Most may not know it to look at me, but I am an expert camper. Sure, I haven't been camping in... oh, about 12 years... but don't let that, my 2" sandals or my perfectly straightened hair fool you.
So when I was invited to go camping over 4th of July weekend on short notice, I only gave a moment's pause to remember if I had the basic requirements in my little apartment on hand: sleeping bag? Check. Matches? Check. Gas grill? Check. Flashlight? Check. Some formation of grubby clothes? Check. The ability to go a couple days without a shower? Wha? Uh. Really? Hmm. Well, OK. I was in.
But that night, like most other nights, when my head hit the pillow my brain turned on. Wouldn't it be great to have grilled marinated flank steak, little white potatoes and roasted tomatoes one night? And pankakes for breakfast! And don't forget to bring: cutting board, garbage bags, plates, aluminum foil, ziplock bags for marinating, a wine opener, a can opener, knives, a spatula, salt and pepper, olive oil, Jamaican jerk sauce, use the frozen chicken breasts as ice blocks in the cooler, bug repellent, anti-itch cream for when you completely forget about the bug repellent, spf 4, 8, 15 and 30 sunblock, a water bottle for the bike ride, gatorade, paper towels, nail file, bandaids, and above all else, don't forget to take The Pill, well, just because you're not supposed to skip a day.
So it is 6:17PM on the day we are leaving, and Super Camper here has been ready since 5. Although, I will admit that last night, when the head hit the pillow and the brain turned on, I was overwhelmed and embarassed by my narcissism when I realized that these people would probably be the first friends of mine (I am substracting family and ex's) to see the raw, un-made-up Gertie, probably since the last time I went camping (which was when I was in college and there wasn't much disparity between raw Gertie and made-up Gertie, an issue that was promptly corrected when I moved to France). It frightened me that I might frighten them. I got nervous about the fact that the way I sleep makes me have a bald spot when I wake up that a brush just cannot overcome, and the fact that my hair gets greasy after just one day of no shampoo, and how my blonde eyebrows all but disappear if I don't "enhance" them with chocolate brown powder. This list went on and on and then I told myself to shut-up; it's mostly girls anyway and who the hell gives a damn. Don't forget to bring a hat.
June 30, 2006
June 29, 2006
Dont' Mess With... er, San Francisco?
Because we we are trying to be beautiful over here. It's even funnier when one of my favorite local blogs writes about it. Because, well, they're funny over there.
June 28, 2006
I've Been Very Busy Gathering Evidence
It is generally easy to park in my new neighborhood, as far as "easy to park" is defined in San Francisco.
But sometimes, late at night, one has to settle for a less than perfect parking spot, like one where your bumpers are sneekily intruding upon the two different homeowners' driveways at either end and you think, "yeah, they can definitely still get out. It'll take some maneouvering, but I'm sure they're skilled enough...as long as there's not a Hummer in there." And then of course, the rule is to set your alarm for 6:30 am and run to move the car before some ass with a $3 Million dollar home calls the Department of Parking and Traffic because he can't get out to make more money.
There are other times, late at night, when you barely have to circle at all before yelling "sweeet!" and sliding the auto into a most excellent spot. Which was what happened on Sunday night. And I totally thought it was a sweet spot, until I got closer and saw the white envelope on my windshield Monday morning. Wha? WTF?! That's a totally legal spot! But aparantly, the DPT thinks it's a sweet spot too, sweet enough to garnish the trolling ticket prick with a $75 fine ticket to Yours Truly. And for what, for what? For parking a weensy bit into the white line of the world's widest crosswalk!
So if I've been a little remiss in posting, it's because I have been taking photos of Every Other Car that has parked there (sans ticket) since Monday morning. 18 in all. Take that you assholes. And give me my $75 back. I've got shoes to buy.
But sometimes, late at night, one has to settle for a less than perfect parking spot, like one where your bumpers are sneekily intruding upon the two different homeowners' driveways at either end and you think, "yeah, they can definitely still get out. It'll take some maneouvering, but I'm sure they're skilled enough...as long as there's not a Hummer in there." And then of course, the rule is to set your alarm for 6:30 am and run to move the car before some ass with a $3 Million dollar home calls the Department of Parking and Traffic because he can't get out to make more money.
There are other times, late at night, when you barely have to circle at all before yelling "sweeet!" and sliding the auto into a most excellent spot. Which was what happened on Sunday night. And I totally thought it was a sweet spot, until I got closer and saw the white envelope on my windshield Monday morning. Wha? WTF?! That's a totally legal spot! But aparantly, the DPT thinks it's a sweet spot too, sweet enough to garnish the trolling ticket prick with a $75 fine ticket to Yours Truly. And for what, for what? For parking a weensy bit into the white line of the world's widest crosswalk!
So if I've been a little remiss in posting, it's because I have been taking photos of Every Other Car that has parked there (sans ticket) since Monday morning. 18 in all. Take that you assholes. And give me my $75 back. I've got shoes to buy.
Another New York Tribute
I'll blatantly admit that I love "Sex and the City." The writing is awefully good, and even though I've probably seen many of the episodes multiple times, there are still a few lines that are just spot on perfect. For instance, this made me laugh out loud (again):
Steve: "What's wrong with cordoroy?"
Miranda: "'What's wrong with cordoroy?' I don't have enough time to answer that question."
Steve: "What's wrong with cordoroy?"
Miranda: "'What's wrong with cordoroy?' I don't have enough time to answer that question."
Barney's is Coming! Barney's is Coming
June 20, 2006
Why I Hate the Bus
Other than the fact that there is nary a schedule, that sometimes you Wait 3 minutes and other times 30 minutes for our lovely public transportation system, there are other fun things about riding the bus, like this:
Wednesday,
The incidents occurred aboard MUNI. Six suspects (described as 5-6 black male juveniles) got aboard the bus at Masonic and Oak Streets. One of the guys (black male 13-16 years, 5'6", with short blond twisties, wearing a white t-shirt, khaki pants, with a diamond stud in his right ear) was acting crazy and once on the bus let his pants drop to his ankles and attempted to sit on a woman's lap. When a man (53-year-old victim) attempted to intervene, the suspect and friends knocked him to the ground and hit him several times before jumping off the bus. The victim received minor injuries, the suspects were not located.
-from the monthly SF Park Station Crime Log Newsletter (yes, an email newsletter!)
June 11, 2006
I Closed The Lid But I Didn't Flush
So last night, I was out at a party. It was a nice party, where I got very well close to inebriated.
I realize now that often, when I look back at moments like last night, that the term "well close to inebriated" actually means "completely inebriated," point blank. But I digress.
And I digress again, by adding the fact that I was wearing my new White Pants (uh, yeah.... in 30 years, if their are archives of old blog posts admitting such things as "I wore White Pants" they will be just as bad those movies we currently watch of the '70's childhood videos of ourselves and parents - oy), for which, unbeknowenst to me, were the talk of the [ladies of the] party ( i.e., my ass looked hot in them, phew).
[Hey. Don't you love love love my excessive use of English grammatical stuff like this:;"[] ( )? I'm really good at it. Or bad. I can't tell anymore (should I have used a semicolon there)?]
OK, Back to The Story. Now that we've got my hot white-ass White Pants out of the way, I'll get to the point. I had a little epiphany last night about the ex-boyfriend. And that epiphany is just like the title: I closed the lid but I didn't flush.
It was me who called it off. And you know what? From the view over here, it seems that I am the only one who still smells the stink of it. I didn't flush. He oozes in somehow to every fucking day of my life. I miss him, I hate him, I empathize for him. Repeat. He flushed me the minute I gave the execution order. But here I am, still holding on to the relationship and cursing what it had and what it lacked everytime I think about it. Every day still. Granted, it's less and less everyday, but it is everyday nonetheless.
I've been telling myself to flush it for months. Months! I know this post is not really Gertie-style; I'm a pretty strong woman, after all. But often times the strongest of women are weak in the most unexpected ways. And to not be able to flush, just flush! this last relationship is a really surprising thing for me to realize I cannot accomplish.
Hrrmph. That F**ker. Sticks like glue. Off! Off!
I realize now that often, when I look back at moments like last night, that the term "well close to inebriated" actually means "completely inebriated," point blank. But I digress.
And I digress again, by adding the fact that I was wearing my new White Pants (uh, yeah.... in 30 years, if their are archives of old blog posts admitting such things as "I wore White Pants" they will be just as bad those movies we currently watch of the '70's childhood videos of ourselves and parents - oy), for which, unbeknowenst to me, were the talk of the [ladies of the] party ( i.e., my ass looked hot in them, phew).
[Hey. Don't you love love love my excessive use of English grammatical stuff like this:;"[] ( )? I'm really good at it. Or bad. I can't tell anymore (should I have used a semicolon there)?]
OK, Back to The Story. Now that we've got my hot white-ass White Pants out of the way, I'll get to the point. I had a little epiphany last night about the ex-boyfriend. And that epiphany is just like the title: I closed the lid but I didn't flush.
It was me who called it off. And you know what? From the view over here, it seems that I am the only one who still smells the stink of it. I didn't flush. He oozes in somehow to every fucking day of my life. I miss him, I hate him, I empathize for him. Repeat. He flushed me the minute I gave the execution order. But here I am, still holding on to the relationship and cursing what it had and what it lacked everytime I think about it. Every day still. Granted, it's less and less everyday, but it is everyday nonetheless.
I've been telling myself to flush it for months. Months! I know this post is not really Gertie-style; I'm a pretty strong woman, after all. But often times the strongest of women are weak in the most unexpected ways. And to not be able to flush, just flush! this last relationship is a really surprising thing for me to realize I cannot accomplish.
Hrrmph. That F**ker. Sticks like glue. Off! Off!
June 08, 2006
Shhh!
Psst! Gertie! Shhh!
Now is not the time to be going into your diatribes. Let the People rest.
Yes, I know you have plenty to say right now. Yes, the oddities and the common humanities you butt around ARE of importance... but - shhh! Shhh! shhhh... not right now. OK?
It's quiet time now. Shhh!
Enter Gertie: OK! I'm Shush-ing! Geez. But can I just say one more thing, before I go? The letter "n" on my computer is worn off. WTF?? OK. Thank you very much for allowing me to notify the world of that. Thank you for the time. I'm shush-ing! Geez. Goodnight.
Now is not the time to be going into your diatribes. Let the People rest.
Yes, I know you have plenty to say right now. Yes, the oddities and the common humanities you butt around ARE of importance... but - shhh! Shhh! shhhh... not right now. OK?
It's quiet time now. Shhh!
Enter Gertie: OK! I'm Shush-ing! Geez. But can I just say one more thing, before I go? The letter "n" on my computer is worn off. WTF?? OK. Thank you very much for allowing me to notify the world of that. Thank you for the time. I'm shush-ing! Geez. Goodnight.
June 07, 2006
Ghost of My Christmas Past: A Very Foul-Mouthed Tribute
I feel sick, People, I do. In a "stupid girl" sort of way:
At this very moment, someone who was quite precious to me for over a year (ok, ok, I'll call him a past boyfriend, but I'm trying not to get sappy here) is flying over the Atlantic Ocean to San Francisco. Again!
He was here to visit me over this past Christmas. And it was... well, pleasant... okay... quiet. December in San Francisco is a very quiet time. But! It was mellow and good, and he was sweet, gentlemanly, charming; he took care of business, and me; he held my hand in almost all the right public places, and altogether I thought things were moving along swimmingly. Over the Big Pond. Stupid girl.
Shortly after his return to his country, he dropped off the Western Hemisphere, and as much as I tried to rationalize in a very Dr. Phil-way, it was still tough. And! Just as my emotions, which went from relief to rage to compassion (actually I think they went in reverse order), were starting to subside altogether (just recently really; this friggin' MONTH for Chrissakes), I caught wind that he was coming to My City. This. Weekend. This weekend!!
Upon hearing this, the 3 guys I have been intermittently and very casually dating for the past several weeks disappeared into the shadows. The EX's encroaching arrival has pushed all others out of sensory perception. That [H]ucker.
The irony is, in my still "fragile" state, that he is damned if he does and damned if he don't. Call me, that is, while he's here. Because honestly, if he doesn't call me this weekend to let me know he's here, he's an ASSHOLE. And if he does call me while he's here this weekend, he's STILL AN ASSHOLE. Pardon my French.
I guess the good news is, that in my "cub reporter" kinda way, I know what most of his footsteps will be while he's here this weekend, so I can avoid him best a girl can. And I'm lucky enough to be having a windsurfing lesson (!) this Saturday (he'll be nowhere near there!), but man oh man: if you ever wanted to meet Gertie, this is THE weekend to do it - because she will look SUPER HOT every time she steps outsider her door. Sha-Boom! I see you there, shakin that ass, shakin that ass...
At this very moment, someone who was quite precious to me for over a year (ok, ok, I'll call him a past boyfriend, but I'm trying not to get sappy here) is flying over the Atlantic Ocean to San Francisco. Again!
He was here to visit me over this past Christmas. And it was... well, pleasant... okay... quiet. December in San Francisco is a very quiet time. But! It was mellow and good, and he was sweet, gentlemanly, charming; he took care of business, and me; he held my hand in almost all the right public places, and altogether I thought things were moving along swimmingly. Over the Big Pond. Stupid girl.
Shortly after his return to his country, he dropped off the Western Hemisphere, and as much as I tried to rationalize in a very Dr. Phil-way, it was still tough. And! Just as my emotions, which went from relief to rage to compassion (actually I think they went in reverse order), were starting to subside altogether (just recently really; this friggin' MONTH for Chrissakes), I caught wind that he was coming to My City. This. Weekend. This weekend!!
Upon hearing this, the 3 guys I have been intermittently and very casually dating for the past several weeks disappeared into the shadows. The EX's encroaching arrival has pushed all others out of sensory perception. That [H]ucker.
The irony is, in my still "fragile" state, that he is damned if he does and damned if he don't. Call me, that is, while he's here. Because honestly, if he doesn't call me this weekend to let me know he's here, he's an ASSHOLE. And if he does call me while he's here this weekend, he's STILL AN ASSHOLE. Pardon my French.
I guess the good news is, that in my "cub reporter" kinda way, I know what most of his footsteps will be while he's here this weekend, so I can avoid him best a girl can. And I'm lucky enough to be having a windsurfing lesson (!) this Saturday (he'll be nowhere near there!), but man oh man: if you ever wanted to meet Gertie, this is THE weekend to do it - because she will look SUPER HOT every time she steps outsider her door. Sha-Boom! I see you there, shakin that ass, shakin that ass...
A Six Degree Carey-Grey Connection!
Hey Y'all. Well! I thought that chick looked familiar! REALLY familiar. I'm talking about Addison from "Grey's Anatomy" (yes, we're in re-run stage now, so if you don't know what I'm talking about and are bored on a Sunday night, she'll visit you on ABC at 10PM). Where the hell have I seen her before? I've been racking my brain since her eyebrows and green eyes and smirks entered the show, stage left.
And here she is, right now! On an old re-run of "The Drew Carey Show." Here she is! Well, I cannot remember the character's name, but she is the chick that Drew married (or tried to marry but, I don't remember, she went off on some cruise and he was left on the dock, or something like that - I'm not the Biggest DC fan but so WTF) when she was fat, then they divorced (or broke up or something), and then she got thin and came back on the show and Drew married both her and Kate at the same time! (So Ohio, dude. And don't rape me for saying that.) Anyway, that's Dr. Addison McDreamy. Helluva ride, Honey, helluva a ride *up!*
And here she is, right now! On an old re-run of "The Drew Carey Show." Here she is! Well, I cannot remember the character's name, but she is the chick that Drew married (or tried to marry but, I don't remember, she went off on some cruise and he was left on the dock, or something like that - I'm not the Biggest DC fan but so WTF) when she was fat, then they divorced (or broke up or something), and then she got thin and came back on the show and Drew married both her and Kate at the same time! (So Ohio, dude. And don't rape me for saying that.) Anyway, that's Dr. Addison McDreamy. Helluva ride, Honey, helluva a ride *up!*
What are They Looking at?
I am pondering my Flickr site, because, well, what are people looking at? I only have slightly upwards of 400 photos on my site (sorry, you two, but linking it here would give me away), yet I have over 4300 hits to my photos.
No, I'm not a moron and I have reviewed my "Most Viewed" photos, but the numbers don't translate. My proposal? Well, something like Statcounter.com that gives you statistics on things. Things like entry page (for Flickr it could be the photo that drew the viewer in) and then where the person went from there. Hey, why am I all the sudden set to "center font?"
Whatever. All I am asking is, at approximately 100 hits per photo, and the photos telling me there are less than 100 hits per photo (with the exception of 3), what is everyone gawking at over there? Inquiring aspiring photographers want to know!
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