My dog emails.

I got this email from my dad, I mean, my dog the other day. You can't make this stuff up. BTW, my dog is a rotten speller and gramatically weak. Enjoy:

Dear Brother and Sister,
I enjoyed having you home for Thanksgiving and hanging out with
some younger hiper people. Things are back to normal and I enjoy be
the center of mom and dads attention. i have them wrapped around my
paw. On Sunday, Dad was sleeping in so i decided to run up stairs and
jump on the bed like I did with you guys. He is more fun than mom
who does not like me up on things. Stayed at Best Friends Friday
night and hung out with some cool dudes. Did get an email of this
nice lookin bitch. Today I hung with DAD. he took me for a ride to
run some errands and went to his office. Dont understand this
cosmetic surgery thing for you humans. Glad that USC won but thought
the game was a little boring. Dad went to apple today for a computer
lesson. he is very slow and I occasionlly have to help him out. Mom
has been making cookies for everyone but me. I dont get it. I would
really like some peanut brittle. Dad says his is the best. mom and
dad are going to Thurstons farm this weekend and will leave me all
alone. Not fair. would like to go to. How is everything with you
guys. supposed to get some snow tonight and I am excited. any bites
on your car bro. whats new in the bay area sis? thats it for now. I
attached a photo of me in the leaves. i think I am quite handsome.
Dad says I get my looks from him and mom says I have her eyes. Miss
you both. your little brother Jack

I make no promises.

Around 3pm today I kind of wanted to cry. I have two weeks of work left before I leave for Israel and about 58 projects, 1/2 of which I really have no idea how to do. I feel like the dumb kid and I'm starting to question how I got hired in the first place.

I went over to Rucher's cube to bitch and whine a little bit given that bitching and whining tends to produce excellent business results. About 1/2 way through my rant Pav says, "well, I really like your vest." (was dressed casual today, long story, wearing my favorite pink puffy vest) Thanks much. That really helps the fact that I have no idea how to do my job at this time. Then I kept whining. Then he told me he liked my vest again. Helpful.

I stayed at work until 6:30 which for me might as well be midnight and was lucky enough to get on a super packed bus where one guy who smelled super bad was taking up three seats and some guy out on the street was ranting all sorts of crazy stuff at the bus driver through the door to the point that Aly, who I was talking to on the phone, got scared. And then when I got off the bus there was a whole pack of street kids blocking the sidewalk.

So you see, this has been my day. And I got home too late to go to the dry cleaners!

These are the days that I despise corporate America. When I take a step back and I look at my job and I'm like, what exactly do I do here? I have to present a case on Friday to get some $$ to do a project and we have to prove it will pay out...even though we don't know what we're even going for the project yet...What do you think about that? I have to look at all these numbers and numbers are scary. Don't they know that? Should I tell them? Do you think I'd still have a job if I went to my boss and told him that numbers are scary and he please maybe make them go away?

BTW, I can see your face. You're reading this post, and a) you don't like it b/c I'm bitching and b) you're wondering where I'm really going with it anyway. Well I blame Warren. he complained I hadn't written in a while and so I told him I would. Thing is when I told him I actually had a story in mind to tell you, but then when I sat down tonight I just went in a completely opposite direction and kind of like when that Siggy chic used her blog as a personal diary I am now using this to rant for a little bit.

Ok then...so...I have that all off my chest. And this is what I promise: I got screamed out last week by a guy on the bus and it was so frightening that i thought he might knife me or something. I bet you'd like to hear about that! So I promise that b/c you listened to me talk about THIS stuff tonight, in exchanged, next time I'll tell you that very fun story! Ok? Great.

Oopsies.

Last night while waiting for the bus I was perusing this Web site sent to me by Winnie:
http://www.jamphat.com/rap/???/

And so I blame him for the events that occurred thereafter.

I waited and waited and waited and finally a bus came by and since I'd been waiting for an eternity I got on. And continued to visually examine mathematical interpretations of rap lyrics. And it's just the site was just really, really long and I kept on reading. And on the buses they shout out the stops right? So I'm reading and riding and then I hear, "Harrison." And I never hear Harrison on my way home... So I turn to the guy next to me, and I'm like, "Umm, am I on the 9 or something?"

And he laughed, and yes, and I was on the 9. But here's the thing: I totally take the 6, 7, or 71 - I don't take the 9. So I totally didn't know where I was at all. I was half freaking out and half giggling a lot b/c it was all of a sudden really funny that I had absolutely gotten on the wrong bus. Who even does that? So the guy is like, "where are you going?" And I tell him the Haight. And he tells me I'm somewhere totally not close at all like Portrero Hall or something. And heading farther. But we were by a Costco. I didn't even know there was a Costco in SF. So he's like "you should get off here and grab a cab." And I giggle again and I check my wallet and I'm like "Shit! I have like $5!" And I giggle.

And then he offered me $$. No shit. Totally. And I'm like, "I can't take your money!" And we go back and forth. And then, I took $5 from a total stranger b/c he did have a point, I did need to get home safe, and $5 just wasn't going to do it. And then I got off the bus. In the middle of nowhere. Where there were no cabs in sight. And I had no idea where I was.

I looked it up on my phone, but really all that did was prove that I was nowhere near my house and I couldn't find a form of transportation. So I just picked a direction and kept walking. And a while later I ran straight into a bus that was heading for Filmore. I got on and then took that for a while, and got out somewhere around the Castro eventually and then took a cab from there.

So that is how it came to be that I took the Bart, and then the 9, and then the something else, and then a cab - exactly 4 modes of transportation - to get home last night. Boy oh boy, I felt some kinda smart by the time I arrived at my house. Real, real smart.

My Night at the SF General: An Essay

On Friday night, I went to dinner w/ little Greggy, and then we opted to see a late movie down at the AMC at the Westfield Mall. We departed the theater around 1:30am, and when we were about to cross over Market, I spotted the 71 heading for the stop. "Run! That's our bus!" So me and my Jimmy Choos started the run across 6 lanes of traffic, until about 5 lanes in, we fell. Left foot Choo stuck itself in a rail track, and I caught, and went down. Not a little, but a lot. It was a fantastical fall. Actually it was quite scary - contents of my bag went rolling out as I struggled to pick myself up w/ Greggy's help after every single point of my body had made contact w/ the asphalt. When I got up, and calmed down, Greggy asked me if I still had the blog. Yep. He noted that the fall would most def be making it onto the blog. He was correct, b/c, here it is.

On Sat morning I woke up with a very, very sore left foot. No swelling really, just a dark bruise on the outer left side of my foot. Dr. B, resident medical expert, advised that I should go get it checked out. So on Sat night, me and Stu accompanied EB into the hospital to have a look-see.

It's good to have dr. friends. I knew this from growing up in a dr. family - expedites everything. I met some docs who informed me to head to the front room to get registered, get a yellow wristband, and then to return to be taken up for x-ray.

EB told me that the simple fact that I have medical insurance would set me apart at the General, but it wasn't until I saw the waiting room that this really made sense. Many years ago, in Kentucky, in Cumberland on an annual summer boating trip, Dick gashed open his shin and we traveled to the local med clinic in Russel County where he eneded up sewing himself up. Greggy and I, ever the mature children, were forced out of the waiting room and back into the car b/c we couldn't behave ourselves; the country folk in the waiting room were too much, really. Bad, I know, but we were young.

Anyway, the waiting room there: no match for SF general. A doc came in at one point when I was being registered, asking who had wrist bands and was waiting to be called. The first guy she checked was dozing in the corner. Def drunk, maybe on other things...the nurse asked for his wrist band which he held up drowsily, she goes, "sir, that is not for this hospital. you need to leave now." And he stumbled out. He was one of three homeless guys in the waiting rooms mostly just there for someplace to go. Then a hooker came in with white netting pulled over her head, screaming profanities at the two officers restraining her. The clientele was rough around the edges at best...and I have no urge to hang out at the general again anytime soon.

As for me, I zipped right through registration, was told to skip the waiting room and head straight back to Zone 3, and then was sent right over for the x-ray, and within 1.5 hours of entering the SFG, I was sent out of the SFG. I did feel some guilt over this, considering I heard people in the waiting room muttering over how long they'd been waiting, but at the same time, I had these conflicting feelings, given that I was sober and gainfully employed and not just looking for a place to place my wasted rear. wow, this sounds mean, and I know, callus, and I do feel bad...but it's been a long weekend of no exercise and painful walking and that makes me grumpy :(

BTW, nothing wrong w/ my damn foot. I think I must've sprained it, but no broken bones...therefore I felt like a total whiny bitch for having had an x-ray. Oh well, I blame my in-house dr. who told me it'd be smart to go ahead and get it checked out. It's funny like that - you almost WANT there to be something wrong so you don't feel like a tool. Anyway, I just felt like a tool. Oh, I also got a little velcro-on shoe to wear. My roomates find it hysterical that I have to wear that thing for four or five days. You know, I guess it's not really my style.

Upon returning home, in the cold, dark, rainy SF night, we ordered in Indian and watched a movie. So, it was some kinda night. Hospital trip followed by take-out and a movie. CRAZY. Anyway, I have to be honest, many many of my LP entries are devoted to tales of debaucherous, fun-filled nights...but last night, was not one of those nights. Please think of my poor little left foot, if you please. She hurts!

The night I wore no shoes

Tonight, I walked home barefoot. In San Francisco. I haven’t walked home barefoot in a city since New Years Eve in NYC, 2004, when I ended up sleeping on the couch of Johnny Blaze, which is clearly a whole other story, in fact, one I think I’ve recounted before.

Anyway, the point is, I try to keep my footwear on when I’m walking the sidewalks of large metropolitan areas, and shockingly enough, I actually prefer to keep them on pretty much in any public venue. BSpears may have tried to make going barefoot in public spaces look chic, or at least, public gas station bathrooms, but I prefer to march to the beat of my own drummer.

So then, me, barefoot tonight. I arrived home from dinner around 11:30 and drove around for a full ½ hour before finally exploring a whole new corner of the parking world, Buena Vista Heights. It’s called “BV HEIGHTS” for a reason, namely that it presides at the crest of this fair city. Anyway, I practically forgot where I lived I was so high up in the atmosphere. After a lovely game of bumper kissing, which I practice now on a regular basis, I exited my car and started to head on home.

As I headed home, down hill toward Haight Street, it dawned on me that the street was so steep that I could not in fact see below the crest of the approaching hill. When I reached the top of said hill, two blocks due south of the 1-3-7, I had a feeling that I have thus far reserved for the Rockies. That is the feeling I get when I reach the top of a black diamond covered in waist-high moguls that are entirely above my competency level, but I know I need to get down the hill.

Except, in this case, I was wearing shoes, and there was no snow, and it was midnight, and dark, and not a sporting quest. So you see, pretty much no similarities saved for the panicked feeling of staring down a hill and wondering how I’d make it down.

I looked down at my heels, towering creations of wooden platform spike heels and peep-toed caramel-colored calf skin, and frowned. I started a tentative step and faltered. I started a sideways step and faltered. I reached to my right and gripped the stucco of the building and thought about walking down whilst holding on. It was then that I realized I could never feasibly make it down. It was simply too steep. So I had no choice but to remove my heels and walk barefoot.

I actually consider myself lucky, as I managed to make it all two blocks home without stepping on a contaminated hypodermic, you know, as I was walking at midnight by myself barefoot adjacent to Buena Vista Park, which as far as I can tell, is pretty much the only crack den with a panoramic view of one of the most beautiful cities on earth. Hey man. If I did the crack? I’d be all over the BV Park. As it happens, I don’t, but it’s nice to have an aspirational location to take on if I ever do decide to take up the cheapest form of cocaine as a nice little side hobby.

So then, I guess I’ve had my adrenaline rush for the evening so can go to bed happy and satisfied. Phew, those hills! Who knew.

As Kokko the Wise told me, you always miss some place, no matter where you are

It's 75, there isn't a cloud in the sky, I have run through 1/2 a tank of gas in less than 2 days, and the woman in front of me at Peet's this morning (at 10:30am...) was donning 3 inch black patent peep-toe pumps, fitted black lace, mammoth blond hair extensions, and fierce calf implants (she was in desperate need of some facial work though...or perhaps that was a result of botched facial work...): ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, it's great to be back in LA.

I should be in a stellar mood, but I have a couple sticking points: 1) the woman at Peets did a shitty job on my latte; it's all foam, no milk at all, leaving me with a 1/2 cup of very strong coffee and no calcium for osteoporosis prevention; 2) my manager just sent me an email w/ feedback on how to essentially rewrite a document; thank you, kind sir, for the excellent guidance AFTER I have completed the project - to note, this level of detail should have come BEFORE I wrote the damn thing. Your management skills are truly stellar; I salute you.

But, buoyed by the excellent weekend that lies ahead of me, I still have a nice little smile on my face.

Anyway, so it's weird to be living in my old house again. When I woke up, I proceeded to go through the same motions that I used to when I was preparing for a day of work (used to be homework, now it's real work): open up all the curtains to let in the sunny sunshine, open up the porch door to let in the fresh air, turn the tv on for background noise, hop in the shower and giggle at the bathroom set-up that enables you or forces you to watch yourself in the mirror as you shower.

Although now, I woke up on the new daybed that is in the living room, versus a real bed. And my furniture is all gone, replaced by Ritu's, and set up in a completely different way. Her clothes, not my clothes, fill the closets. But, it was quite nice to see a tube of Khiel's Nourishing Olive Oil conditioner in the shower, as that is what I use :) (Ritu - have we talked about that product? Or is it pure coincidence that you too love the delightful results?)

I am also happy to see that there is a picture of me, Mare, Moe, and Rainer on the baker's rack in the kitchen (the picture cannot be removed from the frame cuz it got wet and it's permanently affixed to the glass) that I left behind - and that Ritu re-set up the wireless in the house, and the network name is Lindy. I kind of get to haunt the house in a way. My guess is that Veeve and Ritu would roll their eyes at this, but hey, I can see it how I want to.

Anyway, this apt still kicks ass. And San Mon is still pretty much the best place on earth so far as I'm concerned. Even more now that a Pink Berry lies at the corner of 17th and Montana (door is padlocked - but it looks all ready to go - will be open so soon!!!). Leaving me to know that I will achieve my goal of finding a wealthy mate that also wants to move back to SoCal. So then, back to work for me, I need to go make some of my statements more "pithy." I hate that gd word. The end.

Priceless as Diamonds

Let me start by saying that the title here really has very little to do with what I plan to write about. But I really like that phrase, so thank you Mr. Greg B. for sharing it whilst describing how you feel about that link you sent me that combines Chowhound's Top 100 Restaurants with Google Maps. Priceless as Diamonds indeed.

Actually...maybe I CAN make a feasible connection with my life to this fun turn of words... In an ironic sort of way. You see, I'm in LA right now (Yes! I am in LA! Thank you for the texts and IMs that make me feel guilty for being here and not broadcasting broadly enough). I arrived yday, to do recruiting stuff. Umm, yeah, the tables have turned. No longer do I have to kiss all sorts of corporate ass at lame networking events - now, the kiddies get to kiss MY ass at cheesy networking events! Oh, btw - when you're at one? And you're talking to a company representative at a place where you apparently have interest otherwise why did you come - I don't recommend typing away on your BBerry. You see, you have no job, so I know that your emails really aren't that important. I mean, I do have a job, and really, my emails aren't that important. So what are you doing: talking about the free drinks you're scoring at the W with your first quarter study group members? Douche move.

Anyway, that sidetracked me. I think what I was going for was why I'm here. That said, ever since I arrived here, my life has been one logistical nightmare, mostly due to me making it that way. Which, are kind of, as I said, in an ironic way, priceless as diamonds.

Ok, so for starters, we arrive into LAX around 3 yday, plenty of time to make a 6pm Happy Hour in Westwood. You think. So I wearing a great outfit - cute gray sweater dress, high black suede boots, black tights. And my tights were totally malfunctioning, all day - they have that design deal on the top that looks all lingerie-y, and they were too big and kept falling down, hence revealing the pattern a bit near the hem of my dress. So that won't work for a professional event, so I'm all, "kids: I'm going to hunt down some new tights - see you at the dub later."

So I get my little Mazda and hit the road by around 3:45ish. I can't drive this thing. The gear shift is weird. I end up in "M" mode v. "D" mode. I notice that I'm at like 5rpm and my engine is like revving itself. Try to get to drive, only after throwing it into reverse and neutral before getting there. As adjusted to my vehicle, I get on Lincoln to head North. Lincoln: under construction. 10 min wasted. Turn around to head to 405. Little Greggy used to call the 405 the Parking Lot. Yday at 4ish? Totally applicable name. A wreck. I was pulling out my hair. So I decide I'll take the 10 and just head over on surface streets.

Dumb idea. I lost my LA bearings. I'm kind of turned around. Make fun of me, I'll hit u - so shut it. Anyway, so I get off at Bundy and head to Pico, and pretty soon I'm at Nordstrom, so I'm all perfect - tights! I go in. In my hurry I decide I'll just valet and waste some money. But then I pull in and decide that is ridiculous. So I head out but the parking lot is all one-ways and stuff, so I have to exit before re-entering. I at last find parking, after nearly getting out of my car to force the 85-year-old Olds driver whose spot I'm waiting on to physically start her car and get the hell on with it, and dash into Nordy's for some Spanx. It's now like 5:15 by the time I'm back on the road, and I'm all, shit, I need to hurry. I initially head the wrong way on Pico, go 5 blocks past Westwood, turn around. I'm in terrible, shitty, frustrating LA traffic, and I'm removing my knee-high boots and tights and trying to pull on my Spanx. Which are tight, given their purpose. So I'm flashing traffic, sweater dressed hiked, strategically switching feet between the pedals, trying to stay in drive, cursing as I watch the minutes pass in stagnant traffic. I arrived at 5:45, so no worries, but DAMN, are you serious?

Post event, I head over to Century City to meet up some ladies for drinks at the Pink Taco (name still makes this one blush). I opt to go visit a friend in Hollywood after drinks, and naturally it's another issue, b/c my phone which I was relying on for directions is currently geeking out. It's killing me. IPhone: I heart you - but you're killing me. Apple: wtf. The applications keep crashing and then exiting, so no go on directions ability. Anyway, so there was that.

This morning I was stuck with a shitty hair drier a la y friend and hence my hair was dampish and got a ponytail. Then I had to navigate for an Israel-trip-related interview over at Doheny and Pico, and that was also messy, naturally, and traffic-y. So, I was 10 min late. Awesome. Late. To an interview thing. But so was the interviewer...who spend 10 min with me and pretty much I don't get why I was there in the first place...but that is a whole other issue. When I left I went to go grab a bagel thingy. I say thingy b/c it was this giant flat bagel deal, and tasty! Also got coffee, which was so brutally terrible that I tossed it and grabbed a Peets.

I eventually made it to school, and lot 4 is all different now - you have to do pay stations. So I'm lugging my lap top which is tremendously heavy only to find that I had to go to the pay station, get the ticket, then lug the lap top back to the car to put the ticket on the dash, then go back. And then finally I arrived on campus, thank the lord. By then my hair was dry so I could take my hot iron the the bathroom and straighten my locks. The only other logistical issue was taking my lunch date (Ang K from the P Center) to Bebe to pick up a new shirt b/c I didn't like the one I packed, and it was right across from our restaurant anyway. So I put it on and then pulled off the tags so they could ring it up and I could wear it out. That also involved me squatting awkwardly behind the counter to take off the security tag. The saleswoman said it "happens all the time." My ass it does.

So, I'm now thinking that I have had enough logistical issues for one weekend so I must be all good from here. But of course, when I think that way it tends to bite me in the big old butt. *Sigh*

Anyway... I am currently being pressured to attend Beer Bust, and I"m deciding if I want to be "that girl." This is going to take a bit of thought on my part, so I must go attend to this difficult situation. Until next time...

Ribs and Beer in America's Heartland

Greetings from Gate 37 of the KSI, Kansas City International, where I sit eating enjoying a healthy and delicious breakfast of Chex Mix and bad airport coffee w/ creamer that comes out of small single-serving cups and requires no refrigeration. To my left: the Iron Man competitor doing his morning calithenics. Directly in front of me: the 6 foot tall Hari Krisna decked in head to toe orange-sherbert rags, pacing the length of the terminal while talking to himself. And slightly to my right: the business man first in queue at Southwest Line B, who is pretty old and continues to stare creepily at me. This, is my life at present. The only thing missing is little brother Greggy, telling me how mean I am when I make fun of people in airport terminals. Oh, the simple pleasures that a little bit of snarkiness affords us.

Anyway. Why, you ask, am I in Kansas City? I’m returning from the American Royal BBQ festival, one of the top 4 BBQ fests in the US. I bet you had no idea that there were so many of these things so as to warrant a “top 4” list. If I were to describe the experience in one picture, this would be it:

All-American, over-fed, slightly offensive, and quite unfortunate.

We sent a whole crew of brandies, an agency chick, a couple PR kids, and some sales friends to this thing, as one of our illustrious brands (I won’t say what one, but it’s pretty much the only name-branded charcoal that matters) sponsors a famous competitor on the BBQ circuit and we needed to go connect w/ our consumers a little bit. After a morning of retail investigation, we headed to a famous BBQ restaurant where I indulged in my first of many slabs of hot meat for the day. Pulled pork and hush puppies (or sweet corn fritters as they call them in KC). I know there are lots of starving kids in Africa, I always keep that in mind actually – it’s pretty much the only reason I make sure to clean my plate – so with that v. humanitarian mantra ringing in my head, I made sure to eat each of my 28 corn fritters and finish each morsel of my incredibly fatty meat.

(Wait: interjection –don’t you love it when people sitting 5 feet away from you talk about you like you can’t hear them? Currently the two women to my left are talking about my laptop and the fact that I’m a fast typer (indeed!) as if I don’t have ears. I do).

Anyway. Oh, and I ate my coleslaw. So, satiated, we took a quick trip back to the hotel to freshen up before hitting the festival. For the record, it’s October, and in KC yday, it was 90 degrees with about 90% humidity, so why we even bothered to freshen I’m not quite sure, b/c within about 2 minutes of exiting the air-conditioned car and entering the giant fair grounds area I was sweating and sticking to my jeans, which were a poor choice of clothing anyway – but then again I guess I thought the event was indoors or something so I really didn’t know any better.

The BBQ festival: two-sided. On one side: the serious competitors, with team names that convey a def serious tone, you know, names like “Bob’s Butt Rub.” These teams haul giant smokers (exorbitantly-sized grills that cook shit tons of meat for very long periods of time) ½ way across the country and then spend 24+ hours at work on their meats. On the other side, the “party teams” that aren’t entered into the invitational segment of the contest, with much LESS serious team names, like “Lazy Ass BBQ.” Clearly, quite differentiated.

Essentially, all I did yesterday was stroll around a food festival drinking beer, tasting BBQ sauces, while sweating and allowing my clothes and hair to smell more and more like slabs of smoked meat. I got tired, cranky, and considerably more irritated by my manager, who clearly never goes out and thus enjoys these work functions where he can let loose and focus on drinking free alcohol, while making uncomfortable comments about how all the girls he was with (including myself) should work on getting him into the “private parties” (or, access to different BBQ team booths where the Beast, err, pardon, Milwaukee’s Best, flows freely and fat women wearing halter tops shake it on the dirt “dance floor.”).

At 4:30, he reminded us it was time to hit the lau, like 28 times, an “exclusive” event for sponsors. Allow me to set the scene: free food (BBQ, including an entire roasted hog), free drinks (including Kendall J chard and the newest fruit-flavors in the Zima product lineup), girls in hula skirts/cowboy hats and boots/wife-beaters distributing leighs, and a white-jumpsuit clad Elvis impersonator providing the entertainment. My kinda party? Yes, please…

So, after my second pile of meat for the day, we returned back to our BBQ man’s tent. Let me say here that of all I experienced at this thing, our man may have been the only true joy. An adorable man with beautiful blue eyes, a fantastic personality, an intense focus, and ability to cook what is probably the most amazing BBQ I’ve ever tasted, this guy, was amazing. Dude, my friend Steph hasn’t eaten red meat or pork in well over 10 years, and she ate one of his ribs. Seriously. Anyway, so he made like 10 huge slabs of ribs for us. The meat dropped off the bones. These ribs were like food for the gods. So, pile of meat number three.

After tossing back yet another can of watery American light beer, we decided it was time to go get something for our sweet tooths: an elephant ear. Fried dough. Similar to a funnel cake but with no funnels. A giant deep-fried pancake liberally sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. Fresh from the frier and truly the size of a real elephant’s ear, 4 of us shared an ear and made it about ½ way through until I found a giant strand of hair in one of my pieces and deemed the EE party over.

Soon thereafter by manager called to find out where we were in order to meet back out. Thusly grouped, we hit up a little Hawaiin-themed party (what’s the deal w/ Hawaiin-themes???). I stood stiffly and awkwardly as my manager danced lightly to “My Humps.” Call me prude…but I just can’t gyrate to “My Humps” in front of the man that I otherwise discuss sampling opportunities, volume shifts, and PR press releases with. I know, I know, I so have a stick up my ass…

After we headed to the booth next door, whose party included a giant stipper pole in the middle, Jen McB, who happened to be in town (long story, ask her, although I tell it better) asked permission to whisk me off to another booth party (thank the f’in lord). I think I might have thrown up in my mouth or maybe actually on my shoes if I had to watch my manager do anything with a stripper pole in the near vicinity.

Around 10:30, having been in the middle of America’s heartland festival for over 10 hours, exhausted, grumpy, and completely dirty and gross, we left. Friends: please give me at least a few months before you send me back. I need some recovery time. I need to first let my body recover from the shit I put into it, I am contemplating carrots sticks, water, and some sort of flushing mechanism for a week. I need to wash the contents of my luggage, not once, but twice. And I need to let my eyes rest after viewing so many stomachs that actually hung out from beneath the hems of t-shirts emblazoned with such tasteful logos as Abercrombie and Fitch, oh wait, I meant, “Grababoody and Pinch.” Yep, after having thusly detoxed, I may be ready to go back and do it all over again. I don't know. Or maybe, not.

Please lord get me some cable.

Have I mentioned ever that we still have no cable at our house (we've only been here for three months) and that all we watch are old episodes of Sex and the City?

I have officially determined that I have watched too much S&tC. I was in the kitchen ruminating about my personal life and made a comment which doesn't bear repeating here in this semi-public forum and Eliz was like, "wow. You just made up a title for an episode of Sex and the City. I think you need to take a break from watching for a while." Indeed.

But you know what? I tried last weekend to get cable. I stayed home for 4 hours of my Sunday eating breakfast and explaining the former points of Entourage to my friend that was over (yes, we moved on to a new tv show), only to have the cable man come and inform me that we had to get a written letter from our building owner in order to install the cable as it would be a three hour process that would entail no less than:
--Installing a box on the telephone pole across the street from our house
--Installing a box on our house
--Dropping a line across the street and to our house
--Drilling holes into our house

Oh, and they would require one of those bucket truck deals to get the work done. Why does everything here have to be so hard? Would anyone else like to come babysit my house while I wait again for the cable man? I hate Comcast. I hate Comcast more than any entity in the whole wide world, including Kraft, and that is saying a lot, b/c they, for my company, are rather the enemy, no doubt.

So, in conclusion, and connecting two completely random and unrelated topics, I went to the Bat Mitzvah of a "cousin" (third cousin, 8 times removed or something of that nature) this weekend up in Marin county. I took Mikey B with me so that I could have someone to keep me entertained. Do you know what these kids do these day? They do the dance to Crank That by Soulja Boy. Do you know that dance? I didn't either, but now I've seen it twice: once performed in Marin by a whole lot of really white, well-off, Jewish kids, and once on the Number 6 by a bunch of 7 year old hoodlums disembarking at Western Addition. They were jumping around like little Mexican jumping beans. And before you accuse me of making an off-color racist remark, the kids were NOT Mexican! I just really like the term Mexican jumping beans. Remember when you could buy those at like grocery store counters and stuff? What a novelty! So anyway, I don't know which group was more entertaining. But that song is terrible! And yet...so addicting.

Ok then. I think I am going to retire.

You've been waiting with baited breath...

And now...here she is! The long-awaited Wake Weekend entry. In all her glory. Problem is, now a full week has passed, and my 27-year old mind just doesn't hold detail like it used to. So I while I hope to entertain, I can make no promises. So with that caveat, where do we begin?

I flew into the shitty old Greensboro airport with Freds and Veeve via Texas; it's just as shitty and old as I'd remembered. Roo picked us up in her rental, which was of course a PT Cruiser, b/c all good weekends must involve a PTC hearse-mobile. We were delivered to the lap of luxury, our Embassy Suites palace, my my has Winston-Salem, or "The Dash" as I hear the young kids are calling it these days, changed. No longer a mecca of Girls, Girls, Girls, cigarettes, and scary townies, it's now home to sheik restaurants and fun little bars. Of course this has all happened since I left, but is that really a surprise to anyone?

Anyway, we had 5 in our room and only 3 keys and no way of getting more, so not everyone got a key. Naturally, being the 'Teen, I was not entrusted w/ a key. It's funny, I feel I've grown up into such a big girl, but when I'm back with you people, I'm still like your kid. Your weird little kid. Frou gave me a book for my bday upon our arrival. Her accompanying words: "Teen, this book is really, really weird. But I need someone to discuss it with. And, you're pretty weird, so I figured you might like it." Thanks Frou: may I remind you, you are are 27 and you devoted the last two weeks to paint-penning plastic cups AND plastic shot glasses in honor of this weekend. Now, some might call THAT weird. Ok?

The first arrival event, speaking of those paint-penned cups, was reception of the "gift bags," the "surprise" that has been kept from me for over 3 months. Frou and Freds made each suite a bag filled w/ individual paint-penned cup. The contents? Customized picture collages, and candy. And Advil, Pepto, and Alka-Selzer Morning After. Oh, and of course, lube and condoms. You know, the essentials.

The first visitor to our suite is 3 months old and bald.

Baby James, dubbed "little Leroy" by his mommy. I might insert here that "Leroy" is the name of daddy's drunk alter-ego. My opinion on this topic is as of now uninformed. Check back. I need some time on this. ANyway, baby James is nearly as big as Moe, but just as beautiful. I like to see that despite the fact that she's had a baby, Moe has not changed in the least. She is possibly the only mother that, when her baby spits up (that is puke, mind you) on your shoulder, she says, "Oh look! He's decorating your shoulder." Yes, decorating...right. She also is still fond of taking pictures of everyone's cleave when we're out drinking. Oh, the stories I'll have for my little James when he grows up :) Just kidding, I'll make you out as a saint...

Friday night was spent at the Filling Station, which I have to be honest, brought back many memories of The Shoe, as I ate countless filets w/ blue-cheese butter on dates at that classy little joint. The food was not as delish as I had remember, but they still make a great stiff drink.

Drinks out afterward were interesting. I want to thank Rainer and Nikkie for including me on their very exclusive "list" of people they actually had an interest in seeing. I still relish being called Slammerkin. Thank you, no really, seriously. So let's see. I guess most of Wake Forest has gotten married...to other WakeForesters. It's seriously incestuous. On a gross level. Of course...then again...our friends are also big on inter-marriage, so what are you going to do. I saw plenty of old faces, but naturally was on the look-out for classmates that I might like to smooch. J and I decided that one old KA (who shall remain nameless, but I will say that a picture involving him got me into a slight bit o' trouble on Pledge Night way back when), would be fitting. The next night he was seen w/ two skanky blond townies on his arm. I guess we made prudent decisions going hook-upless for the weekend. Oh btw, not of all us did go hook-upless...but I'll keep the involved parties on the DL b/c I'm nice like that.

As Friday night drew to a close, I started to whine to Freds, the weekend nazi, about having to wake up on Sat morning to collect the bagels and mimosas, the job that I stupidly volunteered for like 2 months ago. I was promptly put in my place and basically told that my lazy ass better get the job done. So on Sat morn, I dragged J and Frou w/ me to the old Harris Teeter and Chesapeake. Chesapeake is now some dumb generic name, but it's the same stuff. At the Harry T, ran into Dix and P. Of course, I was unshowered in my sweats...and they were fully dressed for Tailgate. We're the messes, aren't we? I had to drive a minivan for the run, Rik and Rach's rental, which was hellish. I believe remarking on how puke-y minivants are, at which point a passenger informed me that I shouldn't mention the word puke again as she might puke in the vehicle. Anyway, I repeat, I will NEVER own one of those things.

Anyway, fast-forwarding, tailgating: still the same. We still dress up for football games.

I love the South. I mean, how QB is it to wear Lily Pulizter (look alikes) to sit in the scorching 90 degree weather guzzling Miller Light and watching college football???? I suppose it's just one of the things that makes Wake Wake. At half-time, everyone still leaves anyway to hit up Freddie B's and drink pitchers. We're just so...spirited.

Sunday was our big old reminiccing day. We kicked off at the Tavern.

The Tavern for me holds such special memories. I will say that the most vivid was the afternoon we hit it up post-Breakfast Club and managed to break no less than three glasses before we were essentially booted out the doors. No class, us kids back then, no class. Anyway, everyone from Wake still goes there. At least, everyone I grad'ed with. And Minkus, of course. Their chips are still wicked good and addictive. As for the campus, much has changed. The Pit has a fancy name now and fancy food to accompany that name. Veeve: "You should've seen it! They were cutting fresh pineapple for the salad bar! Fresh! Right there in front of you!" They have wedding cakes on display...what the f? They have a sundries shop. The Mag Quad is not longer the Mag Quad, and North now also has some stupid name. Sig Ep is gone, and the big scary skull and crossbones has been replaced w/ Kappa Sig letters. Colins C 109 is alive and well, I'm happy to report, and we're still the damn same kids; taking pyramid pictures on the Quad in front of the Chapel.



We then nearly missed our flights as we were hell bent on bbq (well, I was) as well as Cookout. You leave a place that you lived for 4 great years, and what do you want most when you go back? Milkshakes and hush puppies from a shitty fast food joint. But, I guess, I have memories of being w/ J and pounding on the glass door begging them to serve us at the drive through at 2:30am, so, perhaps there is more emotional value attached to CO than I'm giving it credit.

Pretty much the whole tripped reeked of emotional value. I'm all done recounting, and if you'll humor me, I'd like to take a few lines to be sappy and pay tribute to my beautiful friends who have been my best support network and entertainment source for nearly 10 years running now. You crazy bitches are helluva good friends and I love you to death. Smooches and hugs to you kids. Thanks for making the cross-country worth every minute.

City adventure #2,068

Well not really, that would be insane. But it's starting to feel like, just a little bit. Yesterday I was heading to my car from the corner store, so I was walking down Central and past my house. I happened to notice, just 3 stoops down from my own, a character with his pants down, relieving himself on the wall of the doorstoop. I was unsure if he was #1ing or #2ing (like it would really make the situation any better).

Today, returning to my home after running an errand, I confirmed that he had indeed been #2ing. So basically what I'm saying is that at 11:30am on a Saturday, a man was defecating in broad daylight on a busy city block. I also happened to be on the phone w/ my Dad back in the sweet old Midwest yesterday when said event occurred, so I was like, "oh, hey dad! guess what! some guy is going to the bathroom on my next door neighbor's house! neat." It didn't really phase him. I guess by now my dad is pretty like, well, you picked your house. You live in a city...such is life.

The day before, at my bus stop downtown, there were hair extensions all over the ground, a guy waiting for my bus was wearing one of those anklets they give you when you're on parole. You know, those electronic monitoring devices. My friend Meg was talking yday about how she does fairly well financially, but for her zip code she likely is on the low end. She indicated that I probably was too. I told her I begged to differ.

To end this: I have one completley unrelated question: don't you think it's weird if you're one girl out w/ 5 other single girls and two older, married men come over and chat you up for over an hour? And wouldn't you be pissed if you were the wives of said dude? Just a casual observation related to my night last night. To answer my own question, I, would be pissed if I were one of said wives.

Anyhoo, I hope no one shits on your house today! The end.

Pretty little toy.

When I got my first iPod, which was a green mini, I thought it was the absolutely hands down coolest thing ever. It was a mini jukebox in my pocket. It was sleek, tiny, green, shiny, and most musical. It went everywhere with me.

Then the battery died, and I upgraded to a video iPod, which of course, was even cooler. Still thin, still sleek, still beautiful, but it holds a limitless amount of music, and plays tv shows! Movies! Videos! In perfect color. On its huge screen.

The Razor hit, and after months of resistance, I succumbed to another toy. It was just too fun and flippy to resist. After a dry spell of no gadgets, I started to have another craving for something fun to play with. The iPhone came out, but I was like, no way, don't need it. Even though I didn't technically need it though, I wanted it. Desperately.

So over the weekend, I finally bought it. I now play wit every chance again and haven't even begun to get over the fantastic-ness that is my new phone. It looks up any and everything, the texts shoot back and forth in colorful little bubbles, the screen is like an HD flat screen in your pocket. The reception is crystal clear, and at the push of a button I have access to the weather, stocks, the muni schedule, my inboxes, and directions anywhere. Anything you want to do it, it predicts how you want to do it. It is the smartest little block of shining technology everywhere.

And in a sheer burst of luck, the price went down by $200 only 5 days after I bought it. I have another 5 left to return it and get nearly 1/2 of what I paid? Back. How amazing is that.

I do avoid being that girl who whips it out in very public places to play. In fact I shy away from that public show and kinda keep it in my bag and play with it covered up. But then again with my friends it's a diff story and I'm TOTALLY that girl who is all, "and it does this!!! and watch this!! then, you can do this!!" It's likely that STu wanted to kill me on Sat night given that pretty much all I talked about was the capabilities of the thing in my purse. I'm kind of like a five year old.

You know what? I'm not writing about experiences on public transportation! That's not to say that I haven't had any recent little run-ins, oh, don't worry, I have, but I'm changing it up. And you know what? This was really boring to read wasn't it. There you go. San Fran has had this effect on me wheras I can no longer write about anything except riding the bus and be happy with what I've written. What exactly does that say about my life? At this time I'm unsure. I might Google it. ON MY PHONE!!! Ha. That was not even funny. The. End.

Poke poke. Poke.

I think I'm starting to sound really super repetative b/c pretty much all I want to write about is riding the damn bus. But I can't help if the most bizarre and strangely entertaining bits of my life take place b/t the hours of 7:45-8:15am and 6-6:30pm M-F (oh, 2-3ish on Fridays), can I? I can't.

So last Fri the bus is off the hook! It's mobbed. I can barely board the 71 there are so many f'in people. All the tourists in their shorts freezing their asses off, reading their maps, the punks with their sullen faces, and the drunks. And me. There is no room to stand...and oddly...one seat left empty. I'm all, "um, does anyone want that?" They don't, so I graciously take it, b/c hey, there are way too many people on the bus to leave a seat open. There is nowhere to even stand!

So I sit. And then the dude to my right starts babbling to a group of three teenaged girls standing in front of us. I guess he works at some cafeteria where they go to school and after eavesdropping made this connection and started to bug them with this question and that comment. Eventually he goes silent. Then, someone pokes me. Him.

"Did you know...that...the transit authority...(he talks VERY slowly)...now has GPS tracking...on all their buses?" Me: "No, I didn't, that's very interesting." Him: "Yes! They do...It's great....You can see when buses...are going to arrive...It's very useful....You should definitely use it." Me: "Yes! That sounds very fantastic! I should use it." Quiet.

Poke.

"So yes...the buses...they all have GPS tracking. Will save you a lot of time. You should try it."

Me: "Oh yes! I will. Thanks." I turn my head left and turn up my volume.

Poke.

"Excuse me....You just touched me."

(oh really fuck face?? you just touched me too. like 8 million times. you poked me.) "Oh, really, did I? Sorry."

Poke.

"Usually, when you touch someone, you say I'm sorry or something."

Me: "Umm, yes, I did say I'm sorry." Him: "Oh? Did you? I guess I didn't hear you." Silence.

Poke.

"You just...you just went like...this (demonstrate the brushing motion for me)."

Me, exasperated, but still calm. "Oh wow. I guess my stop is coming up. I better get up now."
Which is a complete lie b/c my stop is 5 stops and over 5 min away, but for the sake of sanity, I had to move.

Anyway, the moral of this story is this: if a solitary seat is open, and the bus is filled to the gills, chances are, it's open for a reason. So, don't sit in it. The. End.

Turning point.

I think I'm starting to get mean. All the crazies, all the irritating masses that populate my bus lines? Still funny, but now, at times, less funny and more f'in annoying.

I grabbed drinks down by the Embarcadero post-work tonight, so I boarded my line pretty much at its starting point, hence, it was totally 100% empty save for me. Three stops later, it was still pretty empty - like well over 20 open seats. This dude of course beelines for the seat directly next to me and sits as close to me as possible, practically leaning on me.

I was waiting for him to ask to hold my hand like the airplane dude. Didn't happen.

But he did just talk and talk and talk. He wanted to kick it. In Oakland. He wanted to take me to breakfast...at Burger King. He wanted to grab a drink. He found out that I was from LA. He asked if I was a Blood or a Crip. He told me that he was the real OG. And on. And on. When I refused to give him my number, he pulled the race card. I told him actually it had nothing to do w/ the fact that he was black, but that I really just didn't want to kick it with him. I didn't tell him that I prefer that the men I date have a full set of teeth and don't reek solidly of cigarette smoke and dress in head to toe black velvet. But hey, that's just me.

Mind you, I had like a 30 min bus ride left when this dude sat down next to me. That is a long ass time. At some point, I just absolutely really didn't want to talk to this guy at all. So, I turned the volume on my iPod up to nearly full volume and turned my head to look out the window. And then I just started to completely ignore the guy. He continued talking for a good three minutes before he finally shut the f up.

And that, for me, was a turning point. I sometimes feel like a magnet for these weirdos up here, and damn it, I am not doing it anymore. I will not discuss your AIDs with you, I will not let you breath your putrid into my face as you invite me to Burger King, and no, for the f'in 50th time, I do NOT have $0.50 for you.

So there you go. The end.

Tomorrow is my birthday.

Again, I repeat, tomorrow, Aug 21st, is my birthday. I'll be 27. 27 is one of my fav numbers. As such, this is a really big deal.

In this world, there are two types of people: 1) Those who like to quietly downplay their birthdays and refuse to take any kind of spotlight for themselves; and 2) Those who do quite the opposite. I, in case you hadn't yet guessed it, am in camp #2.

There is no other day during the year where it's virtually a holiday for you. No one else shares it. Except for like 20 thousand million other people but hey, chances are you only know like 1 or 2 of them, and who cares, it's your day, that is what really matters. So then, if you feel inclined to wish me a happy birthday, I'm not going to blush shyly and mumble something like "umm...thanks...you didn't have to say anything." Nope, not me. In fact, I won't be embarrassed if you choose to send a big ass bouquet of flowers to the office, either. I am guessing that is not going to happen...but hey, like I said, 27, fav/lucky number, you never know.

I am going to see Avenue Q tomo, btw. I am most excited. Do you know what that is about? I think it's something like muppets having sex. Or like, Sesame Street meets Rent. Something like that. Either way, I always think of being drunk in Vegas and disgustingly excited w/ Doempke over the fuzzy cabs they designed to promote the show. V. neat.

Ok then, something in my house is beeping and it's freaking me out. Time to go hunt down the source. Tomo is my bday. The end.

Floor 17, demystified.

Stu is constantly ragging on me to start wearing more practical shoes. I of course refuse, shoes aren't worth wearing if they're practical. Pain and beauty go hand in hand. I think that after a little incident I had today I might need to rethink it. I pretty much was walking off the bus and then just, fell. Totally twisted my ankle. Went down. On my knees. And I know that the bus driver didn't like me b/c I was talking on my cell when I got on and tried to hand her money b/c the box was broken and she was all "just keep your money, you're on your cell so of course you ain't thinkin' or payin' no attention." So I know that I went down like a retard on the sidewalk she was totally laughing at me. I don't blame her. I would've laughed at me too. But, anyway, since writing this, I've reconsidered again - I think I'll keep wearing ridiculous shoes.

Anyway. So today I was introduced to the 17th floor. Had a meeting there. I walked up to this dinky little conference room that already had 10 people in it and no more chairs for myself and my boss (who is back after his 2.5 weeks of being gone, in my first, 2.5 weeks), so we had to get another chair.

This floor: the carpet is brown, the chairs are orange, and it clearly has not been renovated since 1971. As for who works there? I have no idea. I mean, they work at my company, but what do they DO? As far as I could tell, Floor 17 is where they tuck away everyone that they don't want anyone to see. How can I be delicate about this? This is hearkening back to my summer intern days at B&D, when I was told that it'd be unlucky to sit on floor 1 b/c floor 2 is where customer service sits and you KNOW those customer service folks, they eat all the donuts and are all chubby and might someday...well...you know. Anyway, that is what my colleagues would say. Hey then! I think I just figured it out! Floor 17 must be customer service.
Anyway, so, I was looking for a chair, right? Half the offices were empty, and locked. So we couldn't get in to access the chairs. So we go off to other cubes, and I find a chair in this one cube, and I drag it into the conference room. But then like 3 min into the meeting, this v. angry looking receptionist is all banging on the door, and she's all, "Umm, you can't take that chair! someone sits in that cube!" And we're all, "really???" Because honestly, if I sat in that particular cube from which said chair emanated, I would cry every day. And then, I would quit. It was the saddest, most depressing piece of corporate real estate in the world. Shitty desk, view of nothing but walls, shitty chair, no decorations, sad looking old decks. And someone sits there!!!! Tear :(

Furthermore, Floor 17, is stifling hot. I was in the meeting, wearing a very cozy cashmere wrap-py sweater over a very skimpy tank top, and I'm starting to overheat. First a little bit of heat in the legs. Then a heated torso. Then I have to pull my hair up and off my neck. Then a flush creeps into my face. And then I think a hint of perspiration on my lip. I look at my watch. 9:30. Meeting ends at 10:30. Shit. 10:40. I'm virtually dying. So I take the plunge and just take off the sweater. Office appropriateness, be damned. Get some f'in AC in that shit!

So folks, there you have it, Floor 17. The myth dispelled. And speaking of numbers w/ the number 7 in them, yours truly turns 27 next week, just in case you wanted to mark your calendar. All forms of salutations, greetings, best wishes, and of course, presies, accepted.

Useless teen factoids.

Since my life is not mostly composed of working, I'll be transitioning back to last summer where I ramble aimlessly, frequently, about work-related thingies. So I'm reading this deck about getting people to eat more meals as a family, at home, more often, and it has these stats that tie together frequency of meals eaten together with teen behaviors. I find it rather interesting, b/c, I'm a huge dork:

--45% of kids who eat only 0-2 meals/week get As and Bs in school vs. 57% of kids who eat 5-7
--51% of kids 0-2 would go to parents w/ a problem v. 72% of 5-7 kids
--Only 30% of 5-7 kids claim to drink the alchy v. 52% of 0-2 kids
--Only 14% of 5-7 kids claim to smoke cigs v. 34% of 0-2 kids
--Only 12% of 5-7 kids claim to smoke the week v. 35% of 0-2 kids

My kids will be eating 7 meals a week with me in my household. Then I'll lock them up in the house to listen to classical music and do homework.

A study in contrasts.

On Saturday night, I was standing out on what I still refer to as "my" balcony in SanMon, although, it really is no longer "mine," with Ritu. She shivered and noted how cold out it was. Meanwhile I was still marveling over the fact that it was nighttime, and I was outside in a sundress and sandals, and was not cold in the least. I kind of wanted to punch her at that point, knowing that back in SF it was likely 45 degrees out and I would've been wearing jeans likely paired with my puffy black North Face parka despite the fact that it's Aug, b/c it's just that cold here.
LA v. SF: a study in contrasts. Whereas the individuals populating Cobras and Mats on Friday night were trendily dressed, and good-looking (including Kristin Cavallari who I'm mostly sure was sitting at the table behind us), an SF restaurant would've been filled with kind of ill-dressed people, and umm, not attractive, people. But granted, they would've had actually functioning brains in their heads and real, paying, steady jobs. So, it's a trade-off.
LA: sunny. SF: foggy. LA: warm. SF: f'in cold. LA: flaky. SF: sensible. LA homeless: sleep drowsily under the palm trees along Ocean blvd. SF homeless: rant noisily until they disturb the bus driver enough to put the 71 out of service. LA restaurants: generally over-hyped and over-priced. SF restaurants: ridiculously good and nearly under-priced. My old LA neighborhood: lovely and suburban, preppy and sleepy. My new SF neighborhood: eclectic and colorful, and umm, kind of scary to walk by yourself in after dark. I know it's wrong, but over-piecing and under-grooming kind of set off my alarms.
I alternated my state of mind throughout the weekend. On Friday night when I skipped out of the airport and into the balmy air, I totally missed LA. Then on Saturday, when it took us 45 min to get to the Rosecrantz exit and we actually had to turn back around without ever making it to the beach, and I kind of wanted to kill myself, I sighed relief that I don't live their anymore. When I was strolling down Montana past all the sane, safe people on my way to Khiel's, I missed LA. When I was sitting at NailSpaLane watching all the men that came in to get waxed or pedi'ed, I chuckled and was happy I'd left it behind. When I first got to Les Deux and surveyed the outrageousness of everyone around me, I was like, "wow, this is so entertaining. I miss these weirdos." After a couple hours of watching countless bleach blonds wearing bandaids gyrate drunkenly and drape themselves over the bouncers to gain VIP access, I was happy to be gone.
So it was like that. It reminds me that there really is no perfect place to live. I've had this chat w/ Aly many times. You can live in SF or LA West coast where everything seems more interesting and fabulous, and a "cold" day in the winter (even in the North) is 45 degrees...and maybe when you're 43 you can afford a one bedroom house for $1.5M. Or you can you can be 26 and living in a 5 bedroom custom-built home on a 1 acre that cost <$5K, and be surrounded by Olive Gardens, bad shopping, and Christian Values.
Conundrum, right? I'll close by saying this, and it's completely unrelated to anything. Don't fly Virgin America yet. The planes kick ass, but they clearly don't know how to operate domestically yet. Oh, and if you were curious, no, no hand-holding for me on my most recent voyage. So that's good. Okie dokie, the end.

Head to toe fav color, just like a 5 year old.

So, in the summer months we have 1/2 day Fridays. AND we get to wear jeans. Wonders never cease. But seriously, leaving work at 12:30 in my jeans and Pumas did rather rule.

After a lunch w/ a bunch of peers that talked mostly about stuff that made little to no sense to me, I arrived home. I'm now changed for yoga and about to head out.

I just had to say though, in getting dressed, I:
--Put on my favorite yoga pants, which have a stripe of green around the hips.
--Put on my fav yoga top, which is, green.
--Filled my water bottle, which is GREEN...
--And placed it into a GREEN bag from work that says "green works" on it.

I'm now going to grab my yoga mat (blue!), and my yogitoes towel...which is...green. I thought I might look pretty freak-ish, but then I remember where it is that I live.

Happy weekends!

No shortage of crazies here.

I started work, so I have, of course, much to report on that front. I remember those crazy days when I was just a little intern last summer, and I started off every morning quite methodically: heat my milk in the little work kitchen, add my coffee, make my little English muffin...then check my email for a bit...then blog...and about 40 min after arriving at work, start...doing work.

Not so much anymore. I am not even a week old as an employee...and I have not a second of spare time. Not a second.

But, umm, work is great - aside from their tremendous stinginess with the office supplies which is putting me in the anger-inspiring situation of making an Office Depot trip to buy my OWN supplies (seriously, i can't even get a damn collection of pens and some f'in push pins).

I can't even talk about work b/c I'm still fully fixated on the public transportation experiences that I have pretty much daily. Funny, b/c just one day after I wrote an entry about the buses, I actually got kicked off a bus. Well it went out of service. There was a crazy dude in the front playing his harmonica and a crazy dude in the back talking shit to some young chicks and making them run their mouths about "yo mama" which escalated into a screaming match, and then the bus driver pulled over and told us if we didn't quiet down she was going to take the bus out of service. And they didn't shut up. So, we got all kicked off. That really happened.

Yesterday morning I happened to sit next to a guy who told me, in no particular order, about:
--The battle of Baryshonokov (spelling is wrong, I know) v. other ballerinas who are clearly 10 times better
--His own life as a ballerina
--His 16-year long bout with AIDS. Of course, he didn't have the disease until they administered him drugs. It was the treatment that gave him AIDS.
--And...how he cured himself of AIDS through a cleansing diet.
--And...how he wants to go on Oprah to tell his story.
--And finally, about some dude on the album he was carrying around who was a: "black guy who dresses up like a white guy who imitates black guys"

I then got hit on while filling my Bart card by some dude who insisted on my number b/c he just really wanted to take me out to dinner. I think he might also have been crazy.

Today, on my commute home, there was a self-proclaimed "Prophet" on my bus. He was trying to turn people off the bus. He was furious at the crowding on the bus. He hated "the White problem," the "Asian Problem," and hated "having all the sick people and the gay people and all them other people on this here bus mixing their space" into his space. He hated each and every one of us on that bus. He was miserable. I said a small prayer when he got off. I laughed, too, when he flicked us off through the window after exiting. Twice as great considering he told us "I wouldn't swear, I'm a Christian man." Gesturing "f u" is so Christian, don't you think?

Anyway. It's after 10, and it's nearing my new bed time, as I have to drag myself out of bed at the unGodly hour of 6:45am every day now. So, I'm going to bed.

My new urban life.

In DC I could've opted to live downtown, in an old rowhouse somewhere in Cap Hill or GTown or perhaps DuPont. But I lived in Northern VA which had a nice little city feel to it what w/ the highrises and Metro stops and buses and walk-ability. But, it wasn't really urban, at the end of the day. The population was solid yuppy, there was a very low amount of crazy, it was...clean. I could've lived in downtown LA, but, then again, why would you ever do that. So pretty much, SF is my first real stab at living as a true urbanite. And I'm gradually questioning if I'm really cut out for it.

So I have to take the bus right? Our strategy is public transportation on the way there, cab on the way back (for evening events) or walk the way there, cab home (for daytime walking excursions). I've been using the bus for a total of like 4 days and so far I've:
--Gotten kicked off because b/t the two of us we had $20s and $2, not $3. The driver said get off the bus and get change. Then he left.
--Missed the bus. Twice.
--Gotten stared down b/c I couldn't get the machine to take my dollars.
--Sat in a puddle of some sort of liquid. I bet it was pee.
So it's basically a delightful exploration period.

I have also learned, via the bus, that SF does indeed have a very unique sense of style. It involves piercing and tatooing as much of one's body as possible and cutting hair and washing as little as possible. The result is simply stunning. I am curious if I've yet contracted scabies or maybe lice from the delightful human specimans I get to sit next to on the bus. On the plus side, due to my impeccable grooming skills, I receive compliments on my appearance every block or so. Then again, the extremely high amount of crazy in this city probably contributes to that as well.

I am also learning that living in an old house, even in one that has been fully remodeled, still means you live in, an old house. I have long wanted to live in a place with hardwood floors and period architectural details, you know, character. When you add modern conveniences to character, you get:
--A washing machine that moves 10+ feet across the floor and threatens to bash in your windshield. When bolted down w/ 4x4s it still hops insistently. Then it locks your clothes in inside itself until it's replaced. With another washer that hops across the floor.
--A garage that is supposed to fit 4 cars but can safely accommodate 3. Not even Danica Patrick could park a Honda Civic in our hole of a garage.
--A dishwasher that doesn't actually incorporate water into the process.
--Electrical wiring that shorts out 3 times in one hairdrying session (no other appliances involved).
--A kitchen that has no ventilation and thus steams up like the Amazon after a single pot of water is boiled.
--No phone jack. Because it was covered over during remodel.
But...what can I say: "she's pretty!!"

Anyway, now that I've unleashed a little bitterness, I'm feeling better. I'm going to go outside and enjoy the sunshine. Oh, that's right, I CAN'T! I forgot. We get no sun here. My bad.

No, seriously now. I do like this city. I am having much fun exploring, and now that our washer, and dishwasher have been fixed up I'm pretty happy w/ the apt which is actually 100% beautiful. And Stu and I have been playing house and pretty much acting like an old married couple or a parent/child duo (depending on the day), enjoying the last of our freedom. So, I'm adjusting. Just enjoying lots of Sweet 16 episodes (which I may or may not own) and adjusting. Until my next appliance breaks down... ta-ta.

4:43am and the room is shaking

So in case you haven't yet heard, I've lived through my first earth quake. Here is my anecdotal version:

I'm in bed. (My curtains and duvet cover have come, pictures are hung, so my dream room is nearly complete; just awaiting arrival of the rug and lamp.) I'm having the weirdest dream. I'm not really in it - it's a movie or tv show at the very beginning and the set-up is visually a bunch of newspaper clippings with a narrator saying: "Mona McDuffy [no, I don't know a Mona McDuffy] would've been my mother's best friend. But she married an idiot." Come on, you can't make this shit up. That's really what was being said.

This weirdness gets interrupted when I jolt awake, cuz I swear that my room is shaking. It's slight, but it's rattly, and I'm like, this is totally an earthquake. I've been living in this city for a matter of days and have already gotten 3+ lectures from Jane on assembling my "earth quake preparedness kit" and taken them not to heart, and I just got woken up, by an earth quake.

My window faces another building, and while I'm lying in the dark taking this in, I see a light snap on on an upstairs window across the way. She felt it too!

I grab my phone. It's 4:43am. I text myself so I remember this and don't chalk it up to a dream and then go back to bedsies.

I woke up around 10 this morning and I run into the kitchen and I'm all "Stu! Did you feel the earth quake last night?? I swear we had an earth quake! 4:43am!! I felt it!!" It was like Christmas. Umm, we used to have Xmas when I was a little kid cuz Jane was born a goyem. Anyway, so I googled "July 20 San Francisco earth quake" and sure enough headlines pulled. Surprisingly Jane hadn't yet called, but I called to tell the exciting news (I love how this potentially life-threatening event was like a virtual present to me), guess she'd assumed I was ok since I hadn't yet called.

Anyway, so, yeah. First earth quake! Nothing even moved out of place, btw. Not even little tiny trinkets on my dresser. Nope. It just shook me awake. Well then, safe and sound I am, and ready to go do stuff. Ciao ciao.

Holding hands is for boyfriends and other important thoughts.

Let’s talk about Kevin. Kevin was on the plane with me from Indy to Phoenix (oh? My direct flight? Not so direct. Stopped not once but twice. Hence why I left at 3pm East coast time and got home at 7pm West coast. ) So anyway. I sat in the window, and the woman on the isle had a little girl in her lap that I assumed would take the middle seat. Then very close to take off Kevin, who I think weighed in the neighborhood of 250, comes and takes the middle. I HATE sitting next to big people on the plane. I’m small! By airplane people standards I’m nearly tiny! I take up my seat and mine only. I don’t spill over and I don’t take kindly to spillover by others, all touching my arm and shit.

Plus the guy was a talker. On planes, I roll like this: I read my books, I listen to my iPod, I sleep. Only if you seem exceptionally cool or are exceptionally good looking and male do I want to talk to you. If you’re 250+, loud, obnoxious, and less than scholarly and by less than scholarly I mean that speaking proper English seems to be a challenge to you, I’m the little bitch that doesn’t want to listen to you blabber.

Kevin starts out the flight by squealing about he hates take off. “Can I hold your hand?” What the hell do you say to that?! No? I’m a bitch and I refuse to hold your hand? You clearly can’t do that. All you can do is hope he didn’t involve his palm when he last wiped his ass and take the plunge. When we reached cruising altitude he ordered number 1 of 4 double Jack and cokes. Which reeked. And thus he initiated conversation that I desperately wanted no part of. But I was cordial! You have to be when you know you’re spending the next 5 hours together.

I put my iPod on. That means I want to listen to my music, not talk about iPods with you. I start to read my book. That means I want to read my book, not discuss the title of the book and how you’re heading to Vegas for your mom’s vow renewal. I finish my book and attempt to sleep. THAT means that my eyes are shut and I’m about to drift into my subconscious, it isn’t a cue for you to reiterate information about myself that I’ve already told you. You don’t have to remember anything about me. Such as, “What’s your name again? Lindy?” It’s my eyes are fucking closed, you douche.

B/c he continuously jostles my arm and b/c his drinks smell so bad he then has to ask repeatedly if I’m alright. B/c I’m clearly not getting any sleep I return to awake mode long enough for him to tell me that I have beautiful eyes before full on staring at me and telling me that I’m beautiful.

At this point he’s not only irritating, but slightly creepy since I know his wife is on the plane rows behind us and b/c he’s told me all about his daughter. (If you want to know, she’s 18. She has a tiny waist but huge hips and a big old ass. But no stomach. She wore short shorts once. Kevin told her she couldn’t be wearing those unless she lost some weight. This was a most awesome conversation).

So I go to sleep again. After I do successfully fall asleep, I’m woken up by Kevin nudging me. He hands me a card with his name, address and phone number and asks me if I’d mind sending him a note b/c he’d love to come visit San Fran and he’d love to see me. I asked if he had email (no) so I guess I’ll just be sending that post card. I’ll be sending it tomorrow I’m sure. If not tomorrow, then the next day. If not the next day, then never. And I’ll be washing my hair for the next 48 hours so I guess that post card won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.

I can give you his address though if you’d like to drop him a note.

He asked again when takeover prep started if I’d hold his hand. He asked about 15 min in advance of actual touch-down which meant my delicate phalanges (is that the word?) got to be held in his sweaty vice grip for 15 min longer than I ever wanted them there. When I get really angry or really irritated I kind of start to shake a little, kind of vibrate-like. I think that I was practically levitating by the time Kevin de-planed. Truly delightful flight.

Oh, hold on, I hear rustling outside and want to go see if a vagrant is sleeping on my doorstep. Be right back. Umm, no, no vagrant.

Anyway. So in other news, what happened when I was home? Aside from getting “little brown bear” tan of my childhood, purchasing several amazing pairs of shoes on sale from Saks (including completely ridiculous pink suede Prada platforms), taking advantage of Jane’s generosity in helping my furnish the new pad, hanging out w/ my childhood friends, ensuring that Greggy didn’t to share beds with his girlfriend, spending an evening with my relatives who some reason are all over the age of 70, eating yummy and delicious foods, drinking at least one glass of wine per night…Jack got a new left hip!

Yes. Jack got a total hip replacement in his left hip. Goldens can be prone to hip displaysia and little Jackie B, who Jane has taken to calling “Misty” (I call him Mister and then sometimes insist on calling him “Mistaaaaaaaa” in a rowdy little voice but then my mom took it a step further by calling him what is honestly a bad GIRL’S name from 1983), has it bad. So we took him to Ohio State Univ Vet Hosp and they fixed him right up. Dick and Jane have the fun task of keeping the dog, who now has great hips and the same puppy energy level he had pre-op, “quiet” and “still” for 3 months. Much luck.

Maybe I can send Kevin to visit and it’ll scare the hell and energy out of my dog into a point of non-movement for three months. I’ll ponder that. In the meantime, I think I’m going to take a shower and get into my new 450 thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets. Ta-ta kiddos. Sayonara.

Indiana is very green, and I'm very tan.

Aside from the wholesome family values and warm, lovely personas, that you clearly need no evidence of beyond knowing me, produced here, I’d also to point to point out that the Midwest also produces the greenest, tree-iest summers you’ve ever seen. I’m looking out at our backyard, which is nearly 2 acres, something you would NEVER find in SoCal, or NorCal, for that matter, unless you’re a bajillionaire, and it’s like more green than I’ve seen since I guess the last time I was here. Amazing. It’s also 8pm and 90 degrees outside, still. Wow.

So I got home on Friday night. Greg was already in Canada – Dick left on Sat morning to meet him to go fishing. But as I said he was still home on Fri night. So after dinner my bf and her husband and fam came over for dessert. We were sitting all fresco and my phone was chilling on the patio table. I went in to grab some apple frangipan which is fancy-ass apple pie. When I came back out Dick was like, “Is there more than one Greg in your phone?” Yes. There are 2. Greg my friend and Greggy Cel, my brother. “Oh. I think I just called your friend Greg.” What did you say? “I told him that I was going to catch more fish than him. Than I realized it wasn’t Greg your brother. So, I hung up.” Awesome. You called my friend, babbled gibberish about competitive fishing, and then without explanation, hung up. Dad, your phone skills are wicked good.

Anyway. That’s about as exciting as my stories get around here.

Yesterday I rose around 11am, went to the country club, laid out for about 4 hours, and then swam laps. Came home. Cooked dinner w/ Jane. Walked Jack B (he has a new trick, btw – he can roll over on his back. Next up: peek-a-boo. No. I’m not kidding). Watched movie. Today: brunch w/ Aunt J. At the Marriot. I drove to a mall hotel to eat brunch. I could lie and pretend I’m not a total food snob and say it was good, but, like I said, that’d be lying, and I don’t like to lie. Went to pool. Laid out. Swam laps. Cooked dinner with Jane. Am about to watch a movie.

I am monitoring my blood pressure and other vitals around the clock as I’m afraid I might get too worked up over all the excitement in my life. Don’t worry though cuz so far everything is looking normal. But…I AM about to watch Hugh Grant’s “Music and Lyrics,” which could potentially be kinda dangerous. Who knows.

Anyway, on a side note, I am getting the tan that I used to have in my youth from spending every single day at the pool. That, I love. So, I may have left LA, but I’m not pale yet.

Airport Security: still sucking.

I just spent $0.54 on a single Ziplock bag. It’s $0.54, so it’s not a super big deal, but I think a box of like 30 Ziplocks costs maybe $2.50 so I have this sneaking suspicion that I just overpaid.

Having just moved here I kind of forgot that I wouldn’t be flying out of LAX this morning, which is very forgiving in terms of their liquid policy, in that they really don’t give a shit what liquids and how many/much you bring on. But this, is Oakland, and they have a myriad of signs posted warning you to bag it up. I have since cut back the number of lip glosses I carry in my bag, so it’s not the 12 or 13 that I think I was carrying last summer when this policy first came into being. Instead I have 5 glosses, 1 lipstick, and 2 chapsticks, in addition to a tube of hand cream.

SWest flies out of terminal 2 which is a trek from terminal 1. I went to term 2 and asked if they had any baggies. Nope – but they directed me back to terminal 1. I rolled up at the little security table expecting a free cheap-o plastic bag and was then directed to a store where I could buy one single, lonely little plastic bag for, yes, $0.54. So, I did.

Anyway, so I left our new house in only slight disarray, having taken about 20 boxes out to the trash dump area last night. An ungodly expensive trip to BB&B and many hours of arranging later, I kind of fit all my crap into my bedroom. I have piles of shoeboxes tucked into the closet, 2 8-hook bars on each door in my room holding about 20+ handbags, and an exposed metal rack holding clothes (like they use on like, movie sets, or at a fashion shoot, in other words, not typically in someone’s home I suspect) against one wall. It looks fairly uncluttered save for the clothes rack, but upon closer but still casual inspection it becomes quite obvious that mine is a room where the contents are in actuality far too great for the space holding them.

Oh let me tell you this one thing though. Our neighborhood is great. We have incredible access to any sort of smoking paraphernalia at any time of day (it’s the Haight, dude) that makes is almost ludicrous that none of us smoke, we have limitless restaurants, mad places selling clothes one wears when following Phish…and tucked in, many places selling stylish, overpriced great clothes and handbags that are a better fit with my own personal tastes. Such the perfect blend.

And one particular storefront that sells every sundry under the sun. The food and drinks are stacked on shelves and in coolers as expected. But the other more obscure items: power strips, wrenches, laundry bags, etc., are hanging on peg boars that soar 20 feet up the walls. The other night we were determined to watch our new tv and required an extension cord, so we walked to this particular shop. We scanned the peg board for one but my neck really doesn’t crane that effectively. We asked for help. They said they’d help…but never came. We went back and I asked again for help. “So did you find one?,” the guy asked. “Umm, I don’t know exactly. I think maybe, but it’s like 28 feet in the air…” -- “Oh, you can’t reach that high? Ha ha!” He then went back and started scrounging. He disappeared behind stacks of toilet paper packages and refrigerators. He emerged carrying 4 extension cords that he had apparently ripped out of his own sockets.

“These work for me, so should be fine for you!” He then tossed them into a bag and gave us, for free, like 60 feet of extension cord. How awesome is that? Totally makes it ok that I spent $0.54 on a single Ziplock.

That is just how nice people in SF are. I guess I’ll just fit right on it. Alright then, time to board…home to IN…for TWO weeks…I go.