Gertie's Advice #26

During allergy season, refrain from taking Sudafed and then having 2 cups of coffee. That is, unless you like being in an uneasy jittery panic for 4 hours.

Damned Nanny

That damned Supper Nanny. She makes me cry every time. Every Time! Or, maybe it's not Super Nanny's fault. Maybe I'm just a sucker for family relationships. Ugh. Kleenex!

Dear Neighbor

Dear Neighbor,
I made the mistake of driving home late last night and parking in front of your house. Because it was dark, I did not see that you paid the Dept of Parking & Traffic an exhorbitant amount of money to paint your curb red. Regardless, I certainly left enough space for you to pull your car into the garage. A $75 Blocked Driveway ticket would have been a good enough lesson for me to know never park there again... you didn't have to tow my car and make me pay an additional $218 to go get it out of impound tonight. May Karma slap you silly in your next life.

Love,
Your Neighbor

Ha ha ha ha!

I'll have to translate for you, but this (to me) is hilarious....

... a message from my French meet-up group (to which I have not gone yet after 4 months) about the St. Valentine dance ("ball"):

SI les hommes sont timides a inviter les femmes a danser ... elles peuvent les inviter! & bien sur un Monsieur ne refuse jamais a une femme de danser avec elle. Dansez, amusez-vous Seul/e ou avec un/e partenaire peu importe! l'idee c'est de danser & de s'amuser. Que personne ne reste
assis/e. N'oubliez pas que la musique & la danse sont un elixir pourl'ame & le corps...

"If the men are too timid to invite the women to dance, the women can ask the men! And, of course, a "gentleman" never refuses to dance with a woman. So everyone dance and have fun, individually, with a partner or as a group, it doesn't matter! The idea is to dance and have fun. Nobody should be sitting. Don't forget that music and dancing are an 'elixer' for the body and spirit..."

Ha ha ha ha! Nevermind the previous email, which I won't pain you with in translating, about the "dress code."

All Hail the Queen

You would think that the Pope has arrived in San Francisco. Or you would think SF is at this very moment hosting the Olympics. Or that the Oscars are taking place here. People are flocking to the water. They are skipping work and school. They are getting in their cars and driving to San Francisco.

Yesterday for the first time, the Queen Mary II oceanliner arrived in the San Francisco Bay. Superbowl - Superboat. Superbowl - Superboat. What to do? A helluva lot of people were more interested in the Superboat. And still are - SF has been absolute chaos since yesterday. Auto and foot traffic is ridiculously backed up due to all the rubbernecking and people hordes snapping pics.

I knew the boat was coming to town but had no idea so many people would get this excited about it. This morning I took my usual route to work and I saw streets that normally have no traffic completely jammed. I had to park 3 blocks away from my office.

I saw a colleague and asked "Is the Queen Mary around here or something?" I thought it was a funny since the waterfront, which is a block from our office, has 4 miles of piers. Her eyes got real big, indicating that I am dumb and blind, and she pointed up. No wonder there is no sun. We were standing in the shadow of that enormous vessel, tied up just on the waterfont the next block down.

To describe the massiveness of this boat I can only make one analogy: think of a gorilla. Now think of a gorilla standing next to King Kong.

Check out this YouTube Video from Lophat, which was taken from the Golden Gate Bridge as the QMII entered the Bay. It keeps going, and going, and going! And tonight it will be gone.

Hotwire? You Tool.

Someone tried, I think, to hotwire my car. This past Monday night. I only realized yesterday, well, because I was just in my car yesterday, and there was this pair of willy nilly needle nose pliers just laying there on the floor beneath my floor mat.

Now, I don't normally carry around a pair of needle nose pliers. And, let me tell 'ya, I don't just have them hanging hither nither in my BMW. No-sir-ee. The BMW has its own little tool kit right in the trunk with everything you should need for the roadside emergency. I am not missing a pair of worn-out, chipped-red-paint needle nose pliers from there.

So, it was odd to find these needle noses pliers peeking up on the floor. I thought to my self: "what the fuh...?!" Rewind.

I remembered Monday night. Monday night I had an evening meeting in the Old Neighborhood, the Haight Ashbury. I parked my car; I was early. I decided to visit a couple old haunts. I rumbled the streets. Then finally the hour of my appointment showed up, and I went into said appointment and had a grand olde time with some grande olde folkes with some good 'ole wine for the next two hours. Some colleagues and I walked me to My Desdemona afterward, my tragically beautifully ancient BMW parked on the street.

Whoops. In my excitement for the monthly meeting, I had neglected to lock the car. Initial review: all intact (only retards leave shit in their cars in SF). Phew. Get in, belt up. Roll.

And then yesterday I got in My Desi to go to work, and lo and behold! A booby prize: not new at all needle nose pliers. Cool. Fucked up, but cool. Must have been that someone that Monday night in the Haight Ash tested the doors and found them open. Popped in - BUT! Hold on there Fellow! Everyone sees you and YOU - quite honestly - do not own a Beemer. So, get scared you bastard and run, run! Run! That's right. My Desdemona is not a tragedy for your gain. Bi-atch. And now I have your tool, Tool.

Dumber Than a Box of Rocks

Why is it that, when I am face to face with Pocket Watch Guy, I become dumber than a box of rocks? Maybe, just maybe, it's because he is the epitome of the figment of my imagination of the guy I end up with. Ever. Since. I. Ever. Imagined. Him.

He is attuned to the fact that every person (including Men) has the capacity for, and a destiny of, Personal Growth. He is travel-adventurous. He is action-adventurous. He is career-adventurous. He is socially adaptable. I don't need to advise him on how to dress [much]. He doesn't have a flat screen because he barely ever watches TV. He reads stuff. He is funny. He is relaxed. He is aggressive in his career path. And! He has a pocket watch collection. Melt. I have no idea why that is attractive to me, but it is.

And so, because of all of these things, I cannot look him in the eye long, for fear he sees me melt, and I say really stupid stuff when I am a reasonably intelligent lady, I shuffle my feet, etc., etc. Dear Lord, what must he think of all that?

Because I have said such really stupid things to him (REALLY, I am not exagerating), I have all but given up on any chance of him being interested back. Which is a good thing, because when I care less about what one thinks of me I can be more myself. So, I should be myself by now; I've blown it at least four times with him already, which is enough for me to feel I've ended Scene I and I can relax now. But somehow I'm still as nervous as I was when I liked the coolest boy, Will M, when he was in the 7th grade and I was in 6th, and I was awkward in stature and just starting to get boobs. THAT'S how it feels when I am around Pocket Watch Guy. The horror!

One time Pocket Watch Guy saw me about to go to Starbucks, and he said "you're going into Starbucks?! I would have figured you for a Peet's girl." And in reality, I am a Peet's girl; the coffee is far superior. But I was new to the neighborhood and Starbucks looked to be more social than Peet's at the moment, and I was hoping to start making a community in my new hood, and I replied lamely... "..."... oh crap, it was such a lame response that I have blocked it entirely from my mind. Sorry to ruin a good reference point. But I will tell you that upon reciting the story to WR, she laughed and laughed and laughed into my cell phone, literally for minutes on end, and I was almost home by the time she stopped. I really wish I could remember now - I can assure you it was one of the most retarded things I have ever said. If I remember over night, I'll let you know. But fate is telling me it's probably a good thing I have blocked it, lest I be too harshly judged.

Gertie Goes Down

Everyone who knows me, including myself, considers me an athletically inclined person. Between the ages of 7-17, I played soccer, excluding a brief hiatus in Jr. High when my fascination with horses led me to a somewhat pathetic attempt at Equestrian riding.

In college I switched from soccer to the women's lacrosse team. I am known to be a somewhat formidable opponent in volleyball, tennis, racquetball and co-ed softball (catcher!). I am good with a Frisbee, and at kickball, and have been known to navigate the winds pretty well with a kite. If you can convince me to pay for a cabin-share, and pay for equipment rental, and pay for a lift ticket, I will begrudgingly swoosh down the intermediate slopes of a mountain in either skiis or on a snowboard. Begrudgingly, but capable.

What few people know, however, is that I am also incredibly klutzy. I feel the term "athletic klutz" best describes my excessively ridiculous brushes with breaking my bones and poking one of my eyes out. Because frankly, I've been "this close!" way too many times for a normal human lifespan.

Case in point: last Thursday. My office. ("My office" may sound like a bustling place. But because we are all sales people and sales is about getting out there and being with clients, rarely are there more than half a dozen of us in our 75-person office at a time.) Thursday was quiet. Until Gertie went down.

Unless one is a Partner salesperson in my line of business, you are up to your own devices to locate and be the consequence of parking. Because I have received more parking tickets than sales in the last year, I had begun a vigilant watch on my parking meters. The buzzer on my cell sounded and I rushed to move my car.

In the process, I can't recall now what it was, I remembered something very important on my desk. Whether it was an email to finish or double checking to make sure I had my cell as I turned the corner to exit, I don't recall. But whatever it was, it forced me to look back at my desk as I exited stage right toward the hallway. As an athlete, I felt the mojo of the path pulling me forward to an appropriate exit point. As a klutz, I got the turn wrong by about a foot and a half.

Instead of turning right into the corridor, I turned right into my colleague's ridiculously appropriately placed garbage can, which I leaned into with full walking force and motion, and cracked my upper shin upon. As I kicked the can and continued my forward movement, the can stopped hard against the cubicle wall, ricocheting all inertia back toward me. Upon receiving the new direction of force, Gertie was thrown askew to the right, lost all balance and landed rib cage to arm rest on the colleague's empty chair. A chair which happened to be a rolling chair on wheels, and once it felt the force of motion, propelled itself, with Gertie's weight and ribcage stuck to it, to the furthermost point of the cube, where it hit a wall and could no longer continue to travel. As quickly as science stopped the chair's motion, I equalized forces to counter-act a complete falldown.

I remember the last bit, and looking out to the left, to see my left leg doing a high kick only equalled by the Rockettes. I quickly did the athletic elastic "I'm Okay!" gymnastic landing, arms up and everything. When I looked around, the five people in the office had seen none of it. But they heard it. Eyes peared from behind a few computer screens.
"You OK?"
"I'm fine!" Ouch. Ouch. My shin. My ribs. Shake it off. Shake it off! You're fine!

Even the receptionist heard it. And the clients of another colleague, who were waiting (eyes wide open in shock now) for the conference room. All of them heard it. But I shook it off.

Today is Monday. Don't make me laugh. Please. Every time I laugh, it feels like I have a gun shot wound in my ribs. Also, don't make me reverse my car. Parallel parking feels like I'm getting shot. Yes, my ribs are bruised. I cannot run. Fuck, I can't even laugh. Or reverse. Ouch. My GSW! Stop it! OUCH!

The Men Are Right

Wow.
Wow.
I just got an email from email guy. And here I'd gone and pretty much gave up on that playing out.
I"m rehiring my flirting consultant tout suite.

Ring It In

Happy New Year to all; I truly hope you had an extravagant time ringing in another year! I am still recovering... this is a long post, but if you skim I swear there is some really entertaining stuff in here...

To sum up my NYE 2006 - it was crazy. I preface my recap by admitting that I hate New Year's Eve (almost as much as I hate Halloween). I know, I know, hate is a strong word. But when you have spent the majority of the last 5 NYE's trying to get home alone very late at night, in the cold, in heels and with less than the appropriate amount of clothing, trying not to be insignificant from the perspective of all cab drivers and other revelers, well, you'd probably not like it very much, either. But I digress.

This year was different. I had a really good event to go to: my best friend's wedding. The wedding was at 8pm and the reception "immediately following" lasted till 1:30am. This was very special to me, as not only was it my best friend's wedding, but the groom was also a friend from the old college days, and the guest list was reminiscent of a collegiate reunion of the coolest kind. Friends descended on San Francisco from Singapore, Australia, DC, New York, Chicago, Denver, and a variety of other places. My parents were also guests, and the officiant of the wedding was a close friend of my parents' whom my best friend and her fiance had grown close to over years of holidays together.

My friend WR was also invited, and she got a comped room at Le Meridien in downtown S.F. for the night, to which, she invited me and our friend NC to share for pre-wedding-prep and after party/crash pad. Excellent!

Le Merid is awesome and high-end, with beds you never want to leave once you lay down in them, sound-proof walls (you'll see why this is important later) and uber-hip decor. WR, NC and I all met there, got ready and had some pre-festivity cocktails. Woo-hoo. My flat-iron crapped out and I had a serious meltdown. Think very cranky 5 year old child - that was me. WR and NC had to avoid me for a long time. I had to walk the halls and cool off. You don't know, people! You don't know what it's like to have thin hair that frizzes like it's all full-bodied! I was crushed!!!!

Looking as fabulous as one can without her flat-iron (although a bit macabre for a wedding - all black), we headed out to the wedding at City Club, an art deco building with an amazing mural by Diego Rivera scaling two levels. It was a beautiful wedding, and although my dear family friend The Officiant was charming, he wasn't exactly smooth; but the ceremony got done and we all started to party.

There was a smoking room at the Club, complete with bourbon, scotch (still almost full! I had to take it with me!), cigars and ashtrays for all. This was a blessing and then also not: many of us CU Buffs huddled in the stinky room to reminisce and so the dance floor was left less than full most the time. I heard several times that my mother was wondering wear I was and was cursing this smoking room under her breath. Damn it. Why was she invited again?

Although I wasn't an official Bridesmaid, I did have some significant responsibilities, which, after executed, left me a bit schizophrenic and displaced. First job: secure food plates for Bride and Groom from buffet and place at their seats. This meant that I had to cut the line on more than one occasion to get to the good stuff, lest my best friend not eat and get drunk too quickly (which she did anyway, but at least I did what I could). I tried not to cut the Old People, as they think all young women who use "it's for the bride and groom" as an excuse are liars.

I was also designated as the "alien consoler." OK, I just made that term up, but that exactly describes it. I was in charge of discovering shy, timid guests who couldn't start their own conversations, and pulling them into the mix. I did this quite well considering I'm a total tool. (The unfortunate fall-out from this job was multiple calls the next day from these "insociables" asking me to join them for tourism - fyi - never give your cell # to an insociable). And yes, this is why the majority of my photos from the night are of grey haireds.

3..2..1.. Happy New Year. We all celebrate, but then we are getting kicked out. We know it. All us cool kids suck up to the bar to get 2-fers before we are shut out. No dice. I fall down in front of the entire cool kid crowd and show everyone my panties. My male college buddies thank me. The girls pretend they didn't just see the most awesome pair of legs spread in front of their husbands,boyfriends and fiances. Shit. I make a mental note to go to the doctor and check my balance and the possibility of having MS.

Things are winding down. Aparantly, I am only on the fringes of "cool," because I notice most of them hitting the elevator. "We're all going to Cito's place at the Clift." Ding. Doors close. I check in with WR and NC and they have attached at the hip one French Man who is quite cool but a little odd at the same time. Not one of the cool kids. I say we are invited to Cito's room at the Clift, but we all take that as a gracious "you're not totally cool but you're allowed" invite and we decide to head back to Le Merid as a 4-some (ha ha ha!) and drink like the fishes. Because we can.

Back at the room, I start snapping photos. I also start falling down again. Really. Go to the doctor! Because I'm not drunk; I just can't seem to catch my balance. Anyhoo. It feels like a really long time since I've had a cigarette, even though there was that smoking room (in which I left my full pack and came back to 2 cigarettes left - bastards), I co-erce all 3 non-smokers up to the roof to smoke with me and look at the skyline. Up to the 24th floor. Doors to the roof are locked. No dice.

But! What do we see happening here on the 24th floor? A big ass party. Sweet. I knock.
"Yes?"
"Uh, hi. Can we come in?"
Bouncer guy looks us up and down.
"Do you have an invitation?
"Well, we just heard about it."
"Lemme ask."
Door closes. I get excited! Big party at Le Merid! It's really big, it's a suite. But outside you hear nothing.

The door opens. A thin, ugly guy comes out in his silk boxer shorts. They are... tenting. I don't look down. Much.

Big smile from Gertie: "Hi! Can we come in?"
"You want to come in to the orgy?"
"Orgy!?"
"Yeah, we're having a fucking orgy in here. You gonna take off all those clothes? Then you can come in."
er...

NC butts into the conversation: "is that really your erection" she asks Ugly Guy. She's known to be bold.
"Hell yeah, this is my real erection!" And he pulls on the elastic waist band to show me a vary bald and very erect 10". Yes, 10". Right. In. Front. of. Me.
"This is an orgy! Goddamnit!" He licks the side of his lip as he smiles. We all just stand there a little grossed out. What the?!

I am staring at the 10". Holy cow. Why are my friends so far away? Anyway, he doesn't take any of us seriously, mumbles something, caresses his cock and closes the door.

WR gets all mad that we are left out of the action. At this point, I throw my calf-length wool coat and my scarf on the floor. I hand Monsieur Nightcap Le Frenchy my iPod Shuffle for safe keeping. WC hands over her coat and cell phone. And we are there, like at a starting line, ready to run in.

The door finally opens and a couple comes out. WR and I charge in. Big Music. Lights Out. Full floor suite. We navigate through the dark. There are naked people everywhere. If they aren't busy having sex, they are busy watching and stroking their own person. Every piece of furniture is filled with a form of fornitcation. Oh. My. God. I walk briskly through. I quickly exit with flushed cheeks. I am worried that, if I look too closely, I might actually see someone I know and get REALLY grossed out.

WR follows me out. She slaps me on the shoulder. "Why'd you walk so fucking fast?! I couldn't see anything!"
"Exactly," I replied. She was bummed. Uh. OK, now I am seeing how my friends are?

I found out the next day that the party really was an organized orgy via The Pleasure Zone. Holy Mother of God. Welcome to the shadows of San Francisco. In the fanciest of places, of all things. Geez. Never know what's under your nose in a sound-proof hotel, I guess.

Later I took an elevator down to the lobby and had my own smoke in my own space. Not because I didn't want anyone's company, but I had lost all of them on one of the four elevators. Finally Monsieur Nightcap Le Frenchy came down, found me, and gave me my stolen Scotch bottle. Which I proceeded take a sip from and then walk a mere few feet before falling down and losing a good portion of it. I really need to get this clumsiness checked out.

Monsieur Nightcap Le Frenchy left around 4am and I think WR and NC and I dove into the luxurious beds of Le Merid. Actually, I know now that WR and NC did another dive into the orgy, and found a lot fewer people but a lot crazier sex going on.

I was awakened the next day bright and early by calls from the "insociables," invitations to coffee and brunch, a walk on the beach, or a stroll over to the Golden Gate Bridge. Jesus, why did I have to tell everyone all the good stuff to do, and then say I'd come with them? Must be I'm retarded.

We called in for a late check out, finally got out at about 2:30pm and went to brunch, where again Gertie was cranky (probably still pining for her destroyed flat-iron), and I complained that the egg portion of the menu was over, and that the sandwiches came with salads not fries, and that I really wanted to get the onion soup and a side of fries but that was more expensive than anything else on the menu. Then I didn't believe that, after my two friends ordered decaf coffees that mine was actually caffinated. And then I ordered a fucking hamburger and anticipated it would come with a goddamn salad because the menu and our waiter were both assholes.

But what really happened was that my friends were erroneously given caffinated coffee and my burger, which was excellent, came with fries. And this, my friends, indicates to me that 2007 will be a very good year!

Consensus

Does running 7 miles yesterday morning cancel out the fact that I had three candy bars for dinner last night at 1am?

Joe vs. The Volcano

Coming off of my recent 3 month stint dating Mr. Beef Jerky, and having nothing happen with the email guy, I've just recently been on the best date of my life. This guy just did everything right:

1. He called me earlier in the day to confirm and set the time.
2. He picked me up. Not only did he pick me up, but he got himself a cab and took it to my house to get me. I wasn't quite ready, so he made the cab wait and he came upstairs to escort me down.
3. He helped me with my coat. All night. Every on an off he was there.
4. He opened every door.
5. He complimented me without without those lusty tiger eyes that say "I want to rip your clothes off later."
6. He talked about a large variety of topics throughout the night, not all revolving around himself.

So. Joe is an ace when it comes to navigating a lady through nice evening. Unlike Beef Jerky, who over 3 months made me feel special, oh maybe once (but probably pissed me off 10 minutes later), I felt special the whole entire date. And then comes the small problem of... as always in the life of dating... someone (him) is more interested than the other person is (Gertie). There's just something missing; it's not necessarily attraction. I don't know what it is. But he's a very cool guy. So, like a pair of shoes I'm just not sure about, I'll try him on for a while and see if anything fits.

These Are A Few of My Favorite Things

I'l admit I have many favorite things. But the 2 most important are probably my parents.

Today was the most mellow Christmas Eve ever. No siblings, in-laws, friends, no orphans this year - just me hanging out with my folks. Which in theory might be nice.

I was destined however to a myriad of household chores. Like, for exampe, pulling the refrigerator away from the wall to vacuum the floor, walls, and clean the coils. My mom hates nothing more than inefficiency, especially if it costs her. In the interim, I experienced extreme boredom. By late afternoon, my mom was still holding down the kitchen, my dad was finally cleaning out his Roledexes (yes, PLURAL) from the business he dissolved 8 years ago, and I was watching a movie.

The movie wasn't holding my attention and I took a break to check in on the kitchen action. For the first time on a holiday, my mom looked out of sorts. She started bitching about the fact that we were all singularly putzing about, and her eyes welled with tears. She was seeing this Eve as very solitary holiday indeed.

We sat to a wonderful dinner, with a wonderful 1993 Stagsleap wine, and enjoyed the threesome, in the only way perhaps, that a family which has never been just a threesome for the past 34 years could.... and it is hard to describe. Comfortable, familiar, pleasant, and lacking anything new or interesting except the fact that here we were, just the three of us.

And then the burden of The Night of Just Three broke, as some neighbors stopped by. And my mother lit up because she could talk about the meal she just made and knew someone would appreciate it, and my dad lit up as the neighbor talked about upgrading to a flatscreen TV. And everyone had an excellent moment when our family bird, who loves me and my mom and tolerates my father, went to the neighbors shoulder and was quite happy there if she didn't look at him and remind him that he really hates her.

And this is one of my favorite things: to see my parents in their comfort, in their element, in their natural habit of entertaining, in the place where 60+ year old men revert to the topics of 20 year olds and the women continute the time resistent traditionof neighborly gossip and beaming with pride about their children. And I can sit there, at the fireplace, with my back warm and my heart filled completely.

Merry Christmas!

Crazy Mom Makes French Breakfast Plans

Preface: To any French speakers out there - please excuse my absence of proper accents in this post. I know where they should be but I am too lazy to get them accurately placed. My sincere apologies!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I was speaking with my mom earlier today and she told me she was meeting my dad and some friends at "The Club" (i.e. the yacht club where they are members but don't have a boat - ha!) and she invited me to join them. I declined the invite because I have way too many dvd's to watch and I am a bit of a geek who would prefer to be the geek who DOESN'T spend every Friday night out with her parents (one in a month is acceptable, if they're cool, right?).

At 9:10 PM I get a call from my very tipsty mother...
"Gertz..." Uh-oh, that's what she calls me when she's 2.8 sheets to the wind...
"Yeah, mom?"
"We've got a change of plans."
Uh-oh. Please Dear God Do Not Mean a Change of Plans TONITE.
"Oh yeah?"
"Gertz, there is a French woman here, and she and I are going to come to the City tomorrow and walk..."
Shit. I was already planning on spending 2pm and on Saturday at my folks' house, preparing for the holidays and whatnot. Now my mom was altering the plan.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Her name is Anne. Here she is."
What????
Anne: "Oui, bonjour?"
Gertie: "Bonjour, Anne. C'est un plaisir de vous rencontrer. Vous allez faire une petite promenade avec ma mere demain a San Francisco, c'est ca? (translation: Nice to meet you. I understand you are doing a walk with my mom in SF tomorrow?"
Anne: "Oui, tout a fait." [Yes, that's correct]
Gertie: "Superbe! [ not.] Et j'ai entendue qu'on va nous nous rencontrer apres pour un petit dejeuner?" [Fantastic! And I understand we'll meet afterward for breakfast?]
Anne: "Oui!"
Great. There go my morning plans. Plus, I don't know if I'm in the mood to meet a 70 year old French woman, no matter what time it is on a Saturday. But then, I tell myself it is better to practice than not to. But then, I think of sitting at a table with my mom who barely speaks a lick of French (how she got the French lady to understand what they will be doing tomorrow morning I will never know) and some 70 year old French lady and I wonder how on earth my mother is going to enjoy listening to Anne and I rattle off En Francais. Because, if I know my mother at all (and I know her to the core), she will ask me at the end of the lunch, if I don't speak French with the French woman "what is wrong with you?! You didn't use your French at all! How are you supposed to remember it if you never use it?" And I also know that we speak French the entire time, my mom will sit there politely in oblivian and afterward say "well, since I made the plans and introduced you and paid for your breakfast, it would have been nice if you included me just a little bit."

Litter Bugger

Yesterday I was walking home and in front of my building, a cabbie was taking a break (in an illegal parking spot), smoking a ciggie and talking on his Bluetooth. I really didn't mind that the cabbie had found a this calm place to have a smoke and catch up with some pals on the phone. What I did mind was that he stood there smoking and chatting with an empty cigarette box at his feet.

I interrupted his invisible conversation on the Bluetooth: "is that your cigarette box?"
Cabbie: "Sorry?" He's so interrupted.
Gertie: "That cigarette box. Is it yours?"
.... from the Cabbie.
As Gertie enters the building: "Because, if it's yours, you should pick it up." And then she goes in. She hopes the pronouncement was loud enough and filled with enough guilt to move the Cabbie to act appropriately.

a few hours later, Gertie left the building to fetch booze for some reason or another (any excuse will do). And you know what? No heinous cigarette package where it had previously been seen. Hmm. So guilt works REALLY REALLY well.

Fully Dressed

Earlier this month I was taking the bus home from downtown. I showed my transfer and boarded the bus. As soon as I looked up for a seat I knew I was in trouble. It was an accordion bus: after a long day, Gertie doesn't want to walk an extra inch. And what the accordion bus is at 8:10pm, is the "half-assed Express." That means that it is the tail end of the express bus, so it DOES make all the stops - - except the last TEN stops. And Gertie gets off somewhere in the TEN. I sat down and awaited my fate: I'd be told the last stop is 8 shorter than where I wanna be, and I'd have to wait for a "non-accordion" regular bus to venture along the route and pick me up.

As predicted, the bus announced its last stop would be North Point and Van Ness. My brain grumbled, but something in my heart screamed "opportunity!"

I didn't understand my heart, but as a human, guess what I did? I followed the heart and not the head. So, instead of waiting for the short bus, or walking the short bus route until I could get on, I walked as close to San Francisco Bay as I could.

It was dark. It was sketchy. My head imagined a wild-eyed cracked up homeless guy jumping me from the dark bushes along the barely-there sidewalk next to one of the fastest streets in the City. My heart, on the other hand, told me to open all my senses. I took out my camera so I could take pictures of the place where I hear my most favorite sound: the clang of ropes and pulleys on the bare masts of sailboats. The Marina.

Things started to look brighter, not for lack of street lights. I was walking behind a big group by the Gaurdsmen Christmas Tree Lot at Ft. Mason. There were two young girls from the families hanging out together, and it reminded me of being 11 years old and fascinated with just about everything. It became apparant that the girls were in a drama class together, as they danced a little number together and sang "...because you're never fully dressed without a smile!" I can't for the life of me remember which musical that song is from, but I know that chorus like I know the red freckle between my left thumb and forefinger.

After the group was out of my path, I was able to focus my concentration and my lens on the sleeping boats under Alcatraz's watchful eye in the middle of the Bay. It was glorious. And then, after being completely refreshed from a long day, with the clang of aspiring masts waiting for their stoic call to duty: epiphany.

I haven't been fully dressed a lot of the time. I let the selfishness of urban life get in the way, and no matter how I doll myself up, if I'm not closing the door of my apartment with a friendly face, well, I'm just not fully dressed.

The funny part is, that evening not too long ago, where I encountered the most sporadic dance ensemble yet, was December 8th. Two little girls, 11 years old, with stork legs and skinny limbs all around changed my outlook. I can't get the chorus of that song out of my head. And when I'm grumpy and in a line somewhere, I sing it to myself. And then I relax.

Because Inquiring Minds Want to Know

OK, my newly discovered male fan club wants an update on the e-mail I wrote last week. Let's just say I'm firing my flirting consultant.

It didn't work. Or, maybe it worked too well and I scared the crap out of him because he had never intended to be floofy or so curious about me. See, Outlook allows you to receive "read receipts" on e-mails you've sent. I have this function on to cover my ass in business, not to spy, but I received a read receipt 10 minutes after sending the message. And I haven't heard back. So there you go.

Tell it Like it is

Last Saturday night I went to Microsoft's holiday party. There weren't as many Bill Gates-types as I anticipated (I only saw one, really). The space was too big for the crowd but the food was delicious and they had really fun stuff to do: foozball, oragami (with an instructor, otherwise...?), henna, temporary tattoos, chocolate sampling and la piece de resistence... having your tea leaves read!

So WR and I waited and waited and waited to get our tea leaves read. Now, WR has always had problems with her ankles, so even if she dolls up she always wears comfortable shoes. Unlike Gertie. Gertie, who had lived in France a while, somehow got brainwashed that a true lady wears 3" heels until she is 68, then she moves down to the 2's. By the time it was my turn, I wasn't really into it anymore.

I was asked to hold the tea cup, close my eyes and think of three things I wanted to know. Duh, who doesn't put down that they want to guage their wealth, love life and health? I already suspect a scam, but it's free so I guess it can't be a scam, and even if it is a scam at least Microsoft is the one paying for it. Wait, did I just ruin my three questions now? Turn the cup three times. Give it back.

The woman with long wavy hair down past her patoushki tossed the tea in an OXO bowl and started to examine the remaining leaves.

"Do you have siblings?"
"Yes, an older brother." She stares curiously into the cup.
"I see you as being very independent as a child. I see tomboy. Were you a tomboy?"
"Yes!" This was maybe not a scam after all.
More curious staring into the cup.
"I see a rift with your mother."
"Uh. In the past? No." Scam.
"Really? I see that you challenged her, but that could mean mentally, like she couldn't keep up with your youthful brain, or that you were rebellious."
I'm perplexed. I was the farthest thing from rebellious as a child. I was 10 minutes past curfew once. Since I think this is a scam, I don't respond because I don't want to give her hints on where to take this. Gertie can be a b*tch sometimes.

I don't remember where she went from there. At some point she asked me if my ex-boyfriend wasn't able to commit. I said, yes, that was the problem although in reality my last beau and I mutually realized we weren't a good fit. There was a lot more curiously staring into the cup, some talk about my past life in a snowy place where my husband worked in the train yard and I journaled about my [ed insert: miserable] life. She said I was good at writing and I liked it, but I'm not sure if she meant now or back then when I was that woman. And then this:

Sudden shock upon looking even deeper into the leaves.
"Is there a child in your household?"
"No."
"Hmm. Someone watches too much TV."

Busted.

WR had a totally different experience. Her tea reader asked her upfront what she wanted to know about, and desparately seeking love, WR asked where the hell was her man. The woman said that probably WR's head was ready for love but her heart was not. I don't think WR liked this answer at all. Then the woman read WR's face, and they stopped looking into the cup and discussed personal paths and psychotherapy, and WR walked away with the contact info of a "good" therapist. Now, WR is one of the sweetest girls on the west coast, but I have always thought she is a little lost. Apparantly so much so that one doesn't need to take a look at the bottom of a teacup to know it.

Drenched

It's been spitting rain today. Better than yesterday - yesterday I got drenched because I thought the rain at 6:45 am would be less spiteful than the rain later that day. I was wrong.

Funny word, drenched. Does it derive from drown? So it means being so overcome by something that, in your full capacity, it is still too much? I think so, but only from life experience.

Don't you hate it when you're home sick from work (because you got drenched in the rain that wasn't worse later in the day than when you were out) and all that is on TV is a variety of types of pseudo-court-tv crap, and all these people tell the Judge: "Your Honor, I had had a vehicle, but he had told me I couldn't have it, 'cuz he had co-signed the loan, but I had told him I didn't want to pay him back, and he had said 'it's fine by me.'"

And then you remember from your English classes that "had + past tense verb" is no so common in modern English communication so, by the third use of this form, you got really pissed off, and then you switched channels and heard a whole other run-through of the same crap? Well, then, I hope you turned it off. Because you were drenched.

But then you lie there, feeling like The Definition of "Sick" in Webster's Dictionary, and wonder what you are going to do with your very fertile mind and very unwillful, ill-feeling body. You think of the items in the house you have which you can read, but realize your arms are too heavy and your will is weak.

The pre-holiday list runs through your head. Your head realizes that, in reality, if you didn't work or have a life, these are very simple, easily conquered things to do. But again, your over-germified body has you beat; you don't possess the stamina, and this list gets added to the "make-up work" list that is already consuming a small portion of your brian.

And again. You are drenched. Happy holidays. L'Chiam!

The E-Mail That Took a Million Hours to Write

A girl like me is lucky to have girlfriends who can officially be called flirting experts. I received an e-mail last night at 5:35pm. It was from a guy I met and hit it off with last Thursday. He didn't ask me out or anything, but there were hints he is interested, so I wanted to make sure that when I wrote back I was also clear. But not psycho-clear.

I am so retarded in the flirting arena that I didn't respond right away. I figured if I thought about it long enough I'd come up with a perfectly cute reply. By the time I went to bed I had run several responses through my head. Nothing good. Up at 6:45, I thought more about it while running. Nothing good. Shower. Nothing good. Finally at 8 am I made a phone call to my flirting consultant. 30 seconds later I finished the goddamn email.