Well, I don't have any great stories to relate but I know there are a few of you out there that like to check in and see what's going on.
On the New Business front, things are beginning to move. I am closing in on one year in New Business and the excitement of the first deal has waned, since the first deal has yet to appear. But things are happening here, we're closing in, and crossing fingers and praying and begging that the first deal will be in the super near future.
In other news I am published, however in no big way. I am a new member of my SF neighborhood's community advocate group, which puts out a bi-monthly newsletter to the 'hood about the 'hood (also good for New Business!), and I offered to write an article on the newest kid on the block: a surf shop. The newsletter came out today, and there I was!
Big City Name: also in the newsletter it showed the minutes from last month's Board meeting, which I attended. The minutes pleasantly announced I was invited to join the Board! So you may just be reading words from the newest member of the Cole Valley Improvement Association. My first task will be to get us classified as a 501(c)3 organization, so we can accept donations. Hoo-ha! I love researching that kind of shit. Look out, San Francisco, I'm getting active.
Speaking of active, I've been kicking up my half-marathon training. Not adding more days, which is probably hurting me, but making the 2 runs each week further, faster, longer. Ran 6.5 on Sunday and a fast 5 today, with 8 planned for Saturday. I'll take the 8 pretty slow, since it will be my longest run ever.
The count down is on for the vacation, which is more of the reason hard-ass running than the half marathon. To be honest, I know I won't transform in the next 3 weeks into Carmen Electra, but a girl can try. Next week I will start doing full-on body prep to doll myself up and make the vacation easier to handle, such as tanning sessions to prevent burning and scaring the rest of the vacationers who might think I am a Finnish albino. Also on the calendar is the all important bikini wax, cleaning up the haircut, a mani-pedi and scouring all the surf shops in SF for the Best Bikini Ever (for which no expense will be spared).
As the vacation was not my choice, but rather a wedding invitation I was happy to accept, I am also in charge of procuring the garter for the bride. In case you were wondering, if you ever attempt to find a garter in Australia, you will find, as this bride has, that they are all frilly and blue. Frilly and blue happens to be absolutely unacceptable, so I am on task.
I know this is not the most amusing post I've ever written. But whatever. Thought you might like to know what's up.
August 02, 2005
July 30, 2005
Gotta Be Kidding
You all may think I like to bitch a lot. But I just have to say, how hard is it to view an ENTIRE SF transit map???
I noticed this yesterday when I was walking in a heavily trafficked tourist area. There are these lovely parisienne style kiosks on the streets that offer post transit maps. But only for part of the City. I wondered when I walked by one of these kiosks, what a difficulty it would be if a visitor to have flown into SFO, taken the Bart to downtown San Francisco, and then had to find which bus(es) would take said visitor to his uncle's house in say, the St. Francis Wood neighborhood. Because St. Francis Wood is not on the map portion available at the kiosk.
Now here I am online wanting simply to see if the bus line I think goes from my house to my destination actually stops where I think it does. I have gone to the transit website and, of course, same portional maps, and a laborious "trip planner" that, after punching all my data in, still doesn't give me what I want.
Might I remind the transit powers that be, that this city is only 7x7. In my head I imagine there are only about 10 bus lines (ok there may be many more, but they are the only ones I notice). Can't we make a goddamn map that includes them all? Again, I urge you f*ckers to look at other cities that actually know how to provide information to transit riders. The maps in Paris work just fine, thank you, as well at of course NYC. Come on.
It's 3:37, wrote this post at 2:51. I just found a complete sf transit map online.
I noticed this yesterday when I was walking in a heavily trafficked tourist area. There are these lovely parisienne style kiosks on the streets that offer post transit maps. But only for part of the City. I wondered when I walked by one of these kiosks, what a difficulty it would be if a visitor to have flown into SFO, taken the Bart to downtown San Francisco, and then had to find which bus(es) would take said visitor to his uncle's house in say, the St. Francis Wood neighborhood. Because St. Francis Wood is not on the map portion available at the kiosk.
Now here I am online wanting simply to see if the bus line I think goes from my house to my destination actually stops where I think it does. I have gone to the transit website and, of course, same portional maps, and a laborious "trip planner" that, after punching all my data in, still doesn't give me what I want.
Might I remind the transit powers that be, that this city is only 7x7. In my head I imagine there are only about 10 bus lines (ok there may be many more, but they are the only ones I notice). Can't we make a goddamn map that includes them all? Again, I urge you f*ckers to look at other cities that actually know how to provide information to transit riders. The maps in Paris work just fine, thank you, as well at of course NYC. Come on.
It's 3:37, wrote this post at 2:51. I just found a complete sf transit map online.
Fire! Fire!
There's nothing like being invited to a July bonfire at one of San Francisco's beaches. Upon invitation, one immediately pulls out the essential sub-zero clothing kept in the back of the closet for those chilly early spring camping trips, or, in more rare cases, for beach bonfires during SF's summer. Yes, yes, I too contemplate why on earth people want to live here as well as why the hell the median home price is $678,000.
Preparation for such an event requires thorough planning. Flip flops are not an option unless you are interested in frostbite. Jeans are mandatory, as are several upper body layers. But tonight had a sense of unusual in the air, so the layering was done one at a time; each added layer took a test drive on the fire escape to ensure the perfect balance between not too cold and not burning up. Final compilation included a long sleeved tee, a full crew mid-weight sweater with an additional v-neck mid-weight sweater over that (oh how fashionable). Topping it off was a vest and knit hat option tucked away in the shoulder bag.
It is magical to land on the almost-boardwalk and see the tide under the haze of fog and 20 orange sparsely glowing fires. And the fun part about beach bonfires is finding which one of the 20 out there belongs to your tribe. Given a beach point-of-entry clue eliminates the guesswork down to about 8 fires. Trudging through the sand on your sea air high, you pass each group and assess vocal and body language. Not mine. Not mine. Not mine but looks fun. Not mine thank God. Is that Jeremy's voice? Yes, that's definitely Jeremy. Here we are.
The 7th fire was ours, and after greeting the few of 23 people we were familiar with, we set down a blanket and got busy with mixing drinks. We were on notice that alcohol has been recently banned from the beach at night, and that the police were patrolling in offroad mini-jeeps for violators. Therefore, our final drink choice was coffee and Kahlua - hard to detect, and we thought it might take the expected chill off.
The weather was actually mild. One could even say it was pleasant. I never added the vest or the cap. The wind was low, the fog was thin, and the fire was HUGE. We even had a fire dancer (thanks, Burning Man)!
There is nothing like the smell of yummie campfire good. Personally, I think it's one of the best unisex scents available. Better than CKOne, which is rather plain in comparison. Anyway, we were the last ones left at our fire, I didn't want to leave, but the rest of my gang was ragged from the week and so we kicked sand on the last embers and I arrived home at about 2:30. I had only intended to stay until midnite, but it was so good, so damn good.
Preparation for such an event requires thorough planning. Flip flops are not an option unless you are interested in frostbite. Jeans are mandatory, as are several upper body layers. But tonight had a sense of unusual in the air, so the layering was done one at a time; each added layer took a test drive on the fire escape to ensure the perfect balance between not too cold and not burning up. Final compilation included a long sleeved tee, a full crew mid-weight sweater with an additional v-neck mid-weight sweater over that (oh how fashionable). Topping it off was a vest and knit hat option tucked away in the shoulder bag.
It is magical to land on the almost-boardwalk and see the tide under the haze of fog and 20 orange sparsely glowing fires. And the fun part about beach bonfires is finding which one of the 20 out there belongs to your tribe. Given a beach point-of-entry clue eliminates the guesswork down to about 8 fires. Trudging through the sand on your sea air high, you pass each group and assess vocal and body language. Not mine. Not mine. Not mine but looks fun. Not mine thank God. Is that Jeremy's voice? Yes, that's definitely Jeremy. Here we are.
The 7th fire was ours, and after greeting the few of 23 people we were familiar with, we set down a blanket and got busy with mixing drinks. We were on notice that alcohol has been recently banned from the beach at night, and that the police were patrolling in offroad mini-jeeps for violators. Therefore, our final drink choice was coffee and Kahlua - hard to detect, and we thought it might take the expected chill off.
The weather was actually mild. One could even say it was pleasant. I never added the vest or the cap. The wind was low, the fog was thin, and the fire was HUGE. We even had a fire dancer (thanks, Burning Man)!
There is nothing like the smell of yummie campfire good. Personally, I think it's one of the best unisex scents available. Better than CKOne, which is rather plain in comparison. Anyway, we were the last ones left at our fire, I didn't want to leave, but the rest of my gang was ragged from the week and so we kicked sand on the last embers and I arrived home at about 2:30. I had only intended to stay until midnite, but it was so good, so damn good.
July 23, 2005
Mind Over Body
I know this is not a "half marathon training journal," but sometimes the whole mind/body thing is all I can think about (but wait there's more! A glorious summer day and thoughts about a lady on the bus below!)
So you already know the training is doublely beneficial as I have the holiday I need to get in shape for, too, which happens before the actual half-marathon. As I mentioned in the last post I only have 4 weeks till the holiday and the body is not ready. Thus this week I ran a lot more than usual , and added abdominal and upper body workouts. No problem in my head, big BIG problem in my body.
My body quite simply doesn't want to do as much work as my head tells it to do. For example, I ran 4 hills today in 50 minutes (in non-runners terms, a torture run), after running 3 miles yesterday and 4 the day before. Both those days I also did ab and upper body work, and today my body was very upset. Especially because I am still eating like crap (note to new runners: Cheez-its have no nutritional value). Oh, it let me finish the 4 hills alright. But did it hate walking heavy bags up one flight of stairs? Yes. Did it make walking in the sand today more laborious than normal? Yes. Did it like that I drank a few beers in the evening? Absolutely not. Did it then like that I walked 8 blocks to my friend's house, uphill? Hell no. Grumpy body. Now I am back home, it's 11pm, and I'd really like to do some upper body strengthening, but I feel faint.
Here's the incredible thing though, and you really forget about this whether you try to stay in shape all the time or just getting in shape once in a while. The body is an amazing thing. It will do almost whatever you ask whenever you ask it, and make up for the expenditure of energy later. Also, I've noticed changes in my body already, which is wild because I've really only been working out a week. But my Seven jeans just keep looking better and better. The only downside to my working out more is that my back fucking breaks out, no matter how well I scrub post workout. But you have to make a choice I guess - gee, do I want to have a white-ass jello tummy or look sleek what for a few bumps near my sports bra line?
On another note, you wouldn't believe what we had today. We had an actual summer day! In San Francisco! In July! I noticed it was warm during the 8 am hill run, but blamed it on my bad circulation and being out of shape. But when I got home there was a distinctly different feel to the air... it was WARM. Called a few friends right away and shouted "It's Beach Weather! It's Beach Weather!" 45 min later I was being picked up by N.C. and off we went to the beach.
What a glorious day. I mean, seriously, we don't get days like this in July. Which is why I was the whitest thing on the beach (how the others got so tan, I don't know). It was a nice 2 hours on the beach, just enough time not to get burned. On the way home I said to N. C.: "N, you know what kind of day today is?"
N: What kind?
Me: It's a Finnegan's Wake kind of day.
N: Well, after my therapy session today, yes, it will very much seem like a Finnegan's Wake kind of day
So later on when N.C. was done sorting some issues, we headed over to one of the few bars in San Francisco with an outdoor patio, complete with highly competitive ping-pong. Got a few beers and headed to the tables outside. Still sunny but the wind was coming in, and I called Mr. Barbados to see if he was in the hood to join us. Turns out he was at the OTHER outdoor bar, Zeitgeist, which we were planning on hitting afterward anyway.
At Zeitgeist I saw Mr. Barbados on his way out and we nabbed his precious seats outside. Hung out with an unsually social table and before I knew it it was 9pm. Still warm. In fact, in my 8 block walk the friend's house, I must have stripped half my clothing off (again, could have been that I was still exhausted from the running even after 12 hours. Seriously.). Brief visit to friend's house before almost tripping over a curb on my way home, right in front of a loaded passing bus. That's just me. Body takes over and decides it's time for a spectical, despite my mind's cluelessness to the upcoming event.
My bus finally came and I was all about checking people out. Gay guy. Gay guy. Gay couple. Lesbos. Mexican immigrant and obnoxious 6 year old daughter. Then. Someone that made me contemplate things. A woman, mid 50's. Obviously intelligent, could see her wheels cranking inside the forehead. Very proper. Very pert. Very extavagant rings on her fingers, but none of them telling she was married. A single lady mid-50's. Why's she single? She's nice looking. She's fit. Divorced? She more had the look of never married. Never married! Mid-50's! You know, as a 30 something single gal who knows 40 something single gals, we like to "be happy" with our singledom. Not that it's better or worse than being married, but simply we're OK with the way our life plan has evolved. But when I looked at this lady, I was kind of sad for her. I would think that if I am mid-50's and single, it would not be near as fun as being 30 something and single. I mean, I know I'm in a different place than my used-to-be-single-now-married-with-first-child girlfriends, but we can still relate on this and that. What about when we're mid-50's? And I'm the spinster! That would suck, quite frankly.
Anyway, in rounding up the theme for this evening, my body is now telling my mind to stop the damn typing and hit the well-deserved proverbial hay.
So you already know the training is doublely beneficial as I have the holiday I need to get in shape for, too, which happens before the actual half-marathon. As I mentioned in the last post I only have 4 weeks till the holiday and the body is not ready. Thus this week I ran a lot more than usual , and added abdominal and upper body workouts. No problem in my head, big BIG problem in my body.
My body quite simply doesn't want to do as much work as my head tells it to do. For example, I ran 4 hills today in 50 minutes (in non-runners terms, a torture run), after running 3 miles yesterday and 4 the day before. Both those days I also did ab and upper body work, and today my body was very upset. Especially because I am still eating like crap (note to new runners: Cheez-its have no nutritional value). Oh, it let me finish the 4 hills alright. But did it hate walking heavy bags up one flight of stairs? Yes. Did it make walking in the sand today more laborious than normal? Yes. Did it like that I drank a few beers in the evening? Absolutely not. Did it then like that I walked 8 blocks to my friend's house, uphill? Hell no. Grumpy body. Now I am back home, it's 11pm, and I'd really like to do some upper body strengthening, but I feel faint.
Here's the incredible thing though, and you really forget about this whether you try to stay in shape all the time or just getting in shape once in a while. The body is an amazing thing. It will do almost whatever you ask whenever you ask it, and make up for the expenditure of energy later. Also, I've noticed changes in my body already, which is wild because I've really only been working out a week. But my Seven jeans just keep looking better and better. The only downside to my working out more is that my back fucking breaks out, no matter how well I scrub post workout. But you have to make a choice I guess - gee, do I want to have a white-ass jello tummy or look sleek what for a few bumps near my sports bra line?
On another note, you wouldn't believe what we had today. We had an actual summer day! In San Francisco! In July! I noticed it was warm during the 8 am hill run, but blamed it on my bad circulation and being out of shape. But when I got home there was a distinctly different feel to the air... it was WARM. Called a few friends right away and shouted "It's Beach Weather! It's Beach Weather!" 45 min later I was being picked up by N.C. and off we went to the beach.
What a glorious day. I mean, seriously, we don't get days like this in July. Which is why I was the whitest thing on the beach (how the others got so tan, I don't know). It was a nice 2 hours on the beach, just enough time not to get burned. On the way home I said to N. C.: "N, you know what kind of day today is?"
N: What kind?
Me: It's a Finnegan's Wake kind of day.
N: Well, after my therapy session today, yes, it will very much seem like a Finnegan's Wake kind of day
So later on when N.C. was done sorting some issues, we headed over to one of the few bars in San Francisco with an outdoor patio, complete with highly competitive ping-pong. Got a few beers and headed to the tables outside. Still sunny but the wind was coming in, and I called Mr. Barbados to see if he was in the hood to join us. Turns out he was at the OTHER outdoor bar, Zeitgeist, which we were planning on hitting afterward anyway.
At Zeitgeist I saw Mr. Barbados on his way out and we nabbed his precious seats outside. Hung out with an unsually social table and before I knew it it was 9pm. Still warm. In fact, in my 8 block walk the friend's house, I must have stripped half my clothing off (again, could have been that I was still exhausted from the running even after 12 hours. Seriously.). Brief visit to friend's house before almost tripping over a curb on my way home, right in front of a loaded passing bus. That's just me. Body takes over and decides it's time for a spectical, despite my mind's cluelessness to the upcoming event.
My bus finally came and I was all about checking people out. Gay guy. Gay guy. Gay couple. Lesbos. Mexican immigrant and obnoxious 6 year old daughter. Then. Someone that made me contemplate things. A woman, mid 50's. Obviously intelligent, could see her wheels cranking inside the forehead. Very proper. Very pert. Very extavagant rings on her fingers, but none of them telling she was married. A single lady mid-50's. Why's she single? She's nice looking. She's fit. Divorced? She more had the look of never married. Never married! Mid-50's! You know, as a 30 something single gal who knows 40 something single gals, we like to "be happy" with our singledom. Not that it's better or worse than being married, but simply we're OK with the way our life plan has evolved. But when I looked at this lady, I was kind of sad for her. I would think that if I am mid-50's and single, it would not be near as fun as being 30 something and single. I mean, I know I'm in a different place than my used-to-be-single-now-married-with-first-child girlfriends, but we can still relate on this and that. What about when we're mid-50's? And I'm the spinster! That would suck, quite frankly.
Anyway, in rounding up the theme for this evening, my body is now telling my mind to stop the damn typing and hit the well-deserved proverbial hay.
July 21, 2005
Vacation Countdown
Holy shit holy shit holy shit. I just realized the holiday is exactly 4 weeks away. My bikini body is far from visible. It is time to Turn. It. On. Hardcore. (Closing eyes) I am Carmen Electra. I am Carmen Electra. I am Carmen Electra... I am Car... Doh. That didn't work. Guess I'll be doing leg lifts while reading tonight. Gotta make it to a nice, firm 6. Come on 6!
July 15, 2005
Just Like New Sneakers
You know when you buy those new tennis shoes? They are so white. Even though you are not looking at your feet, when you are walking in them you still notice the flish-flash of their whiteness as you trudge forth.
That is kind of how I felt today, wearing my new Body By Victoria bra. I must have been wearing really bad bras lately, because all of the sudden my boobs are Va-Va-Voom. No joke. Just like with new tennies, even if I'm not looking at my cleavage, the girls are now very obvious in the bottom of my visual frame.
And yes, I think you can consider this a plug for Victoria's Secret.
That is kind of how I felt today, wearing my new Body By Victoria bra. I must have been wearing really bad bras lately, because all of the sudden my boobs are Va-Va-Voom. No joke. Just like with new tennies, even if I'm not looking at my cleavage, the girls are now very obvious in the bottom of my visual frame.
And yes, I think you can consider this a plug for Victoria's Secret.
July 12, 2005
Ha Ha Ha! Memory Lane
K.O.! I was just looking through Craigslist because I need some additional income to supplement the oh-so-many-times-afore-mentioned-new-business, and I had a funny memory.
Remember working at the Banana Republic flagship store? Can you remember that? Ha ha ha! I think we each made somewhere between $8 and $12 an hour. Ha ha ha! $12 bucks an hour! How absolutely ridiculous that is for the cost of living in SF. Folding sweaters. And then you turn around and some B*tch making way more than that had mussed up the work. The reason it came back to me is that, cruising Criagslist, I was excited to see an ad for sales associates for Zara. Not because I want to be a sales associate for Zara, but for the fact that Zara is coming (and apparantly very soon if they are seeking sales associates).
Zara is coming! Zara is coming! I love Zara. I love the concept of Zara. I wish I could live at Zara. Oh boy. I still dream fondly of my Zara purse I bought in Paris, after I moved up from the BR flagship to the Big Gap Inc and had started receiving a Salary and Vacation Time. Hell, they even gave us PTO and clothing discounts. Remember those coporate days? Well, yes, we'd like to keep them forgotten, Excel spreadsheet days, Spring '00 Walk-through days, and the out-too-late-have-to-take-cab-to-be-at-work-by-8:30 days especially, but I have to say at this point I almost feel like the living was easy back then.
Anyway, I don't really know the point here, because that purse was super-nice and it distracted me to remember how cool it was (RIP), but I think it had to do with Holiday 1997! The Front Lines! Unbelievable hours! All this for $12/hour! Good times. Good times.
Remember working at the Banana Republic flagship store? Can you remember that? Ha ha ha! I think we each made somewhere between $8 and $12 an hour. Ha ha ha! $12 bucks an hour! How absolutely ridiculous that is for the cost of living in SF. Folding sweaters. And then you turn around and some B*tch making way more than that had mussed up the work. The reason it came back to me is that, cruising Criagslist, I was excited to see an ad for sales associates for Zara. Not because I want to be a sales associate for Zara, but for the fact that Zara is coming (and apparantly very soon if they are seeking sales associates).
Zara is coming! Zara is coming! I love Zara. I love the concept of Zara. I wish I could live at Zara. Oh boy. I still dream fondly of my Zara purse I bought in Paris, after I moved up from the BR flagship to the Big Gap Inc and had started receiving a Salary and Vacation Time. Hell, they even gave us PTO and clothing discounts. Remember those coporate days? Well, yes, we'd like to keep them forgotten, Excel spreadsheet days, Spring '00 Walk-through days, and the out-too-late-have-to-take-cab-to-be-at-work-by-8:30 days especially, but I have to say at this point I almost feel like the living was easy back then.
Anyway, I don't really know the point here, because that purse was super-nice and it distracted me to remember how cool it was (RIP), but I think it had to do with Holiday 1997! The Front Lines! Unbelievable hours! All this for $12/hour! Good times. Good times.
July 06, 2005
Gary Busey Goes Downhill
OK. Really. Truly. I'm not much of a Celeb follower (forget my Trista, America's Top Model, etc comments...). And most people don't consider Gary Busey as an "Of-The-Moment" Celeb. But for some reason, he was on some ABC late night show - what's his name - er, funny goofy guy... Greg Kinnear? No. I mean - Craig Kil...Hell NO!... this guy's not that Hot... I mean Jimmy Kimmel Live! Yeah! That Guy!
OK. Again. Really. Truly. Am I the only one that sees that GB is a little, well, off? I mean, the guys is N-U-T-S, far out, out of time, off sync, etc, etc. So he lost a little weight (due, apparantly, to the "weight challenge")... but doesn't he look a little obscurely anorexic at this point?
OK. Again. Really. Truly. Am I the only one that sees that GB is a little, well, off? I mean, the guys is N-U-T-S, far out, out of time, off sync, etc, etc. So he lost a little weight (due, apparantly, to the "weight challenge")... but doesn't he look a little obscurely anorexic at this point?
July 05, 2005
Happy 4th I Dare Say
I am not one to make a spectical of a spectical. Meaning, I don't like to post about whatever other bloggers typically post about, i.e. Holidays.
So let me say that this is not a post about Independence Day. It is a post about a much-needed Retreat Weekend.
That's right People. This weekend I headed north of the Foggy City, which didn't take much effort considering I left at 5:15pm on the most vacationed Friday of the year. Got to my destination just north of the Golden Gate in a mere 25 minutes... where the hell everybody was I don't know, and frankly, I don't care. E-Z commute to be sure, and a great start to Retreat Weekend.
Started off with a, dare say!, liesurely dinner with my bro and sis-in-law, and believe it or not, also with Mr. Colicky himself, my nephew. Great, quiet resto where the Indian-lady Owner decided that the best time to take said Nephew off our hands and entertain him herself was when the food was on the table. Dinner, to say the least, was pure spicey bliss, which is a surprise to anyone dining with a 5 month old child.
Next day I awoke to the habitually excited Happy-Go-Lucky labarador retriever of The Great Estate, who was terribly eager to spend some quality time with yours truly. We hit the trails running at a nice clip, and he was a good leash-less boy steadily matching my 9 min/mile.
Back at Great Estate, a quick shower before the ulitmate spa treatment - a hot stone massage. Which ended up to be not as "hot" as one would expect: never quite relaxed the super-tense muscles like they yearned so to be, but it was 60 minutes of gorgeous TLC, complete with a heated robe, spa flip-flops, a 'Quiet Room' complete with tea and New-Age music, and euculyptus facial. Yum.
A nice, quiet evening at Great Estate awaited, just me and the new MTV Real World (oh and of course Happy-Go-Lucky hogging the couch), the only call to duty was dealing with the incessant march of ants onto the cat food, which was easily dealt with by a few Raid Ant Motels purchased after the morning run.
Gosh, Sunday, all to myself. With the sun shining and Happy-Go-Lucky, what's not to love? Caught a few breezy waves of sunshine in the patio (first - gasp - flesh meets sun since who knows when - and it's ensuing sunburn) before heading to the folks for a mellow BBQ.
Then! To top it all off! Another day off! Which I took full advantage of, by taking myself and Happy-Go-Lucky on a 5 mile walk, complete with coffee break at the half-way point. Talked to a retired professor who thought I played tennis (must have been the Yacht Club visor and the newly crispy shoulders), and bumped into a good friend's half-sister who happened to be watching her husband racing sailboats from the shore. Gotta love this place.
To finish out the day, headed further north to a 4th party, which happened to be even sunnier and warmer than The Great Estate. People were still in the pool until 7:30 pm! This, to my virgin-tour-in-shorts legs was a complete shocker. It's amazing that 8 miles north of San Francisco you can be in a bikini. 8 miles! Bikini! Of course, I should know this, being originally from there...
We heard booming fireworks in the distance, but didn't bother moving to the front of the house to see the man-made stars. The ambiance of the pool patio lit by candle-light was more enticing. All in all, the whole weekend was fabulously warm. Warm warm warm, on so many levels. When your summer feels like Alaska in winter, anything warm is an appreciated gift.
So it is Tuesday evening; the fog swooped into SF early on it's ocean breeze and plans to stick around. It's a bit on the dismal side, especially knowing the temperature difference between here and 8 miles away, but, isn't that always the case around here? Hrmph.
So let me say that this is not a post about Independence Day. It is a post about a much-needed Retreat Weekend.
That's right People. This weekend I headed north of the Foggy City, which didn't take much effort considering I left at 5:15pm on the most vacationed Friday of the year. Got to my destination just north of the Golden Gate in a mere 25 minutes... where the hell everybody was I don't know, and frankly, I don't care. E-Z commute to be sure, and a great start to Retreat Weekend.
Started off with a, dare say!, liesurely dinner with my bro and sis-in-law, and believe it or not, also with Mr. Colicky himself, my nephew. Great, quiet resto where the Indian-lady Owner decided that the best time to take said Nephew off our hands and entertain him herself was when the food was on the table. Dinner, to say the least, was pure spicey bliss, which is a surprise to anyone dining with a 5 month old child.
Next day I awoke to the habitually excited Happy-Go-Lucky labarador retriever of The Great Estate, who was terribly eager to spend some quality time with yours truly. We hit the trails running at a nice clip, and he was a good leash-less boy steadily matching my 9 min/mile.
Back at Great Estate, a quick shower before the ulitmate spa treatment - a hot stone massage. Which ended up to be not as "hot" as one would expect: never quite relaxed the super-tense muscles like they yearned so to be, but it was 60 minutes of gorgeous TLC, complete with a heated robe, spa flip-flops, a 'Quiet Room' complete with tea and New-Age music, and euculyptus facial. Yum.
A nice, quiet evening at Great Estate awaited, just me and the new MTV Real World (oh and of course Happy-Go-Lucky hogging the couch), the only call to duty was dealing with the incessant march of ants onto the cat food, which was easily dealt with by a few Raid Ant Motels purchased after the morning run.
Gosh, Sunday, all to myself. With the sun shining and Happy-Go-Lucky, what's not to love? Caught a few breezy waves of sunshine in the patio (first - gasp - flesh meets sun since who knows when - and it's ensuing sunburn) before heading to the folks for a mellow BBQ.
Then! To top it all off! Another day off! Which I took full advantage of, by taking myself and Happy-Go-Lucky on a 5 mile walk, complete with coffee break at the half-way point. Talked to a retired professor who thought I played tennis (must have been the Yacht Club visor and the newly crispy shoulders), and bumped into a good friend's half-sister who happened to be watching her husband racing sailboats from the shore. Gotta love this place.
To finish out the day, headed further north to a 4th party, which happened to be even sunnier and warmer than The Great Estate. People were still in the pool until 7:30 pm! This, to my virgin-tour-in-shorts legs was a complete shocker. It's amazing that 8 miles north of San Francisco you can be in a bikini. 8 miles! Bikini! Of course, I should know this, being originally from there...
We heard booming fireworks in the distance, but didn't bother moving to the front of the house to see the man-made stars. The ambiance of the pool patio lit by candle-light was more enticing. All in all, the whole weekend was fabulously warm. Warm warm warm, on so many levels. When your summer feels like Alaska in winter, anything warm is an appreciated gift.
So it is Tuesday evening; the fog swooped into SF early on it's ocean breeze and plans to stick around. It's a bit on the dismal side, especially knowing the temperature difference between here and 8 miles away, but, isn't that always the case around here? Hrmph.
June 29, 2005
Vive Les Touristes!
The tourists are coming! The tourists are coming! And according to a leftover hippie I had to patiently wait in line behind at the Haight Street Smoke Shop (which carries cigs for a mere $3.75 a pack), the French tourists are coming, and he thinks they are the worst kind.
Most importantly, I have to tell you that this: hippie-still-here-from-the-Summer-of-Love did a complete Jedi mind trick. After I finally pummeled through a group of tourists at the door and arrived at the counter, Leftover Hippie was engrossed in a one way conversation with the clerk. He was going on and on about a hand injury, which was causing him to be extremely slow to draw the money out and hand it over (in my opinion the problem wasn't his hand, but I digress). Then he continued his ramble, enlightening the bored and desparate clerk on how impatient other customers get while he tries the best he can to manage his hand dexterity just enough to pull out and set down money. I am about to start fidgeting exageratingly and huff and puff, because he obviously doesn't see me waiting, when his word (impatient... impatient.... impatient) starts to soak into my brain. So I don't fidget, and I don't huff and puff, and I stand idly by. Jedi Mindtrick!
Leftover Hippie starts pontificating on the tragedy of the arriving French tourists, but the clerk is Over It, decides to completely ingnore him, and helps me instead. Thank you Mr. Clerk!
By the by, French tourists happen to be my favorite kind, being a francophile and all. Alors, bienvenue, et vive les touristes!
Most importantly, I have to tell you that this: hippie-still-here-from-the-Summer-of-Love did a complete Jedi mind trick. After I finally pummeled through a group of tourists at the door and arrived at the counter, Leftover Hippie was engrossed in a one way conversation with the clerk. He was going on and on about a hand injury, which was causing him to be extremely slow to draw the money out and hand it over (in my opinion the problem wasn't his hand, but I digress). Then he continued his ramble, enlightening the bored and desparate clerk on how impatient other customers get while he tries the best he can to manage his hand dexterity just enough to pull out and set down money. I am about to start fidgeting exageratingly and huff and puff, because he obviously doesn't see me waiting, when his word (impatient... impatient.... impatient) starts to soak into my brain. So I don't fidget, and I don't huff and puff, and I stand idly by. Jedi Mindtrick!
Leftover Hippie starts pontificating on the tragedy of the arriving French tourists, but the clerk is Over It, decides to completely ingnore him, and helps me instead. Thank you Mr. Clerk!
By the by, French tourists happen to be my favorite kind, being a francophile and all. Alors, bienvenue, et vive les touristes!
June 27, 2005
This Old Hag
Well you can rest easy People. I won't be blaring the fact that I am 32 to you anymore. Because I'm 33 as of Saturday.
And I have something to report! I am OUT OF SHAPE! Holy cow I am out of shape. I could never have imagined I am actually this out of shape. The proof? Surfing. I went surfing for 1 hour (count them: 60 measley minutes) for my birthday. Fun, small waves, easy for a beginner. And my upper body is d e a d. Sunday was excruciating whenever I used my arms (try going a full day without using your arms ha ha ha). By today, I can manage better but I am still sore.
It's funny that I can run 7 miles without much difficulty but after an hour of paddling myself to and fro on a floating board I can't seem to lift my arms higher than my collar bone. So now, on top of beginning my training for a half marathon (Nike Women's Marathon), I will start some upper body workout. Maybe surfing. After all, you obviously have no idea how hard you are working out until the next day!
And I have something to report! I am OUT OF SHAPE! Holy cow I am out of shape. I could never have imagined I am actually this out of shape. The proof? Surfing. I went surfing for 1 hour (count them: 60 measley minutes) for my birthday. Fun, small waves, easy for a beginner. And my upper body is d e a d. Sunday was excruciating whenever I used my arms (try going a full day without using your arms ha ha ha). By today, I can manage better but I am still sore.
It's funny that I can run 7 miles without much difficulty but after an hour of paddling myself to and fro on a floating board I can't seem to lift my arms higher than my collar bone. So now, on top of beginning my training for a half marathon (Nike Women's Marathon), I will start some upper body workout. Maybe surfing. After all, you obviously have no idea how hard you are working out until the next day!
June 24, 2005
For You
For those of you that offered spiritual and emotional support, and those who are always sending me ESP wishes for success, thank you! You'll be happy to know that I am back to myself and feeling great! And tomorrow I have a surf lesson!
June 21, 2005
Cracking
I have a tough facade. Unbreakable. But lately I have begun to crack.
Mounting pressures of a flailing business venture, my best friend and closest confidant in a far-away land, and feeling for the first time in my social but alone life very much alone, today I was feeling close to the bottom. Since I can't afford a day at a retreat spa, complete with Swedish massage and windchimes in the vacuous hot air of Napa Valley, I decided to throw on my sneakers and walk 3 miles to the ocean.
Chatting on the phone with a friend on the way there, I finally, at the end of the conversation, began to let someone other than my soul sister know the pressure I have been under. But then I remembered that on the other end of the line was not only my friend, but a mother of a 5 month old baby who was starting to prepare dinner for her family. So with a wobbly voice and strong "OK!" I let her go.
I walked around the bend and there was the ocean, huge and sparkling and swelling beyond the retaining wall. It enveloped my entire vision, and then it blurred with salty tears. I couldn't wait to sit on the beach and reflect, let it out, compose myself.
But I couldn't do anything but sit. There were other people on the beach. Basically, there was no place I could go on that span of sand where no one else was. When you're looking for a quiet place for introspection, having high school lovers near you and happy naive children in front of you screaming at the chasing waves, it's just not possible. So after an hour of trying really hard not to see anyone else, and only crying an iota of the amount required to feel better, I began my walk back.
Trudging through the park my eyes were burdened and tingly with un-released tears. My mouth in permanent frown, jaw tight, brow furrowed. The ocean hadn't calmed me. I would spot a lush reclusive area and consider just sitting there, but then I would think it's still too close to the noisy road, and if I went deeper into the park I'd be killed by the homeless clans that live in the park's depths. I trudged on.
Then something ridiculous happened. I walked under a sprawling canopy of pine trees filled with cawing crows. Ahead of me a few feet was a crow in the grass, and he was looking intently at the ground while talking to his friend in the tree. His friend would answer back. I watched the crow on the ground to try to figure out what he was looking at, and decided he was fighting with a gopher over something to eat and his friend in the tree was giving him advice.
A few yards later I realized that my eyes didn't feel burdened anymore and my mood was slightly lifted. And I whirled with amazement inside because all I had done was watch a stupid crow. And that whirling lifted my spirits even higher. I felt like chatting with the woman walking ahead of me. I realized the early evening sun was still warm on my back and the wind, that incessant summer wind, had died. I breathed deep and was me again.
Mounting pressures of a flailing business venture, my best friend and closest confidant in a far-away land, and feeling for the first time in my social but alone life very much alone, today I was feeling close to the bottom. Since I can't afford a day at a retreat spa, complete with Swedish massage and windchimes in the vacuous hot air of Napa Valley, I decided to throw on my sneakers and walk 3 miles to the ocean.
Chatting on the phone with a friend on the way there, I finally, at the end of the conversation, began to let someone other than my soul sister know the pressure I have been under. But then I remembered that on the other end of the line was not only my friend, but a mother of a 5 month old baby who was starting to prepare dinner for her family. So with a wobbly voice and strong "OK!" I let her go.
I walked around the bend and there was the ocean, huge and sparkling and swelling beyond the retaining wall. It enveloped my entire vision, and then it blurred with salty tears. I couldn't wait to sit on the beach and reflect, let it out, compose myself.
But I couldn't do anything but sit. There were other people on the beach. Basically, there was no place I could go on that span of sand where no one else was. When you're looking for a quiet place for introspection, having high school lovers near you and happy naive children in front of you screaming at the chasing waves, it's just not possible. So after an hour of trying really hard not to see anyone else, and only crying an iota of the amount required to feel better, I began my walk back.
Trudging through the park my eyes were burdened and tingly with un-released tears. My mouth in permanent frown, jaw tight, brow furrowed. The ocean hadn't calmed me. I would spot a lush reclusive area and consider just sitting there, but then I would think it's still too close to the noisy road, and if I went deeper into the park I'd be killed by the homeless clans that live in the park's depths. I trudged on.
Then something ridiculous happened. I walked under a sprawling canopy of pine trees filled with cawing crows. Ahead of me a few feet was a crow in the grass, and he was looking intently at the ground while talking to his friend in the tree. His friend would answer back. I watched the crow on the ground to try to figure out what he was looking at, and decided he was fighting with a gopher over something to eat and his friend in the tree was giving him advice.
A few yards later I realized that my eyes didn't feel burdened anymore and my mood was slightly lifted. And I whirled with amazement inside because all I had done was watch a stupid crow. And that whirling lifted my spirits even higher. I felt like chatting with the woman walking ahead of me. I realized the early evening sun was still warm on my back and the wind, that incessant summer wind, had died. I breathed deep and was me again.
June 16, 2005
For the Sake of a Laugh
Aaah, San Francisco. Sometimes we residents think it is the closest to a European city this side of the Atlantic. We love that. Other times (after walking down Haight Street days before the Haight Street Fair, for example) we feel we live in a metropolitan toilet.
But! The Saving Grace! The Saving Grace is our city's finest party. SO big it's only put on every 2 years. Yes, People, I am talking about the Black & White Ball. With a high ticket price and a "who's who" list of attendees, it's a party that rejuvinates the soul with hope, desire and history.
However. One of my favorite local blogs, the SFist, has just published photos of the event, which took place last weekend. Either the tickets got cheaper, or they gave some away for free, or I just don't know what's "in" anymore, because look what they provided: http://www.sfist.com/archives/2005/06/13/sfist_paints_the_city_black_and_white.php
Enjoy.
But! The Saving Grace! The Saving Grace is our city's finest party. SO big it's only put on every 2 years. Yes, People, I am talking about the Black & White Ball. With a high ticket price and a "who's who" list of attendees, it's a party that rejuvinates the soul with hope, desire and history.
However. One of my favorite local blogs, the SFist, has just published photos of the event, which took place last weekend. Either the tickets got cheaper, or they gave some away for free, or I just don't know what's "in" anymore, because look what they provided: http://www.sfist.com/archives/2005/06/13/sfist_paints_the_city_black_and_white.php
Enjoy.
June 15, 2005
Hibernation
It could be that San Francisco's summers are like winters. It could be depression. It could be anemia. But People, I am sleeping a lot lately. A LOT.
Case in point: Last night I went to bed at midnight. Set the alarm for 6:45 am. Did the typical "hit snooze a few times" routine, but dodged out on my morning plans and ended up sleeping until...gulp... 11:53 am! What! That's like 12 hours!
I will admit to a chronic anemia problem - since my teens. But if this is a result of anemia, it's certainly affecting my body differently at 32 than it did when diagnosed at 17 (and the many years I've had to maintain it since). I don't feel tired during the day. But now I can't live without at least 9 hours of sleep. More would be preferable. What the hell?
Please note that anemia is not related to bolemia. Anemia has to do with the red blood cell count in your blood, the cells that carry oxygen throughout your body. Have low red blood cells, have limbs falling asleep a lot, and have excessive physical tiredness (especially after working out).
But like I said, I don't seem to have the problem with the limbs, and I haven't been working out much. But then again, I haven't been taking my required iron supplements either. Think I'll do that now...
I'm certainly preferring that this is a biological problem and not the afore mentioned emotional problems. Although work (or lack thereof in my new "sales" job) has been frustrating, as has been the uber-long-distance relationship gig, I would like to think that I am not depressed, and I am not being affected by San Francisco's complete lack of summer-ness. Suffice it to say that I probably need therapy, even if it is just to reassure me that I am not emotionally distraught in any way, shape, or form.
Case in point: Last night I went to bed at midnight. Set the alarm for 6:45 am. Did the typical "hit snooze a few times" routine, but dodged out on my morning plans and ended up sleeping until...gulp... 11:53 am! What! That's like 12 hours!
I will admit to a chronic anemia problem - since my teens. But if this is a result of anemia, it's certainly affecting my body differently at 32 than it did when diagnosed at 17 (and the many years I've had to maintain it since). I don't feel tired during the day. But now I can't live without at least 9 hours of sleep. More would be preferable. What the hell?
Please note that anemia is not related to bolemia. Anemia has to do with the red blood cell count in your blood, the cells that carry oxygen throughout your body. Have low red blood cells, have limbs falling asleep a lot, and have excessive physical tiredness (especially after working out).
But like I said, I don't seem to have the problem with the limbs, and I haven't been working out much. But then again, I haven't been taking my required iron supplements either. Think I'll do that now...
I'm certainly preferring that this is a biological problem and not the afore mentioned emotional problems. Although work (or lack thereof in my new "sales" job) has been frustrating, as has been the uber-long-distance relationship gig, I would like to think that I am not depressed, and I am not being affected by San Francisco's complete lack of summer-ness. Suffice it to say that I probably need therapy, even if it is just to reassure me that I am not emotionally distraught in any way, shape, or form.
June 08, 2005
If You Were Here
If you were here, these are the things I would do:
I would wake up smiling
I would watch less TV
I would look for and try new recipes
(You would wash the dishes)
I would have background music on in the evenings
(You would do all the downloading)
I would make sure the apartment always looked nice
I would buy more sexy underwear
I would cuddle with you on the couch
I would go to bed early
(Hopefully you would too)
But you know what? I should do all that shit anyway. FOR ME.
I would wake up smiling
I would watch less TV
I would look for and try new recipes
(You would wash the dishes)
I would have background music on in the evenings
(You would do all the downloading)
I would make sure the apartment always looked nice
I would buy more sexy underwear
I would cuddle with you on the couch
I would go to bed early
(Hopefully you would too)
But you know what? I should do all that shit anyway. FOR ME.
Trista Can't Move
In an only-somewhat-shocking twist to America's latest reality "hit" Dancing With the Stars, Trista Sutter got booted. Being as she used to dance for the NBA's Miami Heat, it's amazing she is so *stiff.* Hence the "only-somewhat-shocking."
The biggest shocks of the night were that a) Rachel Hunter was in the bottom two and b) that Evander Holyfield is still competing.
The biggest shocks of the night were that a) Rachel Hunter was in the bottom two and b) that Evander Holyfield is still competing.
It's Nights Like This
Ahh... It's because of nights like this that one loves San Francisco. I got home, ragged from work, and checked my personal e-mail at 6:03 pm. A new message told me that a friend's husband had some of his photographs up at a funky coffee shop in SoMa, from 6-7:30 that night. Being new in the sales world and needing to make all the contacts I can, with a huge sigh I changed into something cuter and warmer and hopped on Muni to attend the event.
Well, it was nice to notice upon walking in that this "coffee shop" also had a full bar. Yum. Event appearing to be a good investment of time. The event got more and more delightful as the boisterous crowd dissipated, and I found out from the owner that he isn't normally open on that specific night. SWEET! As Un-Swank as it is, it's a Private Party. Love that.
Even though there weren't free drinks, the bartenders were nice. AND, this party by no means ended at 7:30. At about 8:15 or so, the owner closed the door and the unbelievable happened...he pulled out some little plates and started smoking INSIDE. Said he was tired of dealing with the wind tunnel outside. Then he said "feel free." Feel free! To smoke inside! The bar! That is currently closed to the public! Yeeee-ha!
For any of you that have followed the blog so far, yes, yes, I know smoking is bad. And I think about quitting a lot. Just haven't met the decisive point of when I will consciously make the decision to do so. Therefore, I had a f*ckg fabulous time that night.
The oddest part of the night was that I ended up being a bit of a celebrity. Apparently, my friend and her husband holding the show thought it was a nice piece of trivia that my dad used to shoot photos for Playboy back in the day, and as much as I clarified that it was mostly "editorial," I had quite a few men come up to me and shake my hand. Which is quite odd, actually. I don't know how they register it in their heads, but coming up to a young woman and saying "Hi, I'm Troy. I heard your dad used to take pictures for Playboy and I just wanted to introduce myself. Kudos" isn't something that one knows how to respond to. Seriously. Is "Thank you" the correct response?
May 26, 2005
Hey, What's My "World View?"
 | If I wasn't asked this question in the form of an online quiz, I would seriously contend that the questions posed would NOT result in my definition of what constitutes my World View. As an International Affairs major at university, I would have forwarded half these questions to the Philosophy Dept. I know if I was on a greater blog distribution, I'd get serious shit for saying that. However, I am quite happy with the tabulated result. Very much spot-on. Just take the damn test!
You scored as Cultural Creative. Cultural Creatives are probably the newest group to enter this realm. You are a modern thinker who tends to shy away from organized religion but still feels as if there is something greater than ourselves. You are very spiritual, even if you are not religious. Life has a meaning outside of the rational.
What is Your World View? (updated) created with QuizFarm.com |
May 25, 2005
Hypo-Chon-Dri-Ack!
I've admitted it to many people already, people both close to me and people who are practically strangers. But I'm a friggin' Hypochondrac.
My latest obsession is that I have sleep apnea. I can go into the so-called "sleep mode" and be there for 9 or 10 hours and still wake up exhausted. My dad snores like a bear, and before he was diagnosed with sleep apnea, he used to fall asleep at the wheel (I attributed that to the affair that I never proved he was having, but I digress). Thank goodness that this part of California doesn't have snow, so the lane-dividers are bumpy and can wake a person up. I've been told that I snore, but not like a bear. I've warned people of it before nodding off. I've even asked them to let me know if they heard any roars in the night. They say it didn't happen, or if it did, the were only soft roars.
My latest obsession is that I have sleep apnea. I can go into the so-called "sleep mode" and be there for 9 or 10 hours and still wake up exhausted. My dad snores like a bear, and before he was diagnosed with sleep apnea, he used to fall asleep at the wheel (I attributed that to the affair that I never proved he was having, but I digress). Thank goodness that this part of California doesn't have snow, so the lane-dividers are bumpy and can wake a person up. I've been told that I snore, but not like a bear. I've warned people of it before nodding off. I've even asked them to let me know if they heard any roars in the night. They say it didn't happen, or if it did, the were only soft roars.
Lately I have been plagued with allergies (thanks, Dad!), and as a self-diagnosed hypochondriac, as I fall to sleep I hear myself going there as if I am practicing rolling my "r's" in Spanish. Of course, hearing this, I cannot sleep, because I am checking to see if I am going to get enough oxygen to live through the night and thrive the next day. Often times at 2 am, I am ready to roll out of bed and see if I can get checked into Stanford Sleep Clinic. And then I allow myself to wander into places called " the to-do list" and "does he like me" and "this is what I'll do at work tomorrow" and "this is how my parents see me..." and slowly but surely I unknowingly grow unconscious.
And so it goes. Since I don't have unlimited funds, I am forced to throw "sleep apnea" onto the pile of piled-up terminal problems that my eternal soul has discovered in my terminal body. But that hasn't stopped me from eating like shit and smoking up a storm. Call it smart, call it stupid, call it blocking, call it what you want. Personally, I'd like to call on a personal physician. MRI please! MRI!
Bitte Anschlag With My Yahoo!
Hallo! Am I the ONLY ONE in the blogosphere getting TONS, LOADS of spam in German? They are not even coming to my blogspot.com e-mail address, so what the hell? I wouldn't mind spam in French or Spanish; at least then I could brush up on my slang. But I don't know any Germanic languages, so what's the deal? Just because I loved Run Lola Run and The Princess and The Warrior (same actress), I didn't think it would come back to me. So I'll spit out what I can, some odd form of a German command: "Bitte Anschlag with my Yahoo!"
May 24, 2005
Medium is... Well, Medium
OK People, I'll admit it. I DON'T GET NBC. Not "I don't get it" but - I am not ALLOWED to access NBC. Satellite fluke in SF Bay Area. Since I am such a TV addict, I know it is in my best interest NOT to have cable. And to NOT have cable in San Francisco means you don't have NBC. Period.
So yes, I miss Scrubs and ER and all of the Law & Orders, and more power to me. Not really. Instead (YES, NBC who is too lame to put a satellite closer to San Francisco) I watch crazy lame sh*t on UPN and The WB. Touche [with an accent over "e"], my friend, touche [repeat]. But to an addict's joy, I am now staying at my friend's apartment watching her cat, and yes, also her cable-provided NBC shows.
And all of the sudden I am glad I don't get NBC. Because I saw [what I think was] the finale [accent over the "e"] of 'Medium.'
Now, I've heard a lot of hype about this show, and I've even seen the Whichever-Arquette-who stars-in-it on some non-NBC late night television show. But tonight I saw the show, and it was FUCKING luke warm; it was MEDIUM. In other words: quite frankly, rather boring [slight Queen's English accent].
To sum it up, quite glad to be missing the NBC [English Cockney accent]. Quite jolly about that. Yes, Zach of Scrubs and Garden State fame is quite cute, but not worth the trouble of buying cable. Truly.
So yes, I miss Scrubs and ER and all of the Law & Orders, and more power to me. Not really. Instead (YES, NBC who is too lame to put a satellite closer to San Francisco) I watch crazy lame sh*t on UPN and The WB. Touche [with an accent over "e"], my friend, touche [repeat]. But to an addict's joy, I am now staying at my friend's apartment watching her cat, and yes, also her cable-provided NBC shows.
And all of the sudden I am glad I don't get NBC. Because I saw [what I think was] the finale [accent over the "e"] of 'Medium.'
Now, I've heard a lot of hype about this show, and I've even seen the Whichever-Arquette-who stars-in-it on some non-NBC late night television show. But tonight I saw the show, and it was FUCKING luke warm; it was MEDIUM. In other words: quite frankly, rather boring [slight Queen's English accent].
To sum it up, quite glad to be missing the NBC [English Cockney accent]. Quite jolly about that. Yes, Zach of Scrubs and Garden State fame is quite cute, but not worth the trouble of buying cable. Truly.
May 18, 2005
Who?
This is weird. I just got a birth announcement from some guy in Switzerland. I have no clue who he is (or his wife, for that matter). But apparantly I know him from Colorado, because a lot of my CU university pals are also on the distribution list.
May 17, 2005
The Fiddler's Got Me Thinkin'
I rented Fiddler on The Roof tonight. To get back to my roots, I guess. I have seen Yentl, but this movie was made before my time. The ironic part is that it's not only about Jewish tradition, but altering it as well.
So it's no surprise that, while watching the wedding scene, I began incorporating traditional Jewish songs into my wedding reception playlist. I even started considering how my mom and my Aunt and I can circle my betrothed before I am given away. And of course there is the breaking of the glass and the "Malzaltov!" to wrap things up.
But I don't even have a boyfriend, and for the umpteenth time I remember that girls are raised on fairy tales and love stories, and thus it's not difficult for me to start spinning a tale that may never come to fruition. What I do know is that I will be singing "matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match, find me a keeper, catch me a catch!" for the next couple weeks.
Seems like Rifka the Fly (i.e. my late grandmother) has been spending a little too much time hovering around. Oy....
May 09, 2005
Momma's Chores
I'm exhausted. Mother's Day was all about Momma's Chores.
I had a "list" of things to do when I went to my folks' house; all in the name of LOVE. My mom has been the one that has been exhausted lately. ALL THE TIME. The bags under her eyes are Serious. SERIOUS, People. And I have been worried about her crankiness, if not a victim of it to boot.
She is waiting waiting waiting for retirement, you see... 2 years away. But this woman is incessant, instoppable, CONSTANT even, in her endeavors to always "get stuff done." Shred this, organize that... there is always something next on her plate. I've seen her on Sundays, after a weekend off, and she is MORE tired than on Fridays. I told her I didn't want to see her kill herself in the process of getting to retirement, 2 years away.
SO. What's a daughter to do but ease the load? Sometimes when I help I think we live in a 3rd world country. I'm gardening and composting and hand-washing and such. And then I really think about it: granted, she's a bit obsessive about filling her time, but life for my mom is all about family. Supporting each other is What We Do. She looks after me all the time, even when I don't want her to. SO! Bring on The List, Mom, I'm ready.
The nicest thing of the weekend was that on Monday my mom called me from work to report that, besides the hectic-ness of work, she was feeling relatively stress-free.
I celebrated my success in easing her schedule by spending $300 of her hard-earned money (which is fueling the start of my new career) buying clothes for myself in a 2-hour period (don't worry folks - I received a hefty tax return a couple weeks ago, so it's not really ALL hers. Well, yeah, I guess it is). The oddest part is, when I walked to the video store tonite after coming home from the SF Decorator's Showcase party, I was 'Walking On Sunshine.' I was starting to feel good. Really good. It's weird how a new cute polka-dot skirt can change your perspective. Or was doing something for my mom the thing that did it?
Even though it's past Mother's Day now, and beside the fact that I hate celebrating commecialized holidays, I wanted to tell those who are with me that Sunday (yeah, Mother's Day) was an absolute sucess. For all of us!
PS - you're welcome, Dad.
Cheers.
I had a "list" of things to do when I went to my folks' house; all in the name of LOVE. My mom has been the one that has been exhausted lately. ALL THE TIME. The bags under her eyes are Serious. SERIOUS, People. And I have been worried about her crankiness, if not a victim of it to boot.
She is waiting waiting waiting for retirement, you see... 2 years away. But this woman is incessant, instoppable, CONSTANT even, in her endeavors to always "get stuff done." Shred this, organize that... there is always something next on her plate. I've seen her on Sundays, after a weekend off, and she is MORE tired than on Fridays. I told her I didn't want to see her kill herself in the process of getting to retirement, 2 years away.
SO. What's a daughter to do but ease the load? Sometimes when I help I think we live in a 3rd world country. I'm gardening and composting and hand-washing and such. And then I really think about it: granted, she's a bit obsessive about filling her time, but life for my mom is all about family. Supporting each other is What We Do. She looks after me all the time, even when I don't want her to. SO! Bring on The List, Mom, I'm ready.
The nicest thing of the weekend was that on Monday my mom called me from work to report that, besides the hectic-ness of work, she was feeling relatively stress-free.
I celebrated my success in easing her schedule by spending $300 of her hard-earned money (which is fueling the start of my new career) buying clothes for myself in a 2-hour period (don't worry folks - I received a hefty tax return a couple weeks ago, so it's not really ALL hers. Well, yeah, I guess it is). The oddest part is, when I walked to the video store tonite after coming home from the SF Decorator's Showcase party, I was 'Walking On Sunshine.' I was starting to feel good. Really good. It's weird how a new cute polka-dot skirt can change your perspective. Or was doing something for my mom the thing that did it?
Even though it's past Mother's Day now, and beside the fact that I hate celebrating commecialized holidays, I wanted to tell those who are with me that Sunday (yeah, Mother's Day) was an absolute sucess. For all of us!
PS - you're welcome, Dad.
Cheers.
May 06, 2005
The Wrap
I reminded WR she could try to get us into the SF Intl Film Fest after-party tonight, and she did it! Then I reminded her, while we were there, that she cd try to get us VIP wristbands, and she did!
Then I met a handsome lawyer, who was dating a beautiful Claudia Schiffer look-a-like, who ended up being very nice yet worried about me stealing her man. We also met a Harley-riding 50-something who bought us drinks, and a German translator, then bumped into some brothers we met at the SFIFF opening party , re-met the guys representing the Martha Bros. Coffee booth (one hot, one not), and saw this really disgusting, Buddha-type Asian who had been sitting on a square cube all Buddha-style while slurping up all the asian noodles he could find. On the way out, Buddha was leaving too (with a half-full Corona in his hands) and he kept telling us "see you nest year!! See you nest year!!" I hope to God not. Please. Trust me, you don't want to see a big Asian man sitting all Buddha (i.e. legs wide open with the round belly laying out) noodling himself to death ever again. Even if he is some amazing producer.
On the way home we had the chattiest cab driver ever. I asked him half a question and he went on the entire ride with an answer and a half. It still doesn't bring back my black turtleneck (lost in a cab).
May 05, 2005
Tonight's SFIFF Party
WR,
I started visualizing the party tonight at Suede, and wondered how they were going to serve us free drinks at a nightclub (a girl's gotta plan the $$ factor). Then I found this:
"Bid this year’s 48th SF International Film Festival adieu...Suede boasts different nightlife spaces to suit your mood. From the multilevel lounges or cozy VIP accommodations to the spacious dance floor, party into the night to the spins of the city’s top DJs, while enjoying tastes from Bay Area restaurants and mouthwatering libations."
Location: 383 Bay Street 9:30 - midnight
FILM & PARTY - $85: includes film, party entrance with two drink tickets,
entertainment and light hors d’oeuvres.
SO, IMPORTANT TO NOTE:
1 - I don't know what club I went to in Dec. that I thought was Suede, but it wasn't Suede 'cuz I have never been to a club on Bay and Mason. Which is why our conversation was so confusing this morning.
2 - There WILL be food!
3 - It looks like we will get 2 drink tickets and
that's it!
4 - I have no idea how I am going to get there!
OK bye.
I started visualizing the party tonight at Suede, and wondered how they were going to serve us free drinks at a nightclub (a girl's gotta plan the $$ factor). Then I found this:
"Bid this year’s 48th SF International Film Festival adieu...Suede boasts different nightlife spaces to suit your mood. From the multilevel lounges or cozy VIP accommodations to the spacious dance floor, party into the night to the spins of the city’s top DJs, while enjoying tastes from Bay Area restaurants and mouthwatering libations."
Location: 383 Bay Street 9:30 - midnight
FILM & PARTY - $85: includes film, party entrance with two drink tickets,
entertainment and light hors d’oeuvres.
SO, IMPORTANT TO NOTE:
1 - I don't know what club I went to in Dec. that I thought was Suede, but it wasn't Suede 'cuz I have never been to a club on Bay and Mason. Which is why our conversation was so confusing this morning.
2 - There WILL be food!
3 - It looks like we will get 2 drink tickets and
that's it!
4 - I have no idea how I am going to get there!
OK bye.
May 02, 2005
Wow! Flirt-o-rama
Unfortunately, the girl quoted below is not me. But DAMN, the man knows how to do it (even while text messaging):
Her: Did I miss anything important?
Him: Yes. I was gonna ask you out.
Her: Wow 2 bad opportunities like that only come once
Him: Don't fool yourself. So when I see you on Friday, I'll tell you what happened.
Her: Is that your way of asking me out on a date?
Him: Who said anything about a date? I'll pick you up at 7. Dress to impress.
Her: [censored] Rd. and [censored] ave. Don't keep me waiting!
Holy sh*t, People. Men take note: That's a guy who is IN CHARGE. She didn't do half bad herself. Hey Lady, do you offer lessons???
Her: Did I miss anything important?
Him: Yes. I was gonna ask you out.
Her: Wow 2 bad opportunities like that only come once
Him: Don't fool yourself. So when I see you on Friday, I'll tell you what happened.
Her: Is that your way of asking me out on a date?
Him: Who said anything about a date? I'll pick you up at 7. Dress to impress.
Her: [censored] Rd. and [censored] ave. Don't keep me waiting!
Holy sh*t, People. Men take note: That's a guy who is IN CHARGE. She didn't do half bad herself. Hey Lady, do you offer lessons???
I Don't DO Diets
I don't do diets. One time, 4 weeks before attending a wedding in Hawaii, I signed up for Weight Watchers online. The good news: I lost 8 pounds in a month. The bad news: 1) I thought about food 24/7 for 4 weeks. 2) It didn't emphasize healthy eating (what! no fruit juice?!) 3. You need to give 30 days notice to quit, so I wasted $29.99 by not cancelling before I started! I never want to do that again. Food should NOT be something to obess about.
Seeing how I may have a romantic visitor here in 5 weeks, what am I thinking about? My figure. Muscle Mass vs. Body Fat. Bleck.
And do you know what I want right now? I want pizza. Or, better yet, baked goods. Back in the day (the day of what or why I don't know), I had this thing about Bisquick. I f*ck'g loved that sh*t. Do up some batter with just water and some [no, LOTS of] sugar, and you have *BING*: sweet sweet bisquits. A cheap, quick baked-good treasure. And I want some of that. RIGHT NOW!
Sigh. But I don't have pizza. And I don't have Bisquick. I have some Aunt Jemima pancake mix, but what an effort (trust me, if I had fresh eggs in the house it would be no effort at all)! Besides, I'm not in the mood for syrup.
The point is, I don't diet. And I'd like to munch on these things right now, but it's 10:42 pm and I'm smart enough to know (and too lazy as well) that falling under pressure will disrupt my muscle-to-fat ratio and therefore make me feel like crap when the Dutchman comes.
OK. I feel better now. Thanks for letting me let that out. Bisquick.
Seeing how I may have a romantic visitor here in 5 weeks, what am I thinking about? My figure. Muscle Mass vs. Body Fat. Bleck.
And do you know what I want right now? I want pizza. Or, better yet, baked goods. Back in the day (the day of what or why I don't know), I had this thing about Bisquick. I f*ck'g loved that sh*t. Do up some batter with just water and some [no, LOTS of] sugar, and you have *BING*: sweet sweet bisquits. A cheap, quick baked-good treasure. And I want some of that. RIGHT NOW!
Sigh. But I don't have pizza. And I don't have Bisquick. I have some Aunt Jemima pancake mix, but what an effort (trust me, if I had fresh eggs in the house it would be no effort at all)! Besides, I'm not in the mood for syrup.
The point is, I don't diet. And I'd like to munch on these things right now, but it's 10:42 pm and I'm smart enough to know (and too lazy as well) that falling under pressure will disrupt my muscle-to-fat ratio and therefore make me feel like crap when the Dutchman comes.
OK. I feel better now. Thanks for letting me let that out. Bisquick.
May 01, 2005
That Fly Is My Grandmother
Hey KO, remember that big black fly that would follow me around the apartment? It still shows up every once in a while.
WR was here one day when "Big Bertha" came visiting, and I told WR that the fly is a frequent visitor. WR said: "maybe it's one of your dead relatives." Ha ha ha!
After that, I changed Big Bertha's name to Rifka, what we used to call my grandma. I mean, seriously, what is a fly's life span? This thing has been coming to visit for 7 years!
The other day, I was smoking at the window and Rifka banged herself into the closed window like 4 times before flying away. She must know that I said I was quitting last Sunday.
This morning, I was awake and lazily lying in bed. Rifka kept coming in and out of the room circling me. When I finally got out of bed, she left me alone.
Oh, by the way. Rifka says "hi."
WR was here one day when "Big Bertha" came visiting, and I told WR that the fly is a frequent visitor. WR said: "maybe it's one of your dead relatives." Ha ha ha!
After that, I changed Big Bertha's name to Rifka, what we used to call my grandma. I mean, seriously, what is a fly's life span? This thing has been coming to visit for 7 years!
The other day, I was smoking at the window and Rifka banged herself into the closed window like 4 times before flying away. She must know that I said I was quitting last Sunday.
This morning, I was awake and lazily lying in bed. Rifka kept coming in and out of the room circling me. When I finally got out of bed, she left me alone.
Oh, by the way. Rifka says "hi."
April 30, 2005
What About Dan?
I once read a Victorian-era novel in which one of the characters was described to be “in his hobbledy-hood.” Meaning, the young man was awkward in his skin. Too young for his tall stature and not comfortable in confidence, the young man took a back seat in the eyes of his crush as far as suitors were concerned. His pleasant demeanor was noticed by both her and her family, but nothing much else.
A dear friend of mine has often questioned me about Dan. Almost 2 years younger, almost 2 feet taller, and as good a man as you can get, he is a friend I made in college. I’ve introduced his family to my family, and they’ve always loved each anothers’ company. He and I know each other’s goals, insecurities and passions. He’s called me at 2 am bawling his eyes out. His mom loves the hell out of me and at one point begged me to marry him. So why aren’t we together, one would ask? Hell, he even asked me that himself, the night of my college graduation party.
Since reading that forgettable, un-named novel, “in his hobbledy-hood” is how I have always thought of Dan: well done in the social and civic demeanor, rather well-versed in wines and the world, yet terribly raw in the “comfortable in one’s own skin” department. I’ve never seen him as attractive; always simply awkward and positively delightful in his outlook on life.
This past Thanksgiving, as usual, my mom requested I run to the store for something. When I got back I saw Dan’s car parked in front of the house. I smiled, because that’s how is: he knows my family, everyone feels as if he’s part of it, and quite frankly, the man is spontaneous. So, on his way back to whence he had come, he realized he could stop in on us. And he did.
When I saw Dan I was comforted by his familiar and easy presence. But there was something different about him. His “hobbeldy-hood” was… well, quite frankly, disappearing! That’s right. He was filling out. The awkwardness and lack of confidence was gone. Just like in the book!
Now, I know that it is a silly thing for a woman to live her life pinned on the examples she has read in novels and seen on the big screen. But I will be one of the first to admit that I do (which is probably why I am still single). Seriously, my ideals on love and relationships are screwed up, thanks to fiction and movies. And so on rare occasion, in a pathetic, quiet voice, I sometimes ask myself: “what about Dan?”
I know what you’re thinking, because I think it myself (in fact, this whole blog is turning into a “single, single me” blog – YUCK). You’re thinking that I sometimes think that about Dan because I want to be in a relationship and have no prospects. After all, women always fall back on some guy on the “possible but not preferable” list. We fall back on it when there are no other viable possibilities for marriage - it’s an issue that harkens back to the days of Spinsterhood. [Wow, I could go off on a tangent post on that alone!]
However, I am only writing about Dan because I will see him and his entire family next weekend, and I called him yesterday to tell him it is going to be fun, fun, fun. It was then I started to think again about his “hobbledy-hood,” and how it is disappearing, and realized it was one of those rare moments when I think “what about Dan?” I am pretty confident that I will still consider him just a great, close friend, extended family of sorts. After all, after 9 years Dan’s crush on me may well have diminished, and one from me for him has yet to surface.
A dear friend of mine has often questioned me about Dan. Almost 2 years younger, almost 2 feet taller, and as good a man as you can get, he is a friend I made in college. I’ve introduced his family to my family, and they’ve always loved each anothers’ company. He and I know each other’s goals, insecurities and passions. He’s called me at 2 am bawling his eyes out. His mom loves the hell out of me and at one point begged me to marry him. So why aren’t we together, one would ask? Hell, he even asked me that himself, the night of my college graduation party.
Since reading that forgettable, un-named novel, “in his hobbledy-hood” is how I have always thought of Dan: well done in the social and civic demeanor, rather well-versed in wines and the world, yet terribly raw in the “comfortable in one’s own skin” department. I’ve never seen him as attractive; always simply awkward and positively delightful in his outlook on life.
This past Thanksgiving, as usual, my mom requested I run to the store for something. When I got back I saw Dan’s car parked in front of the house. I smiled, because that’s how is: he knows my family, everyone feels as if he’s part of it, and quite frankly, the man is spontaneous. So, on his way back to whence he had come, he realized he could stop in on us. And he did.
When I saw Dan I was comforted by his familiar and easy presence. But there was something different about him. His “hobbeldy-hood” was… well, quite frankly, disappearing! That’s right. He was filling out. The awkwardness and lack of confidence was gone. Just like in the book!
Now, I know that it is a silly thing for a woman to live her life pinned on the examples she has read in novels and seen on the big screen. But I will be one of the first to admit that I do (which is probably why I am still single). Seriously, my ideals on love and relationships are screwed up, thanks to fiction and movies. And so on rare occasion, in a pathetic, quiet voice, I sometimes ask myself: “what about Dan?”
I know what you’re thinking, because I think it myself (in fact, this whole blog is turning into a “single, single me” blog – YUCK). You’re thinking that I sometimes think that about Dan because I want to be in a relationship and have no prospects. After all, women always fall back on some guy on the “possible but not preferable” list. We fall back on it when there are no other viable possibilities for marriage - it’s an issue that harkens back to the days of Spinsterhood. [Wow, I could go off on a tangent post on that alone!]
However, I am only writing about Dan because I will see him and his entire family next weekend, and I called him yesterday to tell him it is going to be fun, fun, fun. It was then I started to think again about his “hobbledy-hood,” and how it is disappearing, and realized it was one of those rare moments when I think “what about Dan?” I am pretty confident that I will still consider him just a great, close friend, extended family of sorts. After all, after 9 years Dan’s crush on me may well have diminished, and one from me for him has yet to surface.
April 28, 2005
Please Don't
Hey Blogspot.com people.
Please don't. That's right. Please don't use that template that has all the polka dots on it. I can't read your shit. I mean, blogs. Seriously. My old and weary eyes can't handle the polka dots + script. Ok then. It's settled. No more polka dots. Right?
Please don't. That's right. Please don't use that template that has all the polka dots on it. I can't read your shit. I mean, blogs. Seriously. My old and weary eyes can't handle the polka dots + script. Ok then. It's settled. No more polka dots. Right?
April 27, 2005
Self-Editing
Ha ha ha.
In the wee hours of the night, People. That's when the insanity kicks in. LUCKILY I save it to the C:/ drive first, for self-editing. Seriously!
It's a scary shame the things I've intended to post here. Absolutely shameful. Embarrassing. Things I wouldn't want to admit EVER. To ANYONE. Just sad, lonely crap that, yes even you, my dear few persons (close to my heart) whom I've admitted into this lair, would not want to hear me whining about. Because after all, I've got a good life here. Nothing in the Grand Scheme Of Things that I can complain about.
Hmm. This night is VERY long. I can't believe it's only 11:30p. Seems like 3a - whatup? And.... how old am I again? Oh yeah, 32. So, as a 32 year old, I should probably skip the "whatup?" jargon and posting a lame-ass poem about "being single and to what end?" and call it a night.
But on a further note, don't fret Everyone. I'm only half single. I've got the "cyber boyfriend." Over there. WAY over there in Amsterdam. But coming to a city near you?... in June, supposedly.
OK then. Goodnight.
In the wee hours of the night, People. That's when the insanity kicks in. LUCKILY I save it to the C:/ drive first, for self-editing. Seriously!
It's a scary shame the things I've intended to post here. Absolutely shameful. Embarrassing. Things I wouldn't want to admit EVER. To ANYONE. Just sad, lonely crap that, yes even you, my dear few persons (close to my heart) whom I've admitted into this lair, would not want to hear me whining about. Because after all, I've got a good life here. Nothing in the Grand Scheme Of Things that I can complain about.
Hmm. This night is VERY long. I can't believe it's only 11:30p. Seems like 3a - whatup? And.... how old am I again? Oh yeah, 32. So, as a 32 year old, I should probably skip the "whatup?" jargon and posting a lame-ass poem about "being single and to what end?" and call it a night.
But on a further note, don't fret Everyone. I'm only half single. I've got the "cyber boyfriend." Over there. WAY over there in Amsterdam. But coming to a city near you?... in June, supposedly.
OK then. Goodnight.
As Usual...
What the hell am I doing up watching Oprah at 1:30 when I have a business meeting at 9 am tomorrow?!!!
On a different note, have you ever noticed that, if you tear the lettuce apart for your salad, that you actually end up touching every single piece of lettuce that you will eat? Interesting... at least, to me.
On a different note, have you ever noticed that, if you tear the lettuce apart for your salad, that you actually end up touching every single piece of lettuce that you will eat? Interesting... at least, to me.
April 22, 2005
Losing Streak
People, I never lose stuff. I only misplace it for a while. But lately, it feels like the dot com boom and me losing. How, you ask? Well, I'll tell you.
"Dot com boom" refers to the days of taking cabs EVERYWHERE. In the dot com bust we took the old Public Trans a lot, you see. But all of the sudden, lately I have been whisked here and there via the taxi cab. And each time I do, I realize soonafter that something is missing.
First, it was my newest fascination: The Perfect Black Sweater. And yes, folks, it was THE PERFECT Black Sweater. I wore that MF day in and day out before I even saw it show up on the credit card bill. A Perfectly cut, Perfectly fit Banana Republic ribbed black turleneck. And then I wore it over a cut tank, and it was hot in G Bar, and I took it off. And the bar closed. And I had a super-no-uber cute guy on my arm when leaving but apparantly the other arm was not holding The Perfect Sweater. The next day I figured, due to cute guy sleepover, that Perfect Black Sweater was tossed aside somewhere. After all, I never LOSE things. But a month + later it has yet to show up in the apartment. I figure it was left in the cab, but no one will ever know for sure.
THEN! Just when I thought it was over, and I had begrudgingly paid for the Perfect Black Sweater that was already lost, I recieved a gift. A beautiful Hot Pink Cable Knit Cap. As in ski cap. It was super cute, and turned heads (for good or bad reasons I could never discern, but after the last experience before LOSING IT, I think it was for the good). And I wore that puppy out. Out a lot. And then I went bar hopping. And after-partying. And met the guy with the fucking green corduroy blazer (see Were They This Cute When...?). And the next thing you know, 2 weeks later it is cold, and I need a hat, and I begin searching the apartment for HPCKC. Nowhere. Nowhere!! And it is still nowhere.
So. For the girl who thought she never had a losing streak, the girl who thought she never lost anything (only "misplaced it for a while"), HA. HA HA HA. And bummer.
To the Perfect Black Sweater and the Hot Pink Cable Knit Cap: I miss you both SO MUCH.
"Dot com boom" refers to the days of taking cabs EVERYWHERE. In the dot com bust we took the old Public Trans a lot, you see. But all of the sudden, lately I have been whisked here and there via the taxi cab. And each time I do, I realize soonafter that something is missing.
First, it was my newest fascination: The Perfect Black Sweater. And yes, folks, it was THE PERFECT Black Sweater. I wore that MF day in and day out before I even saw it show up on the credit card bill. A Perfectly cut, Perfectly fit Banana Republic ribbed black turleneck. And then I wore it over a cut tank, and it was hot in G Bar, and I took it off. And the bar closed. And I had a super-no-uber cute guy on my arm when leaving but apparantly the other arm was not holding The Perfect Sweater. The next day I figured, due to cute guy sleepover, that Perfect Black Sweater was tossed aside somewhere. After all, I never LOSE things. But a month + later it has yet to show up in the apartment. I figure it was left in the cab, but no one will ever know for sure.
THEN! Just when I thought it was over, and I had begrudgingly paid for the Perfect Black Sweater that was already lost, I recieved a gift. A beautiful Hot Pink Cable Knit Cap. As in ski cap. It was super cute, and turned heads (for good or bad reasons I could never discern, but after the last experience before LOSING IT, I think it was for the good). And I wore that puppy out. Out a lot. And then I went bar hopping. And after-partying. And met the guy with the fucking green corduroy blazer (see Were They This Cute When...?). And the next thing you know, 2 weeks later it is cold, and I need a hat, and I begin searching the apartment for HPCKC. Nowhere. Nowhere!! And it is still nowhere.
So. For the girl who thought she never had a losing streak, the girl who thought she never lost anything (only "misplaced it for a while"), HA. HA HA HA. And bummer.
To the Perfect Black Sweater and the Hot Pink Cable Knit Cap: I miss you both SO MUCH.
April 13, 2005
Animal Kingdom Update
So I have completed my post as Official Director of the Animal Kingdom of Alameda. I am happy to report that the potty training went well: only zero-to-2 accidents a day (vs. a 3+ when I arrived).
Cat on the Prowl: total score in the cat and mouse game - cat: 7, mice: 0. That's right, people, in the span of 8 days I tossed 7 mice in the garbage. Only later did someone question whether or not I put the still barely alive ones out of their misery. I asked "how could I possibly put a half-dead mouse out of it's misery? Shoot it? Pick it up and break its neck? Both of those options are beyond my capabilities." The response: "Flush it down the toilet." Are you kidding?! That would seem like more torture to me. And is that legally allowed?? Oy.
The final success in Animal Kingdom: Learning that taking the puppies for a 30 minute power walk (rather, they hauled my 130 lb frame around the old naval base), they ended up sleeping for 2 hours. 2 hours! What a boon.
And hey, where'd my font changing capabilities go, Blogger?!
Cat on the Prowl: total score in the cat and mouse game - cat: 7, mice: 0. That's right, people, in the span of 8 days I tossed 7 mice in the garbage. Only later did someone question whether or not I put the still barely alive ones out of their misery. I asked "how could I possibly put a half-dead mouse out of it's misery? Shoot it? Pick it up and break its neck? Both of those options are beyond my capabilities." The response: "Flush it down the toilet." Are you kidding?! That would seem like more torture to me. And is that legally allowed?? Oy.
The final success in Animal Kingdom: Learning that taking the puppies for a 30 minute power walk (rather, they hauled my 130 lb frame around the old naval base), they ended up sleeping for 2 hours. 2 hours! What a boon.
And hey, where'd my font changing capabilities go, Blogger?!
Poor Little Rich Girl
Hmm. I was just reading Craigslist's Missed Connections and found a post by the same name.
Made my realize that is what I am: rich in health as well as fantastic and giving friends/family. I love having lightbulb moments.
To all of my friends who check in on me here, thank you for coming into my life, and for sticking around. I'm glad to pay you back in "my" way. Whatever that is.
xo
Made my realize that is what I am: rich in health as well as fantastic and giving friends/family. I love having lightbulb moments.
To all of my friends who check in on me here, thank you for coming into my life, and for sticking around. I'm glad to pay you back in "my" way. Whatever that is.
xo
April 04, 2005
Am I at the Zoo?
I am housesitting in Alameda and it is like the Wild Kingdom over here. I have a 2.5 month old puppy (NOT potty trained as previously advised), a 4 month old basset hound (WAS potty trained until he decided to take advantage of my presence and shit under the dining table), and 3 cats. Last night one of the cats was howling at 1 am, I went downstairs to find that he had mutilated but not killed a mouse, which I had to grab with paper towel by the tail and throw outside.
Needless to say, the house reeks of puppy urine and I was at a boiling point today. Finally a friend brought me to my senses by simply saying "they are just puppies, they only know what their owners have taught them" so on my way back from the office I stopped and bought them treats and now I take them to the backyard every hour, force them to pee, then praise the hell out of them.
OK, off to bed, because Bob the cat (the cat that was obliviously sleeping on the couch next to the mouse fiasco) seems to think it is very important that I am up by 6:30 every morning, and makes sure I am by walking on me and drooling on my face. Joy.
Needless to say, the house reeks of puppy urine and I was at a boiling point today. Finally a friend brought me to my senses by simply saying "they are just puppies, they only know what their owners have taught them" so on my way back from the office I stopped and bought them treats and now I take them to the backyard every hour, force them to pee, then praise the hell out of them.
OK, off to bed, because Bob the cat (the cat that was obliviously sleeping on the couch next to the mouse fiasco) seems to think it is very important that I am up by 6:30 every morning, and makes sure I am by walking on me and drooling on my face. Joy.
March 29, 2005
March 17, 2005
Ice Cream and Beer
Did I not learn my lesson from the Starburst episode? No people, I didn't puke this time, only had 2 beers, but I don't recommend a pint of ice cream and beer for dinner.
Were They This Cute When I Was Young?
Saturday night I went out on the town. Went to Madrone, the cool new bar on the corner of Divis and Fell. I was feeling great in my freshly washed Seven's and the new hot pink scoop tee from Urban Outfitters. Once shedding my wool coat, I was ready to have a good time with The Gang.
My friends visiting from Chicago brought a butt-load of local cousins along, including one tall, dark and cutie pie, the ripe age of 26, who had a personality to boot. Maybe it was one of the first things I said to him ("That adorable smile won't open every door, I'm afraid!"), but he was kind of into me. It was cute.
We moved down the street to another bar, where I spotted a likely mate in a hip green coduroy blazer, white tee and jeans. Yum. As the rest of our party staggled in, he joined up with one of the guys. Goodie - he's with us! Unfortunately, he consumed himself with talking to Chad about paintball and girls.
At closing we moved down the street to Chad's for a little after party. Tall Dark and Cutie Pie was by my side, definitely into me at this point. He asked if I wanted a ride on his motorcycle to Chad's. "It's 2 blocks away," I replied. But he didn't waver! At Chad's he sat next to me, tried to hold my hand, sneeked peaks at the thong peeping out of my low rise jeans when I leaned over to put my beer on the table, and tried to throw my legs over his and embrace me in a cuddle! All of this with the cutest of smiles, and shining dark eyes, even though I wasn't going along with any of it. When my Chicago friends and I left at 4 a.m., Tall Dark Cutie Pie asked for directions to my apartment! I told him it was, sadly, not a slumber party. He was really surprised he wasn't coming back to my place.
This is what I'm wondering, people. Now I know I keep telling you how old I am (32, 32, 32), but I really don't remember guys being that balls-y when I was that age. Balls-y and sweet about it at the same time. Is this a new trend or is this just this one Tall Dark Cutie Pie and he's a phenomenon? Hmm.
And what happened with Green Blazer Guy? Well, he was at Chad's too. Sitting next to me on the couch, so I was sandwiched between the man who liked me and the man I liked. Green Blazer Guy played the guitar and sang Radiohead songs, and sounded awesome. I couldn't believe I stumbled upon a guy who was hip, humble, had a job and could sing Radiohead. But, he obviously wasn't into me, because when I went to the bathroom he left, without saying goodbye. So long, Green Blazer Guy. Bummer.
My friends visiting from Chicago brought a butt-load of local cousins along, including one tall, dark and cutie pie, the ripe age of 26, who had a personality to boot. Maybe it was one of the first things I said to him ("That adorable smile won't open every door, I'm afraid!"), but he was kind of into me. It was cute.
We moved down the street to another bar, where I spotted a likely mate in a hip green coduroy blazer, white tee and jeans. Yum. As the rest of our party staggled in, he joined up with one of the guys. Goodie - he's with us! Unfortunately, he consumed himself with talking to Chad about paintball and girls.
At closing we moved down the street to Chad's for a little after party. Tall Dark and Cutie Pie was by my side, definitely into me at this point. He asked if I wanted a ride on his motorcycle to Chad's. "It's 2 blocks away," I replied. But he didn't waver! At Chad's he sat next to me, tried to hold my hand, sneeked peaks at the thong peeping out of my low rise jeans when I leaned over to put my beer on the table, and tried to throw my legs over his and embrace me in a cuddle! All of this with the cutest of smiles, and shining dark eyes, even though I wasn't going along with any of it. When my Chicago friends and I left at 4 a.m., Tall Dark Cutie Pie asked for directions to my apartment! I told him it was, sadly, not a slumber party. He was really surprised he wasn't coming back to my place.
This is what I'm wondering, people. Now I know I keep telling you how old I am (32, 32, 32), but I really don't remember guys being that balls-y when I was that age. Balls-y and sweet about it at the same time. Is this a new trend or is this just this one Tall Dark Cutie Pie and he's a phenomenon? Hmm.
And what happened with Green Blazer Guy? Well, he was at Chad's too. Sitting next to me on the couch, so I was sandwiched between the man who liked me and the man I liked. Green Blazer Guy played the guitar and sang Radiohead songs, and sounded awesome. I couldn't believe I stumbled upon a guy who was hip, humble, had a job and could sing Radiohead. But, he obviously wasn't into me, because when I went to the bathroom he left, without saying goodbye. So long, Green Blazer Guy. Bummer.
March 10, 2005
Have You Ever Been Told?
Have you ever been told you remind someone of a celebrity? I have:
1. The first time I was told this was when I was 19 and on a cruise to Mexico. There was a very dashing older (WAY older) man who looked like Sean Connery taking his nightcap at the bar. He told me I reminded him of Goldie Hawn. I think it was more of a personality thing?
2. The second time I was at a friend's party, and one of her friends who is a director of indie films here in SF told me I looked like Mira Sorvino. Who? I immediately checked that out and found out her claim to fame was in the Woodie Allen movie Mighty Aphrodite. I rented the movie because of this. Happy for the look, but hope she wasn't referring to the voice. Or the brains. Or the occupation.
3. This was the oddest of celebrity relations (yes, K.O. you were there). A friend's cousin in L.A. told me I reminded him of.... Danny DeVito. Danny DeVito? Danny F'n DeVito!!! It took me a long time, but I finally realized he was comparing my HUMOR, not my LOOKS. Thank God. Here's a tip for the fellas: NEVER, NEVER, NEVER tell a woman she reminds you of a short bald fat male comedian. Never. If you are asking why, then you don't understand that women always feel they are being compared to someone in the form of one's appearance.
4. Most recently, in a sales meeting, one of my colleagues whispered to me "Do you watch '24'?" I replied, "No, not really." She then said "You look kind of like the character Chloe." I nodded. I became immediately obsessed with Chloe. Where's Chloe goddamit? There's no one named Chloe in this episode! I continued to watch another 2 episodes, still no Chloe, before asking a friend who watches the show regularly where the hell this chick was. "Chloe's gone." Damn. So I finally out of boredom and curiosity checked her out. The actress' name is really Mary Lynn Rajskub, and apparently we've had stints in Legally Blonde II and Punch Drunk Love as well as 24.
Anyway, if you've clicked on all the links so far, I guess you have an idea now of what I look like. Hopefully you don't see the Danny DeVito connection.
1. The first time I was told this was when I was 19 and on a cruise to Mexico. There was a very dashing older (WAY older) man who looked like Sean Connery taking his nightcap at the bar. He told me I reminded him of Goldie Hawn. I think it was more of a personality thing?
2. The second time I was at a friend's party, and one of her friends who is a director of indie films here in SF told me I looked like Mira Sorvino. Who? I immediately checked that out and found out her claim to fame was in the Woodie Allen movie Mighty Aphrodite. I rented the movie because of this. Happy for the look, but hope she wasn't referring to the voice. Or the brains. Or the occupation.
3. This was the oddest of celebrity relations (yes, K.O. you were there). A friend's cousin in L.A. told me I reminded him of.... Danny DeVito. Danny DeVito? Danny F'n DeVito!!! It took me a long time, but I finally realized he was comparing my HUMOR, not my LOOKS. Thank God. Here's a tip for the fellas: NEVER, NEVER, NEVER tell a woman she reminds you of a short bald fat male comedian. Never. If you are asking why, then you don't understand that women always feel they are being compared to someone in the form of one's appearance.
4. Most recently, in a sales meeting, one of my colleagues whispered to me "Do you watch '24'?" I replied, "No, not really." She then said "You look kind of like the character Chloe." I nodded. I became immediately obsessed with Chloe. Where's Chloe goddamit? There's no one named Chloe in this episode! I continued to watch another 2 episodes, still no Chloe, before asking a friend who watches the show regularly where the hell this chick was. "Chloe's gone." Damn. So I finally out of boredom and curiosity checked her out. The actress' name is really Mary Lynn Rajskub, and apparently we've had stints in Legally Blonde II and Punch Drunk Love as well as 24.
Anyway, if you've clicked on all the links so far, I guess you have an idea now of what I look like. Hopefully you don't see the Danny DeVito connection.
The Starlet vs. Top Model, & a bit of Amazing Race
OK people. Now I don't hinge my life on what 18-24 year old girls on TV freak out about, but this is just killing me!
I don't know which show is worse. Nevertheless, I can't help but watch them both!
On Starlet this week, all the girls were freaking out about doing a girl on girl kiss. On Top Model, the girls were freaking out more about their haircuts than posing topless. "Oh! They are bleaching my hair! The horror! The pain!"
Overall, if I had my choice, I'd feel much more comfortable kissing a girl than posing without a shirt on. Maybe that's because I have more confidence in how well I kiss than how nice my boobies are.
I think the fact that I am 32 has a lot to do with this. By now, I know I am one hell of a good kisser. I also am not afraid to say that I believe some women are absolutely gorgeous, and if one of them asked me to kiss them, I think it'd be kind of a compliment! And also, even at this age I am body conscious. Having my hands be the only thing between a camera crew and my little nip nips still seems scary. The other scary part is that the picture would also have to have my face in it, complete with a seductive look. I'm better at "cute" than seductive. So if I had to choose a show to try out for, even though I am way way way past any age limit and probably too short and heavy for either, I'd have to say I'd choose to be on Starlet. But then again, on Starlet you have to go to those silly acting classes that make you look foolish in front of America, and I'd have a hard time taking any of it seriously.
So I guess it's a good thing that I am too old for the age limits of these shows. I think it would be better for me to find a partner for Amazing Race. At least I know I'd be able to kick some serious ass on that show. I wouldn't have any problem with those tasks. I'd pick the more challenging but faster of Road Blocks every time. I'll use my charm and language skills to get us ahead. But my partner would have to be able to make all the travel decisions. I'll just come along to hustle and win.
I don't know which show is worse. Nevertheless, I can't help but watch them both!
On Starlet this week, all the girls were freaking out about doing a girl on girl kiss. On Top Model, the girls were freaking out more about their haircuts than posing topless. "Oh! They are bleaching my hair! The horror! The pain!"
Overall, if I had my choice, I'd feel much more comfortable kissing a girl than posing without a shirt on. Maybe that's because I have more confidence in how well I kiss than how nice my boobies are.
I think the fact that I am 32 has a lot to do with this. By now, I know I am one hell of a good kisser. I also am not afraid to say that I believe some women are absolutely gorgeous, and if one of them asked me to kiss them, I think it'd be kind of a compliment! And also, even at this age I am body conscious. Having my hands be the only thing between a camera crew and my little nip nips still seems scary. The other scary part is that the picture would also have to have my face in it, complete with a seductive look. I'm better at "cute" than seductive. So if I had to choose a show to try out for, even though I am way way way past any age limit and probably too short and heavy for either, I'd have to say I'd choose to be on Starlet. But then again, on Starlet you have to go to those silly acting classes that make you look foolish in front of America, and I'd have a hard time taking any of it seriously.
So I guess it's a good thing that I am too old for the age limits of these shows. I think it would be better for me to find a partner for Amazing Race. At least I know I'd be able to kick some serious ass on that show. I wouldn't have any problem with those tasks. I'd pick the more challenging but faster of Road Blocks every time. I'll use my charm and language skills to get us ahead. But my partner would have to be able to make all the travel decisions. I'll just come along to hustle and win.
March 06, 2005
A Sickly End
45 Starburst candies and a bottle of wine
Do not a dinner make
The rainbow of colors in the toilet
Was proof of my mistake
There was food in plenty at the party
And it smelled most devine
But only Bacchus' sweet potion
Took hold of my mind
Sunday's scorn was brutal and beastly
Every task was turned in pain
I won't supper on 45 Starburst candies and a bottle of wine
ever, ever, ever again
Forgive me, folks. I have watched 3 Victorian-era movies in the past 48 hours. They are alwasy reading poetry aloud; guess it sunk in.
Do not a dinner make
The rainbow of colors in the toilet
Was proof of my mistake
There was food in plenty at the party
And it smelled most devine
But only Bacchus' sweet potion
Took hold of my mind
Sunday's scorn was brutal and beastly
Every task was turned in pain
I won't supper on 45 Starburst candies and a bottle of wine
ever, ever, ever again
Forgive me, folks. I have watched 3 Victorian-era movies in the past 48 hours. They are alwasy reading poetry aloud; guess it sunk in.
February 23, 2005
Identity Crisis
A friend of mine suggests I consider changing my pen name. He says Gertie is not cheeky enough to represent me. The name doesn't reflect the vitality and girlyness that oft times flirts with the audience. In other words, who he knows, who he reads, and who the blog states wrote it don't jive.
Hmm. Gertie, Gertrude, a true old lady's name. Aren't old lady's names all the rage now? It's part of the whole "name the kid after great grandma, a fruit, or a city" trend. Julia Roberts named her daughter Hazel, Gwyneth's daughter is Apple, and all of us know at least one kid named Paris, Brooklyn, or Dallas. I think I'll name my kid after a country - Bali. Or Mauritius. Or America. But who pays attention to celeb trends anyway?
It would feel wierd to switch up on my readers like that. All of the sudden a girl named Vanessa or Trixie or Francesca has taken over writing? It sounds like the same person. Doi? I'll have to think about it. Guess you'll have to come back soon.
Hmm. Gertie, Gertrude, a true old lady's name. Aren't old lady's names all the rage now? It's part of the whole "name the kid after great grandma, a fruit, or a city" trend. Julia Roberts named her daughter Hazel, Gwyneth's daughter is Apple, and all of us know at least one kid named Paris, Brooklyn, or Dallas. I think I'll name my kid after a country - Bali. Or Mauritius. Or America. But who pays attention to celeb trends anyway?
It would feel wierd to switch up on my readers like that. All of the sudden a girl named Vanessa or Trixie or Francesca has taken over writing? It sounds like the same person. Doi? I'll have to think about it. Guess you'll have to come back soon.
February 21, 2005
Re-calibration
I was on the phone with my mom the other day and she mentioned that she and my dad went to see The Aviator, and that she really liked it.
Gertie said: "Yeah, I'm sure it's a good film, but I don't really want to see it because I would never 'see' Leonardo DiCaprio as Howard Hughes...and there is NO WAY that actress who plays Katherine Hepburn would ever convince me she is Katherine Hepburn. I mean, who cast that thing?"
My mom said: "I'm really worried about you. You're very negative." I'll spare you the additional commentary on that statement.
Gertie said: "I'm not negative; I'm just extremely critical about films."
Later I realized that I was getting into my Rough City Rut. People who come to San Francisco dazzle at its quasi-European, almost-but-not-quite-New York atmosphere. But there are sides to San Francisco that tourists don't see. Horrendous parking. The most ridiculous traffic. Homelessness. Homelessness is a shame, and tourists do see some of it, but it's pretty rampant in my neighborhood - the Haight Ashbury. After living here for 8 years, I have nicknames for most notable regulars. I never give money, I do give food and I do say hi to the sane, gentle ones. But there are some cuckoos, some real doozies, and they love to pick on me. They probably love to pick on everyone, but it always seems like a personal attack.
I have to work very hard to place an invisible sign on my forehead to let these people know if I am open to interacting with them or not. I try to place "Do Not Disturb" out there, rather than my more natural "Ask me for Directions" look. Unfortunately, once I get a sign up, it's communicated to everyone, all the time. I carry that "talk to me!" or "don't fuck with me" look to the gym, out to bars, on the train.
Until my mom said I was negative, I had no idea it was time to re-calibrate. My re-calibration usually occurs naturally after a quick vacation, but I haven't been on one of those in a long time.
I spent the weekend north of San Francisco in my native Marin, watching a friend's dog. It rained all weekend, but with enough breaks to take that crazed dog out on a trail walk. I am telling you, there is nothing like a freshly rained on fire trail to enhance one's mood. The trickling of water running off the hillside; grass so lushly green you want to lick the raindrops off; the soft padder of your feet walking over the spongy dead pines that fell during the last storm; the wonderful smell of all these things combined. No cars, no bums, no drugged-out-tatt-wearing-pierced runaways, no fashionistas. Just you and the dog, and you're both in a different kind of heaven on that trail.
Then a crazy thing happened, and it almost made me sick to my stomach. I pulled my cellphone out of my pocket to see if I had reception. That's right people! In all that peace and quiet I was getting a lot of things done in my head, including a list of people I needed to call. I was shocked simultaneously by a) noticing I had 3 bars, and b) the audacity of thinking that walking through serenity was a perfect place to catch up. So I shook my head at myself, turned the phone off, put it back in my pocket, and gave the dog a treat.
The funny thing is, almost every time I go running or hiking on a trail, I have this same connection. It's like a reminder of who I am. I am that mud-covered baby in the photo: with the hand-me-down blue smiley face sweatshirt, eating dirt on my first camping trip and absolutely loving every bite. It's a wonder I don't make an effort to hit the trails more than a few times a year.
Unfortunately, I am not 100% re-calibrated. I know that because when I came back to the City it took me 20 minutes of circling to find parking, during which time I said "fucking retard" under my breath to other drivers at least twice (note this is an improvement, and yes, I am the best driver in the world, so I have license to judge). There. That sentence right there proves my point. The good news is I am going to Jamaica in August, and like I said, every time I come back from a vacation I am absolutely refreshed and POSITIVE. At least for a few months.
Gertie said: "Yeah, I'm sure it's a good film, but I don't really want to see it because I would never 'see' Leonardo DiCaprio as Howard Hughes...and there is NO WAY that actress who plays Katherine Hepburn would ever convince me she is Katherine Hepburn. I mean, who cast that thing?"
My mom said: "I'm really worried about you. You're very negative." I'll spare you the additional commentary on that statement.
Gertie said: "I'm not negative; I'm just extremely critical about films."
Later I realized that I was getting into my Rough City Rut. People who come to San Francisco dazzle at its quasi-European, almost-but-not-quite-New York atmosphere. But there are sides to San Francisco that tourists don't see. Horrendous parking. The most ridiculous traffic. Homelessness. Homelessness is a shame, and tourists do see some of it, but it's pretty rampant in my neighborhood - the Haight Ashbury. After living here for 8 years, I have nicknames for most notable regulars. I never give money, I do give food and I do say hi to the sane, gentle ones. But there are some cuckoos, some real doozies, and they love to pick on me. They probably love to pick on everyone, but it always seems like a personal attack.
I have to work very hard to place an invisible sign on my forehead to let these people know if I am open to interacting with them or not. I try to place "Do Not Disturb" out there, rather than my more natural "Ask me for Directions" look. Unfortunately, once I get a sign up, it's communicated to everyone, all the time. I carry that "talk to me!" or "don't fuck with me" look to the gym, out to bars, on the train.
Until my mom said I was negative, I had no idea it was time to re-calibrate. My re-calibration usually occurs naturally after a quick vacation, but I haven't been on one of those in a long time.
I spent the weekend north of San Francisco in my native Marin, watching a friend's dog. It rained all weekend, but with enough breaks to take that crazed dog out on a trail walk. I am telling you, there is nothing like a freshly rained on fire trail to enhance one's mood. The trickling of water running off the hillside; grass so lushly green you want to lick the raindrops off; the soft padder of your feet walking over the spongy dead pines that fell during the last storm; the wonderful smell of all these things combined. No cars, no bums, no drugged-out-tatt-wearing-pierced runaways, no fashionistas. Just you and the dog, and you're both in a different kind of heaven on that trail.
Then a crazy thing happened, and it almost made me sick to my stomach. I pulled my cellphone out of my pocket to see if I had reception. That's right people! In all that peace and quiet I was getting a lot of things done in my head, including a list of people I needed to call. I was shocked simultaneously by a) noticing I had 3 bars, and b) the audacity of thinking that walking through serenity was a perfect place to catch up. So I shook my head at myself, turned the phone off, put it back in my pocket, and gave the dog a treat.
The funny thing is, almost every time I go running or hiking on a trail, I have this same connection. It's like a reminder of who I am. I am that mud-covered baby in the photo: with the hand-me-down blue smiley face sweatshirt, eating dirt on my first camping trip and absolutely loving every bite. It's a wonder I don't make an effort to hit the trails more than a few times a year.
Unfortunately, I am not 100% re-calibrated. I know that because when I came back to the City it took me 20 minutes of circling to find parking, during which time I said "fucking retard" under my breath to other drivers at least twice (note this is an improvement, and yes, I am the best driver in the world, so I have license to judge). There. That sentence right there proves my point. The good news is I am going to Jamaica in August, and like I said, every time I come back from a vacation I am absolutely refreshed and POSITIVE. At least for a few months.
February 15, 2005
Thank You, Playboy, My Childhood is Missing
You may think this an odd title for a Valentine's Day entry. It actually has nothing to do with the holiday - it's following my expressive flow.
Here's the scoop. My dad is a photographer. Originally born in Illinois, he grew up in a small town, and he knew it, and he had to get out. He lied about his age and joined the U.S. Navy at 17. Being a creative guy, he became the ship's photographer. He loved travelling, and his experience voyaging the world by boat shaped our family.
I think my mom was "WOW'ED" by his worldliness and artistry, not his looks. Because when they met in Chicago after my dad was released (is that what it's called?), this guy was an absolute phenomenon to her. He was an artist, he loved jazz, and he read the New York Times. An interersting species for a girl from the suburbs of Minnesota who was completely unfamiliar with any of these things.
Here's the thing: when they married, my mother refused to have photographs taken of the wedding. HELLO! the photographer has no photos of his one and only marriage.
And thus the trend began. Soon after my parents tied the knot, my dad accepted an offer to work as a photographer for Playboy Magazine. My parents moved near San Francisco, and gave birth to my brother, The Prodigal Son ("Your brother has come... and your father [in this case, my mother] has killed the fattened calf because he has him back safe and sound").
This was the hayday of Playboy. It was never spoken about, but in those 5 years he worked for Playboy, I think the family life took the back seat. Our family photo albums, sparse and few as they are, are riddled in my younger years with glimpses of natural beauties traipsing through wooded groves naked. Like I said, this was the hayday of Playboy, after all.
Now, you may be interested to know that in the '70's Playboy did actually have articles as well as photos. In fact, my dad was mostly responsible for the portraits of the highlighted individuals in the articles. Much to his chagrin. For example, he took pictures of Ron Kovic, the key character of the movie "Born on the 4th of July." And Ron Kovic is a real guy - I met him in a coffee shop when I was just back from living in France, 23 years old. When I told my parents I met him, my dad said "watch out." He was right; Ron, a VietNam vet, invited me several times to visit his "artist's cottage" to view his sculptures. But I refused, and I dirgress.
By the time I was 5, my dad had left Playboy and started working as an advertising photographer. As the second child, constantly curious about my parents' devotion to me, I started looking for confirmation in my baby book and in family photo albums that I was as loved and adored as I should be. There was not much evidence that I was their daughter. In fact, by the time I was 8, I was convinced I was adopted (which is funny now, because I look exactly like my mom).
My brother recently got married, and now he and his wife have a son. The first grandchild. Enter Prodigal Son II. Don't get me wrong, I love having a nephew. But I still have a hard time not being the center of attention. I still have a hard time acknowledging the fact that my baby book is virtually empty. This may be the "youngest child" syndrome, but I blame it on Playboy. After all, my dad rarely memorializes family events. The camera is only for work.
Yesterday my mom and I had a "girl day" and we walked 5 mi. on Blackie's Pasture in Tiburon, then went to Mill Valley to a gallery opening of some dead dude who my dad photographed for a Playboy article back in the 70's. He is now famous and some of his larger ridiculous art is worth $40,000. Apparently, when my dad was shooting photos of this artist at work for the magazine, he was scribbling out a samll piece. The piece was finished before my dad was done shooting, so he turned it over and started writing a story on the back about being photographed. At the end of the shoot, he gave the piece of artwork to my dad. My dad framed and kept it; now it is wortth, with my dad's original photo from Playboy, about $1,500.00.
Anyway, Happy Valentines Day to my mom and dad, who, even though they never photographed it, have loved me absolutely unconditionally for 32 years. And Happy 35th birthday my dear brother - may you take as many pictures of your 2nd child as you do your first. And Happy Valentine's Day to Cade, my one and only true love first nephew!!!!!
Here's the scoop. My dad is a photographer. Originally born in Illinois, he grew up in a small town, and he knew it, and he had to get out. He lied about his age and joined the U.S. Navy at 17. Being a creative guy, he became the ship's photographer. He loved travelling, and his experience voyaging the world by boat shaped our family.
I think my mom was "WOW'ED" by his worldliness and artistry, not his looks. Because when they met in Chicago after my dad was released (is that what it's called?), this guy was an absolute phenomenon to her. He was an artist, he loved jazz, and he read the New York Times. An interersting species for a girl from the suburbs of Minnesota who was completely unfamiliar with any of these things.
Here's the thing: when they married, my mother refused to have photographs taken of the wedding. HELLO! the photographer has no photos of his one and only marriage.
And thus the trend began. Soon after my parents tied the knot, my dad accepted an offer to work as a photographer for Playboy Magazine. My parents moved near San Francisco, and gave birth to my brother, The Prodigal Son ("Your brother has come... and your father [in this case, my mother] has killed the fattened calf because he has him back safe and sound").
This was the hayday of Playboy. It was never spoken about, but in those 5 years he worked for Playboy, I think the family life took the back seat. Our family photo albums, sparse and few as they are, are riddled in my younger years with glimpses of natural beauties traipsing through wooded groves naked. Like I said, this was the hayday of Playboy, after all.
Now, you may be interested to know that in the '70's Playboy did actually have articles as well as photos. In fact, my dad was mostly responsible for the portraits of the highlighted individuals in the articles. Much to his chagrin. For example, he took pictures of Ron Kovic, the key character of the movie "Born on the 4th of July." And Ron Kovic is a real guy - I met him in a coffee shop when I was just back from living in France, 23 years old. When I told my parents I met him, my dad said "watch out." He was right; Ron, a VietNam vet, invited me several times to visit his "artist's cottage" to view his sculptures. But I refused, and I dirgress.
By the time I was 5, my dad had left Playboy and started working as an advertising photographer. As the second child, constantly curious about my parents' devotion to me, I started looking for confirmation in my baby book and in family photo albums that I was as loved and adored as I should be. There was not much evidence that I was their daughter. In fact, by the time I was 8, I was convinced I was adopted (which is funny now, because I look exactly like my mom).
My brother recently got married, and now he and his wife have a son. The first grandchild. Enter Prodigal Son II. Don't get me wrong, I love having a nephew. But I still have a hard time not being the center of attention. I still have a hard time acknowledging the fact that my baby book is virtually empty. This may be the "youngest child" syndrome, but I blame it on Playboy. After all, my dad rarely memorializes family events. The camera is only for work.
Yesterday my mom and I had a "girl day" and we walked 5 mi. on Blackie's Pasture in Tiburon, then went to Mill Valley to a gallery opening of some dead dude who my dad photographed for a Playboy article back in the 70's. He is now famous and some of his larger ridiculous art is worth $40,000. Apparently, when my dad was shooting photos of this artist at work for the magazine, he was scribbling out a samll piece. The piece was finished before my dad was done shooting, so he turned it over and started writing a story on the back about being photographed. At the end of the shoot, he gave the piece of artwork to my dad. My dad framed and kept it; now it is wortth, with my dad's original photo from Playboy, about $1,500.00.
Anyway, Happy Valentines Day to my mom and dad, who, even though they never photographed it, have loved me absolutely unconditionally for 32 years. And Happy 35th birthday my dear brother - may you take as many pictures of your 2nd child as you do your first. And Happy Valentine's Day to Cade, my one and only true love first nephew!!!!!
February 08, 2005
Reconstructing Gertie
Word on the street for a while now is that 40 is the new 30. When a friend told me she was turning 41, my jaw dropped in awe of how amazing she looks. In San Francisco you see gorgeous, hip women on the positive side of 35 all the time. Apparently, women should no longer be scared to turn the "Big 3-0." In my book it's 32 they should worry about.
When I turned 30 I didn't change much. I still looked 26. And even though I still act 26 to this day, here I am at 32 and it appears I am starting to physically deteriorate. The whisper of future wrinkles I saw when I was 30 are now digging in and actually becoming features! My admired firm tush has decided to distinguish itself by adding a shelf. And where the hell did my tricep definition go?! Strangers are even calling me "Ma'am" more often than "Miss."
Then! Just when starting to contemplate all of this! A TV commercial came on: a girl enters her apartment, drops her purse, goes to the fridge and grabs a slice of chocolate cake. She takes the cake to the couch and starts eating it while watching TV. When she finishes, she sets the empty plate down, leans back on the couch and lights a cigarette. I am loving the commercial, waiting for what is next, because this girl is me. Chocolate cake for dinner and a relaxing cigarette after! Nice (though if it was me I would have eaten more cake). And here is what came next. Fade to black, and: Eat right. Exercise. Don't smoke. Live healthy.
%^&@!!!!!!! OK, OK, I get it. So, with the universe screaming "YOU'RE AGING AND UNHEALTHY" I am slowly reconstructing Gertie. That's right folks, in the face of my changing face, it's time to focus on some long-term preventative maintenance. In fact, I've already made some strides of change:
1. Replaced my daily ritual of the morning coffee to green tea, and reverted back to the pre-collegiate days of "social" coffee drinking. I did this to increase the anti-oxidents (anti-aging), but you can't imagine the recovery of lost energy I've had. Plus, coffee begs for a cigarette, green tea really doesn't.
2. If any of you have followed along my blog journey, I mentioned in "Bad Gas" that only the hint of love was enough to get me to floss regularly. Happy to report that I floss about 3 times a week, compared to previously which was more like once every 3 months. Not a huge step, but your mouth ages too, people.
3. Cutting back on the cigs. I take 5 out of the pack in the morning and that's all I have all day. Unless there's a party. Or alcohol involved. No, it's not the same as cold turkey. Baby steps, folks, baby steps.
Well, it's not a complete 360 lifestyle change. I've still got to work on the food intake. You were probably wondering how a cute, slim girl like me keeps her figure - it's not the diet. As it stands, I eat like crap, run 30 minutes 2 times a week and come out okay. Here's what I ate yesterday:
8:47 am: green tea
9:14 am: 2 slices toast gopped with butter
9:28 am: 2 more slices of toast gopped with butter
9:42 am: 2nd cup of green tea
11:51 am: heated up can of Trader Joe's Low Fat chicken noodle soup
4:16 pm: a bowl of chicken flavored Top Ramen
7:46 pm: peanut butter an jelly sandwhich (Yes, I know I'm 32!)
9:12 pm: too many chocolate-covered raisins to count
Did you notice the theme of 2's in there? I probably had 2 pb&j's as well. Hard to keep count. Hey and there's another theme - did you catch it? Right. It's vegetarian - just kidding. Theme number two is NO FRUITS OR VEGETABLES. I am real enough to admit that a chocolate-covered raisin is not a fruit.
Well, at least I can say I already had some good habits in place (sunscreen, eye cream, daily moisturizer and drinking lots of water), and I don't think I'm off to a bad start here with my newest trends, either. This is even more exciting than having New Year's resolutions! Ah, yes, change in the name of vanity and longevity...now, if you'll excuse me, I'm under construction.
When I turned 30 I didn't change much. I still looked 26. And even though I still act 26 to this day, here I am at 32 and it appears I am starting to physically deteriorate. The whisper of future wrinkles I saw when I was 30 are now digging in and actually becoming features! My admired firm tush has decided to distinguish itself by adding a shelf. And where the hell did my tricep definition go?! Strangers are even calling me "Ma'am" more often than "Miss."
Then! Just when starting to contemplate all of this! A TV commercial came on: a girl enters her apartment, drops her purse, goes to the fridge and grabs a slice of chocolate cake. She takes the cake to the couch and starts eating it while watching TV. When she finishes, she sets the empty plate down, leans back on the couch and lights a cigarette. I am loving the commercial, waiting for what is next, because this girl is me. Chocolate cake for dinner and a relaxing cigarette after! Nice (though if it was me I would have eaten more cake). And here is what came next. Fade to black, and: Eat right. Exercise. Don't smoke. Live healthy.
%^&@!!!!!!! OK, OK, I get it. So, with the universe screaming "YOU'RE AGING AND UNHEALTHY" I am slowly reconstructing Gertie. That's right folks, in the face of my changing face, it's time to focus on some long-term preventative maintenance. In fact, I've already made some strides of change:
1. Replaced my daily ritual of the morning coffee to green tea, and reverted back to the pre-collegiate days of "social" coffee drinking. I did this to increase the anti-oxidents (anti-aging), but you can't imagine the recovery of lost energy I've had. Plus, coffee begs for a cigarette, green tea really doesn't.
2. If any of you have followed along my blog journey, I mentioned in "Bad Gas" that only the hint of love was enough to get me to floss regularly. Happy to report that I floss about 3 times a week, compared to previously which was more like once every 3 months. Not a huge step, but your mouth ages too, people.
3. Cutting back on the cigs. I take 5 out of the pack in the morning and that's all I have all day. Unless there's a party. Or alcohol involved. No, it's not the same as cold turkey. Baby steps, folks, baby steps.
Well, it's not a complete 360 lifestyle change. I've still got to work on the food intake. You were probably wondering how a cute, slim girl like me keeps her figure - it's not the diet. As it stands, I eat like crap, run 30 minutes 2 times a week and come out okay. Here's what I ate yesterday:
8:47 am: green tea
9:14 am: 2 slices toast gopped with butter
9:28 am: 2 more slices of toast gopped with butter
9:42 am: 2nd cup of green tea
11:51 am: heated up can of Trader Joe's Low Fat chicken noodle soup
4:16 pm: a bowl of chicken flavored Top Ramen
7:46 pm: peanut butter an jelly sandwhich (Yes, I know I'm 32!)
9:12 pm: too many chocolate-covered raisins to count
Did you notice the theme of 2's in there? I probably had 2 pb&j's as well. Hard to keep count. Hey and there's another theme - did you catch it? Right. It's vegetarian - just kidding. Theme number two is NO FRUITS OR VEGETABLES. I am real enough to admit that a chocolate-covered raisin is not a fruit.
Well, at least I can say I already had some good habits in place (sunscreen, eye cream, daily moisturizer and drinking lots of water), and I don't think I'm off to a bad start here with my newest trends, either. This is even more exciting than having New Year's resolutions! Ah, yes, change in the name of vanity and longevity...now, if you'll excuse me, I'm under construction.
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