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.

Greetings from the 1-3-7

Totally writing from my new house. Sitting on the floor as we have no furniture. It's funny. B/c in LA I was sleeping on the couch b/c I had no bed. But at least we had a couch I could sit on when we watched tv. Here, I'm sleeping in a bed (Eliz's), b/c there is no couch to sleep on. Or a tv to watch. Or, tables to eat off of. So that's kind of conundrum-ish right? But I guess that tomorrow our furniture is arriving so this is allllllll about to change.

It's also conundrum-ish, I might add, that our movers are coming on the 4th of July. It's like the birthday of America. And yet, no break for those moving men. If I were them, I'd revolt. But then again, I revolt frequently, at least frequently enough to develop nemeses, that's plural for nemesis, but actually I don't really have multiple, just one, recently developed - I just wanted to use the plural form as it's kind of more fun in ways I can't explain. BTW, if you're reading this there's an estimated 25-30% chance that you've heard about this development of my, I'll say it one more time, nemesis. I'll spare rehashing the story for the 83rd time (yes, I'm pretty much telling everyone simply b/c I can and b/c I want to), I just pretty much wanted to sneak in the fact that I have a nemesis somewhere on this blog.

So my apt is pretty much amazing. It's rather empty and barren right now save for Eliz's room as she's lived here a couple weeks, but that's soon to change. It's huge, and it's beautiful, and it's on the cutest little street ever. I'm in love with it and can't wait to start decorating.

As for the ride up here, it blew. Nothing but hot, barren, creepy desert and mountains that reminded me of The Hills Have Eyes. I was waiting for my car to break down and for mutant things to come out and try to eat my face. Or something. Not really. It was the middle of the day, but what harm does a little drama do? Thanks to those who entertained me via the Cingular/AT&T network. It kept me alive. Literally. I have like a 5 hour tolerance for driving alone and then I start to fall asleep and I had to go over 6 hours.

It would've been right at six hours except I got lost when I got into the city. This city is a rotten
mess down in the Southeast area. The streets don't damn connect or go through and you can't make left turns when you need to or right turns when you need to and it's all damn hills. Huge hills. Huge frightening hills. Do you know what I had to do? Call some kid that is friends w/ Eliz that I don't know and have him navigate me via his GPS system. Wow. I have this sinking feeling that I'm liable to get lost at least 103 more times in the next several months alone, and kids, I have a two year lease so I'm locked into this city for at least that long.

Anyhoo...so that is that. I just had to write from new locale. And, for the record, haters, it's like so not cold here. This evening weather is just slightly below LA's evening weather, and it was marvelously sunny when I drove in this evening. So, HA! I win.

I'm just looking at my pictures and wondering if it gets any classier

BSchool wedding number three last night. I’d like to extend a warm welcome to Clif and Wai Mei for selecting such excellent timing for their wedding as it made for a most wonderful au revoir celebration for all. Of course, I’m sure that this was the number one criteria for selecting a wedding date.

I think there would be several other thank yous in order from our friends to the couple:

--Jen Y would like to say thanks for the cute little place card holder deals. She was fortunately able to collect all 12. Congratulations.

--Sauj would probably give a hearty thanks for the lottery ticket as she won either another lottery ticket, or $23. Either way she won, so it’s a good deal. Then she snuck out the back door to go do some stuff with some people some where.

--Nate says thanks for the wine. He chugged, in all, I’d estimate somewhere b/t 37 and 42 glasses.

--SV says thanks a lot too. Not at all sarcastically.

--Me, personally, I say thank you for the In and Out burgers served late night. There is nothing like spending a day at the beach in a new bikini after eating a steak in addition to 2 entire In and Outs.

I’d like to say that my favorite part of weddings is the beautiful union, or the fact that you get to chill for hours with your friends. Maybe the dancing. Perhaps the open bar. Unfortunately, I frequently side with the food. The ceremony last night, which overlooked the ocean and was virtually perfect, was awesome. But my thoughts were mostly focused on the post-ceremony, pre-dinner hour that is dominated by cocktail foods. After several rounds of the best hors d’oeuvres bypassed us (including the mini crab cakes and lobster tacos), we strategically positioned ourselves at the front of the stairs so the waiters would have to pass us first. This only backfired when the waiters began to bypass us. Not joking. They seriously carried the tuna tartars through the bushes to avoid the likes of us.

It was ok in the end. We turned to conversation as entertainment as Tracy enlightened us with tales of weddings where bathmats mark the altar and a lone buck of KFC supports the reception.

At the evening’s end a bunch of us had a big old fashioned sleepover party at Ritu’s apt. There was drawing on people’s faces and I believe some puking, which clearly demonstrates maturity. Stu and I were delighted when the slumber party ended around 7:30am with the arrival of Ritu’s movers. Darling, thank you for the heads up. Kidding. Anything that gets me off of my couch and into a bed works for me.

Unfortunately, I think that I’m on the couch once again tonight. It’s ok though, I’m at least going to bed really, really tan thanks to beach day w/ the Veeve in Malibu today, which is more than I can say I’ll be doing when I go to bed in an actual bed in SF as a pasty little hippie chick. Just kidding. I’ll never turn hippie.

Anyway, I love weddings!!!!

Clif and Wai Mei: congrats J

I HATE SLEEPING ON THE COUCH

I desperately miss my bed.

I'm staring at my couch in contempt right now. I'm exhausted and about to go to sleep on it. But I hate it. I really, really miss my bed.

And, I might add, I'm stuck on some form of couch until July 5th. I'm just putting it out there so you know. And I'm not saying that I'd sleep in just anyone's bed, but I'm kind of saying, that I'd sleep in most forms of bed. Just, you know, so you know. Ok then. Good night.

My apt. is sad :(

11:27am. Movers have been hear nearly 2 hours doing their thing. And they be done. Just took the last of it, my bed frame, down the stairs. So now I'm trying to figure out where I'll be sleeping. It's looking like I'm on our couch for like 5 nights which really sux and is bad for my neck and back.
So then, if you're reading this and you want to give up your bed for me, I'll take it.

And thus the countdown begins. I have several days of fun in the sun left here and then on Sunday afternoon I'm heading north. It promises to be a miserable drive, too, considering that I have a wedding here on Sat night and thus will likely be all hung-over and sleepy for my drive. I will also likely be in sappy-mode starting to miss LA and my friends so if you have a heart call me on Sunday and keep me entertained during my drive ok?

You know what's funny? You may have noticed that I totally sold out. I put ads on my blog. Don't hate. But the funny thing. I guess they kind of put up ads that are semi-relevant to your content right? The first day, the first ad that popped up was for steel cut oats, which as you may know I steel-cut-apart b/c I think they're totally stupid. So then naturally they're advertising their stuff on my blog. Oh, the irony.

So anyway, the movers just left. It's all dusty in here now. I think all the moving kicked dust up and stuff. Anyway. Just remember to let me know if you have a bed for me. I'm out.

Fun with numbers: my weekend in SDiego

I went down to SD just for the weekend to visit Liz, of delicious cookie fame, and as an added bonus Beebs was in town visiting her sister so Veeve and Freds drove up as well for one special Saturday night. Unrelated, Liz and I were discussing the James Frey novels yesterday, he’s that dude that got in trouble for exaggerating in his non-fiction works. Liz and I decided we could care less and in my opinion all he was doing was using a little hyperbole to spice things up and make a better story. B/c which gets more pity if I’m telling you how cold it is during a DC winter “Shit, it’s like 34 here!” Or: “Damn, it’s seriously negative one thousand degrees!” And which makes you hurry out to the curb faster when I’m coming to pick up you: me being 8 blocks away, or me being 1 block away? Right. You see now don’t you. Not that hyperbole has anything to do with SDiego. Anyway, so some numbers from the weekend:

10: Number of vodka rocks it would’ve taken me to get me to stay at Shout House, God-awful piano bar filled with smelly, overweight Red Sox fans for >20 minutes.

23ish: Number of men standing around the dance floor looking very creepy and not dancing at bar #2.

1: Number of certified pedophiles looking VERY creepy and not dancing at bar #2.

17: Number of times Veeve talked to herself about how fantastic it was to have her camera with her.

98: Number of pics Veeve took on Sat night.

2: Number of pics of Freds’ ass we have, after Fred mooned the Gaslamp District.

1: Number of times Freds lifted up my dress to expose my ass to the Gaslamp Distict.

13: Number of profanities that Freds’ lifting up my dress elicited from my mouth.

23: Number of times I tripped over said dress, my own dress.

2: Number of times a guy told me: “That’s a great dress. I’m NOT hitting on you. I just really like your dress.” Thanks for the honesty.

5: Number of girls we tried to fit into a rickshaw. Denied.

1 million: Number of times someone made fun of my voice in SDiego.

Only 1: Number of times Veeve got so mad at someone for making fun of my voice that she screamed at them about my nodules.

4: Number of disgusting jalepeno poppers I ate at the end of the evening.

65: Number of times Liz and I whined about missing Pizza Mart.

38: Number of times I said “what it is?” or “what it do?” I laughed every time. I’m still laughing. I’m laughing right now. What it do?

16: Number of numbers I did before I got bored of this game.

So then. I watched Goodfellas tonight. As Soprano’s is done and I needed some final Jason and Warren tv-watching time so that was our pick. On my way out we discussed what was going on this week. Pretty much nothing is going on. We discussed brunching one day. It must be later than 11 or so b/c that is about when I wake up these days but can’t start any later than noon b/c that would throw Warren off of his napping schedule.

That is pretty much pathetic.

Congratulations on Graduating...Again.

That's what the robe-people told a friend when she went to pick up her gown.

Anyway. Well there you have it. That is me there, in the MASTER'S robe. It's fancier than your avg Bachelor's robe. It has these wingy-style sleeves and stuff. Also got to wear a hood. That was neat I suppose. Want to know the history behind this photo? I apparently told Dick and Jane to wait for me in the audience section and that I'd come get them after the ceremony, but I forgot, I guess. So I headed up to the reception, held at my school, and went to drop off my robe b/c it sucked to wear. Then I waited for D&J to follow the huge mass of people to the reception. And I waited. Waited some more. Then I got a little nervous for them so I went back.

Jane was sitting shivering in her dress looking about to cry. Dick had run off to find me. He was up the Jaans (sp?) Steps with all the undergrads. Why the hell he went up there to find me, instead of following the entire MBA population, I have no idea. But I was in t-r-o-u-b-l-e. I had left Jane, she was almost in tears. I had removed my robe. Didn't I know they'd want a pic with me in my robe? Not a good scene. So eventually I found a kind classmate, who happens to be a 6 foot tall boy, and borrowed his costume, and dressed quickly for this lovely pic. And that, my dears, is the story of this pic.

The rest of the weekend, I served as a concierge, social director, and chauffeur. I feel bad saying it, but it was rather nice not having the little Greggy around. That trek out to south central really is unpleasant. We got to cut down our car time a bit w/out him around. Although the drive to my friend's parents' house in Encino, of Encino Man fame, kind of made up for that. BTW, I want to thank my friends for pointing out that they, too, are unable to hear me on the phone as I talk too quickly, and that I have no sense of direction and am prone to getting lost. You guys are really great friends. I'll be sure to hype up your faults to your parents next time we're all together.

I do have to say, I picked great restaurants for the weekend. Melisse and Cobra's both went over tremendously well. I have a question: when I'm really enjoying food, do I kind of make an orgasmic face where my eyes are half closed and almost roll back a bit? B/c I think my mom does. And it really concerned me. B/c we're related, you know, and you can pick up tendencies. Sort of reminds me about that time I emailed the FEMBA listserv about food v. sex. Anyway.

Now it's Monday. I woke up at 10, well really I woke up at 9 but as I had nothing to do, really, I stayed in bed another hour. I then looked through approximately 8 years of photos as I decided which albums will be moving to SF with me and which are headed home to Indy. I currently have accumulated 5 bags of clothing headed for Goodwill, and I have stack of shoes and bags covering my floor that will go as well. My calendar is empty save for the evenings which are blocked off for various dinners.

Well then, I'm off to run errands. I actually do need to start packing this place up :( If anyone has seen my past two years, please let them know I said hello, and that I wonder where they went so fast.

Never before have I needed 2 solid days of recovery.

So I got back from Vegas on what, Monday? Yes, Monday. And it’s now Thursday. And I think it’s safe to say that I am at last recovered. This past weekend was what we fondly refer to as Dis-O, where all the second years gather in Vegas to consume vast quantities of tasty drinks, gamble away the government loan money we still have remaining, shake our asses all over each other, and generally enjoy the desert sun. Since a weekend is a long time I’ll do this highlight style. So keep in mind that these highlights are purely my own and you may find them highlight-like at all. If you don’t like them I invite you to create and post your own set of highlights. Or just get over yourself.

Highlight #1 (O reveals disgusting information): Sat night was spent dining at Fix and then dancing at Caramel and Light at the Bellag in honor of XTina’s bach party + the fact that I met Sauj’s MIT friends who are pretty much awesome. I don’t know who is adopting who, but someone is adopting someone. Anyway. So at dinner a certain section mate’s sig-o sat beside me. Champagne apparently makes her talk about how great her honey’s ass is. She also discussed other assets. Use your imagination. I think I barely avoided throwing up in my mouth. I will never, ever let her drink champagne in my presence again.

Highlight #2 (worst pick-up line ever): Don’t ever say this to a girl: “I mean, not that we’re going to have sex, but, if we did have sex, I have this feeling that it’s pretty much amazing. I’m talking, you’d be moaning and screaming.” Wow, please, take me home. That was so classy. That’s what I love most about Vegas.

Highlight #3 (I think I’m over strip clubs): Around 1:30 we were danced out and headed to the Crazy Horse II, which, no lies here, I’ve enjoyed before. There was actually much discussion in Vegas about how most women actually prefer to watch female strippers over male strippers. I guess it’s b/c men’s bodies can be hot but aren’t all that theoretically sexy to begin with and then when you put them in gross little man thongs and make them gyrate in ways that are essentially feminine they really aren’t sexy. Thank you Fins for enlightening me with this theory. I finally have a plausible explanation. At any rate, so I’m at the Crazy Horse. And I think it’s when I’m in the bathroom watching a gross stripper have a heart to heart with the gross bathroom attendant, or maybe when I see the worst boob job ever up on stage at one point, or maybe when I see what some me will welcome into their faces by women who smell mostly like Victoria’s Secret Sparkling Pear with a touch o’ vag that I realized that stripping is not all that I’d cracked it up to be. Time to give up on that career. Good thing I have something with bleach lined up. So anyway, we were about to leave when Sauj was dragged (and when I say dragged I mean literally, Brle) back in, and being nice, didn’t want to leave her, so followed. I ordered a RedBullV and lazily watched the boobies, and it hit me how badly I didn’t want to be there. According to Jason I turned incredibly cunty at that point and went home. And hence the epiphany: I guess I’m over strip clubs.

Highlight #4 (I recover from the SC through food): I arrived home shortly after 3. Last McDonald’s call at the Monte Carlo: 3. And I’m minutes late. I let them announce at least 10 times that they are C-L-O-S-E-D and then literally threw myself onto the counter and begged for food. Them: “Umm, again, we’re CLOSED.” Me: “No, oh no, you don’t understand. I think I might die tomorrow if you don’t give me food and it will be mostly your fault. Seriously I’m going to vomit everywhere if you don’t give me…those fries, those ones right there. And a sandwich?” Them: “We have one burger.” Me: “Yes, ok, great, one burger. And the fries.” [which are size massive super fat thighs large] I have a credit card.” Them: “WHAT? Credit card machine is closed.” Me: “I have $2.” Them: “No, you have $3.” Me: “I have $3.” Them: “Your food is $3. Miraculous. Goodbye.” The fries were gone within less than 3 min is my guess. Meliss was about to ask for some when I returned to the room but she was too late. I was one hungry lady.

Highlight #5 (ReHab in its entirety): I think we had 2 or 3 alarms set for the morning so we could wake up and grab chairs at ReHab. Someone new got angry every time a new alarm went off. I was trying to be the motivator. We rolled into Rehab by 10:30ish. Not a chair in sight. Shoulda listened, bitches. So I don’t know how to describe Rehab, but I think I have found my latest obsession.

If I lived the jet-set life, and I’m totally open to finding a rich husband who would allow me and encourage me to do so, then I totally would, then I would do Rehab like every single Sunday. It’s hot, it’s sunny, it’s a massive pool, and you get to dance in the pool with your drink in hand. I kissed a gay boy who’s incredibly hot and I won’t put his name on here but you might be able to guess if you use your best ESP powers, and I also danced in my swimsuit up on a pole. This was all caught on video which at the time I was very entertained by so I hammed it up. Now in retrospect I guess that will kill my political career. Which is ok, b/c you know, I have no political career, nor do I want one. Roberto was highly entertaining.

If I ever have to see him wearing that damn t-shirt again I might kill myself. Confirmations of fake breasts within the Ander community were made. Check. And Mark: I’m so glad to see that the water does not prevent you from twirling your dancing partners with wild abandon. You are most lucky that I didn’t puke club sandwich up all over you. Speaking of club sandwiches, so at one point I braked for lunch and upon returning was ridiculously cold. I guess I was having some sort of withdrawl from LIT’s. So I’m like “Aly! Let’s find a hot tub!” we find one and she’s all, “I really don’t think you want to go in that.” And I’m all, “yes, I totally do.” And she tells me, “No, Lindy, I really don’t think you do. There are definitely people having sex in that hot tub, right now, in front of us.” And you know what? She was right. So that about sums up Rehab.

Highlight #6 (Bouchon): Speaks for itself. Oysters and steak frites. Life does not get better.

Highlight #7 (Alexandra): I never know you could dance like that. Well done.

Highlight #8 (Mikey): Hey, there, friend. Are you sure you’re into dudes? B/c that attempted hand up skirts? And that dancing? Potentially says otherwise.

Highlight #9 (mystery escort): Some dude approached me on the dance floor. He knew my name. Asked me to come with me. Said he had to “take me to someone. Someone I’d left behind.” Took me up to the VIP area. The mystery guest was Kim, who I from this point onward will refer to as Captain Subtle, given that she is not subtle whatsoever, and my escort was her friend Dick, even though she prefers to call him David. Captain Subtle: I appreciate you interrupting my innocent makeout session not once (when you crammed a drink into my hand), but twice (when you screamed at me from 20 feet down the hall). I do heart you, you little twit.

Highlight #10 (insert stuff here): Aly, I love you. I am forever indebted to you for putting up with my shenanigans. Stan: go f’ yourself for not wanting to endure a lunch and hearing about “Lindy’s weekend in Vegas.”

Highlight #11 (glorious food): Pizza, poolside, at “Relax,” the Monday-sister of Rehab. Does a body good. Actually does parts of the body good. Some bad. Who cares. Oh. For the record. Hard Rock: when you say “relax,” I’m thinking quiet music played at a reasonable volume. Apparently you don’t. I guess you think that house played at a ridiculously gross volume is relaxing. I think more people agree with me than you, just you know, an FYO.

Highlight #12. No. Lowlight #12 (terrible food): J – I think the milkshake idea was yours. I blame you for my awful, dreadful stomach ache and take no personal account for my own actions.

Wow, well, I guess I’m all out of highlights. I’d really like one more b/c I prefer odd numbers to even numbers and thus hate ending on 12, but you can’t force it. Plus, I guess that 13 is an unlucky number so maybe I’m lucky after all. I am considering combining or losing a highlight to have 11, but that really isn’t happening. So then, I have spent the afternoon with my parents at the Design Center out on Melrose looking at fabrics and rugs and really that took a lot out of me. Even the Pinkberry I had can’t fix the damage done there. So I think I need an hour of rest before I return to their hotel to pick them out. So, don’t be cunty (except for you Jason b/c we all know it’s unavoidable for you), wish me a happy graduation, and the end.