If you're anything like me, you've had a hard time welcoming wrinkles while still having some very adolescent acne. I mean, WTF about that?? Isn't it hard enough to have one or the other? Come on!
So, again, if you're anything like me, you've tried to figure out how to minimize both at the same time. And, you've ended up with some product that claims: "warning: may cause sensitivity to the sun."
Hmm. What the heck does "sensitivity to the sun" mean? What the hell does that mean?! A rash? More easily sunburn? Wear SPF 192? Give me something, people, give me something. Don't just say "may cause... blah" and then not tell me how to avoid what it actually causes.
Well. YOU, my friend, need no longer wonder. Because I have found out, from my own science experiment of ignoring the warning altogether, that "sensitivity to the sun" means that, if you go out there with a nekked face, you're gonna get sunspots. RIGHT. AROUND. YOUR. EYES. At first, you will wonder, "hmm, is that a freckle I never noticed?" And then, you'll feel like "holy crap! That is a big mother f'r sunspot that will grow and grow and is a permanent fixture just below the right side of my goddamn pupil. Mother of God! I'm scarred! I'm scarred for life!!!"
And that, my friends, is how to answer THAT question. Damnit. So my advice: wear suncreen. For. Ever. Amen.
April 30, 2006
Eyes Wide What
Tonight, I was watching a movie, and having a few sips of wine... and then I pause the movie for None Other Than (drumroll)... Grey's Anatomy. Yes, I admit: I'm a bit hooked. So much so, in fact, that I can tell you last week's ep was not worth watching. Not because I watched it, but because I read the TV Guide preview of it and found it was just a recap of what's gone on all season. Considering I've only missed one episode , I didn't bother to watch last week.
Anyhoo. Tonight, I pleasantly absorbed myself in the velvet candy of G.A. "Velvet" meaning the process of the show's finely vague yet focused "plot." Candy, obviously, is that everyone on the cast is yummy in one way or another to look at.
During the commercial segment, between the last bit and the end of the show, I realized something. Did you ever see the second or third episode of "Lord of the Rings?" The ones in which Froto becomes all wide-eyed and dazed over "Precious?" The ones where his face looks proportionally smaller than what best suits the size of his eyes? Well, hello. Tonight, that was me. I sat here, on my floral couch with my pink blanket covering me... and googled and awed at the waves on the screen. They were incomprehinsible, yet I couldn't turn away. A day of exhausting lacrosse and a couple of beers and WHAMMO, welcome Gertie the Zombie with Big Glossy Eyes. And now that the eyes are trying to focus on turning these words into tiny letters, I go. I go. I go to bed.
Hopefully I won't have any Froto in me tomorrow. But right now, let me tell you - BIG. EYES. (my precious...)
Anyhoo. Tonight, I pleasantly absorbed myself in the velvet candy of G.A. "Velvet" meaning the process of the show's finely vague yet focused "plot." Candy, obviously, is that everyone on the cast is yummy in one way or another to look at.
During the commercial segment, between the last bit and the end of the show, I realized something. Did you ever see the second or third episode of "Lord of the Rings?" The ones in which Froto becomes all wide-eyed and dazed over "Precious?" The ones where his face looks proportionally smaller than what best suits the size of his eyes? Well, hello. Tonight, that was me. I sat here, on my floral couch with my pink blanket covering me... and googled and awed at the waves on the screen. They were incomprehinsible, yet I couldn't turn away. A day of exhausting lacrosse and a couple of beers and WHAMMO, welcome Gertie the Zombie with Big Glossy Eyes. And now that the eyes are trying to focus on turning these words into tiny letters, I go. I go. I go to bed.
Hopefully I won't have any Froto in me tomorrow. But right now, let me tell you - BIG. EYES. (my precious...)
April 27, 2006
Big Date "Whoops"
Ah, to be dating again... isn't it absolutely splendid? The rain (for now) and the floods (for now) are gone, it is staying light out later, and LOVE is in the air.
And the coolest thing is, I ACTUALLY was excited about going on a date with this guy who I went out with last Saturday night. I've been in situations before where I have met a top-notch fellow, without the attraction, but some sort of connection was there - and I went out with him "just to see..." And see I did; I saw that the guy was a decent first impression and a very lousy second one. And third. And even, if I held on that long to the "top-notch fellow without the attraction" idea, the fourth. Let's just say that I didn't let one poor impression ruin a possible good thing. I waited for a couple of them (er, as I hope he would?). That's good, right?
So! As I was saying, spring is in the air and the opportunity for LOVE looks good - how can it not? Except, of course, when Gertie unconsciously (yet apparently consciously) sabotages a perfectly good date.
Recipe: take a nice gentleman (yes! in this day and age AND in San Francisco I was surprised to find one too!) who majored in the same subject as you at University (but give him multiple bonus points for still being interested in said subject), and add other ingredients such as: generally sociable, tall enough to be taller than you, a nice smile and shining eyes; and you have a great date.
Recipe for disaster: take the ingredients above and throw it at least two, if not more, comments which you personally find highly ironic or comical, yet somehow they come off as insensitive, man-ego injuiries. Whoops. That's not what I meant!
Result: Nice gentleman is nice enough to finish the date, man enough to try to take any sexual advantage he can before he leaves, but not stupid enough to call you again.
Damn. I tell you. I am 33 and STILL learning. This coming off of a year-plus long relationship! Note to self: don't drink more sake than he does (especially when he is the one offering) and keep your mouth shut, even when in deep conversation about the situation on
Okay; it didn't quite go down like that. We talked about
PS - he wasn' t really wearing pleated pants. Please! They were really hot jeans. Regardless, I probably made some "ass-a-nine" comment for the complete idiot package. Ha ha.
April 24, 2006
She Found Me!
[Ed note: all the links go to the same old post, so don't get too excited]
Don't know why the first post about this didn't post. Actually, I do. Thanks, Rifka. Yes, Rifka, even though you are now a big bumbling fly, you are right - I do spend too much time on the internet....
At my old place, in "The Haight" in San Francisco, there was this big, black bumbling fly that used to come in and a-buzz-buzz-bumble all over the place. Even my friends noticed it. At the time, I had named her "Big Bertha The Fly." She most liked to hang out with me late at night while watching TV or early in the morning, in the bathroom (!), while getting ready for the day.
One day, I told one of my friends who had noticed her "distinguished" presence, that this fly liked to hang out at my apartment quite often. So often, in fact, that not only did I name her, but I started to contemplate the lifespan of flies, and wondered if this was just ONE fly the whole time, or a variety of similar flies who happened to like the space, or, if the lifespan of a fly were quite short, were these all multiple flies who were the offspring of the original fly (Big Bertha) who had created a home for herself in the confines of my same space?
Just before I considered myself 100% crazy, said friend suggested that the fly was my Deceased Grandmother. And, in a strange way, it made sense. So I accepted the fly as the conscious efforts of my Deceased Grandmother to pass judgement on my every life move, and renamed it "Rifka," Hebrew for Rebecca (which was the name of my Grandmother - original nomiker Jayne, or Rebecca... who knows at this point, as she was very vague on both this subject as well as The Great Depression). Imagine the power that [stupid- in parentheses in case the fly can read. Well, if the fly can read, then I'm in big trouble anyway] bumbling fly had.
Yet apparantly, she, the omnipresent Rifka The Fly, continues to wield her power. Just 3 measley months after moving, here She is. A-buzz-buzzing (in her opinion "hanging out"), out of nowhere!, with me in the bathroom here in my new place in the Marina, while I have my head upside down in a very lame attempt to tame some of the most untamably thin hair known to man. And this fly, Rifka, while buzz-buzzing around, is complimenting me on my interior decorating, but is also issuing blasphomes to my father's side regarding the genetically deficiant hair situation. Not only that, but Rifka is telling me to stop staying up so late, that successful people in this world have always been early risers, and that brownies are not a good breakfast and losing 12 pounds just because you had a rough time breaking up with an idiot man is no excuse for being thinner. Also, she is only partially accepting of the man I just had a date with, because he is Persian in origin, which means he is from Iran. Additionally he is leaning very strongly toward a nomadic life, which is not acceptable at all for a woman such as myself, according to Rifka The Fly, and why should I give him some milk before he leaves on his next adventure without me? Well, the Fly is a-buzz-buzzing way ahead of herself, but that's not the point, I guess.
As you can clearly see, this fly is not at all me superimposing internal concerns on an immaterial yet possibly omnipresent and naturally appearing insignificant insect. This is obviously Jewish Guil---er -- I mean--- Jewish SENSIBILITY --gone haywire and disguising itself as a bumbling foolish insect. Right? Right??
Don't know why the first post about this didn't post. Actually, I do. Thanks, Rifka. Yes, Rifka, even though you are now a big bumbling fly, you are right - I do spend too much time on the internet....
At my old place, in "The Haight" in San Francisco, there was this big, black bumbling fly that used to come in and a-buzz-buzz-bumble all over the place. Even my friends noticed it. At the time, I had named her "Big Bertha The Fly." She most liked to hang out with me late at night while watching TV or early in the morning, in the bathroom (!), while getting ready for the day.
One day, I told one of my friends who had noticed her "distinguished" presence, that this fly liked to hang out at my apartment quite often. So often, in fact, that not only did I name her, but I started to contemplate the lifespan of flies, and wondered if this was just ONE fly the whole time, or a variety of similar flies who happened to like the space, or, if the lifespan of a fly were quite short, were these all multiple flies who were the offspring of the original fly (Big Bertha) who had created a home for herself in the confines of my same space?
Just before I considered myself 100% crazy, said friend suggested that the fly was my Deceased Grandmother. And, in a strange way, it made sense. So I accepted the fly as the conscious efforts of my Deceased Grandmother to pass judgement on my every life move, and renamed it "Rifka," Hebrew for Rebecca (which was the name of my Grandmother - original nomiker Jayne, or Rebecca... who knows at this point, as she was very vague on both this subject as well as The Great Depression). Imagine the power that [stupid- in parentheses in case the fly can read. Well, if the fly can read, then I'm in big trouble anyway] bumbling fly had.
Yet apparantly, she, the omnipresent Rifka The Fly, continues to wield her power. Just 3 measley months after moving, here She is. A-buzz-buzzing (in her opinion "hanging out"), out of nowhere!, with me in the bathroom here in my new place in the Marina, while I have my head upside down in a very lame attempt to tame some of the most untamably thin hair known to man. And this fly, Rifka, while buzz-buzzing around, is complimenting me on my interior decorating, but is also issuing blasphomes to my father's side regarding the genetically deficiant hair situation. Not only that, but Rifka is telling me to stop staying up so late, that successful people in this world have always been early risers, and that brownies are not a good breakfast and losing 12 pounds just because you had a rough time breaking up with an idiot man is no excuse for being thinner. Also, she is only partially accepting of the man I just had a date with, because he is Persian in origin, which means he is from Iran. Additionally he is leaning very strongly toward a nomadic life, which is not acceptable at all for a woman such as myself, according to Rifka The Fly, and why should I give him some milk before he leaves on his next adventure without me? Well, the Fly is a-buzz-buzzing way ahead of herself, but that's not the point, I guess.
As you can clearly see, this fly is not at all me superimposing internal concerns on an immaterial yet possibly omnipresent and naturally appearing insignificant insect. This is obviously Jewish Guil---er -- I mean--- Jewish SENSIBILITY --gone haywire and disguising itself as a bumbling foolish insect. Right? Right??
April 17, 2006
It's a Good Thing I Sometimes Read the News
I've been so busy lately, that one of my quirky SF news blogs has sat patiently waiting for me to read its feeds. To be honest, I've purposely been tuning out on local news because it is laden with The 1906 Earthquake Anniversary(!) crap and I've already seen that PBS special - at least 3 times. The first 2 times it was really interesting.
So I happened to finally give the blog feed some attention, and Thank God! Because I just found out something very important. If I hadn't known about it - trust me... I'd be first very freaked out, and then VERY PISSED OFF.
So I happened to finally give the blog feed some attention, and Thank God! Because I just found out something very important. If I hadn't known about it - trust me... I'd be first very freaked out, and then VERY PISSED OFF.
"San Francisco residents are being warned not to be alarmed by bells and sirens that are scheduled to sound at 5:14 a.m. Tuesday in commemoration of the 100th anniversary of the 1906 earthquake and fire.
San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom has directed fire departments and places of worship across the city to sound their bells and sirens immediately following the traditional moment of silence observed at a ceremony at Lotta's Fountain on Market Street at the junction of Kearny, Third and Geary Streets."
- San Jose Mercury News
April 05, 2006
If You're Anything Like Me: Issue Two
If you're anything like me, you'll absolutely laugh the next time you are in Safeway or some other big conglomerate grocery store, and all of the sudden realize the store is playing "I've got a Ticket to Ride" while you're on your way to the milk aisle. Come on, have you ever heard '80's hard rock amplified throughout a Vons or a Safeway or a Cala or whatever? You better laugh.
If You're Anything Like Me: Issue One
If you're anything like me, you have watched several scenes on TV or in movies in which a couple of people are arguing in the bathroom while one of them is in the shower. They could be siblings, a married couple, boyfriend/girlfriend, but I think I have seen this scenario a bazillion times:
One of the arguers is in the shower. The other arguer is pacing the remaining space of the bathroom. Finally, the person pacing gets fed up, or is done, or considers this a perfect opportunity to accentuate his or her feelings, and so he or she flushes the toilet and storms out. The person in the shower screams and shakes.
Now, again, if you're anything like me, you wonder what this reaction is all about. You've lived with siblings or parents or signif others and shared the bathroom from time to time but have never had the flushing scenario. You may have even had a roommate flush the toilet while you were in the shower. Nothing to react to.
Don't get me wrong; I'm not stupid. I know that someone jumping, shaking or shreaking in the shower as a result to a toilet flush is adjusting to an extreme change in water temperature. I just never knew whether it was a warm-to-freezing or warm-to-boiling change.
Well, that's because, if you're like me (California suburban, then Colorado suburban, then French suburban), never before have you lived in a building that operates on a boiler. Because, now that I do, I know what this is a reaction to.
It's from warm-to-boiling. 3rd-f'g degree boiling. Thanks, upstairs neighbor.
One of the arguers is in the shower. The other arguer is pacing the remaining space of the bathroom. Finally, the person pacing gets fed up, or is done, or considers this a perfect opportunity to accentuate his or her feelings, and so he or she flushes the toilet and storms out. The person in the shower screams and shakes.
Now, again, if you're anything like me, you wonder what this reaction is all about. You've lived with siblings or parents or signif others and shared the bathroom from time to time but have never had the flushing scenario. You may have even had a roommate flush the toilet while you were in the shower. Nothing to react to.
Don't get me wrong; I'm not stupid. I know that someone jumping, shaking or shreaking in the shower as a result to a toilet flush is adjusting to an extreme change in water temperature. I just never knew whether it was a warm-to-freezing or warm-to-boiling change.
Well, that's because, if you're like me (California suburban, then Colorado suburban, then French suburban), never before have you lived in a building that operates on a boiler. Because, now that I do, I know what this is a reaction to.
It's from warm-to-boiling. 3rd-f'g degree boiling. Thanks, upstairs neighbor.
Another Thursday Night Absolutely Awry
I won't pretend to be the out-all-night rager I used to be. In fact, last Thursday night's events are still a little blurry, but certainly not what was planned.
I was doing my standard sales hustle on Thursday afternoon when a colleague contacted me with tickets to that night's pre-season baseball game. I won't pretend that I enjoy baseball either, but what I do enjoy is ballpark $6 dogs and ballpark $8 beers and the surprise of finding out who we're sitting next to. I especially like when I go to games with guys and they buy me whatever I want to munch on or drink. After all, the dogs are $6 and the beers are $8, and I can suck a lot of those puppies down. I once in the past 4 years or so went to a Giants game with my parents, and at one point my mom said "YOU are an expensive date."
Being a single girl in her early 30's, my circle of male and female last minute rabble-rousers has decreased exponentially since those foregone "wild" days. So I called my gal pal WR, otherwise known as my alternate date to all things festive, and even though it was 2pm and the game started at 7:15, she was in. Yippee! But she was only in on 2 conditions: 1) we had to arrive at the game late so she could go to an art show at the W Hotel for a bit first, and 2) I had to be in charge of bringing items of warmth and possible water-proofing from impending rain (uh, yeah, have you heard it's the rainiest spring since 1904 out here? 1904!!). I conceded, as I am such a good negotiator, and we agreed to meet at 7:45 in front of the W.
As the sales day was slow due to lack of inventory, and the ballpark is on the other end of town, and additionally the ballpark is surrounded by limited and expensive parking, I decided to drive super early to my office and park there, then walk 1.25 miles to Union Square and pick up some over-due make up replenishments at Sephora (since you have to pay for parking to shop there too), and then finally stroll my way another half mile or so South of Market to the W Hotel. I brought my digital camera so I could take funny pictures of us freezing our asses off at a rainy night game. Ha ha.
Well, I must walk a hell of a lot faster than I expected, because I found myself with 20 minutes or so to kill before meeting WR, and nothing to do. So I took out the digi cam and snapped a few retarded pics, got bored, and decided to go up to the XYZ bar and see if I could sneak into the art reception that I never RSVP'd for but RW did.
"Walk in like you own the place." That's the rule. Works 99% of the time and worked like a snap in this case as well. So I waltzed in like I had been there for hours, dropped my Giants Game Preparedness Bag and jacket, grabbed a complimentary glass of white wine, and searched for WR. I found her by the olives (no surprise). What was a surprise was seeing me already with wine in hand and early for our date.
We agreed to finish up our wine before heading out, which would leave us a little behind schedule. But hey, it's a pre-season game, and we both are neutral about baseball, and this drink/snack gig was free, so why not? I started taking pictures because the set-up was really cool and mosied around. WR mingled as well. We finally decided it was time to pry ourselves away from the free shit and get to the other free shit - the box reserve seats at AT&T Park.
When we got outside there was a significant drizzle.
Me: "Shoot, it's raining. Sort of. Do you think the game is rained out?"
WR: "Oh no! I don't know!"
Me: "Shit. That's quite a walk to make in the rain to get there and find out that the game's rained out."
WR: "Shoot! What should we do?"
Me: "I wonder if the game is on TV, then we could see if it's rained out."
So we crossed the street and went to Chevy's which is sports mega bar, and Wendy was about to go in and check the stats when I wondered: "Do they televise pre-season games?"
She went in anyway. At that very moment it started to pour. I saw WR waiting to talk to the host (what? who asks the host of a restaurant if the game is on? Like he'd know. Sheesh). She was impatient standing there, and I tapped on the glass and waved for her to come out.
"It's totally raining, Dude. If the game wasn't called off before, it is now."
What to do, oh what to do? Go back into the art reception and free it up some more! So we retreated to the swank comfort of the W Hotel once again.
Back at the reception, we felt alive. Celebrity, even (well, I did anyway. There's something about telling people you're leaving and then making a double guest appearance). We grabbed more wine and went in with full gusto.
Since I was feeling a little arty myself, I was still walking around with my digi cam and saw WR talking to some people at a little round cocktail table. Click. Closer. Click. Closer. Click. Clos-"Excuse me!"
Woops. I had just inadvertantly edged Mr. Hot Guy and his friend Mr. Indian Engineer 8 Feet Tall out of their station at the table [note to self: do this behind the camera, didn't see you Mr. Hot Guy more often]. I started up a convo with these two nice fellows for the duration. I found out Mr. Hot Guy does research on dog poop as reusable fuel. Imagine that! And that he has a girlfriend. Oh well. I also found out the 8 Feet Tall runs and would like a running partner.
The lights started getting horrifically brighter, a clear sign that the clean-up crew was trying to get us out en masse. Exit Gertie, WR, the Nster (another girl gone wild from days of yore who was present). Well, shoot, we're all fired up now, with a game rained out, on the wrong end of town. What are we girls to do?
JohnColins. That's right, JohnColins. This is a cool bar that a few blocks away that I really enjoyed last time. It looks like an old farm house inside. And, for some assinine reason, all the guys in there are good lookin'. So I start to tow them along.
The Nster decides to jump ship when we reach the alley. Man, she doesn't know what she's missing, I think to myself. Ends up, she didn't miss much, as WR realized that the hot guys leave after work. Probably because their girlfriends or personal trainers are waiting for them.
We have a pleasant enough drink there, chit chat and start taking silly pictures because, yes, we're a little on the buzzed giddy side. We decide it's best for everyone if we leave after one drink. And on the way...on the way... well see, this is where things get a little fuzzy.
I think we were on the way to my car, back at the office. But, if we were really intending to go to the car, we would have exited the alley to the left. But we exited to the right. The next thing I know I have stopped to take a picture of a street sign, and I turn around, and WR is gone.
I do a 360 looking for her on the sidewalk. And then I see her, giving me the "come in here" finger from inside this bar on the corner. Oh no. Here we go.
"WR, I've been here before! This is the Motorcycle Tiffany bar!"
WR, laughing: "The what?"
Me: "Yeah, this is the crazy bar I went to after Work's holiday party. There are all these vintage motorcycles in here. And see those lamps? They are real Tiffany lamps! AND! You can SMOKE in here!"
The next thing I know (only from the pictures I snapped), is that WR is at the bar looking at the selection. Then, fast forward, I am being handed a beer by a fine young gentleman, who apparantly, along with his other friend, had bought WR and I a drink. How did that happen? Way to go, WR.
Anyway, the one who had handed me a beer must have been tons drunk, because he began flirting heavily. And obviously. And heavily. I couldn't believe his infatuation - it had to be beer goggles. But it's only 11pm!
I don't know. I guess we stayed for another drink. It's hard to pull away from someone telling you how cute and adorable you are anyway. But we did. We did. Not without slipping him a business card, but still.
So I then convince WR, who lives in my old neighborhood and could take our lame-ass public transpo home, that instead she should walk with me to the office and I would give her a ride! After all, we were 1 block from the public transpo and my office was only a "few" blocks more.
Now, WR had never been known to be a night owl. Nor has she ever been known to handle her cocktails as well as I. I can count the times that WR and I had agreed, before sharing a cab, that we would stop for a nightcap at such and such place, and she would be asleep on my shoulder in the taxi within 5 minutes of pulling from the curb. Needless to say, there was a point between the Muni stop she would have taken and the walk to my car where I truly thought I'd have to carry her.
But she made it. And I gave her a nice sleepy ride home. And I got home at 1:30 am. From the baseball game I never saw.
I was doing my standard sales hustle on Thursday afternoon when a colleague contacted me with tickets to that night's pre-season baseball game. I won't pretend that I enjoy baseball either, but what I do enjoy is ballpark $6 dogs and ballpark $8 beers and the surprise of finding out who we're sitting next to. I especially like when I go to games with guys and they buy me whatever I want to munch on or drink. After all, the dogs are $6 and the beers are $8, and I can suck a lot of those puppies down. I once in the past 4 years or so went to a Giants game with my parents, and at one point my mom said "YOU are an expensive date."
Being a single girl in her early 30's, my circle of male and female last minute rabble-rousers has decreased exponentially since those foregone "wild" days. So I called my gal pal WR, otherwise known as my alternate date to all things festive, and even though it was 2pm and the game started at 7:15, she was in. Yippee! But she was only in on 2 conditions: 1) we had to arrive at the game late so she could go to an art show at the W Hotel for a bit first, and 2) I had to be in charge of bringing items of warmth and possible water-proofing from impending rain (uh, yeah, have you heard it's the rainiest spring since 1904 out here? 1904!!). I conceded, as I am such a good negotiator, and we agreed to meet at 7:45 in front of the W.
As the sales day was slow due to lack of inventory, and the ballpark is on the other end of town, and additionally the ballpark is surrounded by limited and expensive parking, I decided to drive super early to my office and park there, then walk 1.25 miles to Union Square and pick up some over-due make up replenishments at Sephora (since you have to pay for parking to shop there too), and then finally stroll my way another half mile or so South of Market to the W Hotel. I brought my digital camera so I could take funny pictures of us freezing our asses off at a rainy night game. Ha ha.
Well, I must walk a hell of a lot faster than I expected, because I found myself with 20 minutes or so to kill before meeting WR, and nothing to do. So I took out the digi cam and snapped a few retarded pics, got bored, and decided to go up to the XYZ bar and see if I could sneak into the art reception that I never RSVP'd for but RW did.
"Walk in like you own the place." That's the rule. Works 99% of the time and worked like a snap in this case as well. So I waltzed in like I had been there for hours, dropped my Giants Game Preparedness Bag and jacket, grabbed a complimentary glass of white wine, and searched for WR. I found her by the olives (no surprise). What was a surprise was seeing me already with wine in hand and early for our date.
We agreed to finish up our wine before heading out, which would leave us a little behind schedule. But hey, it's a pre-season game, and we both are neutral about baseball, and this drink/snack gig was free, so why not? I started taking pictures because the set-up was really cool and mosied around. WR mingled as well. We finally decided it was time to pry ourselves away from the free shit and get to the other free shit - the box reserve seats at AT&T Park.
When we got outside there was a significant drizzle.
Me: "Shoot, it's raining. Sort of. Do you think the game is rained out?"
WR: "Oh no! I don't know!"
Me: "Shit. That's quite a walk to make in the rain to get there and find out that the game's rained out."
WR: "Shoot! What should we do?"
Me: "I wonder if the game is on TV, then we could see if it's rained out."
So we crossed the street and went to Chevy's which is sports mega bar, and Wendy was about to go in and check the stats when I wondered: "Do they televise pre-season games?"
She went in anyway. At that very moment it started to pour. I saw WR waiting to talk to the host (what? who asks the host of a restaurant if the game is on? Like he'd know. Sheesh). She was impatient standing there, and I tapped on the glass and waved for her to come out.
"It's totally raining, Dude. If the game wasn't called off before, it is now."
What to do, oh what to do? Go back into the art reception and free it up some more! So we retreated to the swank comfort of the W Hotel once again.
Back at the reception, we felt alive. Celebrity, even (well, I did anyway. There's something about telling people you're leaving and then making a double guest appearance). We grabbed more wine and went in with full gusto.
Since I was feeling a little arty myself, I was still walking around with my digi cam and saw WR talking to some people at a little round cocktail table. Click. Closer. Click. Closer. Click. Clos-"Excuse me!"
Woops. I had just inadvertantly edged Mr. Hot Guy and his friend Mr. Indian Engineer 8 Feet Tall out of their station at the table [note to self: do this behind the camera, didn't see you Mr. Hot Guy more often]. I started up a convo with these two nice fellows for the duration. I found out Mr. Hot Guy does research on dog poop as reusable fuel. Imagine that! And that he has a girlfriend. Oh well. I also found out the 8 Feet Tall runs and would like a running partner.
The lights started getting horrifically brighter, a clear sign that the clean-up crew was trying to get us out en masse. Exit Gertie, WR, the Nster (another girl gone wild from days of yore who was present). Well, shoot, we're all fired up now, with a game rained out, on the wrong end of town. What are we girls to do?
JohnColins. That's right, JohnColins. This is a cool bar that a few blocks away that I really enjoyed last time. It looks like an old farm house inside. And, for some assinine reason, all the guys in there are good lookin'. So I start to tow them along.
The Nster decides to jump ship when we reach the alley. Man, she doesn't know what she's missing, I think to myself. Ends up, she didn't miss much, as WR realized that the hot guys leave after work. Probably because their girlfriends or personal trainers are waiting for them.
We have a pleasant enough drink there, chit chat and start taking silly pictures because, yes, we're a little on the buzzed giddy side. We decide it's best for everyone if we leave after one drink. And on the way...on the way... well see, this is where things get a little fuzzy.
I think we were on the way to my car, back at the office. But, if we were really intending to go to the car, we would have exited the alley to the left. But we exited to the right. The next thing I know I have stopped to take a picture of a street sign, and I turn around, and WR is gone.
I do a 360 looking for her on the sidewalk. And then I see her, giving me the "come in here" finger from inside this bar on the corner. Oh no. Here we go.
"WR, I've been here before! This is the Motorcycle Tiffany bar!"
WR, laughing: "The what?"
Me: "Yeah, this is the crazy bar I went to after Work's holiday party. There are all these vintage motorcycles in here. And see those lamps? They are real Tiffany lamps! AND! You can SMOKE in here!"
The next thing I know (only from the pictures I snapped), is that WR is at the bar looking at the selection. Then, fast forward, I am being handed a beer by a fine young gentleman, who apparantly, along with his other friend, had bought WR and I a drink. How did that happen? Way to go, WR.
Anyway, the one who had handed me a beer must have been tons drunk, because he began flirting heavily. And obviously. And heavily. I couldn't believe his infatuation - it had to be beer goggles. But it's only 11pm!
I don't know. I guess we stayed for another drink. It's hard to pull away from someone telling you how cute and adorable you are anyway. But we did. We did. Not without slipping him a business card, but still.
So I then convince WR, who lives in my old neighborhood and could take our lame-ass public transpo home, that instead she should walk with me to the office and I would give her a ride! After all, we were 1 block from the public transpo and my office was only a "few" blocks more.
Now, WR had never been known to be a night owl. Nor has she ever been known to handle her cocktails as well as I. I can count the times that WR and I had agreed, before sharing a cab, that we would stop for a nightcap at such and such place, and she would be asleep on my shoulder in the taxi within 5 minutes of pulling from the curb. Needless to say, there was a point between the Muni stop she would have taken and the walk to my car where I truly thought I'd have to carry her.
But she made it. And I gave her a nice sleepy ride home. And I got home at 1:30 am. From the baseball game I never saw.
April 03, 2006
Parents and Children - And You're Already Gone
There's a thing, a thing that happens when you finally start not being a child anymore. [ed note: I'm WAY past that. And then again, not.] What happens is, you view your parents as People. You may love, admire, admonish or despise them. But you finally see that they are also human beings, that they had or still have hopes and dreams and aspirations, an affinity for the arts, creativity or mathematics, physics, science, etc., etc. and WHOA! They are just like other people in the world out there - except for the fact that they are your parents.
And most times, the things that your parents as People wanted and dreamt of that went unfulfilled, they wanted you to have the opportunity for. With hope, you realized this when you finally grew up, and can accept all that crazy shit you think they put you through when they tried to "raise" you.
See that? It's no simple phrase. I see now very clearly, after living in a highly urban and immigrant city, that the meaning of "raising children" is not only synonymous with helping them get bigger, but also means to raise them to what one could have hoped to be. Of course, you can challenge me on this, I see many interpretations, but this is the one sticking right now.
The realization that your parents are not just your parents does not come without its own burden. After all, the things they may have hoped for themselves that didn't materialize, whether verbalized or not, were set upon you. Conversely, when they are no longer Spring Chickens, and you are officially categorized as such, if you are like me, you want to ease the burden of raising you that they have carried now for the two or three decades. (Because, quite frankly, most don't stop till they are dead).
Example: I cannot possibly go to one of my parents' parties anymore, that I so reveled in and danced tip-toe upon as a young child, without personally hiring myself as the designated catering/clean-up crew. If it's one thing I've learned from being raised by my parents, it's how to throw an absolutely smashing party. But I've also learned that, to throw one, the host exhausts him or her or both themselves completely, and comes away with a dirty kitchen and no quality time with any of the guests. Because I love them so dearly, because I know the sacrifice and dedication and pride they took in raising me, I try as much to ease them on the party-management/clean-up side as I can. No fun affair, but I take pleasure in seeing them interact with and enjoy their guests. And so it is a very rare occasion that I revel or dance at my parents' "ragers" anymore, and all the more preferable to me to see them reveling and dancing instead of manning the cheese plate.
For parents, however, you are always their Children. Your personality is known from Day One. They watch and attempt to guide you through your youth and adolescence, and then you go. You go off into the big big world, even if it's in the same town. You are INDEPENDENT of them, and that's a big deal. The funny thing is, I think, that parents know before you go off to college or a job or whatever, that you are already gone. You were already your own person before you left. By 16 at the most, your die is cast. Fumble then succeed, or succeed then fumble, ever fumble or even better ever succeed, situate your self as an imprint of one or both of them, stagnate or go up or down the tubes, the make-up of You is there minus any genetics or hope or good child rearing on their part. It goes without saying that good child rearing is important, but at the end of the day "good child rearing" is just "mimic me but achieve more." Parents are housing You and making every attempt to give you the right advice before you are permanently out the door. And that is a difficult secret to know of all along. That is a difficult pill to swallow, indeed.
So what the heck is this post all about? Well, if you must know, I watched Thumbsucker tonight, and thank God it is a film that makes you think and feel [about these things]. I won't give anything away here, and although it's a bit drawn out, it dives into all the aforementioned dynamics of family; all of the aches and pains and joys of being a family unit are analyzed, and most especially, each individuals' search and understanding of happiness and purpose. Purpose. The Ultimate Question for the human.
On a final and totally non-sequential note, regardless of his attempts to broaden himself as an actor, Keanu Reeves will always be stagnant and boring but good-looking Keanu Reeves. Is that really enough to keep reeling us in to his films? To be honest, I didn't know he was in Thumbsucker. And it a) didn't improve the film and b) didn't make me any more happy about renting it.
P.S. If you haven't figured it out already, I am thoroughly intrigued and thoroughly in love with my family, dynamics and all.
And most times, the things that your parents as People wanted and dreamt of that went unfulfilled, they wanted you to have the opportunity for. With hope, you realized this when you finally grew up, and can accept all that crazy shit you think they put you through when they tried to "raise" you.
See that? It's no simple phrase. I see now very clearly, after living in a highly urban and immigrant city, that the meaning of "raising children" is not only synonymous with helping them get bigger, but also means to raise them to what one could have hoped to be. Of course, you can challenge me on this, I see many interpretations, but this is the one sticking right now.
The realization that your parents are not just your parents does not come without its own burden. After all, the things they may have hoped for themselves that didn't materialize, whether verbalized or not, were set upon you. Conversely, when they are no longer Spring Chickens, and you are officially categorized as such, if you are like me, you want to ease the burden of raising you that they have carried now for the two or three decades. (Because, quite frankly, most don't stop till they are dead).
Example: I cannot possibly go to one of my parents' parties anymore, that I so reveled in and danced tip-toe upon as a young child, without personally hiring myself as the designated catering/clean-up crew. If it's one thing I've learned from being raised by my parents, it's how to throw an absolutely smashing party. But I've also learned that, to throw one, the host exhausts him or her or both themselves completely, and comes away with a dirty kitchen and no quality time with any of the guests. Because I love them so dearly, because I know the sacrifice and dedication and pride they took in raising me, I try as much to ease them on the party-management/clean-up side as I can. No fun affair, but I take pleasure in seeing them interact with and enjoy their guests. And so it is a very rare occasion that I revel or dance at my parents' "ragers" anymore, and all the more preferable to me to see them reveling and dancing instead of manning the cheese plate.
For parents, however, you are always their Children. Your personality is known from Day One. They watch and attempt to guide you through your youth and adolescence, and then you go. You go off into the big big world, even if it's in the same town. You are INDEPENDENT of them, and that's a big deal. The funny thing is, I think, that parents know before you go off to college or a job or whatever, that you are already gone. You were already your own person before you left. By 16 at the most, your die is cast. Fumble then succeed, or succeed then fumble, ever fumble or even better ever succeed, situate your self as an imprint of one or both of them, stagnate or go up or down the tubes, the make-up of You is there minus any genetics or hope or good child rearing on their part. It goes without saying that good child rearing is important, but at the end of the day "good child rearing" is just "mimic me but achieve more." Parents are housing You and making every attempt to give you the right advice before you are permanently out the door. And that is a difficult secret to know of all along. That is a difficult pill to swallow, indeed.
So what the heck is this post all about? Well, if you must know, I watched Thumbsucker tonight, and thank God it is a film that makes you think and feel [about these things]. I won't give anything away here, and although it's a bit drawn out, it dives into all the aforementioned dynamics of family; all of the aches and pains and joys of being a family unit are analyzed, and most especially, each individuals' search and understanding of happiness and purpose. Purpose. The Ultimate Question for the human.
On a final and totally non-sequential note, regardless of his attempts to broaden himself as an actor, Keanu Reeves will always be stagnant and boring but good-looking Keanu Reeves. Is that really enough to keep reeling us in to his films? To be honest, I didn't know he was in Thumbsucker. And it a) didn't improve the film and b) didn't make me any more happy about renting it.
P.S. If you haven't figured it out already, I am thoroughly intrigued and thoroughly in love with my family, dynamics and all.
March 29, 2006
Ain't That Grand
I'm an apparently intelligent, liberal, disgustingly generous, relatively well adjusted human being! So, can you believe I'm actually compatible with Dawn Summers? Well, if you read the part about her being like a "dribbling child," then yes, I'd say I could be a good influence for her. But then again, with that kind of test result, I totally think she bull-shitted the quiz.
See how compatible you are with me!
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey
See how compatible you are with me!
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey
March 23, 2006
Ramblings of a Thursday Night: A 16, High Heels and Sound Machines
After living in the Marina in SF for a mere 3 months, I can finally answer "yes, YES, I have eaten at A 16" to the myriad of people who beg me the question. I ate there tonight.
A 16 opened a while ago but it has only been in the last month or two that one could walk in on a Thursday without reservations and be seated. Yes, it's that kind of neighborhood, and some people are still surprised that chose I to live here. Since I was being treated to dinner (yay! I love that!), my dinner companion and I sat down at the bar and ordered a bottle of wine for our long haul of a wait for a non-bar table. The wine list was bigger than a college syllabus. I loved it, even though I made a boo boo and almost ordered a WHITE abruzzo instead of a RED abruzzo from the Multopulciano region (because I hadn't reached the RED section of the list yet). We ordered a 2000 abruzzo but it wasn't available, so they suggested another of the same year that was a few bucks more. Well worth it and fabulous.
We were seated about 1/2 way through the bottle and the menu was regional Italian and true to form (meaning, I didn't like any of the sides because they were all Italian bean-related, and everyone knows I hate beans), but I settled on a starter of house-aged ahi with artichokes and grilled bread sitting on a pool of virgin olive oil and sweet aged vinegar, and the small sized tagliani pasta with porcinis, proscuitto and pecorino. Dinner Companion went true Italian with the goat cheese, arugula and pine nut app with a lamb meatball main and a side of cannelini beans. The lamb meatballs were a tad greasy but otherwise heavenly. Even with my small portion of homemade pasta (you could tell), I was filled to the gills by the end. No dessert. I got up and went to the open kitchen for a moment to banter with the kitchen staff and applaud the meal, a few minutes after my return to the table we were gifted some sweet peachy wine champagne thingy. Don't know if it was leftovers from the outside party or a gesture from the kitchen, and it wasn't either of our style of drink, but it was super-nice all the same.
As usual, once I turned off Chestnut Street to head home, all the world's sound muted and I was back in The Quietest Urban Neighborhood Ever. It was so quiet that the click clack of my heels was the loudest thing going. So loud that, for the first time, I didn't oddly question my neighbor's use of a "sound machine;" a small round object that plugs in and offers up the quiet hush of white noise.
I've heard my neighbor's sound machine and thought "good God, how could anyone ignore that big white whirl of noise and find sleep?" But now, as I hear my heels echoing down a good 2 blocks both ahead and behind me, the sole sound around (ha ha), I think, maybe white noise isn't such a bad option, in this historically single-paned, double hung window place we live in. After all, didn't I just last night cuss out the random helicoptor that woke me up at 3 am as it flew overhead? And this morning also cuss out the garbage truck revving up to chuck trash into its belly?
And speaking of bellies, mine is pleasantly digesting tonight's scrupmtious meal (much to its chagrin, since it lost all sense of hunger during the break-up with LDG).
A 16 opened a while ago but it has only been in the last month or two that one could walk in on a Thursday without reservations and be seated. Yes, it's that kind of neighborhood, and some people are still surprised that chose I to live here. Since I was being treated to dinner (yay! I love that!), my dinner companion and I sat down at the bar and ordered a bottle of wine for our long haul of a wait for a non-bar table. The wine list was bigger than a college syllabus. I loved it, even though I made a boo boo and almost ordered a WHITE abruzzo instead of a RED abruzzo from the Multopulciano region (because I hadn't reached the RED section of the list yet). We ordered a 2000 abruzzo but it wasn't available, so they suggested another of the same year that was a few bucks more. Well worth it and fabulous.
We were seated about 1/2 way through the bottle and the menu was regional Italian and true to form (meaning, I didn't like any of the sides because they were all Italian bean-related, and everyone knows I hate beans), but I settled on a starter of house-aged ahi with artichokes and grilled bread sitting on a pool of virgin olive oil and sweet aged vinegar, and the small sized tagliani pasta with porcinis, proscuitto and pecorino. Dinner Companion went true Italian with the goat cheese, arugula and pine nut app with a lamb meatball main and a side of cannelini beans. The lamb meatballs were a tad greasy but otherwise heavenly. Even with my small portion of homemade pasta (you could tell), I was filled to the gills by the end. No dessert. I got up and went to the open kitchen for a moment to banter with the kitchen staff and applaud the meal, a few minutes after my return to the table we were gifted some sweet peachy wine champagne thingy. Don't know if it was leftovers from the outside party or a gesture from the kitchen, and it wasn't either of our style of drink, but it was super-nice all the same.
As usual, once I turned off Chestnut Street to head home, all the world's sound muted and I was back in The Quietest Urban Neighborhood Ever. It was so quiet that the click clack of my heels was the loudest thing going. So loud that, for the first time, I didn't oddly question my neighbor's use of a "sound machine;" a small round object that plugs in and offers up the quiet hush of white noise.
I've heard my neighbor's sound machine and thought "good God, how could anyone ignore that big white whirl of noise and find sleep?" But now, as I hear my heels echoing down a good 2 blocks both ahead and behind me, the sole sound around (ha ha), I think, maybe white noise isn't such a bad option, in this historically single-paned, double hung window place we live in. After all, didn't I just last night cuss out the random helicoptor that woke me up at 3 am as it flew overhead? And this morning also cuss out the garbage truck revving up to chuck trash into its belly?
And speaking of bellies, mine is pleasantly digesting tonight's scrupmtious meal (much to its chagrin, since it lost all sense of hunger during the break-up with LDG).
March 22, 2006
If I Could Dine With
I don't know how many of you actually subscribe to hard copy magazines anymore. Quite frankly, I only receive monthly magazines for which my mother gives me an annual subscription for Channukah. 99.9% of the time, they are cooking magazines. I get it, Ma!
Just kidding. She knows I'm a good cook. Yes, yes, I know the way to a man's heart. Unfortunately, I don't find many men I want to cook that well for.
Which leads me to Gertie's "non-tapping" meme (ha, yes, I looked around and you don't have to capitalize that... though, I still don't know the phonetic pronuciation). And that is... If I could dine with any person alive, who would it be?
I think I have mentioned this man before here. Probably several times, but usually it's late and I am either a little buzzed or exhausted to the hilt, so I can't right recall. But my dinner mate: Charlie Rose.
I mean, come on! How the hell did Charlie Rose get so lucky! His show! Have you seen his show?! This guy has his pulse on everything intriguing. I have never seen a Charlie Rose interview that I wasn't at least 82% interested in. I have never come away from watching a show in which I haven't been 100% impressed with whomever he interviews, especially because none of his interviewees has ever "um'd" or "er'd. (note to self: avoid um's, er's, like's and totally's. Especially around clients!)
Seroiusly. Wouldn't YOU want to have dinner with Charlie Rose? This guy has interviewed international royals; the most contentious and admired political leaders; the most controversial analysts and scientists and commentators on the state of whatever; he has interviewed writers, authors, directors, actors (both popular and obscure); he has interviewed legends of every subject. But most of all, he always does his research.
Oh, man, what I wouldn't do to have a long extended dinner with Charlie Rose. What about you?
Just kidding. She knows I'm a good cook. Yes, yes, I know the way to a man's heart. Unfortunately, I don't find many men I want to cook that well for.
Which leads me to Gertie's "non-tapping" meme (ha, yes, I looked around and you don't have to capitalize that... though, I still don't know the phonetic pronuciation). And that is... If I could dine with any person alive, who would it be?
I think I have mentioned this man before here. Probably several times, but usually it's late and I am either a little buzzed or exhausted to the hilt, so I can't right recall. But my dinner mate: Charlie Rose.
I mean, come on! How the hell did Charlie Rose get so lucky! His show! Have you seen his show?! This guy has his pulse on everything intriguing. I have never seen a Charlie Rose interview that I wasn't at least 82% interested in. I have never come away from watching a show in which I haven't been 100% impressed with whomever he interviews, especially because none of his interviewees has ever "um'd" or "er'd. (note to self: avoid um's, er's, like's and totally's. Especially around clients!)
Seroiusly. Wouldn't YOU want to have dinner with Charlie Rose? This guy has interviewed international royals; the most contentious and admired political leaders; the most controversial analysts and scientists and commentators on the state of whatever; he has interviewed writers, authors, directors, actors (both popular and obscure); he has interviewed legends of every subject. But most of all, he always does his research.
Oh, man, what I wouldn't do to have a long extended dinner with Charlie Rose. What about you?
March 21, 2006
News Radio Forced Me To Sleep In
[Disclaimer: I am neither a Republican nor a Democrat. I have very conservative or liberal views, depending on the issue. I don't really like to talk about American politics because the absurdity of the system makes me sick. And don't comment on either side here please, I'm just sayin'... but! you can comment on how Bush looks like a monkey when he's trying to be very serious.]
I don't know if there was a State of the Union address today or what, but on my alarm, which is set to a news radio station due to the fact that it's so boring and annoying that it jolts me up, this morning the jolt was the voice of President Bush.
Sometimes, when I'm really tired and the news radio alarm comes on, I'll snooze it. Maybe a two times. But today, that voice, THAT VOICE! made me cringe and set the snooze 15 min ahead, hoping desparately that That Voice! would be off air when the radio alarm came on again. No such luck. No such luck 4 times, actually. And I laid in bed, clenching my jaw and furrowing my brow, pissed that Bush was allowed so much "Convince America" time (and I wonder if it convinces anyone?). The clenching and furrowing was also due to the fact that his voice is so ANNOYING BUSH that I could actually visualize his body language and face retardation as I heard it. Bleck. And thus, I couldn't sleep between snoozes, and I was super behind schedule.
When I finally got done with my day, had had a quick bite, and was able to repose in front of Le Tube avec una cerveza por favor, it was 9:15p. And while flipping through the few channels I get for free, there it was: a recap of whatever bullshit was spilling out of Bush's mouth this morning. And for the 1.2 seconds that I watched, I pointed at Le Tube and yelled "HA!" because everything I had imagined in my head about his body language and facial expressions earlier that morning while trying to snooze button it all away, those things that had made me tense up in disgust while I tried to get ready for a 12 hour day, were 100% on target. Bleck! Oh man, how many years does he have left? I just can't watch or listen anymore. Does he have a mute button?
I don't know if there was a State of the Union address today or what, but on my alarm, which is set to a news radio station due to the fact that it's so boring and annoying that it jolts me up, this morning the jolt was the voice of President Bush.
Sometimes, when I'm really tired and the news radio alarm comes on, I'll snooze it. Maybe a two times. But today, that voice, THAT VOICE! made me cringe and set the snooze 15 min ahead, hoping desparately that That Voice! would be off air when the radio alarm came on again. No such luck. No such luck 4 times, actually. And I laid in bed, clenching my jaw and furrowing my brow, pissed that Bush was allowed so much "Convince America" time (and I wonder if it convinces anyone?). The clenching and furrowing was also due to the fact that his voice is so ANNOYING BUSH that I could actually visualize his body language and face retardation as I heard it. Bleck. And thus, I couldn't sleep between snoozes, and I was super behind schedule.
When I finally got done with my day, had had a quick bite, and was able to repose in front of Le Tube avec una cerveza por favor, it was 9:15p. And while flipping through the few channels I get for free, there it was: a recap of whatever bullshit was spilling out of Bush's mouth this morning. And for the 1.2 seconds that I watched, I pointed at Le Tube and yelled "HA!" because everything I had imagined in my head about his body language and facial expressions earlier that morning while trying to snooze button it all away, those things that had made me tense up in disgust while I tried to get ready for a 12 hour day, were 100% on target. Bleck! Oh man, how many years does he have left? I just can't watch or listen anymore. Does he have a mute button?
March 18, 2006
Just A Reminder
Hope springs eternal in the human breast;
Man never Is, but always To be blest:
The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
-Alexander Pope,
An Essay on Man, Epistle I, 1733
Man never Is, but always To be blest:
The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
-Alexander Pope,
An Essay on Man, Epistle I, 1733
March 13, 2006
The Nerve! A Quiz: Who was Being Most Selfish?
Granted, my perspective is a little biased, but, who here was most selfish? A) Gertie or B) Phyllis Dillar?
The scene: I stroll along 5 blocks with the teeny, tiny, skinny, sniff-o-rama doggie I am watching, to let her take care of business and to grab my morning coffee. My favorite place in the neighborhood is closed, so I head to the Starbleck's on the next block.
I tie Miss Delicate Princess to a table and walk in. Approaching from the other direction is an older woman who is a younger, dark-haired version of Phyllis Diller in a long, black down coat. I go inside and get in line, and only seconds later Phyllis is in line too. But not exactly behind me. No, she is almost PARALLEL to me and has her $20 out and is staring staring staring at the barrista. Just waiting to shoot her order out. Not only am I feeling my personal space is being invaded, I am also feeling the pull of nature, and the territorial beast in me is starting to come out. I move a half-step forward and a half-step left, trying to ensure a clearly identifiable wedge between myself and Phyllis. I was before her in line, after all.
I am only ordering a drip, so I really don't care too much if she yells an order at the barrista, except for the fact that the barrista would get my drip first if she noticed I was first. I happened to be behind a very pokey woman, who was buying coffee for 4... and treats... and also adding value to her Starbleck's card... as well as asking really stupid questions of the cashier. What, may I ask, do people ask the cashiers at Starblecks? What the heck can be so unclear at this coffee joint? Anyway, I was more interested in maintaining my ground as next to pay than being next to get the barrista's attention, but still. Phyllis was being a bit "naively aggressive." I've seen this at bars and I've done this at bars, so I know when a 54 year-old woman is pulling the naively aggressive maneouvre.
Luckily, my two half-steps did get me the attention of the barrista, from whom I ordered my grande coffee, and she placed it on the counter as the lollygagger in front of me finally finished her Q&A session and fumbled to put her Starbleck's card back in her wallet. And then fumbled to put her wallet in her purse. And then scoot slowly and decisively out of the counter space. By this time, Phyllis had ordered and her order was not even quite ready yet, but she noticed the transaction was through and stretched her 8 foot arm toward the cashier and started to say "I have a..."
Enter Gertie. Enter evil look to Phyllis and curt yet polite voice. "Excuse me. But I was next in line." Phyllis stopped her 8 foot arm 4 feet out and slowly retracted it, with the typical "naively aggressive but I'm caught" glare back. I turned to the cashier and paid my $1 plus change, then headed to the coffee decorating station. I didn't care that Phyllis wasn't gracious or even faigning naivitee. I know the game. I was just curious to see how she approached the rest of her coffee experience.
And as Phyllis stepped the one step forward and one step RIGHT (yeah, back into the real line she thought didn't pertain to her) she gave the cashier a look like "what's with ~HER~? The Nerve!" as she forced her bill upon him. Poor guy. I'd hate to be a cashier at Starbleck's.
Phyllis took her time (looking a little dazed and psychotic while doing so) to get to the coffee decorating station which was only steps away, which is funny because she was in such a damn hurry in the first place. But enough time passed for me to mix my goods, throw on the lid and head back out to the shaking delicate beast tied to the table and waiting for me.
So, People? Was Gertie being territorial and selfish or was Phyllis pushing the protocol of queus?
The scene: I stroll along 5 blocks with the teeny, tiny, skinny, sniff-o-rama doggie I am watching, to let her take care of business and to grab my morning coffee. My favorite place in the neighborhood is closed, so I head to the Starbleck's on the next block.
I tie Miss Delicate Princess to a table and walk in. Approaching from the other direction is an older woman who is a younger, dark-haired version of Phyllis Diller in a long, black down coat. I go inside and get in line, and only seconds later Phyllis is in line too. But not exactly behind me. No, she is almost PARALLEL to me and has her $20 out and is staring staring staring at the barrista. Just waiting to shoot her order out. Not only am I feeling my personal space is being invaded, I am also feeling the pull of nature, and the territorial beast in me is starting to come out. I move a half-step forward and a half-step left, trying to ensure a clearly identifiable wedge between myself and Phyllis. I was before her in line, after all.
I am only ordering a drip, so I really don't care too much if she yells an order at the barrista, except for the fact that the barrista would get my drip first if she noticed I was first. I happened to be behind a very pokey woman, who was buying coffee for 4... and treats... and also adding value to her Starbleck's card... as well as asking really stupid questions of the cashier. What, may I ask, do people ask the cashiers at Starblecks? What the heck can be so unclear at this coffee joint? Anyway, I was more interested in maintaining my ground as next to pay than being next to get the barrista's attention, but still. Phyllis was being a bit "naively aggressive." I've seen this at bars and I've done this at bars, so I know when a 54 year-old woman is pulling the naively aggressive maneouvre.
Luckily, my two half-steps did get me the attention of the barrista, from whom I ordered my grande coffee, and she placed it on the counter as the lollygagger in front of me finally finished her Q&A session and fumbled to put her Starbleck's card back in her wallet. And then fumbled to put her wallet in her purse. And then scoot slowly and decisively out of the counter space. By this time, Phyllis had ordered and her order was not even quite ready yet, but she noticed the transaction was through and stretched her 8 foot arm toward the cashier and started to say "I have a..."
Enter Gertie. Enter evil look to Phyllis and curt yet polite voice. "Excuse me. But I was next in line." Phyllis stopped her 8 foot arm 4 feet out and slowly retracted it, with the typical "naively aggressive but I'm caught" glare back. I turned to the cashier and paid my $1 plus change, then headed to the coffee decorating station. I didn't care that Phyllis wasn't gracious or even faigning naivitee. I know the game. I was just curious to see how she approached the rest of her coffee experience.
And as Phyllis stepped the one step forward and one step RIGHT (yeah, back into the real line she thought didn't pertain to her) she gave the cashier a look like "what's with ~HER~? The Nerve!" as she forced her bill upon him. Poor guy. I'd hate to be a cashier at Starbleck's.
Phyllis took her time (looking a little dazed and psychotic while doing so) to get to the coffee decorating station which was only steps away, which is funny because she was in such a damn hurry in the first place. But enough time passed for me to mix my goods, throw on the lid and head back out to the shaking delicate beast tied to the table and waiting for me.
So, People? Was Gertie being territorial and selfish or was Phyllis pushing the protocol of queus?
March 08, 2006
Holy Crap I've Been MEME'd
Dawn Summers, next time you are in Oak-Town or SF you better not breathe a word of it into your blog - cuz I will hunt you down.
First of all, I barely know what a MEME is. Is it all capitalized like that? Actually, I'm smart enough to have read a few MEME posts and figured it out, but my main concerns are: who came up with the name, is it an acronym, is it "me" twice, and how do you pronounce it? I've never been quite interested enough to Google out the answer, so I will play along. This once.
My nickname: I have a few of these. The coolest ones will divulge my true name (which is WAY cooler than Gertie, by the way). But, to make up for that I will also give you some stingers: The Zipper (college and a misnomer!), Aquafresh, Legs
My hometown: Fairfax, California
My team: Uh. I guess I'll go with my alma mater (even though I only watch if they are in Bowl games) University of Colorado Buffalos. Go Buffs.
My theme song: I don't know if this is by El DeBarge or what. I was never good at titles or band names, but it's the song that goes: ain't nothin' gonna break my stride, ain't nothing gonna slow me down. Oh No! Got to keep on movin'" [disclaimer: a reminder to readers that this is my theme song, not my daily choice in music genre]
My drink: Citron and soda.
My occupation: Sales of sorts
My spare time: Every spare minute I have goes to looking at my RSS aggregator to see if other people are being productive. No. Kidding. But man have I turned into a computer nerd. Other than a little off time sitting on my ass watching for other people to post stuff, I run, take photos, cook, read in cafes, watch TV, rent movies, go out on the town with friends. Damn I'm exciting.
My hiding spot: My apartment.
My book: A Room With a View by E.M. Forrester. That's the one that got me to love reading. I'll be forever grateful. Er, maybe not, because it also gave me false elusions about romance and relationships.
I made it! Do I have to pass this on then? Is it usually to 3 bloggers? Well I'm screwed, cuz I only read 2 blogs, and one of them passed it to me. What happens if I don't pass the MEME? Is it like a chain letter curse? Ah screw it, I'm sending it to my Cuz. I'll also send it to Gib since he felt so left out. Hi Gib, I'm Gertie. Dawn wanted you to have this.
First of all, I barely know what a MEME is. Is it all capitalized like that? Actually, I'm smart enough to have read a few MEME posts and figured it out, but my main concerns are: who came up with the name, is it an acronym, is it "me" twice, and how do you pronounce it? I've never been quite interested enough to Google out the answer, so I will play along. This once.
My nickname: I have a few of these. The coolest ones will divulge my true name (which is WAY cooler than Gertie, by the way). But, to make up for that I will also give you some stingers: The Zipper (college and a misnomer!), Aquafresh, Legs
My hometown: Fairfax, California
My team: Uh. I guess I'll go with my alma mater (even though I only watch if they are in Bowl games) University of Colorado Buffalos. Go Buffs.
My theme song: I don't know if this is by El DeBarge or what. I was never good at titles or band names, but it's the song that goes: ain't nothin' gonna break my stride, ain't nothing gonna slow me down. Oh No! Got to keep on movin'" [disclaimer: a reminder to readers that this is my theme song, not my daily choice in music genre]
My drink: Citron and soda.
My occupation: Sales of sorts
My spare time: Every spare minute I have goes to looking at my RSS aggregator to see if other people are being productive. No. Kidding. But man have I turned into a computer nerd. Other than a little off time sitting on my ass watching for other people to post stuff, I run, take photos, cook, read in cafes, watch TV, rent movies, go out on the town with friends. Damn I'm exciting.
My hiding spot: My apartment.
My book: A Room With a View by E.M. Forrester. That's the one that got me to love reading. I'll be forever grateful. Er, maybe not, because it also gave me false elusions about romance and relationships.
I made it! Do I have to pass this on then? Is it usually to 3 bloggers? Well I'm screwed, cuz I only read 2 blogs, and one of them passed it to me. What happens if I don't pass the MEME? Is it like a chain letter curse? Ah screw it, I'm sending it to my Cuz. I'll also send it to Gib since he felt so left out. Hi Gib, I'm Gertie. Dawn wanted you to have this.
March 06, 2006
The Wrong Hot Pursuit
A couple of weeks ago I went to my friend's birthday party. When she called me she said it started that day around 2:30p - 3ish and wouldn't go too late. I was working and showed up at 4:15. I was the first one there.
C and her husband B throw the absolute best parties. Both from well established families in Mexico City, then San Diego, their parties have a latin flair that sucks you in and doesn't spit you out until you are really drunk and it's way past your bedtime. There is always great background music and I have the best conversations with their usual guests, who are all intelligent, well traveled and bi-lingual.
The cool thing about this party was that Cynthia's guitar teacher came with his guitar and played amazing songs in Spanish for like 2 hours. A lot of times the guests would sing along or clap or dance - it was awesome. Afterward, he handed out some cd's he had made and on which he calls himself El Troubador. I had taken photos of him playing and gave him my card so he could make sure I send the good ones to him.
And the night powered on. We had paella and the party broke into 2 different rooms, one with dancing and the other with deep discussion. I met a really interesting and attractive guy and we were hitting it off. We were selected to go on the next beer mission and had a good time getting lost in a foreign neighborhood. We hung out talking for about another 45 minutes. We both started to feel like our connection was getting too obvious to the rest of the crowd; we were sensing whispers between guests, so we separated.
Hours and hours and hours since I had arrived, at 2 a.m., I could feel it was time to leave. "What! It's still early!" cried the birthday girl. Ah, those people really know how to party. On my way out, my beer-run partner got up and asked for my number. Goody!
Since the party, I have received 4 e-mails and 3 phone calls. From El Troubador! Nothing from the beer-run partner. El T is in hot pursuit and I'm absolutely not interested. Ah, well.
C and her husband B throw the absolute best parties. Both from well established families in Mexico City, then San Diego, their parties have a latin flair that sucks you in and doesn't spit you out until you are really drunk and it's way past your bedtime. There is always great background music and I have the best conversations with their usual guests, who are all intelligent, well traveled and bi-lingual.
The cool thing about this party was that Cynthia's guitar teacher came with his guitar and played amazing songs in Spanish for like 2 hours. A lot of times the guests would sing along or clap or dance - it was awesome. Afterward, he handed out some cd's he had made and on which he calls himself El Troubador. I had taken photos of him playing and gave him my card so he could make sure I send the good ones to him.
And the night powered on. We had paella and the party broke into 2 different rooms, one with dancing and the other with deep discussion. I met a really interesting and attractive guy and we were hitting it off. We were selected to go on the next beer mission and had a good time getting lost in a foreign neighborhood. We hung out talking for about another 45 minutes. We both started to feel like our connection was getting too obvious to the rest of the crowd; we were sensing whispers between guests, so we separated.
Hours and hours and hours since I had arrived, at 2 a.m., I could feel it was time to leave. "What! It's still early!" cried the birthday girl. Ah, those people really know how to party. On my way out, my beer-run partner got up and asked for my number. Goody!
Since the party, I have received 4 e-mails and 3 phone calls. From El Troubador! Nothing from the beer-run partner. El T is in hot pursuit and I'm absolutely not interested. Ah, well.
March 04, 2006
Long Day
Uh... yeah. So I came over here with purpose to pontificate about something or another. Then! I got a VIP phone call. And so, well, now I don't remember why I came here. Some explicit details of the mundane, I'm sure. But I forget entirely the subject or purpose. I'm sure it was good. Hmm. OK then.
It's been a long week, a long day, and a hard day's night. So, unless I remember my point in the next 2 seconds, I'll see ya when I see ya...nope. Sorry, Charlie. Appiphany - - - gone!
OK. 2 seconds gone. Ciao! Doi.
It's been a long week, a long day, and a hard day's night. So, unless I remember my point in the next 2 seconds, I'll see ya when I see ya...nope. Sorry, Charlie. Appiphany - - - gone!
OK. 2 seconds gone. Ciao! Doi.
March 02, 2006
Ah, Meg!
Hey, whatever happened to Meg Ryan? Well, she answered today on Oprah. I'm only into the first few minutes of the "encore" presentation, so I'm really not able to tell you. I probably won't even stay awake the whole time, as much as I'd like to get all the answers.
OK. FIRST, I have to admit, I LOVE Meg Ryan. If I could look any way I could choose in the world, I would choose to look like Meg Ryan (or Goldie Hawn). Must be the bubbly personality. The zest for life - the internal beauty matching the outward.
Now, I am looking at Meg on Oprah, and she does indeed still look beautiful. She does! But I can't help but wonder if it's all real? Has she has some work done or is she STILL that outwardly beautiful? Her lips are lookin' a little bigger. She has fewer wrinkles than me (and I'm 33 for God's sake); it could be the "pancake" or the nice eyebrow waxing, who knows. I still like Meg because I like who Meg is. But have the demands for aged beauty pushed her in a certain direction or has she simply aged gracefully? Hard to tell, because, I do think she's graceful (in a bubbly kind of way).
And I still like The Quaid. Hmm. Wonder what's so bad about a relationship with The Quaid? Wonder how they couldn't work stuff out. Children, I guess. We keep together to keep the children solid. But then again, as a single gal, what do I really know about keeping things together and at what sacrifice? After all, I like The Quaid for his characters and his looks, which are not necessarily his being, which could be all together difficult.
Anyhoo, I guess I shouldn't pass any judgement. What I would like to say is that I am truly jealous of Meg's hair, which I have always strived to achieve, in every era really (except the exceptionally curly ones). But I don't have the thickness required, nor the cheekbones to allow the creativity of style, and so here I sit, just watching Meg. Admiring how her hair cuts and her eyes shine. Meg who is impossible NOT to watch. Botox or lip enhancers or not. She's simply captivating.
OK. FIRST, I have to admit, I LOVE Meg Ryan. If I could look any way I could choose in the world, I would choose to look like Meg Ryan (or Goldie Hawn). Must be the bubbly personality. The zest for life - the internal beauty matching the outward.
Now, I am looking at Meg on Oprah, and she does indeed still look beautiful. She does! But I can't help but wonder if it's all real? Has she has some work done or is she STILL that outwardly beautiful? Her lips are lookin' a little bigger. She has fewer wrinkles than me (and I'm 33 for God's sake); it could be the "pancake" or the nice eyebrow waxing, who knows. I still like Meg because I like who Meg is. But have the demands for aged beauty pushed her in a certain direction or has she simply aged gracefully? Hard to tell, because, I do think she's graceful (in a bubbly kind of way).
And I still like The Quaid. Hmm. Wonder what's so bad about a relationship with The Quaid? Wonder how they couldn't work stuff out. Children, I guess. We keep together to keep the children solid. But then again, as a single gal, what do I really know about keeping things together and at what sacrifice? After all, I like The Quaid for his characters and his looks, which are not necessarily his being, which could be all together difficult.
Anyhoo, I guess I shouldn't pass any judgement. What I would like to say is that I am truly jealous of Meg's hair, which I have always strived to achieve, in every era really (except the exceptionally curly ones). But I don't have the thickness required, nor the cheekbones to allow the creativity of style, and so here I sit, just watching Meg. Admiring how her hair cuts and her eyes shine. Meg who is impossible NOT to watch. Botox or lip enhancers or not. She's simply captivating.
March 01, 2006
3, Count 'em, 3
We had 3 earthquakes today. Leave it to plate tectonics to decide to do some shuffles AFTER I have moved to landfill. Bedrock is seeming very nice to me right now. Oh, if I had just moved a couple of blocks up!
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