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.