We took Eric's Mac to the Apple store on Saturday because after a mere six months the casing is starting to crack open.
The gentle young man at the Genius Bar who was examining it asked a bunch of questions to determine whether or not the fix will be covered under warranty.
Has it been dropped?
No.
Have you opened it to attempt any repairs yourself?
No.
Has in come into contact with any liquids?
No.
So far so good, I'm thinking.
He then picked the laptop up, held the keyboard just below is nose and sniffed it, moving it from side to side to smell all the way from caps lock to enter. His nose twitched a bit, and then he set the laptop down.
OK, he said. You're covered under warranty.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Stop thief!
Friday night, after losing a generous amount of money to friends who came over for poker night at our place, we were cleaning up deep dish pizza crumbs when we heard a car alarm go off in the street below. Though I would normally have rolled my eyes and ignored it, I happened to be standing near the window and saw that there was a shady-looking fellow hovering nervously near the car. It looked a little suspicious.
"I think that guy's breaking into that car," I said, mesmerized, standing there watching as The Clementina Show headed into CSI territory.
Eric came dashing over to the window just as the guy reached into the car and grabbed two bags through the window he had just broken.
We then immediately called the police, of course.
I wasn't wearing my glasses so Eric fed me details of the dude's appearance and watched what direction he was going so we could tell the nice woman at 9-1-1 where the police might catch up with the perp.*
We gave her the basics: he was tall-ish, wearing dark pants, a hooded sweatshirt and a hat and carrying a white shopping bag and a briefcase taken out of the car. The she got kind of demanding: What hand was he carrying the bag in? Um, one in each maybe? What kind of shoes was he wearing? Uh, hmmm. What color was his parachute? Oh, wait. Sorry. Job search on the brain.
She said they might need us to come down to talk to the cops; they would call us if so. Cops were on the scene just a few minutes later, and the people whose car it was came out to talk to them which meant that we probably didn't have to go down. But we really wanted to help, so Eric and I hung out of our 4th story window watching and listening, looking for a chance to be helpful.
We heard the cops ask who had called the police and Eric eagerly shouted out the window:
"We did! Hey! Up here in the window! We called!"
Four heads turned, registered our presence, gave a small wave, and then ignored us.
*I hope this is not the last time I get to use the word "perp" in the blog, but I hope that it is always removed from direct personal experience.
"I think that guy's breaking into that car," I said, mesmerized, standing there watching as The Clementina Show headed into CSI territory.
Eric came dashing over to the window just as the guy reached into the car and grabbed two bags through the window he had just broken.
We then immediately called the police, of course.
I wasn't wearing my glasses so Eric fed me details of the dude's appearance and watched what direction he was going so we could tell the nice woman at 9-1-1 where the police might catch up with the perp.*
We gave her the basics: he was tall-ish, wearing dark pants, a hooded sweatshirt and a hat and carrying a white shopping bag and a briefcase taken out of the car. The she got kind of demanding: What hand was he carrying the bag in? Um, one in each maybe? What kind of shoes was he wearing? Uh, hmmm. What color was his parachute? Oh, wait. Sorry. Job search on the brain.
She said they might need us to come down to talk to the cops; they would call us if so. Cops were on the scene just a few minutes later, and the people whose car it was came out to talk to them which meant that we probably didn't have to go down. But we really wanted to help, so Eric and I hung out of our 4th story window watching and listening, looking for a chance to be helpful.
We heard the cops ask who had called the police and Eric eagerly shouted out the window:
"We did! Hey! Up here in the window! We called!"
Four heads turned, registered our presence, gave a small wave, and then ignored us.
*I hope this is not the last time I get to use the word "perp" in the blog, but I hope that it is always removed from direct personal experience.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Don't try this at home
I currently have a prescription-strength obsession with all things peppermint. I drink more peppermint tea than is probably fair, and I've used my many networking coffee dates of late to drink a peppermint mocha latte or five. Another favorite peppermint drink is a concoction from apres-ski culture known as a "snuggler" (hot cocoa with peppermint schnapps).
I am certainly capable of making peppermint tea at home, and have successfully mixed peppermint schnapps into cocoa with pleasantly delicious and warming results. But as an exercise in will, I am not drinking alcohol for the month between Thanksgiving and Christmas, so that leaves the schnapps on the shelf for another week.
To feed my peppermint/caffeine addiction this afternoon without leaving the house, I very cleverly mixed peppermint extract into a coffee-milk-cocoa mixture to create what I can only describe as a truly naseous-making beverage. It tastes like the first sip of coffee after brushing your teeth and swishing with mouthwash in the morning, only the mouthwash taste doesn't go away after a moment. It persists.
Yuck.
I am certainly capable of making peppermint tea at home, and have successfully mixed peppermint schnapps into cocoa with pleasantly delicious and warming results. But as an exercise in will, I am not drinking alcohol for the month between Thanksgiving and Christmas, so that leaves the schnapps on the shelf for another week.
To feed my peppermint/caffeine addiction this afternoon without leaving the house, I very cleverly mixed peppermint extract into a coffee-milk-cocoa mixture to create what I can only describe as a truly naseous-making beverage. It tastes like the first sip of coffee after brushing your teeth and swishing with mouthwash in the morning, only the mouthwash taste doesn't go away after a moment. It persists.
Yuck.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Maybe it was because they played that heartbreaking Sarah McLachlan song
This morning while I was making breakfast, NPR had a short piece about a homeless shelter in Oakland that held a memorial service for all of the homeless people who had died over the past few weeks. One of the women who had organized it said she felt that the passing of these people's lives should be recognized no matter what their circumstances had been in life. "If their deaths aren't recognized, then it's as if they never existed. But they did exist," she explained.
One man, newly homeless, became very emotional and stepped away from the ceremony. Like any good newsman, the NPR reporter followed the man to badger him with questions. He shared how scared he is, how he has been trying so hard to make things work, and he is wondering when things are going to start to come together, or if maybe this is just all that his life is going to amount to.
Something about the story struck a nerve. Maybe it was that I've been worried that The Clementina Show has been suspiciously subdued due to the cold weather. Or maybe it was that I wasn't yet caffeinated. Or maybe it's just sad. I cried. But just a little. And then I forced myself to pull it together and get the zucchini bread out of the toaster oven before it burned because that would have been really sad.
One man, newly homeless, became very emotional and stepped away from the ceremony. Like any good newsman, the NPR reporter followed the man to badger him with questions. He shared how scared he is, how he has been trying so hard to make things work, and he is wondering when things are going to start to come together, or if maybe this is just all that his life is going to amount to.
Something about the story struck a nerve. Maybe it was that I've been worried that The Clementina Show has been suspiciously subdued due to the cold weather. Or maybe it was that I wasn't yet caffeinated. Or maybe it's just sad. I cried. But just a little. And then I forced myself to pull it together and get the zucchini bread out of the toaster oven before it burned because that would have been really sad.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Graphic, but not like that
Last night Jamaica and I went to the opening of a new exhibit at the Cartoon Art Museum here in San Francisco. I mostly agreed to go because it was cold out* and this happens to be close to where I live.
We'd gotten there early and so we spent a few minutes perusing the bookstore's many and odd offerings. I was fascinated to see all these comic book books, which apparently are called "graphic novels"** and are very cutting edge in the literary world, or so the cartoon art museum bookstore would have you believe. I've never read one but I am starting to wonder if I should, just so that I can say I've done it. You know, like running up the Philadelphia Art Museum steps and then hopping around while fake punching, or going to see live mud wrestling.
When they finally started letting people in, Jamaica and I were among the first to enter and we headed toward the back because our strategy was to avoid the crowd by viewing the exhibit in reverse. About halfway back there was a table set up with green tea and sushi. One of the volunteers who was helping out with the opening and who had let us in was somehow already at the table and was apparently doing his best to eat as much sushi as he could before anyone else could get in. This man was doing as much damage as was possible short of having an actual shovel. He noticed us approaching and, mouth literally half-full of rice, nori and tuna, said:
"I know I'm being a bad volunteer but I really wanted to get some of the sushi before it was gone."
Mission accomplished, I'd say.
*In San Francisco terms, so, you know, like 45 degrees.
**Without the cartoon art context, I would definitely be tempted to think this referred to a different genre of literature. It strikes me that until this term achieves widespread use, there is ample opportunity for awkward misunderstandings, mayhem and hilarity to ensue.
We'd gotten there early and so we spent a few minutes perusing the bookstore's many and odd offerings. I was fascinated to see all these comic book books, which apparently are called "graphic novels"** and are very cutting edge in the literary world, or so the cartoon art museum bookstore would have you believe. I've never read one but I am starting to wonder if I should, just so that I can say I've done it. You know, like running up the Philadelphia Art Museum steps and then hopping around while fake punching, or going to see live mud wrestling.
When they finally started letting people in, Jamaica and I were among the first to enter and we headed toward the back because our strategy was to avoid the crowd by viewing the exhibit in reverse. About halfway back there was a table set up with green tea and sushi. One of the volunteers who was helping out with the opening and who had let us in was somehow already at the table and was apparently doing his best to eat as much sushi as he could before anyone else could get in. This man was doing as much damage as was possible short of having an actual shovel. He noticed us approaching and, mouth literally half-full of rice, nori and tuna, said:
"I know I'm being a bad volunteer but I really wanted to get some of the sushi before it was gone."
Mission accomplished, I'd say.
*In San Francisco terms, so, you know, like 45 degrees.
**Without the cartoon art context, I would definitely be tempted to think this referred to a different genre of literature. It strikes me that until this term achieves widespread use, there is ample opportunity for awkward misunderstandings, mayhem and hilarity to ensue.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Why I love this tree
We got a little Christmas tree for our place and it sits there all day making me happy. I can tell you why:
- It's a sustainable tree. Responsible forest management, no chemicals, healthy land. What's not to feel good about?
- It smells good. Or at least it looks like it smells good and I'm pretty sure I can detect a faint piney odor.
- It is going to help me win a bet: I sided with 'won't drop majority of needles before we leave for Hawaii on the 23rd' and so far I am the clear winner.*
- It's wearing earrings.
- It has an ornament that looks like an eyeball. That's right. One day I brought home a fun craft project for Eric and me to do: decorate your own ornaments! It came with two blank white ornaments - one snowman-shaped and the other globe-shaped. Eric chose the globe and excitedly colored it as...an eyeball. A bloodshot eyeball. Yup.**
*I fear this may be irresistably tempt the malicious sprinkler...
**Not pictured here but rest assured, it is being displayed prominently on the tree.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Smooth ride
After five months of living in this apartment, I am now prepared to tell you what it sounds like when it rains: it sounds exactly the same as it sounds when you are in a car when it is raining. So much so that yesterday I commented on the sound of the rain hitting the sunroof, which in buildings is actually usually called a skylight.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
High-quality programming
At dinner last night with friends Elizabeth and Greg, there was an awkward pause in the conversation that made me laugh. This prompted Greg to comment that their life at home, if filmed, would be a lot like Curb Your Enthusiasm in that it is filled with hilarious awkward pauses, not because Larry David lives at their house (he doesn't).
The obvious question: if someone were to film home life with Eric and me, what sort of programming would that be?
Eric and I looked at each other: yes, definitely some sort of children's show with characters that jump around and make a lot of nonsense noises. Maybe like the Teletubbies? Or a nature show about wild birds?
This lead to another awkward pause as Elizabeth and Greg struggled to find the appropriate response. We each took another bite of food. Mmm, good salad.
The obvious question: if someone were to film home life with Eric and me, what sort of programming would that be?
Eric and I looked at each other: yes, definitely some sort of children's show with characters that jump around and make a lot of nonsense noises. Maybe like the Teletubbies? Or a nature show about wild birds?
This lead to another awkward pause as Elizabeth and Greg struggled to find the appropriate response. We each took another bite of food. Mmm, good salad.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
If you don't, I don't care, I'll pull down your underwear
Because turning lead into gold is easier than parking on a Friday evening in San Francisco, we're in the exceptionally dorky yet practical habit of riding our bikes everywhere. Last night we rode to an impromptu holiday dinner with all the folks in Eric's lab. I was wearing a skirt and heels because I see no reason to compromise on looking good just because I am taking self-propelled transportation, and also because I am pretty good at riding in a skirt without showing anyone my underpants.
After dinner, everyone except for one other dude went home, probably because they all live down the peninsula and it has clearly drained them of their will to live, or at least to have fun going out on weekends. So we three city dwellers went to a bar that smelled like a swimming pool to gossip about everyone who had gone home.
After comprehensively dissecting the social dynamics of the lab and excessively reminding each other how great it is to live in San Francisco, it was good and late and definitely a respectable city hour to head home. We made our way out of the bar to discover, to our shock and horror, that it was pouring rain. This doesn't happen here! And it had been raining enough that there was plenty of water collected in the streets, so much the better to spray your butt and all up your back.
The ride home was wet, cold, miserable and yet kind of exhilirating. And though it is icky and horrible to feel like a drowned rat, there is nothing better than then climbing into bed and feeling like a warm, cozy rat.
After dinner, everyone except for one other dude went home, probably because they all live down the peninsula and it has clearly drained them of their will to live, or at least to have fun going out on weekends. So we three city dwellers went to a bar that smelled like a swimming pool to gossip about everyone who had gone home.
After comprehensively dissecting the social dynamics of the lab and excessively reminding each other how great it is to live in San Francisco, it was good and late and definitely a respectable city hour to head home. We made our way out of the bar to discover, to our shock and horror, that it was pouring rain. This doesn't happen here! And it had been raining enough that there was plenty of water collected in the streets, so much the better to spray your butt and all up your back.
The ride home was wet, cold, miserable and yet kind of exhilirating. And though it is icky and horrible to feel like a drowned rat, there is nothing better than then climbing into bed and feeling like a warm, cozy rat.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Makes you wonder why they call them hot dogs
While eating lunch today I got to wondering where the name cottage cheese came from, and was left no choice but to ask the interweb for information. It seems that it is called cottage cheese either because the people who used to eat it lived in cottages (boring) or because the term cottage was sometimes used to refer to things that were only half-finished, and became the common way to refer to this half-finished cheese food (more interesting but a little suspect).
Don't worry - I didn't stop there. I was now on a brief but intense mission to seek out the curious origin of oddly named foods.
You might be curious to learn that naval oranges were named as such not because in the old days the navy always bought so many to help sailors prevent scurvy*, but because they appear to have a belly button on one end. This clearly leaves me no choice but to refer to them exclusively as belly button oranges from now on.
I thought that the story behind the grapefruit's name might be a good one. It's not: the not terribly creative botanist who named them was inspired by the fact that they grow in clumps like grapes. Though looking at an actual grapefruit tree, I think perhaps he was more creative than I have given him credit for.
Finally, the word on the street is that "deviled" items are foods that are prepared with mustard and that are spicy, but I thought a little fact-checking was in order. It seems that deviled eggs and other deviled food items are actually made through a flavoring process that holds the oldest US food patent and the actual recipe remains a secret to this day. I guess all this time I've thought I was making deviled eggs, I've actually been making something else. I shall now refer to them as Monster Eyeballs.
*Definitely one of my favorite words.
Don't worry - I didn't stop there. I was now on a brief but intense mission to seek out the curious origin of oddly named foods.
You might be curious to learn that naval oranges were named as such not because in the old days the navy always bought so many to help sailors prevent scurvy*, but because they appear to have a belly button on one end. This clearly leaves me no choice but to refer to them exclusively as belly button oranges from now on.
I thought that the story behind the grapefruit's name might be a good one. It's not: the not terribly creative botanist who named them was inspired by the fact that they grow in clumps like grapes. Though looking at an actual grapefruit tree, I think perhaps he was more creative than I have given him credit for.
Finally, the word on the street is that "deviled" items are foods that are prepared with mustard and that are spicy, but I thought a little fact-checking was in order. It seems that deviled eggs and other deviled food items are actually made through a flavoring process that holds the oldest US food patent and the actual recipe remains a secret to this day. I guess all this time I've thought I was making deviled eggs, I've actually been making something else. I shall now refer to them as Monster Eyeballs.
*Definitely one of my favorite words.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Eat your heart out Jackson Pollock
In my ongoing personal quest to make up for a lifetime of non-domesticity, I made Christmas cookies last night. Eric helped because he is gunning for the "Best Sport About Doing Crafts" award and because it didn't require a trip to Joann Fabrics.
The rolling, cutting and baking took a little longer that I had anticipated and rather than individually frosting the cookies, which would easily have taken us into the wee hours of the morning, I opted to sacrifice some domesticity points and go for a mass frosting approach. It would be creepy to somehow compare it to cookie concentration camps so I won't do that. Instead will say we put all the cookies together in a small area and then smothered them with frosting and sprinkles.
The rolling, cutting and baking took a little longer that I had anticipated and rather than individually frosting the cookies, which would easily have taken us into the wee hours of the morning, I opted to sacrifice some domesticity points and go for a mass frosting approach. It would be creepy to somehow compare it to cookie concentration camps so I won't do that. Instead will say we put all the cookies together in a small area and then smothered them with frosting and sprinkles.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
This was not an intentional ripoff of Little Shop of Horrors
These days I'm excited about growing things. Plants, to be specific*. I think it is really spectacular that you can take some seeds, or a small plant, and give it water and sunlight and it will most likely turn brown and start to smell but sometimes if you're lucky it will stay green and actually get bigger. I put that in the category of Whoa it's a miracle! along with planes lifting off the ground, which I admit I am still amazed at every single time it happens.
I have a small flock of plants at the moment that I am doing my best not to kill. My aloe plant, a hardy fellow, seems to be thriving since I daringly re-potted him a few weeks ago. He's got these funny little strech mark things where he's been growing which I find confusing because, isn't aloe what people are supposed to put on our skin to prevent getting stretch marks? Maybe I should rub some human blood on his stretch marks to see if it's a reciprocal relationship.**
In the category of plants that are not thriving I will mention some mums that are troublingly yellow-brown and brittle and a small succulent which keeps ejecting chunks of himself, up to six inches from the pot. I honestly have no idea how this is happening and have considered that this may be an alien creature. I don't want to throw it away lest I anger it but I'm not really sure what else to do. (No, I'm not entertaining the idea of offering it any human blood.)
What I am really excited about, though, is the idea of growing actual foodstuffs, such as herbs, tomatoes, salad greens and even other vegetables and fruits. I have a fantasy that my roof deck might be a good venue for some agricultural experimentation since during the day it is warm and sunny but unfortunately at night it is about as hospitable to life as the surface of the moon, so I'm not sure how well that's going to work.
*I think this is an unnecessary qualification but I suppose someone could think I was referring to hair or toenails or something, which, incidentally, I am also growing and with significantly more success than my plants.
**I agree. I've gone way too far with this last thought. EWWW!
I have a small flock of plants at the moment that I am doing my best not to kill. My aloe plant, a hardy fellow, seems to be thriving since I daringly re-potted him a few weeks ago. He's got these funny little strech mark things where he's been growing which I find confusing because, isn't aloe what people are supposed to put on our skin to prevent getting stretch marks? Maybe I should rub some human blood on his stretch marks to see if it's a reciprocal relationship.**
In the category of plants that are not thriving I will mention some mums that are troublingly yellow-brown and brittle and a small succulent which keeps ejecting chunks of himself, up to six inches from the pot. I honestly have no idea how this is happening and have considered that this may be an alien creature. I don't want to throw it away lest I anger it but I'm not really sure what else to do. (No, I'm not entertaining the idea of offering it any human blood.)
What I am really excited about, though, is the idea of growing actual foodstuffs, such as herbs, tomatoes, salad greens and even other vegetables and fruits. I have a fantasy that my roof deck might be a good venue for some agricultural experimentation since during the day it is warm and sunny but unfortunately at night it is about as hospitable to life as the surface of the moon, so I'm not sure how well that's going to work.
*I think this is an unnecessary qualification but I suppose someone could think I was referring to hair or toenails or something, which, incidentally, I am also growing and with significantly more success than my plants.
**I agree. I've gone way too far with this last thought. EWWW!
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Kick me again
I am not pathetic.
I think this is a important fact to establish right at the start here, because there is accumulating evidence that might tempt you to think otherwise. Don't be taken in. I can assure you, pathos have no place with me.
It would be easy, when I tell you that yesterday no one showed up to either of the two yoga classes that I was scheduled to teach, for you to make that "awww" noise in your head and kind of squish up your face with sympathy. Don't do that. I'm sure all those people who were going to come had important things come up right before class that prevented them from making it, like a rogue bus driver or a badly stubbed toe. I bet they were really disappointed to miss out.
You might also be tempted to compassionately furrow your brow when I tell you that I ate at IHOP on Saturday afternoon. Please - before you judge, let me explain. We had gone surfing and, it being December, I spent the whole morning between waves fantasizing about things that are warm. One was coffee. Another was pancakes. As a result, my ability to drive past the IHOP on the way home - feet still numb from the cold water - had been too severely compromised. I had the seasonal special pumpkin pancakes. There's no shame in that.
Definitely don't comfortingly pat my arm and shake your head about my being unemployed. Maybe I like being unemployed. Did you ever think about that? Maybe I enjoy living off of my dwindling savings while job prospects disintegrate around me on a daily basis. You see, I have the gift of time. Endless endless time! I bet you're reading this at work and that afterwards you'll go on to do something productive. Ha! Sucker. Know what I'm going to do next? Go back to the Safeway with my receipt from yesterday's grocery trip to plead with them to give me back a few dollars for sales that didn't ring up properly.
And you thought I was pathetic.
I think this is a important fact to establish right at the start here, because there is accumulating evidence that might tempt you to think otherwise. Don't be taken in. I can assure you, pathos have no place with me.
It would be easy, when I tell you that yesterday no one showed up to either of the two yoga classes that I was scheduled to teach, for you to make that "awww" noise in your head and kind of squish up your face with sympathy. Don't do that. I'm sure all those people who were going to come had important things come up right before class that prevented them from making it, like a rogue bus driver or a badly stubbed toe. I bet they were really disappointed to miss out.
You might also be tempted to compassionately furrow your brow when I tell you that I ate at IHOP on Saturday afternoon. Please - before you judge, let me explain. We had gone surfing and, it being December, I spent the whole morning between waves fantasizing about things that are warm. One was coffee. Another was pancakes. As a result, my ability to drive past the IHOP on the way home - feet still numb from the cold water - had been too severely compromised. I had the seasonal special pumpkin pancakes. There's no shame in that.
Definitely don't comfortingly pat my arm and shake your head about my being unemployed. Maybe I like being unemployed. Did you ever think about that? Maybe I enjoy living off of my dwindling savings while job prospects disintegrate around me on a daily basis. You see, I have the gift of time. Endless endless time! I bet you're reading this at work and that afterwards you'll go on to do something productive. Ha! Sucker. Know what I'm going to do next? Go back to the Safeway with my receipt from yesterday's grocery trip to plead with them to give me back a few dollars for sales that didn't ring up properly.
And you thought I was pathetic.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Who does?
Out on the town this past Saturday night, I overheard one young woman confess to another:
"I just don't have the time or the energy to give a crap about seahorses."
"I just don't have the time or the energy to give a crap about seahorses."
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Exhibit I of my argument for why I should be the primary driver of our motorcycle*
*To be fair, the surfing scrape might be because I surfed my board right into his wrist, so might not actually be his fault.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Tommy used to work on the docks
Part of being unemployed is that it becomes really hard to justify throwing money at problems to make them go away: suddenly, it is actually worth your time to fix them yourself. I guess maybe 30 is as good an age as any to learn how to iron.
Don't get me wrong. I've always been someone to keep an eye out for a good sale or take public transportation to the airport, but I'm talking about taking it to a new level. Let me get straight to the point: I'm talking about coupons here.
Humbling? Perhaps - but there are ways to sidestep facing the reality that one has become a coupon clipper. One is the Green Zebra, a book of coupons for local, sustainable businesses. I'm not being cheap, I'm being green. See the difference?
Another important resource for the wealth-constrained is FunCheapSF, a website that has listings for a wide array of free and cheap events such as Kraft-a-billy DIY Shopping bazaar w/ pin up contest & burlesque (SOMA) and Sexy accordian players concert and pin-up calendar party at Good Vibes (Mission Dist.). What?! And they're FREE?
I'm not sure what their posting guidelines are but I am tempted to submit a posting for The Clementina Show, which I believe is having a special homeless rodeo this weekend between 2 and 4am on Saturday. Cause you live for the fight when it's all that you've got.
Don't get me wrong. I've always been someone to keep an eye out for a good sale or take public transportation to the airport, but I'm talking about taking it to a new level. Let me get straight to the point: I'm talking about coupons here.
Humbling? Perhaps - but there are ways to sidestep facing the reality that one has become a coupon clipper. One is the Green Zebra, a book of coupons for local, sustainable businesses. I'm not being cheap, I'm being green. See the difference?
Another important resource for the wealth-constrained is FunCheapSF, a website that has listings for a wide array of free and cheap events such as Kraft-a-billy DIY Shopping bazaar w/ pin up contest & burlesque (SOMA) and Sexy accordian players concert and pin-up calendar party at Good Vibes (Mission Dist.). What?! And they're FREE?
I'm not sure what their posting guidelines are but I am tempted to submit a posting for The Clementina Show, which I believe is having a special homeless rodeo this weekend between 2 and 4am on Saturday. Cause you live for the fight when it's all that you've got.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Don't ask about the air conditioning
Our extremely modern and sophisticated apartment has, as you would expect, an incredibly modern and sophisticated heating system: fire.
Granted, it's in a fancy-looking fireplace dressed up with expensive stone. But still, it's pretty much just a fire. Not that distant a cousin from the roaring blaze over which Eric and I roasted many a marshmallow over Thanksgiving weekend in the desert (and of which our coats still reek as they hang in the back hallway).
Here's how it works: there's a switch on the wall that determines whether or not the heat is on or off. If the switch is set to on, then when the temperature of the room gets below the temp on the thermostat, the fake logs in the fireplace burst into flame and start heating the place up. Hello toasty fire! Likewise, when the room is at the target temperature, the fire turns itself off. (Bye bye fire.)
I'm not totally used to this system yet, and so every now and then when the fire suddenly goes on I immediately assume that it's Zuul and that there will be eggs frying on the counter within moments.
I'm also not accustomed to it enough to think to warn houseguests sleeping in the living room that if they suddenly wake up in the middle of the night to a blazing fire that it's really nothing to be concerned about. Which makes me think perhaps plastic sheets for the couch wouldn't be a bad idea when someone is staying over.
Granted, it's in a fancy-looking fireplace dressed up with expensive stone. But still, it's pretty much just a fire. Not that distant a cousin from the roaring blaze over which Eric and I roasted many a marshmallow over Thanksgiving weekend in the desert (and of which our coats still reek as they hang in the back hallway).
Here's how it works: there's a switch on the wall that determines whether or not the heat is on or off. If the switch is set to on, then when the temperature of the room gets below the temp on the thermostat, the fake logs in the fireplace burst into flame and start heating the place up. Hello toasty fire! Likewise, when the room is at the target temperature, the fire turns itself off. (Bye bye fire.)
I'm not totally used to this system yet, and so every now and then when the fire suddenly goes on I immediately assume that it's Zuul and that there will be eggs frying on the counter within moments.
I'm also not accustomed to it enough to think to warn houseguests sleeping in the living room that if they suddenly wake up in the middle of the night to a blazing fire that it's really nothing to be concerned about. Which makes me think perhaps plastic sheets for the couch wouldn't be a bad idea when someone is staying over.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
You can't see him but he's there
There's a malicious sprinkler in my life.
This person, or people, takes my hair and sprinkles it around my apartment when I'm not looking. Especially under the glass coffee table near the couch.
Also, he takes pieces of broken glass and sprinkles it exclusively and comprehensively across all the bike lanes in the city.
Why can't he use his sprinkling forces for good, I ask you? Maybe he could get a job in a pizza parlor. Or an ice cream shop. Is it possible that this now official recession has put even talented sprinklers out of work?
Has it gotten that bad?
OK, now I just feel bad for him. Sorry man.
This person, or people, takes my hair and sprinkles it around my apartment when I'm not looking. Especially under the glass coffee table near the couch.
Also, he takes pieces of broken glass and sprinkles it exclusively and comprehensively across all the bike lanes in the city.
Why can't he use his sprinkling forces for good, I ask you? Maybe he could get a job in a pizza parlor. Or an ice cream shop. Is it possible that this now official recession has put even talented sprinklers out of work?
Has it gotten that bad?
OK, now I just feel bad for him. Sorry man.
Monday, December 1, 2008
List of things in cartoon deserts that are also in real deserts
Cacti
An Oasis. Look carefully - palm trees in the middle of the desert! What?!!
Crazy-ass looking trees
Tarantulas!
Tarantulas! 
An Oasis. Look carefully - palm trees in the middle of the desert! What?!!
The real desert, in this case also known as Joshua Tree National Park and located an easily driveable 9 hours from San Francisco, also had a few surprises for those of us who prepared for our desert experience by watching cartoons that take place in deserts. For one, the people in the campground next to us remembered to bring their portable deep-fryer so that they could deep fry their Thanksgiving turkey and then every single food item for every single meal that they ate for the rest of the weekend.
Also, there was bowling.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
1 out of 1,200,000
That's me.
Unemployed.
And I've decided not to be deterred by the social stigma associated with collecting unemployment while I look for a job: I want my free government money!
Because I've worked in more than one state over the past 18 months, I can't file an online application and need to speak to someone to file my claim. The problem is that there are so many people trying to get their mouths on the government teat, the unemployment office is overwhelmed with calls and doesn't have enough staff to answer the phones.
I have an idea: hire some people to answer the damn phones.
Unemployed.
And I've decided not to be deterred by the social stigma associated with collecting unemployment while I look for a job: I want my free government money!
Because I've worked in more than one state over the past 18 months, I can't file an online application and need to speak to someone to file my claim. The problem is that there are so many people trying to get their mouths on the government teat, the unemployment office is overwhelmed with calls and doesn't have enough staff to answer the phones.
I have an idea: hire some people to answer the damn phones.
Monday, November 24, 2008
A VILE henchman has been detected!
I spent a significant portion of my time as an 9 year old planted in front of our Macintosh's 4-inch screen, World Almanac in hand, playing Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego?
I credit this game with teaching me important life lessons such as that Lima is the capital of Peru, bahts are the currency in Thailand and computer games are valid substitutes for real human friends. Sure, I probably would have learned that stuff eventually, like when I went to high school or traveled to those countries, but it was gratifying to be so well-prepared so young. (Traveling overseas later I was surprised, however, that the flights were so long since in the game you can get most of the way around the world in about 4 hours. I'll know to bring extra granola bars next time.)
In a moment that was either the purest form of boredom, a lapse in my ability to stave off childhood nostalgia, or both, Eric and I found an online version of the game last night. It's not exactly the same - it's "Where in Time is Carmen Sandiego" - but it was close enough to be very satisfying: the same primitive graphics, the same tinkly midi music, the same tantalizing tidbits of history and geography. It came close to provoking that same feeling of extreme social isolation but I fought the urge to reach for a volume of Tolkien and after nabbing the suspect successfully we rode the wave of nostalgia to Simon. I must now add myself playing Simon to the list of things I can't control because given the choice between working on my resume and beating my current best score of 13, all I have to say is R-R-Y-R-B-B-R-G-R-R-G-G-G-B.
Yeah, I've had to put myself on that list twice now. What's your point?
I credit this game with teaching me important life lessons such as that Lima is the capital of Peru, bahts are the currency in Thailand and computer games are valid substitutes for real human friends. Sure, I probably would have learned that stuff eventually, like when I went to high school or traveled to those countries, but it was gratifying to be so well-prepared so young. (Traveling overseas later I was surprised, however, that the flights were so long since in the game you can get most of the way around the world in about 4 hours. I'll know to bring extra granola bars next time.)
In a moment that was either the purest form of boredom, a lapse in my ability to stave off childhood nostalgia, or both, Eric and I found an online version of the game last night. It's not exactly the same - it's "Where in Time is Carmen Sandiego" - but it was close enough to be very satisfying: the same primitive graphics, the same tinkly midi music, the same tantalizing tidbits of history and geography. It came close to provoking that same feeling of extreme social isolation but I fought the urge to reach for a volume of Tolkien and after nabbing the suspect successfully we rode the wave of nostalgia to Simon. I must now add myself playing Simon to the list of things I can't control because given the choice between working on my resume and beating my current best score of 13, all I have to say is R-R-Y-R-B-B-R-G-R-R-G-G-G-B.
Yeah, I've had to put myself on that list twice now. What's your point?
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Free comedy and more free comedy
Eric and I cashed in our free comedy tickets last night. We're quick learners and there were a few things we did differently this time: we drank some beers prior to the show rather than waiting until we got there, we brought more beers to the show than we did last time, and we arrived at 9pm when the show is supposed to start rather than 8:25pm which is 5 min before doors open and a solid 40 min before pretty much anyone other than the comics' wives showed up.
Imagine our surprise when, stepping out of the elevator at the fifth floor, the place was packed and there was a line out the door. Turns out the show was doubling as a benefit for Sports for Kids, a non-profit that brings the gift of sports to kids in Oakland. The host comic works with them and her biggest laugh line of the night - which she returned to often - was "Kids are fucked up." Pretty funny.
We ended up finding a couple of empty seats next to three Canadian women on a girls' weekend trip from Edmonton. They were drinking Smirnoff Ice and by the end of the show had confirmed my long-held suspicion that vodka and artificial apple flavoring in a single-serving glass container makes people mean. These simple, kind Canadian women heckled the hell out of the headliner comic and just would not stop until practically the whole audience had turned on them. Just as I started to be truly concerned that I would need to dodge empty beer cans and giveaway Sports for Kids keychain bottle openers, they simmered down and let the show limp to an unsatisfying conclusion.
The highlight of the evening came at the end: they're still doing the tell-a-joke-for-a-free-ticket deal but it was a different dude videotaping this time and so Eric and I shamelessly told the same jokes we told the first time and each got a new free ticket. Take that comedy jokers!
Imagine our surprise when, stepping out of the elevator at the fifth floor, the place was packed and there was a line out the door. Turns out the show was doubling as a benefit for Sports for Kids, a non-profit that brings the gift of sports to kids in Oakland. The host comic works with them and her biggest laugh line of the night - which she returned to often - was "Kids are fucked up." Pretty funny.
We ended up finding a couple of empty seats next to three Canadian women on a girls' weekend trip from Edmonton. They were drinking Smirnoff Ice and by the end of the show had confirmed my long-held suspicion that vodka and artificial apple flavoring in a single-serving glass container makes people mean. These simple, kind Canadian women heckled the hell out of the headliner comic and just would not stop until practically the whole audience had turned on them. Just as I started to be truly concerned that I would need to dodge empty beer cans and giveaway Sports for Kids keychain bottle openers, they simmered down and let the show limp to an unsatisfying conclusion.
The highlight of the evening came at the end: they're still doing the tell-a-joke-for-a-free-ticket deal but it was a different dude videotaping this time and so Eric and I shamelessly told the same jokes we told the first time and each got a new free ticket. Take that comedy jokers!
Friday, November 21, 2008
When your room looks kinda weird
Muppet Babies, we make our dreams come true
Muppet Babies, we'll do the same for you
When your world looks kinda weird and you wish that you weren't there
Just close your eyes and make believe and you can be anywhere
I like adventure
I like romance
I love great jokes
Animal dance!!
I've got my computer
I swing through the air
I play the piano
And I have blue hair
Me, I invent things
Mee mee mee meee!
[Is everything all right in here?]
Yes, Nanny.
Muppet Babies, we make our dreams come true
Muppet Babies, we'll do the same for you
Muppet Muppet Muppet Muppet
Babies Babies Babies Babies
Make dreams come true.
Muppet Babies, we'll do the same for you
When your world looks kinda weird and you wish that you weren't there
Just close your eyes and make believe and you can be anywhere
I like adventure
I like romance
I love great jokes
Animal dance!!
I've got my computer
I swing through the air
I play the piano
And I have blue hair
Me, I invent things
Mee mee mee meee!
[Is everything all right in here?]
Yes, Nanny.
Muppet Babies, we make our dreams come true
Muppet Babies, we'll do the same for you
Muppet Muppet Muppet Muppet
Babies Babies Babies Babies
Make dreams come true.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Roller coasters
My dad and stepmother happened to be in Berkeley for a few days this week and came over for dinner last night. It was their first time to see our place here and they were very impressed at how nice it is. They were so enthusiastic about how much better it is than anywhere else I've ever lived that you would think all my previous apartments had been vermin-infested shitholes, which at least one of them wasn't. At least not right away.
They brought us a set of coasters as a housewarming gift. They're made of glass and they come with a stand-up holder thing that, to me, looks like they're about to go on some sort of really fun ride like a roller coaster.
Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
They brought us a set of coasters as a housewarming gift. They're made of glass and they come with a stand-up holder thing that, to me, looks like they're about to go on some sort of really fun ride like a roller coaster.
Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!Wednesday, November 19, 2008
This is when I remind you that I am 30 years old and extremely sophisticated
Strolling along Market Street with Eric's parents this past Friday night, I showed a little too much excitement about a large pile of finger puppets that a small Peruvian woman was selling on the sidewalk. Eric's father insisted on buying me a couple, which I proceeded to keep in my purse all weekend and secretly play with during quiet moments.
This may have significantly influenced their impression of me: for the rest of the weekend, every time we passed a toy store - in Palo Alto, Sonoma, Berkeley and San Francisco - Eric's mother would say "Oh look Ellie! A toy store!" pretty much in the voice you would use to address a five year old.
This may have significantly influenced their impression of me: for the rest of the weekend, every time we passed a toy store - in Palo Alto, Sonoma, Berkeley and San Francisco - Eric's mother would say "Oh look Ellie! A toy store!" pretty much in the voice you would use to address a five year old.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Capades
We went ice skating last night in Union Square. It was uncharacteristically warm out for San Francisco but somehow, blowers going full blast, they kept the ice frozen and the wee tiny ice rink was packed with people skating in t-shirts.
Pretty much everyone out there, except for us and a handful of ponytailed perverts, was probably procrastinating studying for their 10th grade geometry test. When skating around the rink one had to maintain peripheral awareness of the writhing amoebic mass of shrieking, giggling tweens, to avoid accidentally checking them into the boards or slicing off one or more fingers, especially given that several of them spent much more time on their buns on the ice and laying on each other on the ice than actually skating.
Eric hadn't been on skates since childhood but took to it with the grace and ease of a newborn baby deer learning to ice skate on a planet with an unpredictably oscillating gravitational pull. Impressively, in spite of many nervous wobbly flailing moments, Eric stayed on his feet and even got to a place of steady competence going around and around the ice.
I was just settling into my mellow skating groove when Eric came up to me, poked me in the arm, yelled "You're it!" and then took off like a wild banshee, his long legs and arms flying everywhere*, somehow managing to pick up significant speed. I had only barely begun to give chase when Eric took what was by far the most dramatic spill of the evening, wowing tweens and pervs alike.
It was one of those falls where it's almost more entertaining to watch everyone else watching it happen - horrified wincing, almost closing the eyes but keeping them open just enough to see, slightly turning their heads away, but then peeking back to not miss anything. It was an absolute train wreck.
"Dude! Are you OK!??" exclaimed about a hundred people as they rushed over. Somehow, in spite of the thunderous, sickening sound of bone striking ice, Eric had sustained only minor scrapes and bruises. And, being a tough guy, he rejected proffered bandaids for his bleeding hands and elbow, preferring instead to bleed on my shirt while we walked home to watch 30 Rock like the rest of the people our age in this town.
*The most apropos though seasonally inappropriate comparison I can think of is Willy Willy Waterbug, that little guy you’d plug into the hose in the yard on a hot summer day and all his little hair-shaped hoses would squirt water at you while they whirled all over. Loved that guy.
Pretty much everyone out there, except for us and a handful of ponytailed perverts, was probably procrastinating studying for their 10th grade geometry test. When skating around the rink one had to maintain peripheral awareness of the writhing amoebic mass of shrieking, giggling tweens, to avoid accidentally checking them into the boards or slicing off one or more fingers, especially given that several of them spent much more time on their buns on the ice and laying on each other on the ice than actually skating.
Eric hadn't been on skates since childhood but took to it with the grace and ease of a newborn baby deer learning to ice skate on a planet with an unpredictably oscillating gravitational pull. Impressively, in spite of many nervous wobbly flailing moments, Eric stayed on his feet and even got to a place of steady competence going around and around the ice.
I was just settling into my mellow skating groove when Eric came up to me, poked me in the arm, yelled "You're it!" and then took off like a wild banshee, his long legs and arms flying everywhere*, somehow managing to pick up significant speed. I had only barely begun to give chase when Eric took what was by far the most dramatic spill of the evening, wowing tweens and pervs alike.
It was one of those falls where it's almost more entertaining to watch everyone else watching it happen - horrified wincing, almost closing the eyes but keeping them open just enough to see, slightly turning their heads away, but then peeking back to not miss anything. It was an absolute train wreck.
"Dude! Are you OK!??" exclaimed about a hundred people as they rushed over. Somehow, in spite of the thunderous, sickening sound of bone striking ice, Eric had sustained only minor scrapes and bruises. And, being a tough guy, he rejected proffered bandaids for his bleeding hands and elbow, preferring instead to bleed on my shirt while we walked home to watch 30 Rock like the rest of the people our age in this town.
*The most apropos though seasonally inappropriate comparison I can think of is Willy Willy Waterbug, that little guy you’d plug into the hose in the yard on a hot summer day and all his little hair-shaped hoses would squirt water at you while they whirled all over. Loved that guy.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Blackberry with the bathwater
The Meet-The-Parents Dinner was to take place at a Mexican restaurant in a mall in the outer East Bay burbs. I drove us all the way out to there and needed a few minutes to check my makeup and hair before going in, so when we arrived I cruised past Guadalajara Grill and parked two lots away out of view to primp privately.
Applying makeup in the rearview mirror with the feeble glow of the overhead light is awkward to begin with, and it is made significantly more awkward when you realize that you have an audience: Eric’s mother, father, aunt and uncle had suddenly appeared about 20 feet in front of us and were all looking at us sitting there in the parked car as they dropped several postcards into the mailbox which we had unwittingly parked in front of.
Rather than wave, smile or behave like a normal person, I snapped off the light, slunk down in my seat and tried to be really really still, because that was clearly how to make the best of this situation.
They hesitated for a moment by the mailbox, and then drifted slowly back towards the restaurant.
“Do you think they saw us?” I whispered needlessly.
“They were looking right at us in a lit car at night.”
“No fair!” I whimpered. “That’s not supposed to happen!”
We joined them in the restaurant a few minutes later. No one said a word about it.
Once we’d gotten past the handshake/hug fake-out greeting, dinner was actually as close to fun as I think it could have been. Dinner conversation never made it around to unicorns but we did spend an inordinate amount of time discussing mice. Eric works with mice, his dad has had some hilarious run-ins with mice, his aunt is afraid of mice and told no fewer than 17 consecutive and uniformly boring stories about her experiences with mice, and then Eric’s mother, expertly facilitating the conversation, turned to me and said “Everyone seems to have a mouse story. Do you?”
I do. It’s a story I usually tell as a whodunit thriller set in my Philadelphia apartment that starts with my discovery that, mysteriously, there are large holes in the crotches of all of my panties in my laundry basket. The story explores possible roommate passive aggression and fabric-dissolving diseases before revealing that the culprit is a mouse, and the little pervert has eaten his way through my dirty underwear.
Better judgment prevails. I choose not to upstage Eric’s aunt: I follow suit and tell another boring mouse story that goes nowhere. Eric, familiar with the Philly mouse mystery, looks visibly relieved.
And so we made it through dinner without any major gaffes.
The Denouement
It may provide some insight into my overall state of mind that then the next morning I accidentally threw my Blackberry out of our fourth story window.
I was hurriedly doing a last straightening of the apartment before heading off to work for an early meeting and I noticed that the dining room tablecloth had a few crumbs on it. I figured I would shake it out the window a bit to get it cleaned up, as we always do, and so I gathered it up into a bundle, extended my arms out the window and shook it out. I immediately knew something had gone wrong when I heard the crack of something significantly more substantial than a crumb hitting the window below ours. My Blackberry, shattered, lay strewn not just around the street below but several key chunks had ended up in the open trash cans waiting to be collected, it being Friday trash morning. I opted against dumpster-diving and, in a stroke of extraordinary luck, the Verizon woman was able to treat the accidental death and dismemberment of my phone as a warranty claim and handed me a brand new phone on the spot. This may yet be a good weekend after all, I thought.
Applying makeup in the rearview mirror with the feeble glow of the overhead light is awkward to begin with, and it is made significantly more awkward when you realize that you have an audience: Eric’s mother, father, aunt and uncle had suddenly appeared about 20 feet in front of us and were all looking at us sitting there in the parked car as they dropped several postcards into the mailbox which we had unwittingly parked in front of.
Rather than wave, smile or behave like a normal person, I snapped off the light, slunk down in my seat and tried to be really really still, because that was clearly how to make the best of this situation.
They hesitated for a moment by the mailbox, and then drifted slowly back towards the restaurant.
“Do you think they saw us?” I whispered needlessly.
“They were looking right at us in a lit car at night.”
“No fair!” I whimpered. “That’s not supposed to happen!”
We joined them in the restaurant a few minutes later. No one said a word about it.
Once we’d gotten past the handshake/hug fake-out greeting, dinner was actually as close to fun as I think it could have been. Dinner conversation never made it around to unicorns but we did spend an inordinate amount of time discussing mice. Eric works with mice, his dad has had some hilarious run-ins with mice, his aunt is afraid of mice and told no fewer than 17 consecutive and uniformly boring stories about her experiences with mice, and then Eric’s mother, expertly facilitating the conversation, turned to me and said “Everyone seems to have a mouse story. Do you?”
I do. It’s a story I usually tell as a whodunit thriller set in my Philadelphia apartment that starts with my discovery that, mysteriously, there are large holes in the crotches of all of my panties in my laundry basket. The story explores possible roommate passive aggression and fabric-dissolving diseases before revealing that the culprit is a mouse, and the little pervert has eaten his way through my dirty underwear.
Better judgment prevails. I choose not to upstage Eric’s aunt: I follow suit and tell another boring mouse story that goes nowhere. Eric, familiar with the Philly mouse mystery, looks visibly relieved.
And so we made it through dinner without any major gaffes.
The Denouement
It may provide some insight into my overall state of mind that then the next morning I accidentally threw my Blackberry out of our fourth story window.
I was hurriedly doing a last straightening of the apartment before heading off to work for an early meeting and I noticed that the dining room tablecloth had a few crumbs on it. I figured I would shake it out the window a bit to get it cleaned up, as we always do, and so I gathered it up into a bundle, extended my arms out the window and shook it out. I immediately knew something had gone wrong when I heard the crack of something significantly more substantial than a crumb hitting the window below ours. My Blackberry, shattered, lay strewn not just around the street below but several key chunks had ended up in the open trash cans waiting to be collected, it being Friday trash morning. I opted against dumpster-diving and, in a stroke of extraordinary luck, the Verizon woman was able to treat the accidental death and dismemberment of my phone as a warranty claim and handed me a brand new phone on the spot. This may yet be a good weekend after all, I thought.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
List of things you don't talk about in polite company
I'm meeting Eric's parents tonight for the first time.
Let me be totally honest here for a moment: part of me thinks "Of course they'll like me. I'm extremely likeable" and then there's another voice that reminds me that our belief systems are almost completely diametrically opposite and they would likely disapprove of most everything I have ever done or thought should they ever learn of it.
In the interest of everyone having a good time, there are a few topics that are off-limits:
Let me be totally honest here for a moment: part of me thinks "Of course they'll like me. I'm extremely likeable" and then there's another voice that reminds me that our belief systems are almost completely diametrically opposite and they would likely disapprove of most everything I have ever done or thought should they ever learn of it.
In the interest of everyone having a good time, there are a few topics that are off-limits:
- God, Jesus, morality, religion, etc
- Sex and masturbation*
- Politics
- The economy
- Major US automakers and pension plans thereof
- And pretty much everything that happened in my life prior to the present moment
My plan is to stay focused on topics that can't possibly be offensive to anyone:
- The weather
- Whatever it is we are eating
- Unicorns
So it should be a pretty lively conversation.
*You'd think this would be an obvious topic to shy away from when meeting your boyfriend's parents, however Eric did bring up masturbation not once but twice with my mother when he met her for the first time in Chicago a few weeks ago, so I think it needs to be explicitly mentioned on the list.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Scooby snacks
Eating your Scooby-Doo Fruit Snacks before 11am is either a sign that you're having a really bad day or totally awesome.
I would say the biggest downside is that you might happen to start humming that song from the late 90s by the Fun Loving Criminals ("...running around robbin banks all whacked out on scooby snacks...") which is really what could make your day take a turn for the worse.
And thus, let me add to the list of things I can't control: myself, in the presence of food containing sugar and in the shape of the Mystery Machine.
I would say the biggest downside is that you might happen to start humming that song from the late 90s by the Fun Loving Criminals ("...running around robbin banks all whacked out on scooby snacks...") which is really what could make your day take a turn for the worse.
And thus, let me add to the list of things I can't control: myself, in the presence of food containing sugar and in the shape of the Mystery Machine.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Breakfast, circa 1986
I honored a past era at breakfast this morning: I put cream cheese AND strawberry jelly on my toast.
When we were kids, my brother used to ask our mother to make him bagels in this very fashion and we called them "flashy bagels" because, well, they were kind of flashy looking. They brought a little extra pizzazz to the breakfast table.
Getting overly nostalgic at breakfast can be dangerous, so for the other piece of toast I put cream cheese and on top of it...pumpkin butter. A rogue move for sure, but living life without taking risks simply isn't living.
When we were kids, my brother used to ask our mother to make him bagels in this very fashion and we called them "flashy bagels" because, well, they were kind of flashy looking. They brought a little extra pizzazz to the breakfast table.
Getting overly nostalgic at breakfast can be dangerous, so for the other piece of toast I put cream cheese and on top of it...pumpkin butter. A rogue move for sure, but living life without taking risks simply isn't living.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Easy go
I've been trying to sell my futon couch (that lays flat to be a bed) on craigslist since the week before our chocolate brown couch was delivered, so about a month now. Once we got the couch, we put the futon in our storage area, which is also known as the space in the parking spot not taken up by the car. It was clear the futon was not going to age well in this damp basement-y environment, especially with me rolling into it every time I parked the car.
I reposted it again yesterday at the fire sale price of $75 and got a woman who was interested in just the frame, which seemed to me like a good start. She came by mid-morning to pick it up in an SUV which was too small for it. As we were trying earnestly but unsuccessfully to force it in anyway, a chick mechanic from the hybrid garage across the street sauntered over. "Looks like you ladies need a woman's help," she cooed. Apparently we did: with a power drill she unscrewed the awkward piece of the frame that was causing the problem and she had the frame in and the SUV's rear door closed lickety-split. Off drove the frame, leaving me with just the moldering mattress remaining to unload.
The first guy who responded to the mattress-only ad asked what size it was. I told him it was a queen* and he wrote back "Woohoo! I'll take it as long as it's not covered with animal fur or blood haha." I told him it was his and that he would have to supply his own animal fur and blood. I didn't mention that the plum-colored cover it was wearing was doing an excellent job hiding the large greasy stain on the original cover from a piece of aged manchego left sitting on it overnight, possibly because I once fell asleep on the couch while eating cheese at 2am, or maybe from something else.
And thus, the futon now joins a table and chairs on the (troublingly long) list of things I paid to move across the country just to sell on a different craigslist.
*I'd say there's a solid 40% chance it was not actually a queen
I reposted it again yesterday at the fire sale price of $75 and got a woman who was interested in just the frame, which seemed to me like a good start. She came by mid-morning to pick it up in an SUV which was too small for it. As we were trying earnestly but unsuccessfully to force it in anyway, a chick mechanic from the hybrid garage across the street sauntered over. "Looks like you ladies need a woman's help," she cooed. Apparently we did: with a power drill she unscrewed the awkward piece of the frame that was causing the problem and she had the frame in and the SUV's rear door closed lickety-split. Off drove the frame, leaving me with just the moldering mattress remaining to unload.
The first guy who responded to the mattress-only ad asked what size it was. I told him it was a queen* and he wrote back "Woohoo! I'll take it as long as it's not covered with animal fur or blood haha." I told him it was his and that he would have to supply his own animal fur and blood. I didn't mention that the plum-colored cover it was wearing was doing an excellent job hiding the large greasy stain on the original cover from a piece of aged manchego left sitting on it overnight, possibly because I once fell asleep on the couch while eating cheese at 2am, or maybe from something else.
And thus, the futon now joins a table and chairs on the (troublingly long) list of things I paid to move across the country just to sell on a different craigslist.
*I'd say there's a solid 40% chance it was not actually a queen
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Vroom vroom
This past Saturday was simultaneously and at the same time a great and miserable day for me. Saturday was the day I learned how to ride a motorcycle (yay!) in weather comparable to the storm at the end of Karate Kid II (boo!).
I'm still thinking about it on a Thursday because after six hours soaking wet in black leather gloves last Saturday, today my hands still look like they are attached to the wrong body. It looks sort of like I got a manicure on opposite day*, where instead of cleaning up your hands, nails and cuticles and making them look healthy and pleasing to the eye and touch, I had a team of small Korean women rubbing inky blackness deep into every line on my hands and extra deep around my nails. They were totally talking about me in Korean while they did it, too. I hate when they do that.
I don't think it is optimal for one’s introduction to riding a motorcycle to be in three inches of standing water, but the upside is that if I ever need to ride a motorcycle through a kiddie pool, I will have much more control over which children I decide to hit.
*which usually fell on Thursdays where I was growing up, but I'm not sure if that was true everywhere.
I'm still thinking about it on a Thursday because after six hours soaking wet in black leather gloves last Saturday, today my hands still look like they are attached to the wrong body. It looks sort of like I got a manicure on opposite day*, where instead of cleaning up your hands, nails and cuticles and making them look healthy and pleasing to the eye and touch, I had a team of small Korean women rubbing inky blackness deep into every line on my hands and extra deep around my nails. They were totally talking about me in Korean while they did it, too. I hate when they do that.
I don't think it is optimal for one’s introduction to riding a motorcycle to be in three inches of standing water, but the upside is that if I ever need to ride a motorcycle through a kiddie pool, I will have much more control over which children I decide to hit.
*which usually fell on Thursdays where I was growing up, but I'm not sure if that was true everywhere.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Monday, November 3, 2008
Food on the walls
Our living room and kitchen are painted with Warm Apple Crisp and Chilled Chardonnay, respectively. It seemed only appropriate that we have an unofficial housewarming event last night to celebrate - and quality check - our paint job.
The Warm Apple Crisp was right on! Whoa!
Chilled Chardonnay was not even close. I think the color we've got is more accurately described as Flesh.
The bedroom is painted "Ol Blue Eyes" so we'll be contacting Frank Sinatra to come by and quality check that paint job.
The Warm Apple Crisp was right on! Whoa!
Chilled Chardonnay was not even close. I think the color we've got is more accurately described as Flesh.
The bedroom is painted "Ol Blue Eyes" so we'll be contacting Frank Sinatra to come by and quality check that paint job.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Spookmaster triumphs
Call me old fashioned, or stubborn, or just plain foolish, but I like doing things without help, which is also known as "the hard way." I like to think of it as the "pure" way. And I would only ever consider carving pumpkins freehand based on my own inner vision of what that pumpkin had to offer.
Well, there's further evidence today that I am an idiot. After much resistance, I reluctantly and grudgingly carved my pumpkin with a design that you trace onto the pumpkin and then carve around. I will now grudgingly admit that the pumpkins look awesome.
Happy Halloween!
PS The designs are from a book called "Spookmaster" and every time I see that word all I can think of is the Rapmaster episode from the Simpsons, which is classic. Tragically, I can't seem to find a video of it anywhere on the interweb.
Well, there's further evidence today that I am an idiot. After much resistance, I reluctantly and grudgingly carved my pumpkin with a design that you trace onto the pumpkin and then carve around. I will now grudgingly admit that the pumpkins look awesome.
Happy Halloween!
PS The designs are from a book called "Spookmaster" and every time I see that word all I can think of is the Rapmaster episode from the Simpsons, which is classic. Tragically, I can't seem to find a video of it anywhere on the interweb.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Ticket to ride
Last night I attended the classroom portion of the three-day class that will result, if all goes well, in me having a motorcycle license within about a week.
The class was 4 1/2 hours long and felt every minute of it. The agenda consisted of watching short video clips, then working with our tables to answer blindingly obvious questions, then sharing our newfound insights with the whole group, then doing it all over again.
There were about 10 video clips, so probably about 40 minutes of video, yet by my count there were only about seven different stock clips used, just played over and over with different voiceover each time, sometimes several times within the same four-minute clip. It made me start to think I was losing my mind, which is just as well since I think that might actually be a requirement for riding a motorcycle.
"When turning while carrying a passenger," the video explained in the Passengers and Cargo clip, "the passenger should look over your shoulder to the inside of the turn, just as if you were on a bobsled."
I looked around the room; yes, this was not a group that would find bobsledding references to be particularly meaningful.
The riding portion of the class takes place this Saturday and Sunday for five hours each day. I've got a helmet and gloves but I still need to get some motorcycle boots. And then I'll be getting my full body riding suit. It might look something like this.
The class was 4 1/2 hours long and felt every minute of it. The agenda consisted of watching short video clips, then working with our tables to answer blindingly obvious questions, then sharing our newfound insights with the whole group, then doing it all over again.
There were about 10 video clips, so probably about 40 minutes of video, yet by my count there were only about seven different stock clips used, just played over and over with different voiceover each time, sometimes several times within the same four-minute clip. It made me start to think I was losing my mind, which is just as well since I think that might actually be a requirement for riding a motorcycle.
"When turning while carrying a passenger," the video explained in the Passengers and Cargo clip, "the passenger should look over your shoulder to the inside of the turn, just as if you were on a bobsled."
I looked around the room; yes, this was not a group that would find bobsledding references to be particularly meaningful.
The riding portion of the class takes place this Saturday and Sunday for five hours each day. I've got a helmet and gloves but I still need to get some motorcycle boots. And then I'll be getting my full body riding suit. It might look something like this.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Shiva to the left, shiva to the right
I went to a new yoga studio last night to try it out as part of my sampling of the San Francisco Yoga Buffet*. I'm checking out all the studios within a 20 min bike ride of home to see which one I like the best.
The class I went to last night was at Laughing Lotus in the Mission. The teacher talked waaaaaay more than I want or need any yoga teacher to talk during class. However, what she did do effectively through the combo lecture/yoga class was create an overarching theme for the practice: we focused on Shiva, who symbolizes destruction, change and dance all wound together in a spinning way with a little bit of almost falling down thrown in as well.
After we got a little warmed up, the teacher stopped and declared that the class was taking a field trip: she instructed us all to crowd around a painting of Shiva on the wall. It looked like this:
"During class today," she said, "I'm going to call out 'Shiva!' and then you strike this pose." [She spread her arms and lifted one leg up, like Shiva in the painting.]
"I might say 'Shiva to the left!' and ha! [she strikes the pose] you go there."
"Or I might say 'Shiva to the right!' Ha! [pose again] You go there."
And so we Shiva'd our way through the practice, residing in the moment and the feeling of almost falling.
I give the class 7 out of 10, but then need to dock them an additional half point for going 20 min over the scheduled end time.
*Not an actual buffet.
The class I went to last night was at Laughing Lotus in the Mission. The teacher talked waaaaaay more than I want or need any yoga teacher to talk during class. However, what she did do effectively through the combo lecture/yoga class was create an overarching theme for the practice: we focused on Shiva, who symbolizes destruction, change and dance all wound together in a spinning way with a little bit of almost falling down thrown in as well.
After we got a little warmed up, the teacher stopped and declared that the class was taking a field trip: she instructed us all to crowd around a painting of Shiva on the wall. It looked like this:
"During class today," she said, "I'm going to call out 'Shiva!' and then you strike this pose." [She spread her arms and lifted one leg up, like Shiva in the painting.]
"I might say 'Shiva to the left!' and ha! [she strikes the pose] you go there."
"Or I might say 'Shiva to the right!' Ha! [pose again] You go there."
And so we Shiva'd our way through the practice, residing in the moment and the feeling of almost falling.
I give the class 7 out of 10, but then need to dock them an additional half point for going 20 min over the scheduled end time.
*Not an actual buffet.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
They're liliputians I tell you!
Believe it or not, I was not photoshopped into this photo. I just have unusually small friends.
Safety first
Here's a sign that I pass every time I go to the bathroom at work:
(It says: Please do not remove extinguisher from holder. Contents may explode.)
I take comfort knowing that, if there ever were a fire, the fire extinguisher would play the helpful role of exploding if someone were to take it off the wall to, you know, extinguish the fire.
I bet the first aid kit has extrabacterial bandaids and slices of lemon instead of antiseptic wipes.
(It says: Please do not remove extinguisher from holder. Contents may explode.)I take comfort knowing that, if there ever were a fire, the fire extinguisher would play the helpful role of exploding if someone were to take it off the wall to, you know, extinguish the fire.
I bet the first aid kit has extrabacterial bandaids and slices of lemon instead of antiseptic wipes.
Monday, October 27, 2008
There's only one thing to do
There's only one thing to do when your boyfriend is growing increasingly irritated that he's been wearing his coat, hat and scarf in the house for 15 minutes while you keep insisting you are ready to walk out the door but just need another 30 seconds.
And that thing is to put a dog pillow on the chair with him and take his picture.
And that thing is to put a dog pillow on the chair with him and take his picture.
It smells different
Fall is great. We've had zero to minimal fallness in SF so being in Chicago this past weekend was a great taste of that elusive season. Welcome to fall, I say to myself when I look at this picture.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Whiskey everybody wants
For the second time this week, last night I stayed up past my bedtime drinking free whiskey.
It was for a good cause. Actually, it wasn't for a good cause unless whiskey is, in and of itself, a good cause. But it was fun. Not the whole time, but there were definitely moments when I was having fun. Or at least a close substitute for fun, like being drunk.
The event was a theatrical whiskey tasting put on by The Macallen. We went with Jamaica and Nelson who are regulars at these sorts of events and as such were able to identify the subtler notes of vanilla, hazelnut, peatiness and pompousness in the single malts we sampled. And I learned that I prefer 17 year old scotch to 10, 12, 15, or 18 year varieties.
It was for a good cause. Actually, it wasn't for a good cause unless whiskey is, in and of itself, a good cause. But it was fun. Not the whole time, but there were definitely moments when I was having fun. Or at least a close substitute for fun, like being drunk.
The event was a theatrical whiskey tasting put on by The Macallen. We went with Jamaica and Nelson who are regulars at these sorts of events and as such were able to identify the subtler notes of vanilla, hazelnut, peatiness and pompousness in the single malts we sampled. And I learned that I prefer 17 year old scotch to 10, 12, 15, or 18 year varieties.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Upshacked, unpacked
It was 40 days without furniture and 40 nights on an air mattress, but my stuff finally arrived from DC and the final touch - a chocolate brown sofa - arrived last week. For the first time since leaving DC on May 25, I have a home.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Curry horse
Last night we made and bought Indian food for dinner. We made a homemade curry with tomatoes, curry paste, coconut milk and a week's supply of fresh veggies, and then we supplemented it with Palak Paneer courtesy of Kitchens of India.
Also courtesy of Kitchens of India, we discovered, was a free music CD.
Never one to let free Indian music go unmocked, I giddily slipped the CD into my laptop to have a listen while I finished up some emails before dinner.
The music was exactly what you would expect: tortured kittens to the beat of clumsy furniture movers going down several flights of stairs.
And then my computer started behaving weirdly: programs were freezing, weird windows started popping up and then disappearing, and a delicate curry smell wafted up from the CD drive.
Is it possible, I asked myself, that this is not free music at all but rather a brilliant scheme by Indian programmers in cahoots with Kitchens of India to steal Indian-food-loving Americans' identities and credit card information?
Probably not. But I took the CD out pretty quickly just in case.
Also courtesy of Kitchens of India, we discovered, was a free music CD.
Never one to let free Indian music go unmocked, I giddily slipped the CD into my laptop to have a listen while I finished up some emails before dinner.
The music was exactly what you would expect: tortured kittens to the beat of clumsy furniture movers going down several flights of stairs.
And then my computer started behaving weirdly: programs were freezing, weird windows started popping up and then disappearing, and a delicate curry smell wafted up from the CD drive.
Is it possible, I asked myself, that this is not free music at all but rather a brilliant scheme by Indian programmers in cahoots with Kitchens of India to steal Indian-food-loving Americans' identities and credit card information?
Probably not. But I took the CD out pretty quickly just in case.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Hot, Flat and Crowded
Friday night, we drove all over San Francisco in an unintentional neighborhood tour which included Potrero Hill (best view of the city, hands down) and the Richmond. We had dinner at a very warm yet delicious Burmese restaurant and played Rock Band at a friend's house afterward. I think it is safe to say it is no less than tragic that my talent as a drummer has gone heretofore unappreciated.
In an unrelated story, Saturday morning the car had a flat tire.
No big deal, right? You put on the spare and drive to get a new tire. Unless you have no jack or tire iron with which to put said spare on said car in said foul mood at 8 fricking am on a Saturday.
Surely one of the upsides of living in a neighborhood with more auto repair shops than human or animal residents is that this should be relatively painless to resolve. The first place I went into would have been more than happy to help but was going to charge me $65 just to put the spare on. Several other places just plain weren't helpful, with varying degrees of nastiness, indifference and bad breath.
Finally, I found a friendly old man who may or may not have actually worked at the shop he was sitting near and was willing to let me walk away with pretty much anything in the shop I could find without even asking me for my name, much less an ID or something that would guarantee its safe return. This man was my new best friend.
We rummaged around the shop and found a tire iron that looked like it would serve but had a hard time finding a small portable jack that I could take with me. All that they had, other than the built-in hydraulic lifts, were these rolling jacks that looked like small lawnmovers with a single broom handle sticking out. It was portable in the sense that it was on wheels, but it was very heavy and pulling it made a noise like dragging metal filing cabinets wrapped in metal chains across concrete, which isn't too far from what I was in fact doing. A little short on alternatives, I steeled myself for nasty looks and began dragging this much-needed tool towards home, just one ear-splitting block away.
As I rounded the corner and started the last half block down Clementina Street, I had a moment of horror, shame, pride and aural sensory overload all mixed together: this Saturday morning, for these brief but excruciating moments, I was the Clementina Show. I savored it. And then I said the loudest silent prayer I could muster that I am never, ever, ever in that position again.
What I didn't do on Saturday afternoon was go check out the Red Bull soapbox derby event, but the final count was that 75,000 people had attended. Friends, this park is not that big. And that's a lot of people. But I am willing to bet that none of them are as good at drums on Rock Band as I am.
In an unrelated story, Saturday morning the car had a flat tire.
No big deal, right? You put on the spare and drive to get a new tire. Unless you have no jack or tire iron with which to put said spare on said car in said foul mood at 8 fricking am on a Saturday.
Surely one of the upsides of living in a neighborhood with more auto repair shops than human or animal residents is that this should be relatively painless to resolve. The first place I went into would have been more than happy to help but was going to charge me $65 just to put the spare on. Several other places just plain weren't helpful, with varying degrees of nastiness, indifference and bad breath.
Finally, I found a friendly old man who may or may not have actually worked at the shop he was sitting near and was willing to let me walk away with pretty much anything in the shop I could find without even asking me for my name, much less an ID or something that would guarantee its safe return. This man was my new best friend.
We rummaged around the shop and found a tire iron that looked like it would serve but had a hard time finding a small portable jack that I could take with me. All that they had, other than the built-in hydraulic lifts, were these rolling jacks that looked like small lawnmovers with a single broom handle sticking out. It was portable in the sense that it was on wheels, but it was very heavy and pulling it made a noise like dragging metal filing cabinets wrapped in metal chains across concrete, which isn't too far from what I was in fact doing. A little short on alternatives, I steeled myself for nasty looks and began dragging this much-needed tool towards home, just one ear-splitting block away.
As I rounded the corner and started the last half block down Clementina Street, I had a moment of horror, shame, pride and aural sensory overload all mixed together: this Saturday morning, for these brief but excruciating moments, I was the Clementina Show. I savored it. And then I said the loudest silent prayer I could muster that I am never, ever, ever in that position again.
What I didn't do on Saturday afternoon was go check out the Red Bull soapbox derby event, but the final count was that 75,000 people had attended. Friends, this park is not that big. And that's a lot of people. But I am willing to bet that none of them are as good at drums on Rock Band as I am.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Unsolicited advice
My little startup is looking for free help and we thought we might be able to get an intern or two in to help out so we posted an internship opportunity on craigslist that asked for an undergrad or advanced degree plus a few years of relevant work experience.
This may very well be an absurd request. But the bonus for me has been that a number of people have been so incensed by our job posting that they have been compelled to email us with their thoughts on the matter.
Let me share just a few:
And there was this guy:
And yet another came this morning:
In addition to these replies, we have also received a deluge of resumes from people applying for the internships, some of whom even meet the requested standard. (The applicant pool thus far does largely suggest, however, that you get what you pay for.)
I'm just now putting the following touches on my next posting: "Opportunity to give me your cash. Come on over and give me some of your money. Whatever's in your wallet. Or stop by the ATM on your way. Will accept USD but Euros preferred. This opportunity is limited and will end by November 1."
This may very well be an absurd request. But the bonus for me has been that a number of people have been so incensed by our job posting that they have been compelled to email us with their thoughts on the matter.
Let me share just a few:
You want someone with an MBA for an unpaid internship?
My daughter is only a junior in college and is working on her second paid job in the sustainability field.
Best wishes and good luck.
And there was this guy:
No disrespect but your education requirements are far too high for a "marketing intern". Why would anyone with a BS degree + 2-3 years work experience do an unpaid internship? The economy is bad, but NOT THAT BAD! Get a fucking clue and good luck finding anyone close to your "standards".
Cheers
And yet another came this morning:
Ahem.
Minimum: BS/BA degree plus 2-3+ years relevant work experience
Preferred: MBA plus 2-3+ years relevant experience
This internship position is unpaid
Um...If someone already has "relevant work experience" and major educational credentials - why are they going to work for you for free? Because you're so "dynamic" and shit?
Good luck with that start-up.
In addition to these replies, we have also received a deluge of resumes from people applying for the internships, some of whom even meet the requested standard. (The applicant pool thus far does largely suggest, however, that you get what you pay for.)
I'm just now putting the following touches on my next posting: "Opportunity to give me your cash. Come on over and give me some of your money. Whatever's in your wallet. Or stop by the ATM on your way. Will accept USD but Euros preferred. This opportunity is limited and will end by November 1."
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Happy hour
Eric and I drank a beer on our roof deck last night and watched the sunset. It was a lovely way to enjoy the last inhabitable moments out of doors on the roofdeck before the temperature plummets and the chill winds start howling. Remember in The Day After Tomorrow how the temperature suddenly dropped severely forcing an unlikely romance and a touching story of family loyalty? Well, that happens every night on our roof deck just after sunset.
A few weird things happened during the brief time we were up there. First, the airplane equivalent of a hunchback on a circus bicycle went put-putting by in the sky, closely flanked by two other unusual looking aircraft. You could almost hear a distant cartoony theme as we tracked them across the sky. I have no idea what that was all about.
Then, like suddenly remembering a word that has lingered elusively on the tip of your tongue, I had a revelation: I realized that this building I have been looking at all these weeks we've lived here isn't actually a building at all. It is a giant Ionic Breeze for the city of San Francisco. Check it out:
Seriously. Check it out!
The only other weird thing that happened was that Eric found a pit in one of the olives that were allegedly pit-free. I mean, man! That is so freaky!
A few weird things happened during the brief time we were up there. First, the airplane equivalent of a hunchback on a circus bicycle went put-putting by in the sky, closely flanked by two other unusual looking aircraft. You could almost hear a distant cartoony theme as we tracked them across the sky. I have no idea what that was all about.
Then, like suddenly remembering a word that has lingered elusively on the tip of your tongue, I had a revelation: I realized that this building I have been looking at all these weeks we've lived here isn't actually a building at all. It is a giant Ionic Breeze for the city of San Francisco. Check it out:
Seriously. Check it out!
The only other weird thing that happened was that Eric found a pit in one of the olives that were allegedly pit-free. I mean, man! That is so freaky!
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
"I think the chias heard us fighting"
Text message and photo received from Eric after a minor disagreement at breakfast.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Spork used as knife
Sometimes I get in a silly mood. It often involves wine, but not always.
The time I have in mind, which is right now, does involve wine. And it also involves trying to sell furniture on craigslist. While on the one hand I suspect that these two activities are not friends, on the other hand I am willing to give this friendship a chance. Not convinced? You can judge for yourself. Judge some more here.
Blogging after two glasses of wine is never a bad idea. Never.
PS This is also kind of a perfect moment because Eric is singing harmony with Amos Lee which just makes me really happy.
PPS "This American Life" did a segment about the writers of The Onion and "Spork used as knife" was (unfathomably) rejected as an Onion headline which I think is just a crime against comedy writing. If I ever have an original thought even half that funny I will consider this a productive life.
The time I have in mind, which is right now, does involve wine. And it also involves trying to sell furniture on craigslist. While on the one hand I suspect that these two activities are not friends, on the other hand I am willing to give this friendship a chance. Not convinced? You can judge for yourself. Judge some more here.
Blogging after two glasses of wine is never a bad idea. Never.
PS This is also kind of a perfect moment because Eric is singing harmony with Amos Lee which just makes me really happy.
PPS "This American Life" did a segment about the writers of The Onion and "Spork used as knife" was (unfathomably) rejected as an Onion headline which I think is just a crime against comedy writing. If I ever have an original thought even half that funny I will consider this a productive life.
Friday, October 10, 2008
All together now
I had lunch yesterday with the infamous shirt-removing recruit of several weeks ago. We're still working out the details of having him join the firm, and this was a chance for us to catch up and talk through a few things.
For lunch, he suggested we check out this Korean BBQ food truck that allegedly parks a few blocks away on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 12:30 to 1:45pm. I found nothing suspicious about this at all, which is one of the reasons why I would not be a good spy.*
In the course of chatting, it came up that he was going to be out of town this weekend and all next week.
"I'm going to be in North Carolina," he explained, then paused and looked at me intently.
"I think I can tell you this," he said conspiratorially, in an almost hushed tone.
(Wait for it....)
"It's a competition for my synchronized swimming team."
I reacted by explosively laughing, spastically clapping my hands and then literally throwing them over my head with delight. This guy is one funny dude.
Yeah, he was serious.
Apparently, it is quite common** for serious competitive swimmers to take up synchronized swimming after they get "water-logged" which I took to be an insider term meaning the same as "burned out" but adapted for, you know, water. He explained that he was essentially following in his mother's footsteps, as she had also been a competitive synchronized swimmer following her racing career.
"So for you it really has a lot to do with the family legacy," I reflected.
"Yes, absolutely." He seemed to feel he had been sufficiently heard and understood.
The Korean food wasn't half bad either, though if North Korea ever invades San Francisco I think we'll know where the advance team was on Tuesdays and Thursdays around lunch time.
*Full list potentially forthcoming. No guarantees.
**I have no idea how common it is. Isn't "quite" a great word? It could be any amount of common and quite would still be quite appropriate.
***Youtube "coed synchronized swimming" at your own risk.
For lunch, he suggested we check out this Korean BBQ food truck that allegedly parks a few blocks away on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 12:30 to 1:45pm. I found nothing suspicious about this at all, which is one of the reasons why I would not be a good spy.*
In the course of chatting, it came up that he was going to be out of town this weekend and all next week.
"I'm going to be in North Carolina," he explained, then paused and looked at me intently.
"I think I can tell you this," he said conspiratorially, in an almost hushed tone.
(Wait for it....)
"It's a competition for my synchronized swimming team."
I reacted by explosively laughing, spastically clapping my hands and then literally throwing them over my head with delight. This guy is one funny dude.
Yeah, he was serious.
Apparently, it is quite common** for serious competitive swimmers to take up synchronized swimming after they get "water-logged" which I took to be an insider term meaning the same as "burned out" but adapted for, you know, water. He explained that he was essentially following in his mother's footsteps, as she had also been a competitive synchronized swimmer following her racing career.
"So for you it really has a lot to do with the family legacy," I reflected.
"Yes, absolutely." He seemed to feel he had been sufficiently heard and understood.
The Korean food wasn't half bad either, though if North Korea ever invades San Francisco I think we'll know where the advance team was on Tuesdays and Thursdays around lunch time.
*Full list potentially forthcoming. No guarantees.
**I have no idea how common it is. Isn't "quite" a great word? It could be any amount of common and quite would still be quite appropriate.
***Youtube "coed synchronized swimming" at your own risk.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Getting all growed up
Seeing Steve's hair (fur?) leaning eagerly towards the light does make me glad that my hair doesn't have its own tropisms, except for the days when I think maybe it does.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Adult supervision required
This is day three of a professional conference I'm attending as a sales/marketing representative of my startup. This is a great conference for us because there are a lot of potential customers here: it's like someone took our list of the executives we are hoping to entice to join our membership program on sustainability and slipped them each a mickey, dropped them through a trapdoor and brought them here for us to talk to. It has been a very interesting week so far and I've really appreciated being here, getting a chance to talk to these executives and hear the content at the sessions. One thing I can get a little self-conscious about is that people sometimes perceive me to be young and they don't regard me as a peer professional. Short of giving up wearing sunblock, I've done everything I can think of to compensate and put my most adult foot forward.
Last night after the conference dinner a group of people stayed out to have a drink and continue the conversation, and of course I didn't want to miss out on the chance to meet and spend time with more potential customers so I joined as well.
This was slightly complicated by the fact that, to save cash for the business, I am staying with my mother who lives here in Chicago, but out in the burbs. She had generously offered to come get me and I was mid-sentence when she called to say she had arrived.
"I've got to go," I said.
There was a pause.
"My mom is here to pick me up," I blurted.
Dammit.
Next conference I may as well just wear pigtails and a high school uniform.
Last night after the conference dinner a group of people stayed out to have a drink and continue the conversation, and of course I didn't want to miss out on the chance to meet and spend time with more potential customers so I joined as well.
This was slightly complicated by the fact that, to save cash for the business, I am staying with my mother who lives here in Chicago, but out in the burbs. She had generously offered to come get me and I was mid-sentence when she called to say she had arrived.
"I've got to go," I said.
There was a pause.
"My mom is here to pick me up," I blurted.
Dammit.
Next conference I may as well just wear pigtails and a high school uniform.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Hardly strictly a parking spot
There was a shortage of bike parking for the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass festival this past weekend in the Golden Gate Park so Eric and I did the only sensible thing we could think of to do: we hung our bikes from a tree and locked them to the branch. See Exhibit A.
Off we went to enjoy some of that sweet twangy music that makes me want to laugh and weep at the same time. Many banjo solos later we came back to find that we had inadvertently caused a bicycle infestation and the tree was clearly helpless to defend itself. I give you: Exhibit B.
I don't know if it's credit or blame; I just know that it's mine.
Off we went to enjoy some of that sweet twangy music that makes me want to laugh and weep at the same time. Many banjo solos later we came back to find that we had inadvertently caused a bicycle infestation and the tree was clearly helpless to defend itself. I give you: Exhibit B.
I don't know if it's credit or blame; I just know that it's mine.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Somewhere between a house plant and a fish
Meet Steve and Nessy.
Steve is the dumpy-looking puppy on the left. Nessy is the chipper dinosaur/monster on the right.
Nessy won Round 1 of the chia competition back in DC not only because she grew a nice even, full coat and had a pleasing well-groomed look to her, but also because she didn't become nauseatingly moldy and rank like some other chia pets I know. Poor Steve. It's not his fault he looks like he pooped his pants and also kind of looks like a pervert.
I see growing the chias as an exercise in loving unconditionally. And trying not to inadvertently kill living things that depend on you for their survival. Both admirable things and worth cultivating, I think. Until Steve gets moldy again at which point I'm throwing him away.
Steve is the dumpy-looking puppy on the left. Nessy is the chipper dinosaur/monster on the right.
Nessy won Round 1 of the chia competition back in DC not only because she grew a nice even, full coat and had a pleasing well-groomed look to her, but also because she didn't become nauseatingly moldy and rank like some other chia pets I know. Poor Steve. It's not his fault he looks like he pooped his pants and also kind of looks like a pervert.
I see growing the chias as an exercise in loving unconditionally. And trying not to inadvertently kill living things that depend on you for their survival. Both admirable things and worth cultivating, I think. Until Steve gets moldy again at which point I'm throwing him away.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Cats and dogs living together
Living in San Francisco messes with my head because this is land that shakes. Sometimes a lot. And everyone seems to agree that some big shaking is due in relatively short order.
"There could be an earthquake right now," says a voice in my head at least 27 times a day. And it's true.
Or now.
Or now.
OR RIGHT NOW!!!!
See, that's the thing: you just don't know.
On the one hand, I love it when I can just add a fear to the list of things I can't control because that means, by definition, that there is absolutely nothing I can do about it, so there's no use worrying. Which is freeing. For example, I don't worry about being in a plane crash. I'm not saying I'd sign up for one, but other than not flying there is literally nothing I can do to really protect myself from that. Blissful irresponsibility is mine.
And yet, something about earthquakes has me hideously fascinated.
I've heard people with a fear of heights say that it isn't just a fear of falling but a fear of suddenly feeling compelled to jump. I think that's how I feel about earthquakes: I secretly want one to happen. I'm obsessed with what it would feel like to have the whole earth move beneath your feet.
Of course when I really think about it, I know that I don't really want San Francisco to crumble into the Pacific ocean. Mass hysteria is not my thing. Nonetheless, that fear/fascination suckerpunch keeps me thinking about it.
It doesn't really matter what I want or not, of course, since there absolutely nothing I can do about it.
"There could be an earthquake right now," says a voice in my head at least 27 times a day. And it's true.
Or now.
Or now.
OR RIGHT NOW!!!!
See, that's the thing: you just don't know.
On the one hand, I love it when I can just add a fear to the list of things I can't control because that means, by definition, that there is absolutely nothing I can do about it, so there's no use worrying. Which is freeing. For example, I don't worry about being in a plane crash. I'm not saying I'd sign up for one, but other than not flying there is literally nothing I can do to really protect myself from that. Blissful irresponsibility is mine.
And yet, something about earthquakes has me hideously fascinated.
I've heard people with a fear of heights say that it isn't just a fear of falling but a fear of suddenly feeling compelled to jump. I think that's how I feel about earthquakes: I secretly want one to happen. I'm obsessed with what it would feel like to have the whole earth move beneath your feet.
Of course when I really think about it, I know that I don't really want San Francisco to crumble into the Pacific ocean. Mass hysteria is not my thing. Nonetheless, that fear/fascination suckerpunch keeps me thinking about it.
It doesn't really matter what I want or not, of course, since there absolutely nothing I can do about it.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Unpeel your eyes
I was sitting on the couch last night admiring our new black leaning bookshelves against the brown wall when I realized that it was unnaturally quiet and had been for some time. The unsettling quiet was coming from the street below which, though it is a small side street, is pretty much a 24 hour stage for a range of human tragedies in progress.
We call it The Clementina Show.
One of the things we've learned is that no matter how much you might think you want to look out the window to see the images that accompany the soundtrack, you don't. I'm only going to say this once: don't look.
Oh sure, we've got the requisite naked man on his balcony directly across from our place. This dude might not actually own any clothing: he reads nude, barbeques nude, he's clearly got nothing to hide from us. But he's an amateur act compared to the pros at street-level.
Eric made the rookie mistake once while looking out our window of making eye contact with a homeless man on the street below, who then, without breaking eye contact, proceeded to drop his pants and poop on the sidewalk.
Another evening, we heard a commotion on the street below: yelling, car doors slamming, tires screeching. Then a pause. Then a woman weeping. We peeked out the window and there was a woman wearing just a t-shirt and high heels standing next to a large suitcase and just crying. It was horrible. About 20 min later - more commotion and she was gone.
The show goes on. And on. But we're just tuning into the radio portion these days.
This past Monday night was karate night on The Clementina Show. "Hiiiiya! Ya!" we heard again and again from the street. Who was doing this new verbal martial art? I have no idea because I know better than to look out the window.
It was nice to have a bit of quiet last night but somehow it just didn't feel like home. Happily, I woke up this morning to the sound of a man trying to vomit up his lower intenstine, god bless him. It's nice to have things back to normal.
We call it The Clementina Show.
One of the things we've learned is that no matter how much you might think you want to look out the window to see the images that accompany the soundtrack, you don't. I'm only going to say this once: don't look.
Oh sure, we've got the requisite naked man on his balcony directly across from our place. This dude might not actually own any clothing: he reads nude, barbeques nude, he's clearly got nothing to hide from us. But he's an amateur act compared to the pros at street-level.
Eric made the rookie mistake once while looking out our window of making eye contact with a homeless man on the street below, who then, without breaking eye contact, proceeded to drop his pants and poop on the sidewalk.
Another evening, we heard a commotion on the street below: yelling, car doors slamming, tires screeching. Then a pause. Then a woman weeping. We peeked out the window and there was a woman wearing just a t-shirt and high heels standing next to a large suitcase and just crying. It was horrible. About 20 min later - more commotion and she was gone.
The show goes on. And on. But we're just tuning into the radio portion these days.
This past Monday night was karate night on The Clementina Show. "Hiiiiya! Ya!" we heard again and again from the street. Who was doing this new verbal martial art? I have no idea because I know better than to look out the window.
It was nice to have a bit of quiet last night but somehow it just didn't feel like home. Happily, I woke up this morning to the sound of a man trying to vomit up his lower intenstine, god bless him. It's nice to have things back to normal.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
All hepped up and nowhere to go
Last night at dinner with some friends, one of whom is a little older, the chocolate dessert option "for the table" was rejected due to the caffeine content of chocolate. Having very low sensitivity to caffeine myself it never would have occurred to me that this would be an issue, but I will now add this to my list of fears I have about aging: that I have to start eating all my chocolate cake in the morning so that it doesn't keep me up at night.
For the record**:
8 oz Coca Cola: 23 mg
8 oz brewed green tea: 30-35 mg*
Half cup Haagen Dazs coffee ice cream: 30 mg
1.5 oz dark chocolate: 31 mg
8 oz Mountain Dew: 36 mg
8 oz brewed black tea: 47-50 mg*
Shot of espresso: 64 mg
8 oz Monster energy drink: 80 mg
8 oz brewed coffee: 95 mg
2 tablets Excedrin, extra strength: 130 mg
8 oz Starbucks coffee: 165-250 mg*
1 tablet NoDoz maximum strength: 200 mg
So to put this in perspective: you get the same amount of caffeine from 8 oz of Coke that you get from smelling the breath of a person who just drank a Starbucks coffee.
*Depends on brewing
**These values varied quite a bit from source to source but I think they are, as we would say in the consulting world when we had no idea about something, "directionally correct"
For the record**:
8 oz Coca Cola: 23 mg
8 oz brewed green tea: 30-35 mg*
Half cup Haagen Dazs coffee ice cream: 30 mg
1.5 oz dark chocolate: 31 mg
8 oz Mountain Dew: 36 mg
8 oz brewed black tea: 47-50 mg*
Shot of espresso: 64 mg
8 oz Monster energy drink: 80 mg
8 oz brewed coffee: 95 mg
2 tablets Excedrin, extra strength: 130 mg
8 oz Starbucks coffee: 165-250 mg*
1 tablet NoDoz maximum strength: 200 mg
So to put this in perspective: you get the same amount of caffeine from 8 oz of Coke that you get from smelling the breath of a person who just drank a Starbucks coffee.
*Depends on brewing
**These values varied quite a bit from source to source but I think they are, as we would say in the consulting world when we had no idea about something, "directionally correct"
Monday, September 29, 2008
You can't handle the funny
Eric and I are big risk-takers. We took several big risks this past weekend, chief among them: going to a BYOBooze/BYOFood $12 stand-up comedy showcase. We were hoping (against the odds) that it was not also BYOFunny.
We found the building but then hit an apparent dead end in the information- and sign-less lobby. As we were standing there looking confused, a woman came in, pressed the elevator UP button and then turned to us and said the comedy show was on the 5th floor, which was very helpful and compelled me to continue talking to her all the way up in the remarkably slow elevator.
"So you've seen this show before?" I ask. I'm so friendly.
"Yeah, my husband is one of the comics," she responds with a shy smile.
"That's neat!" I offer. "Is he any good?"
She kind of shrugs.
The comic who turned out to be her husband was one of those people who appears to have been put together from spare parts of other people. His face seemed inaccurately placed on his head and he had these freakishly long skinny fingers that could get a stemless maraschino cherry out of the bottom of a tall drink without even wetting the second knuckle.
He was awful. The whole show was awful. Horrendous. It made me want to weep for humanity. Let me put it in perspective: the absolute highlight of the show was a small squat black woman wearing a mini-backpack shouting the Jack Nicholson "You can't handle the truth" speech from A Few Good Men, but adapted for comics instead of soldiers. I'm dead serious.
After the show, they had a special offer where you get a free ticket to a future show if you tell a joke on camera. Since we had enjoyed the show so much Eric and I eagerly lined up to tell jokes and get free tickets.
Eric went first: "What's the best part about sex with 29 year olds?"
Pause.
"There's 20 of them."
"Whoa, you are one creepy dude," the host of the show, who was video-taping, concluded.
I followed: "Did you hear about the new pirate movie that's coming out? It's rated Arrrrgh!"
The host comic wearily handed us free tickets.
After that we went to a lesbian bar because the live band sounded pretty good.
We found the building but then hit an apparent dead end in the information- and sign-less lobby. As we were standing there looking confused, a woman came in, pressed the elevator UP button and then turned to us and said the comedy show was on the 5th floor, which was very helpful and compelled me to continue talking to her all the way up in the remarkably slow elevator.
"So you've seen this show before?" I ask. I'm so friendly.
"Yeah, my husband is one of the comics," she responds with a shy smile.
"That's neat!" I offer. "Is he any good?"
She kind of shrugs.
The comic who turned out to be her husband was one of those people who appears to have been put together from spare parts of other people. His face seemed inaccurately placed on his head and he had these freakishly long skinny fingers that could get a stemless maraschino cherry out of the bottom of a tall drink without even wetting the second knuckle.
He was awful. The whole show was awful. Horrendous. It made me want to weep for humanity. Let me put it in perspective: the absolute highlight of the show was a small squat black woman wearing a mini-backpack shouting the Jack Nicholson "You can't handle the truth" speech from A Few Good Men, but adapted for comics instead of soldiers. I'm dead serious.
After the show, they had a special offer where you get a free ticket to a future show if you tell a joke on camera. Since we had enjoyed the show so much Eric and I eagerly lined up to tell jokes and get free tickets.
Eric went first: "What's the best part about sex with 29 year olds?"
Pause.
"There's 20 of them."
"Whoa, you are one creepy dude," the host of the show, who was video-taping, concluded.
I followed: "Did you hear about the new pirate movie that's coming out? It's rated Arrrrgh!"
The host comic wearily handed us free tickets.
After that we went to a lesbian bar because the live band sounded pretty good.
Friday, September 26, 2008
The terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day
Yesterday was one of those days.
I didn't wake up with gum in my hair or lose my yo-yo, but I did take a nasty spill on my bike. (Yes, day 3. Stop laughing!) The blessed Muni tracks sucked my tire right down into the little groove and sent me sliding. Man! It was quite the yard sale. Yoga mat one way, backpack the other, the chain came off, and I ended up in a twisted heap right in front of where all the homeless fellows play chess on the sidewalk. Crowding around and "helping" me was far more interesting than pretending to play chess. A few passing bikers stopped as well to make sure everything was OK. I'm not at all sure how I am not more injured but, bruised thigh and pride aside, I seem to be fine.
There were also some low points at work that are not worth rehashing here. Also not worth mentioning is a particularly bad parallel parking job that almost resulted in me needing to leave a note for damage to another car. Almost.
Eric also had a bad day. Sick lab mice, incompetent shuttle bus driver, late train, sunglasses ruined, and experiencing the horror of my parallel parking. And he had to wear his railroad train pajamas. (He hates his railroad train pajamas.)
The teacher of the yoga class I went to shared with us that Mercury is in retrograde right now, which typically causes breakdowns in communication as well as just generally screwing things up. Damn it, Mercury. Come back!
I didn't wake up with gum in my hair or lose my yo-yo, but I did take a nasty spill on my bike. (Yes, day 3. Stop laughing!) The blessed Muni tracks sucked my tire right down into the little groove and sent me sliding. Man! It was quite the yard sale. Yoga mat one way, backpack the other, the chain came off, and I ended up in a twisted heap right in front of where all the homeless fellows play chess on the sidewalk. Crowding around and "helping" me was far more interesting than pretending to play chess. A few passing bikers stopped as well to make sure everything was OK. I'm not at all sure how I am not more injured but, bruised thigh and pride aside, I seem to be fine.
There were also some low points at work that are not worth rehashing here. Also not worth mentioning is a particularly bad parallel parking job that almost resulted in me needing to leave a note for damage to another car. Almost.
Eric also had a bad day. Sick lab mice, incompetent shuttle bus driver, late train, sunglasses ruined, and experiencing the horror of my parallel parking. And he had to wear his railroad train pajamas. (He hates his railroad train pajamas.)
The teacher of the yoga class I went to shared with us that Mercury is in retrograde right now, which typically causes breakdowns in communication as well as just generally screwing things up. Damn it, Mercury. Come back!
Thursday, September 25, 2008
"Interview"
Last night, after my first yoga class in far too long (and that is a whoooooole different story), which went no fewer than 25 minutes late, I raced to the Intercontinential Hotel bar to interview a Director of Sales candidate for my firm.
"I'm having a hard time imagining what kind of interview you'll be doing at a hotel bar at 9pm at night," confessed Eric as I was getting ready to leave the apartment.
It was a fair question. And knowing that even daytime interviewees have been inspired to take their shirts off mid-interview, this evening/hotel/bar arrangement seemed fraught with opportunities for unprofessional behavior.
"At least he's not actually staying at the hotel," I offered.
I found Michael in a big chair in the hotel lobby.
"Is it weird that I suggested we meet at a hotel bar?" I asked him.
"There's a cool-looking Irish dive bar a block over. We could go there instead."
Not really my point.
"It's probably quieter here. I think this is better."
The interview, such as it was, proceeded without incident. I was so relieved.
Then as we were walking out, he to his car and me heading home, we were making small talk and he asked about my boyfriend, what's his name, what he does and so on. I gave him the scoop, then asked if he was married or had a girlfriend. He shook his head no.
"But I have a lover," he said.
Right.
And yes, we will be hiring him.
"I'm having a hard time imagining what kind of interview you'll be doing at a hotel bar at 9pm at night," confessed Eric as I was getting ready to leave the apartment.
It was a fair question. And knowing that even daytime interviewees have been inspired to take their shirts off mid-interview, this evening/hotel/bar arrangement seemed fraught with opportunities for unprofessional behavior.
"At least he's not actually staying at the hotel," I offered.
I found Michael in a big chair in the hotel lobby.
"Is it weird that I suggested we meet at a hotel bar?" I asked him.
"There's a cool-looking Irish dive bar a block over. We could go there instead."
Not really my point.
"It's probably quieter here. I think this is better."
The interview, such as it was, proceeded without incident. I was so relieved.
Then as we were walking out, he to his car and me heading home, we were making small talk and he asked about my boyfriend, what's his name, what he does and so on. I gave him the scoop, then asked if he was married or had a girlfriend. He shook his head no.
"But I have a lover," he said.
Right.
And yes, we will be hiring him.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
POTK is coming!
Some time in early 1987, my third grade teacher Miss Haynes had a vision: 25 third graders would dress up and lip sync hit songs on the Beye Elementary School stage.
In an additional flash of brilliance she decided to keep the show a secret right up until performance day! But we did want people to start getting excited about it so we hand-made and then stealthily hung posters all over the school.
"POTK IS COMING!!" the posters proclaimed.*
We succeeded in creating quite a buzz around school. Questions and rumors were flying! "What is this POTK?" "When is it coming?" "What does this mean for manufacturing sector jobs in the US?" Yes, quite a buzz.
The show was a big hit, due mainly to the fact that it was mandatory and got our classmates out of class to listen to pop music. I particularly remember that Courtney V. did a stirring rendition of Whitney Houston's "Greatest Love of All." There's something peculiarly poignant about having an 8 year old sing "I believe the children are our future...."
For my part, I was the Friend portion of "Cyndi Lauper and Friend" in the Iko Iko act. My classmate Katy (Cyndi) wore all pink and I dressed all in blue and stood directly behind her. I was wearing a big blue bow on my head the size of another head and would pop out to the side on alternating "hey now!"s. There might have been more choreography than that but it is also possible that there wasn't.
Perhaps my clearest memory of that special day, however, was being in gym class after the performance. We had a substitute and he wasn't so good with names.
"Hey! Bow-head!" he yelled to get my attention at one point.
Is it a coincidence that I no longer wear head-sized bows on my head? Possible. But not likely.
*I think some of them were made with stenciled letters. Very fancy business in those days. Almost guaranteed to get people extra excited.
In an additional flash of brilliance she decided to keep the show a secret right up until performance day! But we did want people to start getting excited about it so we hand-made and then stealthily hung posters all over the school.
"POTK IS COMING!!" the posters proclaimed.*
We succeeded in creating quite a buzz around school. Questions and rumors were flying! "What is this POTK?" "When is it coming?" "What does this mean for manufacturing sector jobs in the US?" Yes, quite a buzz.
The show was a big hit, due mainly to the fact that it was mandatory and got our classmates out of class to listen to pop music. I particularly remember that Courtney V. did a stirring rendition of Whitney Houston's "Greatest Love of All." There's something peculiarly poignant about having an 8 year old sing "I believe the children are our future...."
For my part, I was the Friend portion of "Cyndi Lauper and Friend" in the Iko Iko act. My classmate Katy (Cyndi) wore all pink and I dressed all in blue and stood directly behind her. I was wearing a big blue bow on my head the size of another head and would pop out to the side on alternating "hey now!"s. There might have been more choreography than that but it is also possible that there wasn't.
Perhaps my clearest memory of that special day, however, was being in gym class after the performance. We had a substitute and he wasn't so good with names.
"Hey! Bow-head!" he yelled to get my attention at one point.
Is it a coincidence that I no longer wear head-sized bows on my head? Possible. But not likely.
*I think some of them were made with stenciled letters. Very fancy business in those days. Almost guaranteed to get people extra excited.
It's not about the bike
I got my new bike yesterday! She's a hybrid bike good for commuting around the city but will also be good for some light road biking, which there is an approximately 4% chance of me ever doing. I bought her on Sunday but she had to be assembled from her component parts. The bike store dude said he couldn't promise it any sooner than 48 hours but I asked if he could pretty please write a little note to the assembly people and put a smiley face on it to see if I could get it sooner. He obliged*.
And lo and behold...I got a call yesterday afternoon saying she was ready to be picked up!
I took her out for a spin just to see how she felt (the idea had originally been to go to a yoga class but the picking up process turned out to be lengthier than I had allowed for). It has been a while since I have biked around San Francisco and I had forgotten that all automotorists are maniacs who would like to bring about my bloody, mangled not to mention untimely death. Well, they are.
As I was biking around, I caught a glimpse of myself in a shop window and involuntarily started humming the Wicked-Witch-of-the-West tune to myself. This is not good, I said to myself upon realizing what I was doing.
Then again this morning, I'm cruising to work** and before I know it I'm humming that manic little tune again. Not. Good.
So I think I need a new theme song to hum to myself as I bike around. Any ideas?
*The note said "Elizabeth would enjoy riding her new bike on Monday. :)"
**It's a long block, OK?
***Note that the Wicked Witch is also riding a hybrid - but hers is the bike/broomstick combo instead.
And lo and behold...I got a call yesterday afternoon saying she was ready to be picked up!
I took her out for a spin just to see how she felt (the idea had originally been to go to a yoga class but the picking up process turned out to be lengthier than I had allowed for). It has been a while since I have biked around San Francisco and I had forgotten that all automotorists are maniacs who would like to bring about my bloody, mangled not to mention untimely death. Well, they are.
As I was biking around, I caught a glimpse of myself in a shop window and involuntarily started humming the Wicked-Witch-of-the-West tune to myself. This is not good, I said to myself upon realizing what I was doing.
Then again this morning, I'm cruising to work** and before I know it I'm humming that manic little tune again. Not. Good.
So I think I need a new theme song to hum to myself as I bike around. Any ideas?
*The note said "Elizabeth would enjoy riding her new bike on Monday. :)"
**It's a long block, OK?
***Note that the Wicked Witch is also riding a hybrid - but hers is the bike/broomstick combo instead.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Qualified? Who cares?
I've received several concerned emails from friends and family regarding a PBS poll that asks if Sarah Palin is qualified to be Vice President of the United States (of America).
The current tally on the poll is 47% No, 53% Yes, 0% Not Sure.
I think the answer choice missing here is "Qualifications are irrelevant" because clearly it is not her qualifications that are inspiring people to support her - nor is her shocking lack of them impeding them from doing so.
What a fascinating time to be an American.
The current tally on the poll is 47% No, 53% Yes, 0% Not Sure.
I think the answer choice missing here is "Qualifications are irrelevant" because clearly it is not her qualifications that are inspiring people to support her - nor is her shocking lack of them impeding them from doing so.
What a fascinating time to be an American.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Bad week for people-train relations
Eric called me from the Caltrain at 6:30pm last night.
"We're stopped. They're saying it could be anything from 30 min to 4 hours."
About once every month or two, and almost exclusively on Friday evenings, someone pulls an Anna Karenina on the Caltrain route between SF and Palo Alto. While it is obviously a sad event, the reaction it typically elicits from the train commuters is indignant rage. (Overheard comments include things like "Can't these people just go kill themselves quietly and not ruin everyone's Friday night" and "I hope it was an investment banker.")
As I drove down to Hillsdale to collect Eric, I chatted with my father on the phone and mentioned how the Caltrain had been stopped indefinitely not far from Palo Alto.
"You know," he said, "they found out that the conductor who caused the crash in LA this week was using the text messaging and that's why he missed the signal."
We took advantage of the train having stopped opposite a mall to get a few remaining items to close out Nesting Week. One highlight was getting an oil diffuser at Restoration Hardware. We got the light green flavor which in this case is called "Honeydew Quince." Incidentally I think would be a charming name for a character in a children's book. Probably a Possum (Opossum?).
As we left the mall two hours later, we could see the Caltrain was still there where it had been stopped, no doubt with many stranded commuters still sitting on it, furious that someone else's inconsolable despair had caused them to miss happy hour.
"We're stopped. They're saying it could be anything from 30 min to 4 hours."
About once every month or two, and almost exclusively on Friday evenings, someone pulls an Anna Karenina on the Caltrain route between SF and Palo Alto. While it is obviously a sad event, the reaction it typically elicits from the train commuters is indignant rage. (Overheard comments include things like "Can't these people just go kill themselves quietly and not ruin everyone's Friday night" and "I hope it was an investment banker.")
As I drove down to Hillsdale to collect Eric, I chatted with my father on the phone and mentioned how the Caltrain had been stopped indefinitely not far from Palo Alto.
"You know," he said, "they found out that the conductor who caused the crash in LA this week was using the text messaging and that's why he missed the signal."
We took advantage of the train having stopped opposite a mall to get a few remaining items to close out Nesting Week. One highlight was getting an oil diffuser at Restoration Hardware. We got the light green flavor which in this case is called "Honeydew Quince." Incidentally I think would be a charming name for a character in a children's book. Probably a Possum (Opossum?).
As we left the mall two hours later, we could see the Caltrain was still there where it had been stopped, no doubt with many stranded commuters still sitting on it, furious that someone else's inconsolable despair had caused them to miss happy hour.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Nesting week
Eric and I met at the airport this past Sunday evening to share a cab home. He was coming from a week in Paris for work, I from 5 days in Olympic National Park. Arriving home, we took in the card table, air mattress and two borrowed plates that constituted the whole of our material lives, noted that the pod would be arriving from DC on Thursday, and wondered what life might feel like if we really, you know, lived somewhere.
"I declare this week Nesting Week," declared Eric.
Nesting week had three phases:
Phase I: Talking about Nesting Week but not actually tackling any Nesting To-Dos such as taking items we know we don't want in the apartment down to the storage, making extra copies of keys or deciding where things might go.
Phase II: Whirlwind of Nesting Activities! Air mattress is deflated, pod is delivered, pod is unloaded, DMV is visited and licenses and registration are switched to CA, enormous mess is created. Passive voice is overused.
Phase III : Getting a little drunk and eating a whole pizza.*
The apartment is such a disaster scene right now that when the power went out in my office for 3 hours today I sat here in the dark and worked off my laptop battery rather than go home and work there.
They say it is always darkest before dawn. Well, I can't wait to see what the apartment looks like in the morning light!
*According to Eric, this is in fact required by law following any sort of household move.
"I declare this week Nesting Week," declared Eric.
Nesting week had three phases:
Phase I: Talking about Nesting Week but not actually tackling any Nesting To-Dos such as taking items we know we don't want in the apartment down to the storage, making extra copies of keys or deciding where things might go.
Phase II: Whirlwind of Nesting Activities! Air mattress is deflated, pod is delivered, pod is unloaded, DMV is visited and licenses and registration are switched to CA, enormous mess is created. Passive voice is overused.
Phase III : Getting a little drunk and eating a whole pizza.*
The apartment is such a disaster scene right now that when the power went out in my office for 3 hours today I sat here in the dark and worked off my laptop battery rather than go home and work there.
They say it is always darkest before dawn. Well, I can't wait to see what the apartment looks like in the morning light!
*According to Eric, this is in fact required by law following any sort of household move.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
A year's supply of canned goods and lots of seeds
I'm not saying I'm worried about the near-apocalyptic conditions in the financial markets, I'm just saying I now know what I want for all upcoming major and minor holidays: a year's supply of water and canned goods, some plastic sheeting and duct tape, a shotgun, a warm coat and a lots and lots of seeds.
A deck of Uno cards probably isn't a bad idea either. Or maybe Chinese Checkers.
A deck of Uno cards probably isn't a bad idea either. Or maybe Chinese Checkers.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Tell me what else it isn't
Here's a helpful sign I found posted poolside at the Sol Duc Hot Springs in Olympic National Park.
Just to be clear, the "gossamer" material floating in the water is also not dried mayonnaise, shreds of skin-colored tutus or semen.
Relax and enjoy!
Just to be clear, the "gossamer" material floating in the water is also not dried mayonnaise, shreds of skin-colored tutus or semen.
Relax and enjoy!
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