Fun Guns: The New "It" Accessory

Miranda's 27th birthday was Saturday, and in honor of her officially beginning her "late 20's," we decided to stalk her favorite author--Anne LaMott--throughout the North Bay.

Okay, maybe "stalk" is a strong word, but we did try to visit as many of the places Anne hangs out and talks about in her books as we could. This took us to some random places (e.g. the beach adjacent to San Quentin) and some very posh places (e.g. Tiburon and Sausalito) where we amused ourselves by drinking too many Bloody Marys, eating too much salt water taffy and making fun of a lot of yuppies. ("Jennifer? Robert? Is that YOU?")

Although the day was officially coined "The Anne LaMott Tour of the Bay Area" I prefer to call it "Fun Guns Around the Bay." See for yourself.

Yuppie Fun Guns

(complete with Bloody Mary and the open shirt collar with copious chest hair.)

Happy Fun GunsCharlie's Angels Fun Guns

Tired Fun Guns

Rally Fun Guns! (Notice how Matt is aiming for the bear)

Writers Who Can't Punctuate

This is a picture of the schedule at the Make-Out Room. Writer's With Drinks? Shameful, guys. Just shameful.

An addendum. . . .

Here's the text of the Craigslist "Missed Connection" I posted last night in an effort to find Zooty, the guy who got stuck in the doors of a BART train while trying to give me his number. I actully don't have any inclination to call him, but I thought it would make for a funny "Missed Connection" anyway. The big goal is to land on the Craigslist "Best of. . . " list. (Oh, and to give credit where credit is due: the text of this craigslist post was written by my friend Erin, who enjoys ridiculousness even more than I do.)

Did you get stuck in the door of a BART train last night? - w4m - 25

---

Reply to: pers-153081605@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-04-20, 7:16PM PDT


You: tall, lanky and bruised, answers to the name of Zooty. Me: sassy crossword lover on the Richmond BART line, coming from the A's game. We shared a magical ride, but the cruel forces of the BART doors kept your number from me. Please respond, and we can make beautiful crosswords together once more.

BART

I am a magnet for off-balanced, wacky people. I am also the person that the strange, random stuff always happens to. A case in point:

I'm coming home from the A's game last night. I get on the train, plop down into a seat, and immediately zone out as I wait for the train to pull away from the station. I barely glance up as a big, tall guy sits down next to me and pulls out the newspaper crossword puzzle. After several minutes of sitting and minding my own business, this guy--with no warning, and no introduction at all--shoves the crossword puzzle at me, sticks his pen in my hand and says: "Here. You work on it." And then, almost as an afterthought, he says: "Are you any good at crossword puzzles?"

Um, yes I am good at crossword puzzles, so I started working on the puzzle. After a few moments he leans over my shoulder and begins to comment on the clues that I've answered: "Epees! I totally should have known that one!" "Oh, a knit is a stretchy fabric--I wouldn't have guessed that." Next thing I know we're working on it together, and I'm giving him shit about his dumb suggestions for answers.

Then suddenly, he says: "So, in about a minute I'm going to give you my phone number." I don't know how to respond to this, so I just start laughing. But he continues. "I won't take your number though."

When I ask him why not, he says that hasn't really been working out for him lately, so he's decided not to ask for it anymore. When I tell him I'm used to being the one who asks for numbers, he asks if I had been planning on asking for his, and I tell him I hadn't really thought about it.

"Do you have a name?" I ask him.

"Yes," he says.

"And the name is . . . . ?"

He tells me his name is Zooty, just as we get to my stop (where he is transfering to the train on the other side of the platform). As he gets onto his train, he asks "So, can I give you my number?"

I tell him sure, and he starts to write it down on the newspaper, but the pen won't work. The BART bell rings, and the automated voice announces the train is departing. Suddenly the BART train doors close. ON HIM. After a moment they re-open, and then close again. Still, ON HIM. He is still trying to scribble out a number, caught as he is with only one arm and half his body atcually on the train.

People on the train are groaning and glaring and yelling at him to get on, already. People in the station are laughing and pointing. I am hiding my face in my hands in embarassment.

The train doors open one more time, and he darts out and hands me the paper, then jumps back on BART before the doors slide closed and the train starts moving. As I move to leave the station, the women in front of me ask: "Did he just give you his phone number?" Yes. "Did you just meet him?" Oh yes. "Wow that's quite a catch!" they say. A catch? I'm not so sure, but it sure made for a damn good story. Now it's just too bad I can't actually read the phone number.

"Sweetie. . . . "

So this guy that I've been e-mailing on Match.com (but who I've never met or even spoken to on the phone) calls me tonight and leaves a message in which he calls me "sweetie" not once but TWICE.

Now, I feel like I have spent my whole life honing a public persona that discourages the use of terms of endearment. I have worked hard at crafting a slightly prickly exterior that brokers no such inclination towards monikers like "honey" or "sweetie" or "darling." I have tried to make it clear with my public facade of cynicism and crabbiness that in choosing to venture into affectionate name-calling like this, you risk being skinned alive by me. How is it possible that this very critical aspect of my persona has not made it into my online profile and into my e-banter with this guy?

What on earth would have given him the impression that I was the kind of girl who would appreciate being called "sweetie?" All I can say is: he'd better not be planning on holding my hand or doing any cuddling, because that will be the final straw. I WILL smack down on it.

Dating as the fifth circle of hell?

A friend just sent me the link to a new dating site--IPod Dater. Apparently the deal is that if you join (for free), you can download videos of people explaining why you should want to date them, and then you can contact them. I'm sort of hoping it's a joke, but I don't think it is.

So after the demise of my last relationship attempt, I find myself (unwillingly) back on Match.com. I thought I canceled my stupid subscription, but I apparently didn't, so now I feel obligated to get something out of it until my subscription expires for real in May. My heart's not really in it, though.

The proof? I have gotten ridiculously picky about who I will contact on Match. This is the danger of anonymous online profiles--it's super easy to write people off based on little tiny details that annoy you. So with no further ado, my top 10 list of Match.com profile turn-offs--if you have any of these going on in your profile, you won't be hearing from me:

1) Bad grammar. Did you say nice instead of nicely? Good when you should have said well? You're off the list.
2) Bad spelling and punctuation. I understand that this is a relatively casual mode of communication we're talking about here, but bad spelling just makes you look dumb, and who wants to date someone who can't spell "schedule"?
3) Referencing how hard it is to meet people in your profile. It just makes you look sad and desperate. You're right: it is hard to meet people, but does anyone really want to be reminded of it? I didn't think so.
4) Inappropriate Match names. Examples: NiceBunsBaby and ShutTheFuckUpandKissMe. Seriously? I'm sure those names are reeling in the dates.
5) Anyone with half naked pictures of themselves in their profile, particularly if they're obviously flexing. You're probably a cocky bastard and everyone knows that really hot guys are always more trouble than they're worth.
6) Anyone old enough to be my dad. Or uncle. This, by the way, is the vast majority of men who contact me.
7) Anyone who has to say they are funny, smart or sarcastic in order to prove it. It's the primary rule of writing, people: Show, don't tell. If I can't tell you're funny, smart or sarcastic from the rest of your profile, you're probably not as funny, smart or sarcastic as you think.
8) Anyone who calls himself a "nice guy." This means you're either a jerk who's trying to front like you're a good guy, or you're really a nice guy, and women (at least this woman) generally assume that means you're a big, wimpy pushover.
9) Men who claim to be really, really busy with work. When you tell me that you work 100 hours a week, I wonder when, exactly, you were thinking you'd have time for a relationship or even a date. Perhaps the 100 hour work week is a sign that you're not really in a place in your life where you should be dating?
10) People who start their "About Me" section with the word well. As in, "Well. . . .I'm really funny, blah blah blah." There's no real reason for me to be annoyed by this. I just am.

So with all the guys that those pet peeves eliminate, I have managed to narrow down the Match.com world to approximately. . . . two people. And both of them live too far away for me to really consider dating anyway. Oh well. At least I still have Ipod Dater.

Oh yeah! Oh yeah! I'm gonna get your Grandma!

Last night, some friends and I ventured into the Starry Plough, a bar in Berkeley known for its Tuesday night open mic. We were going to support Miranda, who besides being awesome is also a singer/songwriter. Here were some of the highlights:

--"George," a snarly, radical feminist (and I suspect a lifelong chain smoker, judging by her voice) singing covers of bad 70's rock songs. George's voice has this. . . . scratchy, tone deaf quality that literally drives people from the room when she sings. When George gets on stage, everyone knows it's time for a bathroom/smoke/any other reason to leave the room that you could possibly come up with break.

--Andre the closet Russian. I had a whole conversation with this man. He seemed nice and friendly. Not even the slightest hint of an accent. And then he gets on stage, and suddenly he's dark and moody and oozing Dostoyevskian angst out of every word he utters (which suddenly is coated with this Russian accent) and then he's swaying and singing in Russian. I've heard of people adopting stage personas before, but this was kind of ridiculous.

--But the best moment of the night? Jerry. The only person over the age of 30 who performed in the open mic all night. It was the shadiest, creepiest, yuckiest and yet damn funniest performance I've seen in a long time. His best song was all about seducing old women in nursing homes. The chorus? "Oh yeah! Oh yeah! I'm gonna get your grandma!" I won't go into too much detail about the lyrics--you can check out Miranda and Carrie's blogs for more--but let's just say it was disturbing enough that when the MC got up after Jerry was done to announce the next performer, her first comment was "I never thought I'd say this, but now I'm kind of glad my grandma's dead."

Oh, and one more important thing. Don't forget that Father's Day is the day when Americans eat the most steak. It just might win you a free beer!

Miranda and Claire's Excellent Adventure

So this weekend my friend Miranda and I had ourselves quite an adventure. If you want all the details, you should really go to her blog (http://mediocrityisnotsobad.blogspot.com ) but the short version goes like this: somewhere between the struggle to save Miranda from homelessness, the field trip to check out Golden Gate Park's buffalo, some seriously inappropriate behavior at the DeYoung museum and my run-in with the rudest (and boldest) cab driver in the city, I found time to meet the man of my dreams. He is pictured below. I think we'll be very happy together, as long as I can get beyond that whole "he's encased in glass and is thousands of years older than me" thing. But true love has conquered bigger obstacles than that, I'm sure.

A LONG time coming. . . .

5 Years. That's how long it took to get justice for the 500 workers at the Claremont Resort and Spa. After 5 years of boycotting and picketing and delegating and leafleting and getting up in the managers' faces and just generally causing as much trouble for as many people as possible, the Claremont has finally given up and stopped fighting. They finally got the message that no matter how long they held out, the workers would last longer.

It's a crazy thing--the Claremont fight being over. It was my campaign for three years, and has still been going on this 4th year that I've been in Oakland. The Claremont--and being the organizer who was working on the Claremont--has literally defined my entire experience of living in California, has literally defined who I am and how I think about myself. It will be a little bit harder to make sense of California, and certainly to make sense of me, now that it's done. I imagine it must be how people felt when the Hundred Years War finally ended--when war has been the reality for so long, what do you even make of peace time? If you're not fighting, if you're not a soldier, then what are you?

I feel good about the Claremont, and the role I played there. I know that I am a little tiny piece of the reason that Claremont workers are getting huge raises and great health insurance. I'm a part of the reason housekeepers will have a pension for the first time in the history of the hotel. I'm a part of the reason that spa workers won't be treated like second class citizens--expendable and disposable.

But I'm also sad and a little angry. It's a wonderful victory, but there have been so many losses along the way. I think about workers who were fired. I think about workers who destroyed their bodies doing difficult work and had to quit. I think about workers who lost hope and left before they got to see this victory. I think about all the sacrifices people made along the way. I hope that they never have to do this again.

But mostly, I hope that they don't forget what they learned. I hope I don't forget what I learned. I hope we don't forget how to stand up, how to fight, how to get in people's faces and push for what we deserve. I hope we don't forget and get complacent. I hope we always remember how to last one day longer.

Check out the Oakland Tribune article for more information.

Claremont workers, organizers and clergy celebrate the formal addition of 100+ spa workers to the union. From left: Mario, Sonia, Pastor Jeff, Wei-Ling, Armando, Steve, Francisco, Alice, Keo, Marcos, Richard and Claire.

Connect Four as a Training Ground for Life

I just learned a valuable life lesson from the game Connect Four. You remember the game, right? You try to line up four red (or black) checkers in a row, while blocking your opponent from doing that same thing. As a kid, I used to be pretty good, but I definitely got schooled by my friend Dave when we played recently.

We were going best of 5. He'd already beat me twice and when it became clear that he was probably going to beat me again, he got frustrated. "What are you doing?" he said. "You can't just play defensively--you won't win. You have to be aggressive--go for what you want." I considered the advice. He was right. I'd been playing extremely defensively, strategizing on how to stop him without giving any consideration to how I was going to beat him. I started playing more aggressively. Too little too late, unfortunately, because he still beat me and we moved on to other activities.

I didn't give the game--or the advice--any more thought until this morning, when I found myself in a conversation about what's wrong with the Democratic Party and the Left in general. Here are my thoughts:

Because the Democrats do not apparently have the cojones to actually propose legislation that would advance the interests of those they supposedly represent, they are left with nothing to do but criticize the proposals of the Republicans. This way, they are buffered from the Republican spin factory and do not have to risk any backlash for unpopular proposals. But this blocking strategy also hasn't moved the Democratic Party platform forward at all. (This is assuming, of course, that there really is such a thing as the Democratic Party platform, and also assuming it actually looks any different from the Republican platform.) Likewise, all too often the Left is so busy defending against conservative attacks on the environment, on working people, and on everything else under the sun that there has been no attention paid to creating a strategy for moving our vision forward. Defensive tactics? Check. Proactive strategy? Um, what?

As I was discussing this, it occurred to me that Dave's advice on Connect Four still worked: you can't just play defensively, because you'll never win. At best, maybe you can stop them, and succeed in achieving a draw. But frankly, that's not much of an achievement. You still haven't gotten what you wanted, and the odds are good that all you've really managed to do is slow them down, not stop them after all.

"Be bold!" my old supervisor used to say, and it's what Dave was telling me too. You have to risk losing in order to win. You have to go after what you want, because your opponent sure as hell isn't going to give it to you. Yes, defense is important, but defense is about holding the line--standing still--when what you really need to be focused on is moving forward--toward your goal, and not just away from theirs.

It suddenly seems like very wise advice for how to live life--not just how to play some silly game (or even just how to run the Democratic party). It's advice I think I'll be taking to heart and trying to incorporate in everything I do.

Now, anyone for a game of Connect Four?

Oh right--THAT'S why I run!

This morning, my friends Becky and Helen and I got up super early (6:00 am on a Sunday? Come on!) to run the Emerald Nuts Sausalito to San Francisco 12K Race. While I could have done without the early start time, we had amazing weather and a fantastic view of San Francisco as we ran across the Golden Gate Bridge and into the city. We also all managed to survive the two major hills--and one of them was really nasty!

This is us right after the race, and right before a well deserved brunch complete with mimosas!

Home-lessness

I've been thinking about something my friend Erin said a while back. She was talking about Boston--where she's lived for almost 8 years now, since we started college. She told me that even though she's lived in Boston longer than she's ever lived anywhere else, it's never managed to feel like home.

I know what she means. Even though I really love the Bay Area, it doesn't feel like home either. I don't really feel like I belong here. But then, that's always been the problem. With the Bay Area, with Boston, even with Colorado. I suppose Colorado feels like home, but I don't belong there either. Colorado is the place I miss when I am not there--the blue skies, the dry air, the mountains, the "forests" made up of scrub oak and aspen trees. Colorado is the place where I feel most like I could be comfortable--but at the cost of sacrificing my political, hell-raising side.

I've never been really comfortable in San Francisco, in the Bay Area. I'm not political enough, not hipster enough, not enviro-vegan enough, and not hip-hop enough. And I'm not willing or able to become any of those things to better fit with everyone else.

So where does that leave me? Ungrounded. Rootless. Home-less. At least I'm in good company. Sometimes I feel like San Francisco is a city made up of nomads, of home-less wanderers--we're people who'll hang around for a while and then move on, all of us looking for that same elusive sense of home.

An Open Letter

To the passive-agressive boy who sent me the snarky e-mail this afternoon:

You, sir, have definitely chosen the wrong week to piss me off. There are no circumstances under which I wouldn't have been at least annoyed by your e-mail, but you've caught me in a moment when I am ready to be full-out enraged at just about anything about your gender, and now you will have to bear the full brunt of my anger.

It is too bad for you that I am not interested in you. It is also too bad for you that I already have plans to run a 12k race on Sunday morning. And yes, it is true that these two factors combined have made me unwilling to commit to making plans with you for later on Sunday. But my hesitancy does not give you the right to get petty. It doesn't give you the right to cop an attitude. You definitely do not know me well enough to cop attitude, and since we do not have any type of relationship (friends or otherwise) you do not have the right to presume to be pissed at me for not jumping at the opportunity to include you in my Sunday. (And trust me, you don't want to go there anyway, because in the mean, snarky attitude department I could kick your ass and probably make you cry, too.)

What all of this means, in case you hadn't figured it out, is that we will DEFINITELY NOT be hanging out on Sunday. In fact, I think it's safe to assume we will not be hanging out again ever. I guess you'll just have to take the passive-aggressive bullshit act somewhere else.

4th Street

This past weekend I had what is always an uncomfortable and slightly unsettling experience: I ventured into the rich-yuppie bastion that is Berkeley's 4th Street shopping district. The home of upscale boutiquies selling makeup, clothes, furniture and kitchenware, 4th Street is somewhere I rarely venture, partly because I can't afford anything and partly because rich yuppies make me nervous. But to be honest, there's another, bigger reason that I don't like going to 4th Street: it makes me see a little too clearly the disparity between rich and poor, and it makes me feel a little too sharply how vulnerable those who don't speak English are in our society.

You see, besides being a swanky, upscale shopping district, 4th Street is also where the Latino day laborers hang out, hoping to score a job for the day. They line the street leading into the shopping center, some slumped against telephone poles--hands jammed deep into pockets, some seated on curbs--faces cast into deep shadow by the brims of hats that have been scorched by the noon sun and battered by rain and wind and maybe even snow. They peer up anxiously--hopefully--as you drive by, hoping to make eye contact, hoping you'll stop, hoping you'll pick them. They break my heart.

I've been in the labor/worker justice world long enough to know a thing or two about day laborers. To have actually met and talked to a bunch of them. It's a raw deal: the work is often grueling manual labor. It's usually not regulated, so the pay is low. There's no guarantee that you'll even get to work at all. Often, day laborers are viewed as loiterers, as trash, as people who should stop lurking on the street and find real jobs. But really, they're just people hoping to pay the bills and make ends meet for their families. They're just people who took their skills and experiences from their own countries and brought them here, to give to us. To make lives for themselves, and maybe, hopefully, a better future. I wonder how many of them find that better future after all.

The best "dysfunctional break-up" song ever

So I've moved on to the Anti-Love CD that my friend Erin made. I think the genius of the mix is kind of lost on me today: I'm not really in the mood for hating on love. That said, however, I did just finish listening to what might be the most hillarious and brilliant song about a break-up ever, so I thought I'd share the lyrics. The song is called "No Children," by the Mountain Goats (which, despite the deceptively plural title, is actually only one guy.) Here are the lyrics:

I hope that our few remaining friends give up on trying to save us. I hope we come up with a fail-safe plot to piss off the dumb few who forgave us. I hope the fences we mended, fall down beneath their own weight, and I hope we hang on past the last exit, I hope it's already too late.

And I hope the junk yard a few blocks from here someday burns down. And I hope the rising black smoke carries me far away and I never come back to this town again.

In my life, I hope I lie, and tell everyone you were a good wife, and I hope you die, I hope we both die.

I hope I cut myself shaving tomorrow, I hope it bleeds all day long. Our friends say it's darkest before the sun rises, but we're pretty sure they're all wrong. I hope it stays dark forever, I hope the worst isn't over. And I hope you blink before I do, and I hope I never get sober.

And I hope when you think of me years down the line, you can't find one good thing to say, and I'd hope that if I found the strength to walk out, you'd stay the hell out of my way!

I am drowning. There is no sign of land. You are coming down with me--hand in unloveable hand. And I hope you die. I hope we both die.

But to really appreciate how funny it is, you have to imagine these lyrics being set to a kind of twangy, upbeat guitar with maybe a little harmonica. Or, even better, you could just listen to the song.

Vocabulary Expansion

I have a subscription to "Word of the Day," and below are two of the latest words that I've been sent. These are real words, I swear. I can't help but think that Word of the Day is either scraping the bottom of the barrel for words, or it's been taken over by a pseudo-intellectual snotty-pants whose only method for impressing women is by using words they don't understand.

Ululate: to howl, as a wolf or a dog; to wail; as "ululating jackals"

I can appreciate wanting to mix up your word choice, but seriously, who is ever going to use the phrase "ululating jackals?"

Crapulous: suffering the effects of, or derived from gross intemperance (e.g. binge drinking); as "a crapulous stomach"

I may never use the word ululate, but crapulous is becoming the new favorite word of my vocabulary. CRAPULOUS! How can you not want to say that?

Musical choices

Listening to: the "Broken Love" mix CD that my friend Erin created as part of a set of Love CDs a couple years ago. It seems fitting today. Later I'll move on to the Anti-Love CD, but I think I need to work up to that. For right now, I'm pretty content just to listen to the Dresden Doll's "The Jeep Song," Cake's "I Will Survive" and Bob Hillman's "Greenland" on repeat. If you haven't heard these songs (and the odds are pretty good that you wouldn't have heard the first or the last) you should look them up and take a listen. A nice combination of funny, angry, sad, smart and ironic. Perfect.

Seriously, here are sample lyrics: "Everywhere I look I see your '96 Jeep Cherokee. . . .With every jeep I see, my broken heart still skips a beat. I guess it's just my stupid luck that all of Boston drives the same black fucking truck." And: "No more waiting till your icecream melts in the high desert heat of Texas. I've got an imitation seal skin coat and a one way ticket to Greenland. I'm going to live on the world's largest island where the icecap is 7 kilometers thick. You're twice as cold (twice as cold, twice as cold) as Greenland." God, to be a songwriter like that.

Words that I'm loving lately

As a writer, I just generally love words--how they sound, what they mean, the images they evoke. But there are some words that just resonate. Words you love using--you like what they convey, you like the way the feel in your mouth, you like that they make you seem smart. Whatever. Here are my top 5 words for the week:

1) Snarky
2) Alacrity
3) Volatile
4) Ephemeral
5) Wonky

What's the pattern here? Apparently I like words that end in -y and-al sounds? A challenge: try to use all five of these in the course of everyday conversation today.

Other words worth adding to the list?

Party Highlights

Top 5 highlights of my very belated housewarming party on Saturday:

5) Crazy, over-the-top, obvious matchmaking of my co-workers.

4) The fact that the crazy, over-the-top, obvious matchmaking seems to have been successful. (See the couple on the left in above picture)

3) My former co-workers talking shit to my new co-workers over who was better at throwing down. (By the way, there's no contest here--my old co-workers could drink a bunch of alcohoic sailors under a table.)



2) Stopping flip cup before we started using hard alcohol.



1) George. That's right--the kid I met at the "brewery" last Friday. (See blog entry.) On a whim, I invited him, and he came and stayed the WHOLE 8 HOURS. I always say it's good to have a little bit of shady randomness at a party, and George definitely supplied it. Was there anyone at the party who didn't meet George?

And a special shout out to Marcos for the most effective (even if unintentional) cockblock I've witnessed in a LONG time.

Pushing

It occurs to me that it’s been almost a whole year since I left my job as a union organizer. It’s hard to believe that a whole year has gone by, especially when on an almost daily basis, I find myself still struggling to un-do all the brainwashing that went into turning me into the crazily intense, single-minded organizing fiend that I was for so long. Hell, just recognizing it as brainwashing has taken nearly this whole year.

But while I’m sure that the brainwashing (or—as I prefer to think of it—training) made me a kick-ass organizer, I’m worried that it’s not really helping me so much in my real life. Here’s the best example I can come up with:

Pushing. In the world of union organizing, there is no such thing as being too pushy. If a worker doesn’t call you back, you call again. And again. And then you show up at their house. And you keep showing up until they’re home and they’re willing to talk. And if they’re never willing to talk, you talk to their co-workers and their friends and their family to organize them into pushing said worker to talk to you.

Try for a moment, if you will, to imagine using this strategy in other areas of your life. The guy you went on a great first date with hasn’t called you back? Just call again, and again, and then show up and talk to his roommate about how to get him to call you. Yeah. Doesn’t seem like such a good plan suddenly. I think that would officially get you categorized as a stalker, and you’d better be prepared for the restraining order to show up in the mail.

Once, early on in my time at the union, I expressed concern that I would be so pushy with someone that I would push them away. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that no one was ever lost by pushing too hard. If you lost someone by pushing, then you never really had them to begin with. Now, this logic seems pulled straight out of Orwell’s 1984: it’s impossible to push someone away by being too persistent. And 2+2=5.

The crazy thing, though, is that this “be pushy” logic worked in the world of the union. Being persistent and pushy and in people’s faces definitely gained me (and my co-workers) far more than it ever lost us. But in my real life? I’m not so sure. I’m constantly having to battle my (now) natural impulse to push, and honestly, I’m not sure that I’ve always done a good job of regulating it. I can’t help but wonder (and worry) about what good things in my life I’ve lost—or am at risk of losing—because I don’t know when to stop pushing and just let things be.