Kings of Grocery

At work yesterday, I had to do meeting pre-work that involved going to a grocery store. I won’t get into the details of what I had to do there, b/c it wouldn’t interest you, given that it didn’t really interest me, but I do have some commentary re: the grocery store itself.

First, I shall point out that I’ve had this assignment due for a week, but I forgot to go over the weekend, and then I procrastinated and had excuses for not going on Mon, Tues, and Wed nights of this week. So it was suddenly 11am on the day of the 1pm meeting, and I wanted to do my homework, b/c I’m generally a good girl. I pulled up the AroundMe app on the old iPhone, searched for grocery stores. Here is what pulled up:
o Khanh Phong Supermarket
o Sam Yick Market
o New Tin's Market
o Cho Lon Moi Market
o Lucky Star Store
o King of Grocery
o New Dick Market
o Long Pat Market
o Both Side Convenience
o Good Time Market
o Big Dish
o Hung Wan Supermarket

I have a few observations about this list. 1) Where is the Safeway? Lucky’s? 2) Why do so many of these sound so sexual (New Dick? Long Pat? Good Time?)? 3) I don’t know what the observation is, but “King of Grocery?” “Both Side Convenience?” à really?

In the end I stalked my colleagues until I found someone with a car and drove to a Safeway. No offense to the China Town community, but I needed a full salad dressing shelf set which requires a population of fat American shoppers. But I’m glad I tried to locate a walking-distance market in the first place, b/c I otherwise would never have discovered this fantastic list of options.

The New Kids in My Life

Funny to think it’s been two years, more than two years, since I’ve stepped foot onto a college campus, for the purposes of academic pursuit (there have been recruiting events…).  Tonight, I did it.  Decided that I miss blogging and that I should take a writing course.  Yes, I could just blog, but the issue is that my idea well runneth dry.  Life just isn’t as zany as it used to be.  That, or corporate American has sucked out all the creative juices that used to help me formulate more offbeat or entertaining observations .  Either way, blogging is considerably difficult when you find you have no material. 

Fortunately, between now and next Wed night, I will not only be forced to write a three page short-story (Note:  I’m having trouble selecting my topic: it’s between a young boy learning that his family eats his pet chicken’s eggs and then discovering they eat more than the eggs when the chicken one day disappears; the discovery process around Thai food and Thai food traditions; or flow charts as the inspiration for organizational skill development within the context of modern life… Best not to get into the details of the source of these ideas.)….

 …Continuing on…but I also have a new source of inspiration for blogging:  Classroom (mostly classmates) of Room 266 at the Ocean Campus of City College of San Francisco.  I think Wake may be one of the preppiest college campuses, running amuck with future yuppies of America…and then I went to business school…which largely speaks for itself if you’re speculating on your character types.

City College in SF:  very different scene.  I am clad in skinny jeans, orange flats, white tea, long grey cardigan, colorful scarf, and layered jewelry…and I looked the picture of whitebread, suburban, clean-cut, normalcy in terms of dress code within the confines of this classroom.  That is just a visual descriptor for you to absorb.

My fellow classmates…where to start. I think w/ the oddball talkazoid (yep, that guy has already revealed himself and he simply won’t shut up).  Dressed in gothic apparel, boots crumpling down over his black jeans.  I fortunately connected myself to him personally, as during our introductions (given by newly-met partners, stand-up style) it was noted that I care for the literature of Gregory McGuire.   Old talky nodded my way and later on made reference to a McGuire novel.  Awesome. 

There is one guy who absolutely fascinates me.  Scrawny little hipster, with long, side-swept hair covered by a vintage fedora, wearing a Goodwill purchased Smithsonian t-shirt from 1983.  In his introduction, I learned that he writes and produces hip-hop (apparently has worked w/ Del the Funky Homosapien), has ghostwritten for Comedy Central, and is a freelancing restaurant consultant.  Either all of this, or, he made it all up.  But, impressive sounding. 

There is “that girl” as well, potentially the dullest in class to behold visually, and the dullest to behold when she speaks as well. I think that she was one of the few that indicated she somehow made some sort of living via the written word. I guess maybe she writes like manuals for power tools or something.  She at one point asked “how many pages does it have to be again?”  It’s an f’in creative writing class.

One final character to paint out…  The scared-of-the-world.  She could barely make eye contact with anyone in the class, the only one who refused to stand up for her intro. I don’t begrudge her this as there is nothing wrong w/ shyness.  I am only pointing out that JR (only name that I remember) had a subtle creepiness.  She is apparently working on a novel, but her partner was unable to “do the novel justice” via any description, and I’m not sure how that bodes for the novel.  Anyway, she reminded me of Aly Sheedy in the Breakfast Club.

So for now that should give a moderately detailed portrait of this classroom.  It’s definitely one that enables me to be excited to attend the next class not only for the writing, but also for the chance to continue observing my fellow writing peoples. 

Acting Your Age

On Fri night, we didn’t head out to dinner until nearly 10pm.  Which meant a few things…1)  I couldn’t put the boiled peanuts and pickled vegetables that we ordered to start into my mouth fast enough (yes, you read correctly, our starters at Magnolia included boiled peanuts and pickled veggies, and they both absolutely correct so stop making faces) due to my extreme hunger by that point.  2)  We didn’t have to wait for a table which NEVER happens.  3)  It was bound to be a bit more rambunctious than usual given the later hour.

Ok maybe it’s really pretty lame that I’m using 10pm, Friday, and later hour all in the same line of thought, but these days I’m gearing up to turn 29, thinking it really means I’m pretty much 30, and feeling like I frequently spend my weekends in the manner that bests suits someone who is a suburban 40.  I think I’m mostly ok with that.  But anyway, the debauchery was eventually brought, right around bite 2 of my delicious bleu cheese and bacon burger when a group of raucous 50 year olds walked into the bar.

The event:  a man’s 50^th birthday.  The crowd:  weird (sorry, can’t really come up with any better adjectives to describe the assortment of individuals).  The mode of transportation:  an SF cable-car style party bus.  The attire:  large balloon hats.  Ok, so there was really only one balloon hat.  It was on the head of the birthday boy.  But it counts anyway.

And it really started to count when the wearer of the hat decided it hilarious to pop one of the balloons.  I startle easily.  So pop number 1 nearly caused me to spit out a bite of my food. Or maybe choke on it. I don’t know. It scared me.  I was certainly not amused. 

The birthday crowd on the other hand certainly was amused.  The balloon popping continued, picking up pace. I remember when I was little, spending the night at my cousin heather’s house, and during summer thunderstorms, we’d count the seconds b/t thunder claps (the closer the storm got, the less time b/t the claps).  I liken the balloon situation to the storm:  time b/t pops quickened, laughter of the 50 year old party grew, silence among the other patrons deepened, stares raged, and the storm gathered force.  The downpour I suppose then was when a staff member actually took the balloon hat away.  The storm didn’t last long, however, as it was returned, and not less than a minute later, Mr. Happy 50 was at his antics again.  Very soon, they departed, hopping into their classy cable car and taking off for greener pastures where they could pop balloons until their hearts’ content, or at least until the hat was no longer a hat but simply a mass of sad deflated rubber pieces. 

My emotions were mixed as the crowd departed, and I finished up my burger.  I was certainly sated, but that is neither here nor there as it’s a feeling related to my food consumption rather than the birthday antics.  I was relieved, as I’d been startled so many times I was on the verge of needing a xanax.  But I suppose I was also a little wistful, wondering, will I grow down by the time I’m 50?  Is there hope that I, too, can someday be a little debaucherous at a riper age?  I invite you, if you’re reading, and you’re still around me by that point, to remember this post, and to help me reach that goal – even if it only means crafting me a balloon hat and encouraging some bad behavior on my part in public… 

Don't worry -- no one got hurt!

Last night, returning home from Rehana's something...not so good happened.  I will preface this by remarking that this drive must be in some way cursed, as I've been pulled over on that same drive before, the same night when I chopped a piece of my finger off while cutting bell peppers, which reallllly made for an excellent night.  Anyway, so I was driving home, and pulling up to a red light on Masonic, when a little dude on a motorcycle came up on my left, crossing over the double yellows into the oncoming traffic lane (is that legal?) and coming to rest by the upper left side of my car.  

The light turned, and he went, and I went, but then...he stalled, and it was like slow motion and then before I could really tell what was happening, I had, I suppose, hit him.  And then, down he went.  I slammed the car in park, ran out, threw up my hands, apologized profusely, and fell to checking out if he was ok.  A minute passed where he really said not much of anything, just continued to check his bike and ponder his ok-ness, and then he crossed to the side of the street and I pulled my car over.  He kinda pulled up his pant legs, checked his legs, his arms, checked his bike (it worked, no damage) -- and he was totally fine, and then mumbled he was fine...and off he drove.  And that was it.  The luck Gods were certainly smiling down on me...

I came home, and raced into the living room, and was like, "Stu!  You won't even believe what happened to me!  I hit a guy on a motorcycle!  It was the scariest moment of my life!"

Her response (unexpected to say in the least):  "Oh my G_d! Did I tell you what I did last week?!  I hit a guy on a bicycle!"

"Umm...But, you don't own a car!"

I guess she hit the guy getting out of a taxi, with the cab door...The cyclist flipped his shit, the cyclist behind him bitched her out, and the cyclist behind HIM pounded on the cab.  She then encountered a homeless guy who told her to spread the word to all the white people that he hated white people.  I know that's unrelated, but what a sequence of events.  Sheesh. 

So there you have it:  two girls, living in same house, hitting two guys, on two two-wheeled vehicles, less than a week apart. With no injuries, no damage.  What are the odds?  

Yes, actually, it was pretty weird...

I recently received an email from a male friend, who shall rename nameless in an effort to protect his, well I’m not sure what it’s protecting, I don’t think it’s necessarily masculinity, or reputation, but I do think the element of anonymity will end up serving as a benefit to this fellow.

At any rate, the email was entirely devoted to questions regarding female eye make usage and application habits.  I suppose this email was directed my way as at one time I was pretty handy with a couple of eye shadow application devices and several pots of color – my evening looks for a while could be described as colorful, perhaps over the top, certainly dramatic.  But I like to think, still tasteful.  I still do remember one of my first interactions with Doempke, which involved him complimenting my eye makeup.  So I that respect, I guess I have some expertise in the area of eye makeup knowhow given that I don’t wear it so badly myself.

I still found it a super bizarre experience to write an entire email back to a dude concerning my opinions and perspectives on good eye makeup application.  It was clear that the questions were being asked as the dude in question had encountered a lady friend whose taste in eye makeup bordered on the what can only be called bad – apparently pink eye makeup taken all the way up to the brow bone (which reminds me of pink eye in a major way).  

But what I’m wondering, is what is the recipient of my thoughts going to DO with the opinions I provided back to him.  I don’t think that most women would take kindly to a male friend giving them advice re: their makeup habits – it would be like telling a girl that her recent bangs-inclusive haircut doesn’t look good (something that another guy friend wanted to tell a colleague recently – I strongly recommended against this course of action…) – and both comments I’m sure would not go over well with the woman.  I’m just wondering what kind of girl lets her friend go around looking like she has a terrible case of conjunctivitis?  And apparently this is a daytime look, no less.  This is a reason we have girl friends – they give you the honest advice that strangers, and typically, male acquaintances, won’t provide.  Although perhaps in some cases…they apparently will.

 It does make you wonder though how many guys have seen you and passed some sort of judgment on an aspect of your grooming that you as a woman would’ve guessed no man would ever notice… and if they then sent off an email to a lady friend inquiring about the proper course of action to take…which inevitably was nothing.  An odd thought…  In closing – anonymous male, I think I told you on the weird scale it was only like a 5 out of 10, now that I’m getting more thoughtful on the whole episode, I’m thinking it might’ve been more a 7 or 8.  Readers (if there are any of you left given how delinquent I’ve been), feel free to share your own thoughts re: weirdness level.  

Hickies at work.

This coming weekend, I'm heading down south to somewhere near King City, CA, not that I've ever heard of King City or that I expect you to know where it is either, but that's the best point of reference I can provide. I'll be swimming in the Wildflower race -- yes, just swimming -- doing one leg of a triathlon relay.

In prep for my very first time swimming in open water, I've hit up Aquatic Park here in SF a couple times recently. It's just a roped off area in the frigid, dirty, mucky, cloudy, choppy, possibly shark-infested, definitely sea lion-infested waters of the SF bay. They even say there's this one sea lion that ate radioactive materials, went nuts, and subsequently occasionally attacks swimmers that lurks there. But given my extreme toughness, I brave it all. Yep, that's me.

As the water temp is about 52 degrees, I'm in a wet suit. And beneath my wet suit, I rub on this layer of stuff to help prevent chafing. I focus particular on the neck, shoulders, and back region. Although I apparently did a mediocre job w/ the stick yesterday evening, as I appear to have a giant hickey on the left side of my neck today from wet suit chafing.

I examined in the mirror this morning and thought it not so bad. So, I didn't take any steps to cover it up. I also though, well, if I don't try to cover it up, then no one, if they even notice it, will think it's a hickey, b/c naturally, if you HAD a real HICKEY, you'd try to cover it up. So me, I thought, I'll wear it proudly, and then, everyone will just assume it's like, a...burn...or something.

Except when I went for coffee w/ my friends Robyn and Steph this morning, it took them all of 3 seconds to notice it and call it out. And now all day today, I have been incredibly paranoid. I feel like everyone's staring at me. Or rather, at my neck. And they're thinking, "wow, that girl has a hickey! A big one! And she didn't even cover it up!"

And it makes me feel ridiculous. And there is nothing I can really do. And my VP noted that if I tried to cover it up w/ makeup, it'd likely only look worse, so I'm pretty much stuck. Here, at work. With a giant hickey. On my neck.

I've been playing online for well over 1.5 hours. I don't actually know if that's true, b/c I'm so utterly bored that what feels like 1.5 hours may in reality only be 30 minutes. I have on-line shopped (mostly was investigating the best deal on this B&W BCBG long chiffon gown for summer weddings that I've coveted since I saw it worn at a wedding last May), I have read the Onion (I recommend the editorial by the Dog asking humans to stop treating him like a human), I have searched PetFinder 94117 for medium sized baby dogs (my fav was named Radish, which I must say is keen dog name and the whole Muppet thing may finally be over), I searched SwimOutlet.com (for waterproof Shuffle cases). And I can do no more. The Internet has like, unlimited options and you could occupy your entire life on it, I'm sure, but I'm over it right now.
Outside, is New York. It is 60 degrees and it's perfectly sunny. I don't think weather gets much better for walking around and exploring, and here I am, inside somewhere in the Meat Packing district, eating enough food to lead to a one-week, five-pound weight gain (thanks Kraft service assholes), sitting on a darkened set watching a woman make HV chicken in a fake kitchen, and waiting for Dylan, the set dog, to come around every 15 minutes and provide me a brief interval of entertainment (the entertainment defined by me holding out my hand and calling for the dog and the dog being largely responsive for 2 seconds until he walks away again).

For two weeks I've been looking forward to this trip. A glimpse into the exciting world of ad shoots, I thought. A glimpse, yes, exciting world, no. A moment of glamour in a largely un-glamorous job, I thought. Glamorous, no; end sentence. What it is, is a 12-hour day confined to a single black-leather couch, gathered around a monitor that shows the 19th time they've shot Mom #2 executing the correct shaking moment of our powered product into the hamburger meat. It is knowing that the highlight of your working day was the omelette made for you by the Kraft service woman at 8am when you arrived on set. It is realizing that your agency counterparts have to look to you for approvals on mundane details a consumer will never notice and that they know you know you don't know anything about, anyway.

So there is it, the world of ad shoots, unveiled. Ta-dah!!!!

The good news, my hotel room is "suite" -- they upgraded me -- corner room, 14th floor, floor to ceiling windows, phenom view of the city. And I LOVES the bathroom -- one big room w/ a tub and a rainshower head in the corner. Although I did have a little oopsies on the wet tiles this morning... And, I get to eat fabulous meals w/ all the girls every night while here, and I have a play date w/ Rainer on Fri and Meliss over the weekend, so while life here on set may be quite rough...life off the set: not so bad. So if you were feeling bad for me, briefly, it's ok, don't -- but let's also be realistic and own up to the fact that you never really felt sorry b/c you're hardhearted and relish in my boredom. Anyway, I think we're not only an hour from the end, which is glorious and delightful all at the same time b/c I will soon be headed out for playtime...

Do you "follow" me?

Does anyone subscribe to Daily Candy? That was somewhat rhetorical I suppose I already know that many of you in fact, do subscribe. But for some it may be news that the April 1 edition contained information re: a new iPhone application. Do examine:

"Upgrade your hardware (and lend yourself a hand) with miVibe. Jimmyjane — the self-pleasure masters known for premium gadgets — just launched its first iPhone application. Download the tickle-your-fancy program and your cellie becomes an instant vibrator (gasp!) with adjustable settings. You’ll never have to fake it again: With three speeds (soft and subtle, gradual buildup, and fast and furious) and ten preset modes, the nifty (and naughty) app will give your lover a run for his money."

I read this and promptly forwarded, and it disgustingly received for a while until it was finally noted that this was indeed an April Fools joke. I don't ever really think about much on April 1. I've never really seen the point of having a day devoted to pranks. I do remember that it's Katie's bday though. So I'm sure she appreciates that. Anyway, so while this did seem like quite possibly the last thing on earth I'd ever want to do with MY iPhone, there are some krazy kinks out there, I'm sure, and I figured, well they developed applications that enable you to create and light your own Zippo...and fill and empty an imaginary beer...so, why not?

In other news...I got stalked today in Oakland. I was walking with a friend to lunch, and this woman came up and told my friend to turn around. She proceeded with a profanity-laced message of which the exact wording I cannot quite recall, haranguing my friend for nearly running her over. Funny that we nearly ran this woman over and we didn't even notice. So we calmly apologized, and moved on. She was moving faster than us, so at a point we caught up with her paused on the sidewalk...it would seem, waiting for us. And then she followed closely behind us...for a good 3 blocks.

It was a little frightening, b/c who knows what crazies keep in their backpacks, and it IS Oakland, epicenter of violence. But it was also a little thrilling. I think we all know I like a bit of excitement. Anyway, we arrived at the restaurant, where we commenced filling out our sandwich ordering forms, and then, she was behind us, inside. We got to have a little confrontation after asking her why she was following us. She said it was b/c we were bitches and we almost ran her over. When I tried to respond she told me she wasn't talking to ME, so clearly I was just a lowly secondary target of her craziness. My friend disappeared to the counter, and she didn't follow, and then...she magically vanished. And so that was that. But I still got followed. And that's not your everyday Thursday lunch outing, friend!

Cake for Nancy

For the following account, we owe Rehana a note of gratitude for turning 29, for if it hadn't been her bday yesterday, then we wouldn't have taken her out for dinner, and we wouldn't have been at Jackson Fillmore restaurant for some classic Italian east on the eve of Sun March 29, graced by the presence of Nancy Pelosi.

From the beginning... Whilst waiting for our table, a rather large gentleman wearing a little wire doohickey running up his neck. Hearing aid? Or wire... A second gentleman, this one even larger, walked past, also wired... So at this point it was safe to conclude they were wires, indeed. I announced my sighting and we did a quick scan of the restaurant until we located Nancy Pelosi seated at a table in the back. A quick burst excitement by us until Katie joined us, who had her own burst of excitement (shock-er).

Dinner ended, and was naturally preceded by a chocolately confection topped w/ candles (of the twisted variety, which we don't actually recommend after three uses of them this past weekend, as they are given to 1) extreme leaning, and 2) heavy drippage). We ate our 6 slices (well one us ate 2 as I'm not a cake-eater, myself) and were left with a hefty chunk unfinished. I declared that it'd only be proper to offer Nancy a slice. The idea wasn't as quickly glommed onto as one might've thought, so I took the initiative, and when the waiter came to take our check, and nabbed him and informed him we wanted to send a slice of birthday goodness over to the guest of the hour.

His response was a squinted-eye "really??" followed by my wide-eyed "Yes!" followed by a squintier-eyed "Are you sure?" followed by an enthusiastic "definitely!" He returned with a plate, fork, and cutting knife. So much for accommodating service staff. So I sliced a slab myself, which was ensued by a moment of silence at the table, with gazes fixed dubiously on the cake slice. Rehana informed Katie that it was her job to do the deed. Katied asked why, but really, the response of "b/c you're the only one who will do it" was not a surprise to anyone. I wasn't going to leave her alone, mostly b/c I couldn't pass up the option of having the story to relay. We gently interrupted Nancy's conversation and explained that we wanted to offer her a slice of our friend's bday cake.

Her answer was at first speechlessness followed by a very rapid succession of facial expressions that moved from annoyance to disbelief to skepticism and finally to something that neared friendless, although "near" might be the operative word. Her friends giggled and she responded with the blatant lie that they had just eaten dessert. I bet you they totally didn't eat dessert. I am not really a dessert eater and I like to think I can spot other non-dessert eaters. She instead invited us to give the slice to the Secret Service gentleman seated behind her table. He accepted enthusiastically, but I wondered if before he dug in, he wondered if he was plunging to his death via chocolate turtle cake. Because that was what that was all about: a protectionary measure, right?

Funny to think that this could be your job... eating cake for your manager and whatnot.
Anyway, overall, I'm fairly certain we irritated Nancy at least a little bit, but the way I see it, we are her constituents, so she owes us, right? And at the end of the day, which is really more important: respecting your congress members? Or, finding good story material?

Practicing for Bigger Things

At dinner the other night, Katie F revealed that she has an extensive collection of books directed at a male audience, on the topic of how to effectively pursue women. She also revealed that she feared visiting friends might mistake her, then, for a lesbian... In actuality, she does not have this reading material so she can get some from her female friends, but rather for research purposes. At one point she had resolved to write a book from the female perspective re: the right way to date -- if you want to date women as charming, intelligent, successful, and of course, ravishing as are we. Friends, I've never claimed modesty as a trait.

Anyway, I naturally was interested in this concept and proposed we write said guide jointly. So, that I'm thinking I want to write this little book, I figure I need to practice my writing again...and now, here we are, merrily typing away.

Not that I have much in the way of scintillating material, esp. given that I spend the past two days on a "photo shoot" for work... We're updating our packaging and need photos of dips with their various accoutrements and splendid looking salads. So from 9 to 6:30, on both Wed and Thurs, I worked w/ a food styling and photography team to finalize 4 dips photos, 3 salad photos, and 1 product glamour shot.

I think to be honest they would've preferred me not to be there. I mostly crept around the studio, nibbling cheese and crackers, draining their bottles of Perrier, requesting crudites after their purpose in life was done, and generally wreaking havoc. Actually, I didn't really wreak any havoc. But I wanted to use that phrase b/c I thought it complemented the crudites munching. Oh, I was also the person in charge of saying "approved!" after each shot was finalized.

I like to think I did add some value. For instance, we almost had this crazy large glob of Ranch on the upper left corner of one of the salad-garnishing tomato slices. I requested they wipe it off. I also re-angled some bottles in the glamour shot, and instructed the stylist my preferred method of cutting the green onion for one of the dip garnishes. Of course, there is no way to validate this, but I'm **guessing** that these adjustments likely will lead to our volume being **about** 30% than it would've otherwise have been.

I also learned some things. Do you know what chervil is? Bet you don't. It's a lacy, delicate looking herb that tastes like anise and is typically used for garnish. Did you know that they often used mashed potatoes as a base materials for arranging other food items to keep them firmly in place and allow for beatific arranging? Yep, true! Did you know...that there are people on this earth who, for HOURS, EVERY DAY, painstakingly arrange various consumables into photograph-conducive arrangements? M indicated that there are very few jobs on earth that would prevent him from dating me -- and this job would be one of them. I guess he wasn't as curious about things like chervil and mashed potato use as me, even though he does love food...
Anyway, I supposed I've gained a sufficient amount of writing practice for the day. Plus, I've spread the art of food styling just a little bit broader. If that's not productive, I don't know what is!! Spread the word that I'm bogging again. And try to restrain your excitement...