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Andrea Fender’s Resume

Andrea got her AA at eighteen, has built a house, lived off the grid, and run a successful massage practice for a decade. She will be graduating with a BS in Kinesiology in December of 2009, and plans to take over the world.

As far as massage goes, she takes a very anatomical, mechanical approach. Her extensive anatomical training, including cadaver study, has given her a fascination with the human body, and the real ability to alleviate pain by allowing the physical structures of the body room to do their job.

All of her jobs have involved direct contact with customers, including massage, bartending, barista-ing, secretary, maid, and, once, gardening for an illegal immigrant from Holland.

Andrea is very professional, having done most everything required to run a business. She’s also tremendously persuasive, having once convinced a police officer in the middle of the night that the dark clothes, tow hook, and the fact that she was in the middle of a used car lot didn’t mean she was trying to steal her own car. This despite her total lack of identification and the fact that said vehicle was registered in her father’s name.

Andrea loves science, people, and fixing ergonomic problems.

If you’ve received this resume, rest assured you’re just seconds away from a great employee. Really! Seconds! She may be lurking outside your door!

Or you could, you know, call.

Hey all,
I thought I’d write to let you know that I’ve been terribly sick this past week, and that’s why I haven’t been in class.
I had some kind of uber fever with massive joint pain.
My fever hallucinations reached such a pitch that, two days ago, apropos of nothing, I made a Full Metal Jacket reference to my bewildered housemate.
I still don’t know why.
All I’ve been able to do is sit perfectly still and listen to Orson Welles.
I’ve been listening to Orson Welles for four days.
I really, really want to come back to class.
That, and turn my head.

See ya Monday,
Andrea

Dear Grandma and Grandpa,
Well, I may have mentioned in my last letter that I’ve just moved.
And I just realized that, before I moved, I carefully put your birthday check in a Very Safe Place.
Unfortunately, as I’ve been unpacking, I have come to the realization that there are untold millions of Very Safe Places among my possessions.
To wit: I’ve lost your check.
Or to put it another way, your check is very, very safe.
It’s difficult to ask, but could I please have a replacement?
I’m sure that as soon as I click “send” I’ll remember where the original is.
Or maybe I’ll find it the next time I move.
I hope all is well, and that your safe places are not quite as safe as mine.
Love,
Andrea, your filing-challenged granddaughter

Okay, first, a little background.
In 1975, a really really awful movie was made called Death Race 2000. The tagline was,
“In The Year 2000 Hit And Run Driving Is No Longer A Felony. It’s The National Sport!”
Says it all, really.
Y’know how sometimes you’ll be in a car with somebody, and you’ll see a little kid on a bike or something, and someone will say,
“Watch out for that kid!”
And some other smartass (usually you) will say,
“Two points!”
Well, now you know where you got it.
Yes indeedy, DR2000 actually entered into America’s collective unconscious, where its been festering for over thirty years.
Plus it had a naked Sylvester Stallone.
Here’s one of my favorite clips from the original:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GGhu5Zl5ry8&feature=related
I think we should all go and see the remake together this Thursday at 7PM at the AMC Van Ness. At the very least, when all of our Extremely Cool friends get back from Burningman, we’ll have something to show for our week.
“Yeah,” we’ll say, nonchalantly, “I guess it was pretty cool out there in the desert with all of the art and drugs and everything, but, y’know, we had fun here too. I mean, the Death Race 2000 remake was out. So, y’know.”
I’m sure it’ll be just as awful as the original.
But that won’t matter.
Because I intend to be horribly, obnoxiously drunk.
Then I plan on falling asleep about halfway through.
Anybody wanna give me a ride home?
Your friends are, of course, welcome.
As long as they have a car.
Let me know,
Andrea

I’ve been wondering how to write about being a nomad. I’m using couchsurfing.com to roam the couches of San Francisco while I look for a job and a place to live. I’ve met some amazing people.

Sometimes its easy to tell the glamorous stories, like the night I got to stay in a penthouse. But reality is always lurking. I still have to figure out how to live out of a backpack, and laundry is always lurking. Bags get heavy, and sometimes its raining when the bus inexplicably fails to stop for me.

Sometimes my days feel like I’m watching a bad eighties movie. The kind where the hero starts out trying to pick up the dry cleaning, but winds up deeply involved in a drug cartel. Cross dressing usually provides a pivotal plot point. Other parts of the day feel like sitting in a Laundromat while aging members of the Homeless Alliance fellate each other.

Zany, yes, but also gross.

So I thought I’d write about the last two days, and let the events speak for themselves.

Day One

My new friend, Dan, suggested that we do a massage trade. He recently bought a massage table, and wanted to practice with a professional. It all went well, until about halfway through, when I realized that the oil bottle he’d tossed my way was a KY product.

“Dan? Is this… lube?” I asked, bemused.

“Well… Somebody left it here a few years ago.”

“So. Stale lube?”

We decided we should really go and get beer.

Dan, bless him, rides a moped.

And I think mopeds defy most universal physical laws, including math. As he was strapping a ridiculously outsized helmet onto my head, I kept waving my arms around and yelling about high centers of gravity and lack of gyroscopic force.

Also: We were both covered in lube.

We took off, and I learned that, regardless of whether my eyes are open or squeezed shut, I tend to emit high-pitched noises when riding a two-wheeled internal combustion vehicle.

I also developed a move I call the “clinch”. What you do is lock your arms around the driver, and attempt to deliver a pre-emptive Heimlich every time something startles you. I told Dan he should consider himself lucky that I at no point clambered onto his shoulders and held my hands over his eyes.

Nor did I throw poo.

I was comforted by the idea that, should we crash and explode into a fiery ball, we’d at least slide really well. So I was feeling a lot better as we pulled up in front of the bar. We discovered that the door was locked, and the lights were off.

Dan made a phone call.

As we walked in, one of my first thoughts was,

“Wow, I’ve never seen anyone tip with a rolled up dollar bill.”

Apparently, Dan’s roommate worked at this bar, and was hosting a private party. And by “Party” I mean, “Eight People Snorting Cocaine off the Bar”. And by “Private” I mean, “None of Them Were Cops”.

I shrugged, sat down, and got a beer.

Then I remembered that I had job training the next morning. And no way am I stupid enough to stay out the entire night before getting employment. So, after I gracefully spilled half of my single beer *, Dan gave me a ride back to my couch. **

Day 2

I had to be up and in an obscure location for job training early the next morning. I’ve been hired to make coffee at a tiny, ridiculously popular shop. After hand pouring boiling water for four hours and sampling the results, I was so wired I barely felt the second-degree burns.

This was also a moving day. I had to pack my worldly possessions into a backpack, and schlep them across town to my next couch. I also had to fight a Disturbed Inner City Youth for a seat on the bus. I eventually won, but only after I showed him my scald marks.

The couch turned out to be a floor.

After engaging in some high-pitched twitching, I met my dear friend at the San Francisco Opera. Sarah works as the assistant to the musical director, and sometimes comps me in to see the shows.

And I adore opera.

She told me once that our seats cost upwards of two hundred dollars.

That means that the San Francisco Opera is the site of some of the most expensive naps I’ve ever taken.

While we were waiting for the show to begin, I realized that my coat has something like six moth holes in it. Also, one of my socks exploded when I tried to put it on that morning. I remarked that a moth-eaten, one socked nomad rarely makes it into the orchestra section.

The singing was, of course, gorgeous.

I walked home through Civic Center***, and arrived back at my host’s house and into the middle of an enormous house warming party. He didn’t have any furniture yet, and the mostly empty rooms held upwards of thirty drunk couchurfers.

I slept on the floor that night.

* Graciously avoiding the piles of cocaine

** Half a beer has been scientifically proven to be the perfect amount of alcohol for me to drink before getting on the back of a moped. Squeals were reduced by a remarkable 40%.

*** Politely declining the numerous offers of heroin

Hello Dr. X!
This is Andrea Fender, recent returnee from Europe, and owner of the coolest Gmail address ever. Notice the similarity? *
I was just told by the office of International Programs that I need a faculty member to be something called my “Segment III Adviser”.
As far as I can tell, this means that you occasionally sign stuff. I’ve already completed the darned Segment III, and lots and lots of signatures have already happened, so there is, of course, no earthly reason for this. Unless there’s some sort of bureaucratic signature-breeding program happening at State, with Our Great Leaders embroiled in some kind of trans-Atlantic cold war to develop the Superior Signature Gene.
They gave me a letter to send out to you, but I lapsed into a boredom coma partway through, and decided to write my own.
Anyway, I thought you’d be a good pick, seeing as you’re (surprise!) my regular adviser and all, and that you’ve
1. Written the kickass Adviser program, which appeases my occasional OCD twitch, and also my dad, when he yells,

“How the HELL much longer are you gonna be in school?!”

(I know he’s on the phone when he hollers like this, but I always imagine him in his undershirt, cleaning one of his guns with the cat in his lap.)
2. Distinctive mutual good taste in selecting e-mail addresses
and
3. I’m taking your Biomech class this semester, so we’ll be in close proximity for the necessary signature-gathering process.
I’ll set up a duck blind and bring tranquilizer darts and tracking devices.
See you in a few weeks!
Andrea Fender

*His address begins with Biomech. Mine is mechanicalbionic. We rock.

So today is day eighteen of my being back in San Francisco. I’m still couchsurfing while I look for a job/place to live, which places me squarely in the “nomad” category. * So if anyone has a tip for a bar tending job/apartment, all submissions accepted!

Went to dinner with my old friend Nick. He ordered vegan stew. The waiter then started reciting the ingredients of the pork dish of the day. “I’ll have that,” I said. “You had me at ears.”

I’ve now made four gigantic dinners for my hosts and all surrounding couchsurfers. Only two loaves of bread turned into Giant Indestructible Crackers. Win!

I managed to convince my friends Damon and Liz to see The Dark Knight a second time. My whining skills have decidedly improved.

As Nick was leaving for DC for forever, he finally parted with his cookie recipe. So yes, I’ll make them for you, but no, I won’t tell you what to buy and in what amounts. I had to beg for two years. You can too.

Couchsurfing generally rocks, and I’ve been out nearly every night for over two weeks.

Traded massages with cool couchsurfer.

The Berkeley Kite festival!

I have now done laundry in more townhouse basements than you. **

So. Anybody have a couch?

*Bum was taken.

** Yes, you.

Hello there!
My name is Andrea Fender, and I’m currently couchsurfing with your tenant, Amy.
She happened to mention that the lovely studio in your backyard might be up for rent, and I’m writing to convince you that I would be an excellent tenant.
So here’s the basics:
I’m 27, in school, and just got back from a six month itinerant hell-for-leather trip around Europe. I’ve been a massage therapist for eight years, but am now a bartender.
I’ve built a house, lived without electricity for three years, and once had to jump through a window to outrun a rampaging pig.
I have fabulous credit, excellent references, and just discovered a leak under Amy’s kitchen sink.
There’s a breadmaker under there, too.
I rock climb, swing dance, and once carried a couch eighteen blocks with three friends so we’d have the best seat at the outdoor movie.
(We did.)
(Then, next week, my brother and I brought an area rug, coffee table, lava light, and power source.)
(That was even cooler.)
Your studio is exactly what I dreamed of while I was traveling.
I don’t smoke anything, and always check with the owner before knocking any holes in the wall. Or ceiling.
I understand you’re considering a sublet, but I would love it if you could consider something more permanent.

Best wishes,
Andrea Fender

P.S. I can, on occasion, write complete sentences.
P.P.S. I happen to have a credit report from last September-ish with me.
P.P.P.S. I was recently chosen by a deposed Nigerian prince to help him get his inheritance out of escrow. As soon as my check for $10,000 clears, I should be able to pay you several years’ rent in advance. Should be any time now…

I am in Lucerne, Switzerland, and it is raining.

I’ve taken a pause in my walk to let my coat dry out, and I thought I’d use the time to answer a few questions. I’ve gotten quite a few letters asking me what I’ve actually been doing, apart from foiling airport security.

I’ve been couchsurfing.

While attending a house party in Norwich, the host, Karl, found out that I’d be traveling Europe for a few months. Over the sounds of underage drinking (and the resulting vomiting) he managed to explain the Couchsurfing Project.

So I went to couchsurfing.com and made a profile. Now, whenever I’m going somewhere new, I use the site to contact fellow couchsurfers and request a couch. The system encourages guests and hosts to leave references for each other, and the resulting community is amazing.

I’ve only had to stay in a hostel for one night, and that’s because I missed my flight out of the Frankfurt-Hahn airport. Other than that, I’ve spent every night with amazing people in all sorts of places.

Here are a few of those stories.

Edinburgh, Scotland: I stayed with Peter and Thibault, an American and Frenchman who make amazing documentary films. Peter dabbles in experimental ice cream making, and Thibault makes lovely lemon pie. Their friend and fellow filmmaker (and rickshaw driver), Leo, had time to show me around a bit. At complete random, he took me to meet his family. They were wonderful, including his father, who tends to quote great literature at random in a vain (and drunken) attempt to win arguments. The result is hilarious. Leo and I wound up playing Guitar Hero at three AM with his fellow rickshaw drivers.

Dublin, Ireland: Elvrie has a name I still can’t pronounce. She says its French. She made an awesome breakfast, and then we ran around the Temple Bar area of Dublin. She was very patient with my Quest for the Perfect Hat. I still don’t have one four months later. She just sent me a letter telling me she’ll be meeting me at Burningman!

Venice, Italy: I stayed with Tom and Azurra. Azurra is a fashion designer from Kazakhstan, and her boyfriend Tom is an Italian photographer. They were in the throes of getting ready for Azurra’s first runway show, and were extremely busy.

Side note: I managed to lock myself in the back room while they were in the middle of a photo shoot. Again, claustrophobia reared its head, and by the time Tom unlocked the door, I was chiseling away at the lock with a screwdriver.

Moral: Never leave Andrea alone with tools.

There was another couchsurfer there at the same time, Glyniss, and we wound up traveling together for about a week. One evening as we were walking home, we asked a guy for directions. Bernardo is a couchsurfer as well, and happened to live a couple of hours away, in

Padova, Italy: Glyniss and I decided to visit Verona, and stopped in Padova to visit Bernardo on the way. We were supposed to just stay for the day, but had such a good time we wound up crashing on the floor, where I discovered I am officially to old for hard surfaces. His roommates were amazing, and we drank a lot of local wine and tried to teach each other our languages. One of Bernardo’s roommates was in the process of learning English. I didn’t know this until, after much prodding, she looked at me with an incredibly sincere expression and said,

“There is a frog? With two heads. On the Internet!”

There was a long, long pause.

I carefully set down my fourth glass of wine.

“Okay,” I said.

“How do  you say that in Italian?”

Thus the cultural exchange began…

I am in a tiny airport just outside Paris.

I was just informed by an inordinately pissy French check-in guy that my bag is too large to carry on.

This bag has been carried on in London, Ireland, Scotland, Venice, Palermo, Portugal, Berlin, Prague, a tiny little town in the South of France, and the US of Freaking A.

It weighs significantly less than the average American newborn.

He informs me that the weight limit for carryon bags is ten kilos. My bag weighs eleven and a half. That’s about twenty six pounds, and it’s everything I need to live comfortably for months.

It also doesn’t quite fit into the little box they use to check for size.

He goes on to tell me that it will cost twenty euro to have unidentified hairy men stomp my belongings into a paste.

Ryanair, of course, cannot guarantee my ever seeing my bag again, or that said hairy men will not actually urinate on my things.

“I guess I’ll just get rid of some of this,” I say.

My left eyelid starts to twitch.

“Give me my passport. Now.”

Here’s tricky part. When I travel, I travel light. I’ve always figured that I’ll hate all of my clothes by the end of the trip anyway, so why lug around more? So my bag is pared down to absolute necessities and a few souvenirs, which I routinely leave with my friend Jon when I route through London.

There is nothing to throw away.

I pace up and down the airport concourse, trying to think my way out of this. Twenty euros is about thirty dollars right now, and while I could pay it, something inside me balks.

I’m gonna beat this pissy little French guy.

I begin by scanning the people waiting in the airport restaurant, trying to find someone who looks like they’ll watch my laptop, my heaviest possession, while I check in.
I settle on two guys who look like they fought in Nam. They have aggressively long white beards, Harley paraphernalia, and look like they might be concealing ear necklaces.

They also look like they’re willing to Stick it to the Man.

With knives.

“Er, hey,” I say, trying not to look shifty.

“Um, I’m trying to check in, and my bag is, like, a kilo over? So I was wondering if one of you might watch my laptop while I…”

One of them (the one with the longest beard) grunts, and with a creak of leather, shifts over in his seat towards me.

“They say we’re not supposed to do that kind of thing,” he says, giving me a Sincere Look.

“Um, well, yeah they do,” I say.

(I am hoping, at this moment, that he is the reigning Master of Irony.)

“And on that basis, I’m gonna say no.”

(He is not.)

“Fair enough.”

So I continue to pace, my eyelid twitch speeding up, unable to imagine leading a life where pissy little French men are permitted to commit extortion.

And then I have it.

I’ll throw it away.

I run into the spacious baby changing bathroom, and look around wildly. There are three amusingly complicated garbage cans ranged against the walls. One of them has teeth, apparently for grinding used diapers into some kind of horrible mulch.

They’re all too small for my laptop, but they’re also really light plastic. So I scoot one about an inch out from the wall, and pop my computer behind it.

I start to panic as soon as I get in the check-in line.

But its okay, I remind myself. Most people are way too polite to ever use the baby changing toilet, and there are only about five people ahead of me.

(Sigh)

I really ask for it, don’t I?

The woman in front of me is secretly a scout for a family of about seven Italians. Instead of waiting in line with her, they have sent an emissary. When she gets to the head of the line, it’s just… stupid. The various family members start popping up from behind us, all gesturing wildly at the stack of passports the bewildered check-in girl[1] was holding. Four or five random Italians would appear, then a few would wander off, then another guy showed up, left, and started shouting. This continued for about ten minutes, with an ever-changing blob of Italians, while I got increasingly concerned that some diaper-changing woman had just hit the baby changing jackpot. It got to the point where the check-in girl would just wave a passport above her head, furiously pointing at a picture. Someone from the back of the line who vaguely resembled the picture would wave a hand above the melee, and holler something in Italian. The check-in girl would sort of shrug, type something into her terminal, roll her eyes, and go on to the next.

When it was finally my turn, I was a mess. The pissy little French guy was working just one line over, I’d “hidden” my liquids in a plastic bag under my dinner, and somewhere, a biker dude thought I was going to blow up a plane.

Plus I’d been acting suspicious as Hell.

My bag weighs in at eight kilos, and falls through the metal grating of the bag size box. I’m in.

I find my laptop where I’ve left it, and slide through security.

The moral here is simple: If you ever find yourself in a spacious airport bathroom, look behind the garbage cans. Especially if they have teeth.

And the pissy little French guy?

Screw him.

(Yeah!)