seraglio), the "bad guy" turns out to be quite gracious in the end and he lets his kidnapped lover go. He sings, "If you love something, it is best to set it free."

I know, I know, how completely dorky, but when he sang that line, I began to cry because I was thinking about my fricking cats. That's how much I love them. I think about them at the opera.

Anyway, as of writing this post, I think I have found a temporary place for them, with a friend who will love them to pieces, just like I do, for now. That is excellent news! Mama Schmee and Nubia deserve a safe, loving home, far from J-walkers and traffic blockers.

More Fun From the Kiddos

So sorry I haven't been keeping you in the loop. Here's why:

I have been working three jobs (and still not making enough money), subletting other people's apartments/houses and moving every few months, trying to find a home for my adorable cats, applying to grad schools (again), singing my heart out for measly tips on a weekly basis (my HEART OUT, people, while you eat your lunch, and all you can give me is your spare change!?), recovering from up and leaving a long-term relationship, traveling, nannying, getting rid of extra things, sewing Halloween costumes for neighborhood kids, and falling way behind in bookkeeping for my music studio. Whew. It's been nuts.

So here is an update on funny things I have heard recently while teaching at the pre-school or during piano lessons.

Case Number One: Imaginary Friends

Little Sarah has an imaginary friend named Kitty. She is always talking to Kitty, asking for Kitty's opinion, and making art projects for Kitty. One day, I was chit-chatting with the other teachers while Sarah busily snipped away at something artsy for Kitty. Sarah said to us, "I am making this for Kitty. She pooped all over the rocks. She likes to drink milk, you know."

I said, "Oh my!"

And she said, "Yes, it was messy. But she does love her milk." Sarah paused, holding the miniature scissors distractedly as she furrowed her four-year-old eyebrows. "Kitty really likes to drink milk from my breasts."

I blinked. I refused to make eye contact with the other teachers, for fear of an eruption of laughter or horrified, embarrassed snickers.

"But," Sarah continued, "My breasts are too small. I'll get big breasts someday, like my Mommy, and then Kitty can have all the milk she wants."


Case Number Two: Shoes

Little Katie showed up to music class without any shoes on. Now, the kids are supposed to always have shoes or slippers on their feet.

"Katie," I said, "Where are your shoes?"

Katie, not one to beat around the bush, looked at me disaffectedly and said, "I peed on 'em."