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.
February 23, 2005
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.
January 25, 2005
Trivial Miniscule Ridiculous Worries
The other day, I received an e-mail from my best friend who is doing a graduate program on human rights in Europe. Meaning she is living in Europe, working in an EU-sponsored program on human rights. Recently, this program took its 85 students (she's the only American, which in itself could be a story, believe me) on a trip to Kosovo.
I am not sure exactly what the purpose of the trip was, but I did understand one thing: we fortunate people do indeed "sweat the small stuff." And we do it all the time. It upsets me greatly, and I'm not impartial to doing it myself. After all, I really do need to buy $60 face cream. Come on people don't hate - it's got grape seed oil in it!!!
ANYWAY, the letter I received was not long or detailed. But it certainly brought home some issues I've long had with my society. Note here that I said "my society;" I did not say "America" or "America as a whole" or anything like that. I am aware that I am a white-collar white girl raised in a priveliged part of America, and that my experiences are not the same as anyone's. I am aware of and can appreciate struggle; I have experience dealing with my own struggles (many many, personal and professional) and know they cannot begin to compare with those of other people less or even more fortunate than myself. But receiving the letter from Kosovo, I realized that some of my "struggles" were decidedly non-plus.
Hearing those few details about the people of Kosovo, their warm hearts and shattered lives - trying to re-build, dealing with shortages of food, water, heat, and work - made me feel petty. The crap I consume myself with - looking this way, feeling that way, having this thing, does he like me - seem so absolutely ridiculous on the grand scale. The worst thing is, I know that there are equivelant tragedies here in the 'ole U.S. of A every day. I truly wish that the rest of "my society" would stop being so worried about appearance and see the big picture. It is really difficult to pursue the career I'm trying to pursue, in which I need to put on a seriuous "horse and pony show" for these people, and still maintain a sense of dignity and, most importantly, humanity. I mean, I am truly doing this work because I want to help people; I can't say it's the same for the rest. I guess the best thing to come of the letter I received is that I! CAN'T! WAIT! to get this plane called the New Career off the ground, make loads of money and put it to seriously good use! Hell yeah!
We all "get it" eventually, don't we? It's hard to believe that someone can be on the planet in this day and age for 70 or 80 years or more and completely miss the whole point of it all. But then again, I met up with an acquaintance yesterday who just turned 69, and she spoke to me for over an hour about nothing but pomp and circumstance. Note that I said "acquaintance," not "friend."
PS - Jerry on The Bachelorette is H-O-T!
I am not sure exactly what the purpose of the trip was, but I did understand one thing: we fortunate people do indeed "sweat the small stuff." And we do it all the time. It upsets me greatly, and I'm not impartial to doing it myself. After all, I really do need to buy $60 face cream. Come on people don't hate - it's got grape seed oil in it!!!
ANYWAY, the letter I received was not long or detailed. But it certainly brought home some issues I've long had with my society. Note here that I said "my society;" I did not say "America" or "America as a whole" or anything like that. I am aware that I am a white-collar white girl raised in a priveliged part of America, and that my experiences are not the same as anyone's. I am aware of and can appreciate struggle; I have experience dealing with my own struggles (many many, personal and professional) and know they cannot begin to compare with those of other people less or even more fortunate than myself. But receiving the letter from Kosovo, I realized that some of my "struggles" were decidedly non-plus.
Hearing those few details about the people of Kosovo, their warm hearts and shattered lives - trying to re-build, dealing with shortages of food, water, heat, and work - made me feel petty. The crap I consume myself with - looking this way, feeling that way, having this thing, does he like me - seem so absolutely ridiculous on the grand scale. The worst thing is, I know that there are equivelant tragedies here in the 'ole U.S. of A every day. I truly wish that the rest of "my society" would stop being so worried about appearance and see the big picture. It is really difficult to pursue the career I'm trying to pursue, in which I need to put on a seriuous "horse and pony show" for these people, and still maintain a sense of dignity and, most importantly, humanity. I mean, I am truly doing this work because I want to help people; I can't say it's the same for the rest. I guess the best thing to come of the letter I received is that I! CAN'T! WAIT! to get this plane called the New Career off the ground, make loads of money and put it to seriously good use! Hell yeah!
We all "get it" eventually, don't we? It's hard to believe that someone can be on the planet in this day and age for 70 or 80 years or more and completely miss the whole point of it all. But then again, I met up with an acquaintance yesterday who just turned 69, and she spoke to me for over an hour about nothing but pomp and circumstance. Note that I said "acquaintance," not "friend."
PS - Jerry on The Bachelorette is H-O-T!
January 13, 2005
Bad Gas
Most of my girlfriends are pregnant and about to squeeze out their first kids. Although there are many aspects of growing a baby that amaze me, one of the most intriguing is a woman's ability to change what she eats. All of the sudden, a woman will change her diet to give her body the best fuel for optimum performance. Like athletes, pregnant women instantaneously realize that their bodies are machines, and that the right fuel is what leads to making it to the finish line on top.
Now, I don't eat horribly, but I do tend to err on the empty calorie side. I give my machine bad gas! I would barely even call it fuel. I often chide myself for my poor eating, and vow to eat more fruits and veggies, but I never seem to get around to changing my habits.
Anyway, last night I was thinking about this pregnancy and diet thing, and wondered why accountability to someone else is so often what makes people really follow through with change. Why isn't accountability to oneself enough? It's certainly not for me. If I were asked to list my strengths, will power wouldn't be on it. What drives me to continue my dangerous indulgences when I know they are destroying the machine? It's not money; if money were an issue, I'd be saving myself a lot by reducing my alcohol consumption, quitting smoking, and squashing my addiction to Swiss chocolate bars. Which I consume one or twice a week, by the way - more than any non-Swiss really needs.
It is truly odd to me that I require some other important person in my life in order to do something I should be doing anyway. When I received a kiss from a guy I had been drooling over for years, I floated home, and for weeks after I flossed every day. EVERY DAY! Just like the dentist says! Why? Because I wanted to have the most perfect mouth for him. How weird is that?
Then there's this: "If my boyfriend doesn't smoke and doesn't like me smoking, then I will quit." Hello! Why am I waiting for an "if-then" statistical scenario to stop damaging the machine?!
And you know what? I ask myself this question almost every night between lights out and nodding off. And it never makes a damn bit of difference. So I guess I'll either need to get a boyfriend, get pregnant, or get with the program for MYSELF, or this machine is going to run out of gas, and kick it early.
Now, I don't eat horribly, but I do tend to err on the empty calorie side. I give my machine bad gas! I would barely even call it fuel. I often chide myself for my poor eating, and vow to eat more fruits and veggies, but I never seem to get around to changing my habits.
Anyway, last night I was thinking about this pregnancy and diet thing, and wondered why accountability to someone else is so often what makes people really follow through with change. Why isn't accountability to oneself enough? It's certainly not for me. If I were asked to list my strengths, will power wouldn't be on it. What drives me to continue my dangerous indulgences when I know they are destroying the machine? It's not money; if money were an issue, I'd be saving myself a lot by reducing my alcohol consumption, quitting smoking, and squashing my addiction to Swiss chocolate bars. Which I consume one or twice a week, by the way - more than any non-Swiss really needs.
It is truly odd to me that I require some other important person in my life in order to do something I should be doing anyway. When I received a kiss from a guy I had been drooling over for years, I floated home, and for weeks after I flossed every day. EVERY DAY! Just like the dentist says! Why? Because I wanted to have the most perfect mouth for him. How weird is that?
Then there's this: "If my boyfriend doesn't smoke and doesn't like me smoking, then I will quit." Hello! Why am I waiting for an "if-then" statistical scenario to stop damaging the machine?!
And you know what? I ask myself this question almost every night between lights out and nodding off. And it never makes a damn bit of difference. So I guess I'll either need to get a boyfriend, get pregnant, or get with the program for MYSELF, or this machine is going to run out of gas, and kick it early.
January 04, 2005
"Next Blog" Button
The "Next Blog" button. I could surf it all day and all night if I didn't have my own business or care about my social life. Or watch so much TV.
But honestly, NB-surfing has opened my eyes and raised questions.
The coolest thing about NB-surfing is how international it is. All sorts of languages out there. I can actually understand some of them, like the ones from England, Australia, Scotland, Ireland. (Je rigole. Ca suffit de dire que je peux assez bien lire les blogs francais aussi. Y los blogs d'america de sud tambien.) Oddly enough, I've only been to one Japanese blog, but I've been there over and over and over. Go figure.
The thing that really chaps my hide while NB-surfing is when I arrive at a site where there is no "Next Blog" button. How is that possible?! That's almost like holding me against my will! What - not enough people visit your site so you want to trap us like flies when we do? Of course, it could be that I just dont' know the trick to NB-surf away from there, and in that case, I'm sorry. But if I'm right! that you TRAP! US! THERE! then you deserve to be deleted.
Sometimes, the blogs are advertisements. Are you serious? Do you really get traffic from that? Puh-leaze. These blogs remind me of obnoxious humans. You just want to minimize your time with them. I get the same feeling when landing on and adblog as I used to when first meeting a Match.com date. "Next!"
There sure are a lot of students blogging. Whole lotta students! And boy, do they like to add the graphics. Whole lotta graphics goin' on there, kids! Easy does it; I only have a 50.6K modem. I know, I know: compu-antiquity. It's very difficult for me to accept any form of antiquity (except of course, vintage Gucci) when I am only 32, for crying out loud.
And then I think of the ultimate grandness of blogworld. Man, it's huge. I mean it's REALLY HUGE! For example: how many NB-surfs do you think it will take for me to land upon my man's blog? RANDOMLY, mind you. JUST BY PRESSING "NEXT BLOG." That chance seems really slim to me, frankly. I can tell you the chances are probably greater that I will hit some goat milk lover's site or a Aiwa stereo dealer site than my "cyber-boyfriend's." But then again, I guess it's all about the Big World, Small World Syndrome. After all, I've run into a work associate in a paper store in Florence, and completely missed a meeting point with a high school friend arriving on a train in France. So there you go, I guess. Button's on autopilot; who knows where it will lead.
But honestly, NB-surfing has opened my eyes and raised questions.
The coolest thing about NB-surfing is how international it is. All sorts of languages out there. I can actually understand some of them, like the ones from England, Australia, Scotland, Ireland. (Je rigole. Ca suffit de dire que je peux assez bien lire les blogs francais aussi. Y los blogs d'america de sud tambien.) Oddly enough, I've only been to one Japanese blog, but I've been there over and over and over. Go figure.
The thing that really chaps my hide while NB-surfing is when I arrive at a site where there is no "Next Blog" button. How is that possible?! That's almost like holding me against my will! What - not enough people visit your site so you want to trap us like flies when we do? Of course, it could be that I just dont' know the trick to NB-surf away from there, and in that case, I'm sorry. But if I'm right! that you TRAP! US! THERE! then you deserve to be deleted.
Sometimes, the blogs are advertisements. Are you serious? Do you really get traffic from that? Puh-leaze. These blogs remind me of obnoxious humans. You just want to minimize your time with them. I get the same feeling when landing on and adblog as I used to when first meeting a Match.com date. "Next!"
There sure are a lot of students blogging. Whole lotta students! And boy, do they like to add the graphics. Whole lotta graphics goin' on there, kids! Easy does it; I only have a 50.6K modem. I know, I know: compu-antiquity. It's very difficult for me to accept any form of antiquity (except of course, vintage Gucci) when I am only 32, for crying out loud.
And then I think of the ultimate grandness of blogworld. Man, it's huge. I mean it's REALLY HUGE! For example: how many NB-surfs do you think it will take for me to land upon my man's blog? RANDOMLY, mind you. JUST BY PRESSING "NEXT BLOG." That chance seems really slim to me, frankly. I can tell you the chances are probably greater that I will hit some goat milk lover's site or a Aiwa stereo dealer site than my "cyber-boyfriend's." But then again, I guess it's all about the Big World, Small World Syndrome. After all, I've run into a work associate in a paper store in Florence, and completely missed a meeting point with a high school friend arriving on a train in France. So there you go, I guess. Button's on autopilot; who knows where it will lead.
January 03, 2005
Hoo Ha! I am Finally Google-able!
Yes! If you type my full name into Google, I finally come up! And it's first on the list.
PS - I am now addicted to "Next Blog" surfing. Yum!
PPS - Did you know, if you have a laptop, the battery can act as a foot warmer? Double yum!!
PS - I am now addicted to "Next Blog" surfing. Yum!
PPS - Did you know, if you have a laptop, the battery can act as a foot warmer? Double yum!!
January 02, 2005
Around the City to 80 Parties
My friends can attest that I have never really enjoyed New Year's Eve. As an eternally single gal, an annual event that forces you to find someone to kiss by midnight feels like God's little game of Dare.
Additionally, I found early on in my NYE career that, at least in San Francisco, it is near impossible to get where you want to go when you want to. This usually happens at the most crucial point of the night - the point at which you want to go home. You'd be amazed how competitive otherwise joyous revelers can be when trying to get a taxi at 3am.
So I was happy this year to open my house to the few people I knew that might not have plans already. Most people did have plans; I knew it would be a small crowd. And it was small indeed! In fact, by about 9:30 there were only 4 of us: me, W.R., John T and John I. Most of the group that was intending to come were comfortably stuck at the party before mine. It was walking distance away, so we joined them instead.
We were having a lovely time for twenty minutes before I was ushered to put my coat back on and go to a different party. So we walked (and walked and walked) the wet streets of San Francisco to another party further from my house. Luckily I was wearing my Kenneth Cole high heals, the ones with the tennis shoe soles. Otherwise I wouldn't have even bothered.
The next party was a "shoes off" party, which I always feel asks a lot of the guests. Required to display socks that were not intended to be seen! That was really the only part about it I didn't enjoy, and I wasn't wearing any socks anyway. There were some cool people there; the host Noreen and I discussed how she looked Jewish but wasn't, and I how I was but didn't look it. Close to midnight, someone did a false New Year countdown, which we all kind of went with, and I kissed all my male friends and hugged my girlfriend W.R.. I thought, "wow;" at least everyone here wasn't panting to kiss just one particular person. It felt grown-up. It felt good. Three minutes later someone tried to do the real New Year's countdown, but it didn't really get the same response as the false one.
Well, don't get settled now because we are walking to a bar. We get our stuff and start walking back toward my apartment. We stopped in this raging dance party, but didn't stay longer than it took the guys to realize it was a gay party. Back on the streets.
We ended up at Hobson's Choice, a favorite a bar of the guys. I was just happy it was around the corner from my apartment. We stayed there till it closed, and I was ready to invite everyone back to chill at my house. W.R. and I were waiting outside for the rest of the group, and there were a lot of people still on the street. I decided to make the best of it. Because really, all you have to do is say "Happy New Year" and lean in, and that guy walking by will stop and kiss you! It's amazing! This was going quite well, I had 3 kisses in, and then we got dragged to another party down the street.
So we went to the next party, which wasn't really a party because the host wasn't even there yet. He came around the corner shortly after we arrived and let us in. It took about a half hour for people to really start showing up, and I was getting to the point where it wasn't that fun to be sitting around drinking in some gross bachelor pad with people I wasn't the least bit interested in getting to know. W.R. and I discussed leaving, and the guys of course said "Wait! There's another party around the corner!"
OK, next party. I was loosing interest fast. I was really only going to look at the crowd and decide if it was worth my time, since it was 3am already. It ended up that a guy I worked withon a project a few years ago was there, P.W., and we had a good time catching up and gossiping. He was also instrumental in keeping an older Korean gentleman from asking me out. He started laughing when he realized that I was pretending he was my boyfriend, because he was there looking for a boyfriend of his own.
Wrapping things up at that party when our girl C.H. finally met up with us. She had a group of 5 with her, and about 12 or so of us stood outside deciding what to do next, for a long long time. Finally, I said, "W.R. and I are going back to my place. Anyone who wants to come along is welcome to." And so W.R. and I and 2 French guys from C.H.'s group ended up at my apartment. The people in the upstairs unit were still up and I invited them to come down the fire escape for some champagne. I was having a good time speaking French again, and W.R. was happy being the apple of a French man's eye. We all crashed around 5:30am.
So there you go. W.R. ended up having sex on my sofa bed with one of the Frenchies that night, while I was fighting the other Frenchy's hands away from me. And believe it or not, after all that walking and party hopping and alcohol and horny Frenchiness, I still had a good New Year's Eve.
Flash to the next day and you see me basically lying on the couch, watching the AMAZING Rose Bowl game of Texas v. Michigan, and you have a clear picture of how productive I was on the first day of 2005.
Additionally, I found early on in my NYE career that, at least in San Francisco, it is near impossible to get where you want to go when you want to. This usually happens at the most crucial point of the night - the point at which you want to go home. You'd be amazed how competitive otherwise joyous revelers can be when trying to get a taxi at 3am.
So I was happy this year to open my house to the few people I knew that might not have plans already. Most people did have plans; I knew it would be a small crowd. And it was small indeed! In fact, by about 9:30 there were only 4 of us: me, W.R., John T and John I. Most of the group that was intending to come were comfortably stuck at the party before mine. It was walking distance away, so we joined them instead.
We were having a lovely time for twenty minutes before I was ushered to put my coat back on and go to a different party. So we walked (and walked and walked) the wet streets of San Francisco to another party further from my house. Luckily I was wearing my Kenneth Cole high heals, the ones with the tennis shoe soles. Otherwise I wouldn't have even bothered.
The next party was a "shoes off" party, which I always feel asks a lot of the guests. Required to display socks that were not intended to be seen! That was really the only part about it I didn't enjoy, and I wasn't wearing any socks anyway. There were some cool people there; the host Noreen and I discussed how she looked Jewish but wasn't, and I how I was but didn't look it. Close to midnight, someone did a false New Year countdown, which we all kind of went with, and I kissed all my male friends and hugged my girlfriend W.R.. I thought, "wow;" at least everyone here wasn't panting to kiss just one particular person. It felt grown-up. It felt good. Three minutes later someone tried to do the real New Year's countdown, but it didn't really get the same response as the false one.
Well, don't get settled now because we are walking to a bar. We get our stuff and start walking back toward my apartment. We stopped in this raging dance party, but didn't stay longer than it took the guys to realize it was a gay party. Back on the streets.
We ended up at Hobson's Choice, a favorite a bar of the guys. I was just happy it was around the corner from my apartment. We stayed there till it closed, and I was ready to invite everyone back to chill at my house. W.R. and I were waiting outside for the rest of the group, and there were a lot of people still on the street. I decided to make the best of it. Because really, all you have to do is say "Happy New Year" and lean in, and that guy walking by will stop and kiss you! It's amazing! This was going quite well, I had 3 kisses in, and then we got dragged to another party down the street.
So we went to the next party, which wasn't really a party because the host wasn't even there yet. He came around the corner shortly after we arrived and let us in. It took about a half hour for people to really start showing up, and I was getting to the point where it wasn't that fun to be sitting around drinking in some gross bachelor pad with people I wasn't the least bit interested in getting to know. W.R. and I discussed leaving, and the guys of course said "Wait! There's another party around the corner!"
OK, next party. I was loosing interest fast. I was really only going to look at the crowd and decide if it was worth my time, since it was 3am already. It ended up that a guy I worked withon a project a few years ago was there, P.W., and we had a good time catching up and gossiping. He was also instrumental in keeping an older Korean gentleman from asking me out. He started laughing when he realized that I was pretending he was my boyfriend, because he was there looking for a boyfriend of his own.
Wrapping things up at that party when our girl C.H. finally met up with us. She had a group of 5 with her, and about 12 or so of us stood outside deciding what to do next, for a long long time. Finally, I said, "W.R. and I are going back to my place. Anyone who wants to come along is welcome to." And so W.R. and I and 2 French guys from C.H.'s group ended up at my apartment. The people in the upstairs unit were still up and I invited them to come down the fire escape for some champagne. I was having a good time speaking French again, and W.R. was happy being the apple of a French man's eye. We all crashed around 5:30am.
So there you go. W.R. ended up having sex on my sofa bed with one of the Frenchies that night, while I was fighting the other Frenchy's hands away from me. And believe it or not, after all that walking and party hopping and alcohol and horny Frenchiness, I still had a good New Year's Eve.
Flash to the next day and you see me basically lying on the couch, watching the AMAZING Rose Bowl game of Texas v. Michigan, and you have a clear picture of how productive I was on the first day of 2005.
December 31, 2004
It's a Fad, Fad World
A little voice inside me is saying this won't last long. Other hobbies that I have sent by the wayside: yoga, training for a half-marathon, playing guitar, Italian, and that silly idea I had that I could make tiny paper lanterns for each tiny bulb of a 100-light string of Christmas lights. But we'll see.
San Francisco, like New York, is fad-hungry. Fads in clothes, hot spots and hobbies can come and go more frequently than our unreliable public transportation system. Most recently, San Francisco's chic-est young things have been absolutely crazed for something more tailored toward retired ladies awaiting new granchildren: knitting. I think a Blog is more up my alley, thanks.
The newest fad in the restaurant scene here is "small plates." Most likely originating from the Tapas craze, kitchens offer less food and smaller prices, to entice the customer to taste an array of food fare. I recently experienced small plates at Bambuddha Lounge with W.R.. I left feeling more hungry and more broke than I normally do dining out. But hell, we looked damn good doing it.
I will anxiously await the return of "regular" and "large" plates to SF's hot restaurants. And while I won't be sitting at home knitting until that day comes, hopefully this Blog will turn out to be a long term companion, more than a hobby.
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