Swiss Miss

I know. I am a big liar. We've been all through that. Really, it should no longer be a surprise to you.

Let's be frank: anything clever or witty I might have had to say about my seemingly distant vacation has long since evaporated from my brain. Still, I will soldier on and try to catch up.


LAUSANNE

I went to Lausanne from Geneva by boat. It took about four hours. When I later recounted this to someone in Lausanne, he looked at me blankly for a minute and then said "What was it doing?"

Turns out that Lausanne is really not far from Geneva. In fact, on the train it's about thirty minutes. Therefore, it would appear that any boat that took four hours to make the journey must be doing figure eights or deep sea diving or some such. But no. It went at a pretty good clip, actually, it's just that it made the journey in a sort of zig-zag fashion, stopping at small (and ridiculously picturesque) towns on either side of the lake. Sometimes we were in Switzerland; sometimes we were in France. Frankly, I never noticed the difference. I bought a fancy first-class ticket and sat in a canvas deck chair on the top deck like a lady of means from a bygone era, only more poorly dressed. I tried to be consistently in awe of the view, but awe is difficult to maintain for four hours straight and I might have fallen asleep. Just a little.




The morning began in a very dark and rainy fashion, such that I seriously considered not putting on any sunscreen. I know. What can I have been thinking. Finally, the weight of my skin-cancery Irish heritage was too much too bear and I dug the sunscreen out of my suitcase and lathered it on under the lowering skies. Upon arrival in Lausanne, I discovered that the almost perfect circle of my right ankle bone was lobster red and stinging. I missed a spot, apparently. But let us take a moment to be grateful that it was such a small spot. I might well have been bright red and in agony from head to foot. I have (again) learned a valuable sunscreen lesson. May you learn from my example.

Swiss children are smarter than I. They travel with hats.



Lausanne is a very steep town. I don't have, nor can I find a photo which makes this clear, so you'll have to take my word for it. I arrived, obviously, at the lowest point of the town at lakeside. But when we then got in the subway to go to my friend's house, it immediately started going straight up hill. A peculiar sensation. In fact, at his stop, the station platform is steeply inclined. There are benches, but they are at precipitous angles. Hmm. Surely it is possible to make a flat bench even on an inclined surface, no?

There is a parking garage on the street behind my friend's building. Mind you, it is in no way related to his building. Still, his system is to enter the garage at street level and then take the elevator to the top floor where you are able to exit at what is essentially an entirely different section of the town. I initially thought this was a little ridiculous. That is, until we didn't do it one day. Um. Wow. The citizens of Lausanne must be the fittest people in the world. It was about 90 degrees out the day we did the climb, which certainly didn't help anything, but I really wonder what they do in the wintertime. It must be a dangerously slippery town indeed. Maybe they just toboggan down to the train station to go to work. On the bright side, there is a lake view from almost anywhere you might happen to be. Did I mention that Switzerland is not ugly?

Other things.

1. We went to the Montreux jazz festival, at which there was no jazz (at least none that I witnessed) but there was plenty of Bb Marley playing through the speakers (why? why?) and a great deal of smoking. Oh, the smoking. Swiss people: I thought you were all sporty and brimming with wholesome health. Ha. I say to you. Ha ha.




2. It is possible to purchase a sort of pre-made chocolate ice cream cone (produced by Nestle, as is everything for miles around) that has some sort of chocolate covered nuts on top, a small chocolate bar buried somewhere in the middle, and a cone that is coated with chocolate on the inside. This was clearly invented by a genius.

3. There are croissants available that basically have an entire chocolate bar melted into them. This is a breakfast pastry. Thank you, Lausanne.

4. I can't vouch for all restaurants, mind you, but at least one of them has a menu that involves ridiculously adorable snacks.



5. That horn from the Ricola commercial? It's a real thing.





6. Not to be bested by the smoking festival, Jules and I did go back to Montreux with actual tickets in hand for something called the Jazz Boat. I bet you can guess what that is. My favorite part was singing along with a Canadian swing band to "Just a Gigolo" while drifting past various Alpine vistas. "IIIIIIII ain't got no buuuhhhdy (nobody!) ... Oh. bonjour beautiful view."


7. We played quite a lot of Scrabble (Jules is totally cut throat. Beware of him) and I had a birthday. See?




And then...to London, to London to buy a fat pig. Well, that wasn't actually a goal of my visit, but I did go there. I will tell you about it. Sometime. (See how I didn't say tomorrow? Thus setting myself up to commit yet another falsehood? I'm getting so crafty in my old age.)

Liar, liar

So, I lied. The tomorrow to which I referred came and went several days ago and still no Lausanne. Sorry about that. There were some transitional computer-less days there during which I executed the purchase of a brand new Mac. Oooooh. This one is all raring to go, unlike my old one which really was very tired and unwilling to to many computery things. So..who knows what our future shall be: yours and mine, mine and the new computer's. Perhaps it will be a fruitful time for us all.

Today, still no Lausanne, I'm sorry to say. But let me share with you instead this very lovely thing I just found on the Radio Lab website.




Also, please note I just embedded a video like a grownup blogger for the very first time. See? The computer and I are already bonding.

Home again, home again. Jiggity jig.

Bonjour. I am back.
Shall we just level with each other? I have actually been back for two weeks, but I have a somewhat ambivalent relationship with my blog. (Oh, that word. How I continue to hate that word. How can one have a warm and fulfilling relationship with something that sounds like a more than usually smelly swamp?)

When I logged in, I saw that I apparently have one follower. I find that pretty amusing, actually. It's like a fledgling cult. Anyway, follower, whoever you may be, I am sorry to have let you down. I will now try to mollify you (and any passers by) with the unprecedented use of...PHOTOS. I know. It's a big step. It is also highly likely that it will never happen again, but for now, let's just enjoy it, shall we.


Let's see. I promised you stories. I'm not sure that I have stories per se, but I have remarks aplenty.

SWITZERLAND

First of all, two things. Switzerland is beautiful. Really beautiful. Like the way you imagine Switzerland? It's just like that. Even as we descended toward the Geneva airport, it looked like we were flying over a storybook kingdom: tidy little fields, imposing mountains, stone chateaux, little people frolicking lakeside. Switzerland is also staggeringly expensive. If you have a whole lot of cash lying around that you'd like to get rid of, I recommend a Swiss vacation. $22 salad? No problem. More than a hundred bucks for pizza for three? Absolutely.

I. GENEVA

1. Geneva has a lake. Well, it doesn't really belong to Geneva; it is a very, very big lake. However, perhaps best to keep that to yourself. The fine people of Geneva don't know it. In fact, they call this very large lake "Lake Geneva." Turns out they're the only ones. Everyone else scattered around the perimeter of this lake for miles and miles calls it "Lac Leman." It is extra special in Geneva though, because it doesn't just lie about being all flat like an ordinary lake. No, no. It also shoots straight up into the sky. Those crazy Genevois.




2. If water shooting into the sky isn't enough excitement for you, you can also play very large chess. Or have a Hugenot villager help you with a computer.








3. Geneva, incidentally, is festooned with banners and posters about Calvin. Not the boy with the tiger. The other one. I think maybe they don't know he wasn't that fun of a guy. Keep it under your Hugenot hat along with the news that they share the lake. Those posters can't have been cheap and I'd hate to disappoint them.




4. Ice cream seems to be available every six steps in Geneva. Obviously, this is as it should be.


Ia. PARIS

Ha. You weren't expecting that, were you? Among the things available in Geneva, is a very fast train to Paris. Three and a half hours, in fact. I tried to resist it, but I couldn't. I have no pictures of Paris, but you surely know what Paris looks like. If not, at least you have the internet. Go ahead. Google "Paris images." See? It's a very beautiful city, isn't it? I was there for one day. I know. Terribly extravagant, but that was enough time to have lunch with a friend, buy some fancy tea, and say a general bonjour. I have only one thing to tell you. If you are in Paris on the 13th of July, people may tell you that there will be fireworks because there is an alleged tradition of celebrating Bastille Day the night before Bastille Day. You are right to be dubious. Do not sit on a bridge for an hour waiting for these fireworks. Because these people are liars.

I'm not too adept with this whole photo thing and as a result it has taken me an uncanny amount of time to tell you very little indeed. But this is fine. This creates suspense. Tomorrow....Lausanne.

Au Revoir

I'm on my way to Geneva, but I will be back in a few weeks with stories to tell.

They even sing

Context: The San Francisco Mime Troupe is a fifty-year-old political theatre company. They produce a play on some socially relevant theme every summer and perform in local parks. They are not, nor to my knowledge have they ever been, mimes. I don't know why they're called that. Perhaps if you were to do the research that I am too lazy to do, even with the aid of the internet, you would discover that the word "mime" has some connotation of communist artist collective. Anyway, as with anything that you've been familiar with all your life, you tend to assume that everyone else in the world is also familiar with it. You are rarely correct. To wit the following conversation with a friend visiting from Boston.

The group of us who had seen the play (speaking over one another): The end message was "refuse to pay the interest on your credit cards" rather than "live within your means," which we agree is problematic, but very typical of the Mime Troupe...

Visiting friend who met us in the park after the play (interrupting): How the hell do they get that across in mime?

Point of view

For the past several minutes I have been scrolling through a list of events happening in San Francisco tomorrow night. Among them is a "Knife Skills Class." When I see that it is being held at Sur la Table, a kitchen supply store, I realize these knife skills have to do with cooking. But when I first read it, I was certain it had to do with knife throwing. And that seemed perfectly plausible.

Frankly, I'm a little disappointed.

Going backwards

There has been much talk in the news of late about a reverse discrimination case. The term has always irked me. As has "reverse racism." According to Webster's, the relevant definiton of discrimination is: "a: the act, practice, or an instance of discriminating categorically rather than individually b: prejudiced or prejudicial outlook, action, or treatment."

So tell me, please, where does the reverse come in? Is not discrimination or racism against whites simply discrimination or racism? Something about that "reverse" has always struck me as unnecessary at best and arrogant at worst. Hey, white people, guess what? We're not that special. When people judge us because we're white it's not the reverse of making judgements about other, non-white people based on race--it's the SAME. And--surpise--we don't enjoy it any more than anyone else has ever enjoyed it. Yep. Ouch.

And anyway wouldn't reverse descrimination more accurately be acceptance? Maybe we should give that one a whirl.

Our Town

In case you are unfamiliar with San Francisco:

1. It is June 25 and it is pretty much as cold out as January 25. Granted, that's not so very cold as Januaries go, but it is pretty fucking cold for June.

2. Today Michael Jackson died. There are many possible reactions to this news. One of them would be to call twenty of your friends and improvise a sort of Michael Jackson tribute bicycle parade. The guy on the lead bike would have a sort of bike trailer on which he'd tow a huge boombox; he would also fasten some very large speakers to the handlebars and then, at top volume, he would play a Michael Jackson mix. All the other cyclists would trail behind. Others would join you as you pedaled around the city.

That wasn't my reaction, but it was definitely someone's because that parade went past me twice on my way home tonight.

Diversification

There's a new store opening in the Haight and, for a change, it is not a store that sells bongs. It is a store that sells grow lights. An entire store dedicated to grow lights. For all your, um, indoor urban gardening needs.

Don't worry, though. When your crop comes in you can buy a bong at any of five stores within half a block.

Breaking news

I am on an NPR music mailing list, and they like to keep me abreast of the latest news. Therefore, I am able to tell you that Bjork has a new album and that she seems to be as much of a lunatic as ever. Sort of comforting, really. No?

Incidentally, I'm not sure how long that link will be active, but even if it's only for the next three minutes, I think that'll be long enough for you to learn "Declare Independence" by heart. It appears to be comprised of one sentence.


In other news, I am told that John and Kate have broken up. I'm sure that's quite sad for them, but I was surprised that it was of sufficient importance to be discussed on the morning news. Who, pray tell, are John and Kate? Maybe it's a new trend in news. Perhaps newscasters now just choose common names and events and allow everyone to whom that news applies feel a greater sense of importance. Tomorrow, stay tuned for, "Steve and Jennifer announce their engagement" or "Matt and Stephanie file for bankruptcy."

Love stories

I have a big crush on a cafe. Is that wrong? My friend Mathew, who has a very keen eye for the aesthetically pleasing, took me to Corner a couple weeks ago and ever since, I find I think about it wistfully. It was so sunny there. And I love the wallpaper with the birds so much. And the tables are so pleasing. And the bathroom has all those candles in mason jars. I think about Corner all the time. If it had a locker, I'd slip it a note between classes. It's just that charming.

Last night at about 10pm, I took my friend Meridith there and found it was equally delightful at night. Mostly this was due to the fact that from the moment we walked in we were treated like regulars or maybe even friends. Our waiter (who I suspect may be an owner or manager or some such) told me it was good to see me. I really don't think he remembers me from the ONE other time I've been in his very busy establishment, but he made me feel as though he did. There was much bonhomie. When he came by to see if everything was all right, I told him that apart from very much wishing the reggae song that was playing (and playing and playing) (sample lyric: "We smoke the weed. We smoke the seed.") would end he called up to the DJ--"Hey. Can you turn it up? She can't quite hear the lyrics. Yes, her. Right here." That sounds kind of mean, actually, but it was funny at the time. He came by later and said, " I know this seems like the same song, but I promise it's different. This one is about the herb instead of the weed and seed." The DJ eventually transitioned to another genre and we were there for two hours or so without noticing the time passing. Not bad for a Monday night. I love feeling like an insider. Thanks, Corner. Do you want to go to prom?

***

On Saturday night I saw "Away We Go," a movie that is alternately hilarious and deeply touching. A movie that made me insanely jealous of Dave Eggers and Vendela Vida--sometimes because they wrote a great screenplay and sometimes because they are married and presumably in love, but mostly both at the same time. Also a movie that made me cry copiously even after I got home.

Hot tip:
Maybe don't go alone to a movie about true love when you are:
1. Older than the characters who keep talking about how they ought to have their lives sorted out by their age
2. Single.

Note for the future

Dear Advertisers,
Please never make another commercial that employs either the phrase "in these tough economic times" or the phrase "dads and grads." Really. There's no need.

Thank you in advance for your attention to this matter.

In praise of naps

It is the last day of school. The last day of the last week of school. A week that has kicked my proverbial arse. Lordy, but I am tired. Today involved emotional farewells; yearbook signing (yes, I get a yearbook even though I graduated from high school in 1988. I only let the cool kids [read: the five kids I actually know] sign it.); a delivery of pizza for 400 people; 27 more calls from parents about parking for graduation although I sent them DETAILED information about this very topic months ago; and, in a particularly dramatic finale, a request to purchase a replacement leather bag for a student since her chemistry teacher had accidentally set hers on fire in class.

I am ready for my nap.

The truth is, though, that I take a nap on most days, even days when nothing has been set on fire. I go home, set the kitchen timer, lie down on the sofa, and sleep deeply for half an hour. Then I am prepared to go out and do things at night during what I like to think of as my real life.

My neighbors get up much earlier than I do and manage to stay up all day without too much difficulty. In their house, napping is reserved for the one family member who is not yet two years old. Nevertheless, in an attempt to get their toddler to stop yelling in the hall outside my apartment, or knocking on my door/rattling my doorknob, they tell her that she needs to be quiet because I am asleep. "Shhh," they tell her in French (the father is French), "Kari fait dodo." This is basically equivalent to "Kari go night-night." Now, clearly, they have chosen to say this because it is easier than explaining to a baby that one needs to hold it down out of respect for the neighbors, but the truth is that at around 5:30pm, I am very aware of her little voice on the other side of the wall saying, "Kari dodo? Kari dodo?" because she usually wakes me up.

Shhhh Sabrina. Kari fait dodo.

Snapshot

It's about 1am on a Tuesday night. Until an hour ago it was Daniel's birthday. And so, I spent the evening in a bar surrounded by jazz musicians (I think I truly am the only person he knows who is not a musician) among whom the birthday boy was easily the handsomest and also, unexpectedly, one of the people I love most in the world. I got to wear a good dress, drink some gin, eat some pizza, and speak some French. And then, when it truly wasn't reasonable for a girl with a day job to stay any longer, I stepped back outside only to find that it was raining. A light, warm rain such as we don't usually get in San Francisco. The air smells green. I walked in my loud boots and purple coat right down the middle of the glistening street, partially because it's less creepy than the sidewalk at this hour and partially because it's more fun.

Every so often your life looks just like you always hoped it would. When that happens, it's best to notice.

Perhaps I should concentrate on my breathing

Recent experience suggests that I talk too fast to conduct business on the phone with the Zen Center.


That may be why I so much love the yoga segment on Jonathan Goldstein's WireTap. Go here, scroll to "Lew Wasserman." Really, I urge you to listen to all of it (and then listen to every available episode), but if that seems overwhelming and you just want the yoga part, it starts at the 18 minute point.

I'm not that great at being a Californian. And I'm a native.

Parking: The scourge of my life

I have lived in my apartment for more than twelve years. Among my favorite things about it are the two huge windows in my living room. Aside from the obvious resulting brightness, they allow me to be inside (and you know how I enjoy inside), but still feel part of the neighborhood goings on. Sunday mornings I will sometimes sit the table with my tea, NPR on the radio, and just do some serious window gazing.

Last night when it got dark, I got up to close my curtains and was very surprised to see that a "No Parking" sign had evidently been installed sometime during the afternoon. It's an official sign--a "No parking 8-10am on Fridays" sign. It is tall. And ugly. And framed quite neatly in the middle of my window. My view of the world is now bisected by the DPT. Had they installed it four feet up the street, it would be in front of no one's window, but they don't care about that sort of thing very much. Curiously, that block has been a Friday street cleaning zone for the past ten years. Why the sudden need for a new sign at all?

I shouldn't be so saddened by a street sign. Rationally, I know this. And yet, when I see it, it kinda makes me want to cry.

Sundays

I feel the most single on Sunday afternoons.
Funny. You'd think it'd be Friday nights.

Vive la revolution!

There is a classroom directly over my office. On some afternoons it sounds like 18 or so people are playing tackle football up there. Plenty of yelling and running and crashing. One time it proved to be the hip-hop dance class that had been ousted from their usual ground-floor practice space. Today I wasn't so sure. But then I believe I heard the mighty roar "Three shouts for freedom!"and I figured it out. What's happening over my head even as we speak is no less than a fight to the death against a fascist regime.

It's also a musical.

But I guess they're planning to rehearse the songs after they finish practice-killing each other.

Oh...wait. Here comes the guitar...RIGHT NOW.

Ah, high school.

Um. Yeah. That would be me.

Because I've met Bryan Mason maybe four times in my life, it's very important that I keep track of his drinking buddies, so I just read this article.

In said article, there is this little paragraph:

But Twitter has come under fire. The company doesn’t make much money. People complain that the service is trivial and solipsistic. Asked about the criticism, Mr. Stone smiled and said, “That’s like people saying, ‘Why would I ever carry a phone around when I have one in my kitchen?’ ”

Presumably when Mr. Stone made that remark, there was hearty laughter all around. Which leads me to believe that Mr. Stone wouldn't like me very much. Although, to be fair, my phone is in the hallway; there's no room in the kitchen.

Sometimes...

people other than me put things I write online. Like today, for example.

And that's always quite exciting.


This will get you to The Morning News--and there I'll be.

Bad news/Good news

I was feeling quite peevish having just gotten a parking ticket while doing an errand for work. This errand involved visiting an enormous and beautiful house that bred an uncomfortable level of covetousness. Mind you, I have no need of a house that even approximates the size of this house. Indeed, my entire apartment, which comprises space enough for one, would very nearly fit in this house's kitchen. And yet. I wanted it. I mean, maybe I could invite twelve-fifteen friends to live there with me. Or I could start a small boarding school or something. Whatever. The details can be worked out later. Just Give. Me. The. House. Anyway, it was that sort of errand. So, parking ticket? Really? Is San Francisco just collectively flipping me off? "Ha ha. You can't afford to buy a studio apartment in this town, even if it has no closet or bathtub, but you know what you can afford? This fifty dollar parking ticket. Have a nice day." Yup. Fifty bucks. For a street that is not any cleaner than it was before, because no one realized they needed to move their cars. Why? Because the sign says "Street cleaning 11am-1pm on 1st and 3rd Thursday of the month." And who the hell can figure that out without a calendar? I thought about it for quite some time and concluded that today is the second Thursday of the month. Guess what? It isn't.

Fine.

I hate everybody.

But when I got back to work, my friend Sarah, who knows about many, many fantastic things, sent me a link, this very link, in fact. And it turns out that someone is doing a project to see if passers by will aid a friendly robot if he happens to get lost or stuck on his way to his destination. And you know what? They totally will.

So, I take it back.
I don't hate everybody after all.

Arrrrgh!

This morning on my way to work I saw several dozen large bright gold coins scattered over the sidewalk. Too bad I wasn't there a little earlier so I could have seen that pirate trip over the curb.

Conspiracy of hopefulness

On Wednesday, two different friends of mine told me that two different friends of theirs had recently been shot and killed. It left me feeling a bit hopeless.

And then, yesterday, lovely things sneaked up on me.

1. This incredibly beautiful, heartening thing is exactly what you need when you find yourself wondering if everyone is simply determined to shoot everyone else. I saw it thanks to Mighty Girl, who, being mighty, knows how to embed video. Me, I'm just a links girl.

2. Written in multicolored chalk in huge letters on the sidewalk right in front of the doors to the school:

Hey. Sorry 'bout the late notice, but...PROM?

Which is probably the best prom invitation of all time.

3. The incredibly kind man at the party rental place I called. I told him I had a very modest rental in mind--possibly thirty glasses and thirty plates. I asked him how much it would be to have it delivered. He told me $75 and then, practically in the same breath said, "No worries. We can work something out. If I'm in the area, I'll just drop it off. I mean it's a drag for you to drive all the way to South San Francisco for 30 plates. We're a family business. We'll work it out. I live in San Francisco..." So he practically offered to bring me my $36 worth of rentals when he's on his way home some day.

4. Walking home, I passed my favorite neighborhood car. It is impossible not to be cheerful in its presence. It looks just like this, only with no business men.

5. When I got home there was a postcard from Sara in my mailbox. It said, "I was so pleased to receive an actual letter in the mail that I am writing back."

Write a letter. A real one. And mail it to a friend. It is delightful to receive correspondence from someone you love, rather than from strangers requesting funds.

And she's not even French

Girl in the hallway to her friends: Oh my god, you guys. I dissected a frog during A Period and now I'm starving.

Marketing

Dear DVD Producers,

First off, let me thank you for making Girls Rock! available for home viewing. It's a fantastic documentary about rock camp for girls, but obviously it's about a lot more than that. It's about girls finding their individuality, about finding courage, about rejecting the notion that there's only one type of body that's desirable for a girl to have. When that one girl transitioned from cheerfully saying "Well, I already hate myself, so high school's not all that degrading." to saying, even more cheerfully, "I'm kinda nifty." I definitely cried. So, rock on. Thanks. But, may I just have a word with the marketing department? Or whoever it is who chooses the previews included on the DVD? Because, frankly, that person should probably be fired. What person in their right mind would precede Girls Rock! with a preview for The Hottie and the Nottie? Is it possible that there's a less appropriate choice anywhere? Paris Hilton is the absolute antithesis of EVERYTHING that the women at Rock Camp try to instill in girls. It is as offensive as having a preview for hardcore porn on an inspirational Christian video. Seriously. Be ashamed.

Sincerely,

Kari

Beeeeeer!

On Saturday, I went to the SF Beer Fest, which, because I don't actually enjoy beer all that much, was not ideal. But I was invited, and so I went. It was held at Fort Mason in an enormous enclosed pier type of place where I imagine they once used to repair ships. Only there were no ships. Just beer. And dudes drinking beer out of very, very small commemorative plastic steins. And squealy chicks similarly quaffing. And throngs of people waiting at the pizza booth for pizza that never came. It was what I imagine a frat party would be like if a frat house were the size of an airplane hangar.

Every ten minutes or so, a mighty roar would make its way through the crowd. It was like the auditory version of the wave. Only louder than whatever you're imagining. A great swelling cacophony reverberating off the concrete floor. Since yelling randomly while hoisting a tiny stein is among Things I Do Not Do, I would just wait till it was over and pick up the conversation where we'd left off. After this had happened about ten times, my companion said, "You know, in any other country a crowd at a beer festival might break into spontaneous singing. Or maybe some kind of folk dancing. In America, the best we've got is apparently an inarticulate bellow."

Brass, Bows and Beats

My friend Sarah, open water swimmer (recently stung by a jellyfish. yikes.) and librarian extraordinaire, is also taking trombone lessons. Because she is just that awesome. Mind you, I had never heard of Adam Theis, her trombone teacher, but when Sarah told me to come to Brass, Bows, and Beats, his hip-hop symphony, I bought a ticket. What an exceedingly good idea that was. The show was on Saturday night and I wanted to mention it, but felt that I really lacked the vocabulary to talk about it. Fortunately, my colleague Kirk Hamilton, an amazingly accomplished musician, composer, and arranger himself, did not lack the vocabulary. Kirk is perhaps the most enthusiastic person I have ever met, but I don't think his excitement here is one bit overstated. Here's another review that talks about the overarching sense of community fostered by the work. It really was thrilling. Anything that involves a 48 piece orchestra, dueling fiddles, an accordion solo, a DJ, and seven hip-hop vocalists is worth checking out. Just for the record.

Ohhh. Why didn't you say so?

With alarming frequency throughout my life, I have been greatly smitten by men who, despite allegedly finding me clever and charming and lovely, have refused to date me. In some cases, these men essentially begged me to save myself and run for the hills. Because I am a woman, I chose to ignore that part. I like to believe I am not the only woman on Earth for whom this is true (please let me not be the only woman on Earth for whom this is true), but what sets me apart is that two of these men went on to write books about their screwed up relationships. Full-length books. Can you imagine how satisfying that is? While everyone else tries to make do with He's Just Not That Into You, I've got personalized volumes. This is perhaps the upside of being attracted to writers. Downside: neuroses galore (on their part) leading to pointless pining (on my part). Upside: later explanatory tomes.

One man, who shall remain nameless in some sort of tip-my-hat-to-internet-anonymity move (hilarious in that approximately seven people read this and you all already know his name) has written no fewer than three novels in which the various protagonists suffer from remarkably similar forms of emotional paralysis despite having fabulous women besotted with them. And now, my friend Andy (who, yes, really is my friend, and whom I stopped trying to date years ago) has written a book called The Ramen King and I: How the Inventor of Instant Noodles Fixed my Lovelife. It will be released next month. If you think I'm not on the edge of my seat waiting to read that book, you're crazy. Even if you have no personal stake in Andy's love life, I recommend it to you. Really. Go check it out. Andy is the writer I wish I were. Without having read a single page, I can guarantee that it will be smart and funny and heartfelt because that's what his writing is always like. Which is why I developed a crush on him in the first place. Beware. It might happen to you.

There are approximately three other men on my Why-Oh-Why list, but they are not writers, so I guess I'll never know. Still, two outta five means I sleep 40% better than I otherwise would. We should all be so blessed.

Helluva town

Let's begin with another little glimpse into my flawed character, shall we? All week it has been sneakily freezing, which is to say, beautifully sunny with a cruel icy wind. During these chilly days, I've been peevishly at work, doing little and writing nothing. Today is Saturday. An extravagantly summery Saturday. The world is my proverbial oyster. So I opt to stay in my cold apartment in front of the computer. A device in front of which, to recap, I've been sitting all week. Conclusion: I am ridiculous.

This time last week I was in New York. I feel a bit glamorous just typing that. New York is that sort of place. Every time I get home from NY, I have to talk myself out of the NY fantasy. I remind myself that if I actually lived in there, I would have to suffer through the winter, be weary to the point of nausea every time I had to get on the subway, and exist in a state of abject poverty. On vacation, none of this is true. On vacation, NY is a grand adventure. I am all proud and excited when I take the subway and actually emerge where I intended to go; I eat out at ridiculously charming restaurants; my friends are terribly glad to see me because it's been a year or so; I blithely spend hundreds of dollars on theatre tickets; I stay up till it's early and sleep till it's late.

Last week, after being seated on the red eye in front of a screaming seat-kicker (who to be fair, was a small child, not a deranged adult, not that that made me like him any better), I emerged into an unseasonably warm NY day. I dropped my suitcase off at the hotel waaayyyyy downtown and then went uptown for tea at Alice's Teacup, home of hearty scones and horribly spoiled little uptown girls. Throughout the city, trees were in full bloom. Warning: If you want to avoid falling in love with a city, do not go when its trees are in full bloom. I walked to the park where tulips and daffodils were onnly slightly more numerous than visitors to the zoo. I lugged my massive winter coat around and resisted the urge to go up to strangers and say, "I'm not crazy. Really. The weather report said it would be cold." I tried to take full advantage of the lavish beauty of the afternoon, but, feeling increasingly delirious, I headed back to the hotel and pleaded to be allowed to check in early. The kind man at the desk told me that my reserved room was not yet ready, but he could put me in the Junior Suite for no additional charge [mind you, the only reason I'd gone at all was because of a Hotwire deal of $130 a night]. Oh, all right. If you must put me in the suite, I suppose I can accept it.

Up to the 50th floor. From the hallway, there is a beautiful view of the Brooklyn Bridge and City Hall. From the, ahem, living room of room 5002, there is a view of the Statue of Liberty; from the bedroom an expansive view of the Hudson. I stand there laughing. The room is larger than the some friends' NY apartments. I set an alarm clock and crawl into the king-sized bed. The front desk clerk calls "Miss Kiernan? Is everything satisfactory?" Um...yes. Yes, it is. Actually, is it okay if I live here forever?

That night I went to see Jailbait in the West Village (more flowery trees), which was brilliantly performed. In order to make it in time, I ate a very hasty meal at Philip Marie. In fact, I'll bet no one has ever eaten there quite as inelegantly as I did. But I made it, damn it. After the show, I hunted fruitlessly for West 10th Street for the better part of an hour. Apparently, from Bank Street, W. 10th Street is basically a figment of one's imagination. At the point I was going to give it up, it popped into view, so I had a sangria at Alta beside a young woman who became increasingly wasted and eventually drew conspiratorially close to me and inquired whether I had any painkillers. Because I am me, I initially interpreted this to be a request for aspirin. It wasn't. I didn't.

On the way back to the hotel, I had a train misadventure in which the A capriciously began pretending to be an F and took me to the very edge of Chinatown where my fellow passengers urged me to get off before heading into Brooklyn. Sigh. I had to go back to where I started and wait for the E, which is what I ought to have done in the first place. Valuable lessons all around. I left the curtains open and looked at the view until I fell asleep (about seventeen seconds later).

Friday, brunch with the illustrious (which to me is a brilliant illustrator joke, but probably not to anyone else) Sara Varon at Bubby's Pies. She agreed to split the banana cream even though she really wanted the chocolate peanut butter. She's nice like that. Then I got to see my cousin Dan in his new fancy NY life. Sunny Upper West Side apartment with a view. He was giddy with spring fever and on our walk through the park, he pointed out almost every flower individually and greeted them all like the long-lost friends they were.

By the time I went back to the hotel, my dear friend Talya had arrived from Amherst and was gratifyingly agog at our lavish accommodations. Actually, I think she feared I'd gone insane and got the most expensive room on earth, her children's college funds be damned.

We had dinner at Jules Bistro, which I love and which is convenient to the Public where we saw the first preview of a bad play by Craig Lucas called The Something Forest. The Screaming Forest? The Way Too Long Forest? The Is There Really Any Reason For That Man To Be Naked Forest? The Why is Freud a Character in this Stupid Play Forest? Something like that. For me, dinner also featured the first of a great many opportunities to speak French. And you know how I like that. Seriously though, are there any French people in France? Or are they all eating in NY? Not a day went by that I didn't have some French chat.

Oh my, how long this is. You can stop reading at any time.

Saturday it rained, but (Ha! Take that precipitation!) we had matinee tickets, so it made no difference. If The Blah Blah Forest perhaps presented the hypothesis that very long dysfunctional family dramas might be a terrible idea, August: Osage County immediately disproved it. The rain had stopped when we emerged.

In a bold departure from our usual theatre-glutton ways, Tal and I did not go to an evening performance. Instead, we spent many hours over dinner at Barmarche in SoHo. We ate at the bar, which I think is actually the very best place to be if you plan to talk and talk and talk to your friend because, heck, she's right next to you and she can hear everything you say. After dinner, we shared rice pudding at Rice to Riches, which features signs that endlessly highlight the fat content of their product. Things like: "Eat whatever you want; you're already fat." Um...okay. Thanks, I guess. A curious marketing technique that seems to hurt them not one bit. Feeling that our caloric intake was not quite what it might be, we then each had a whiskey at some random bar, before heading back to, ahem, the suite.

Tal left Easter morning, but I had a few hours before I had to go to the airport. I had intended to wander around, but there was a relentless icy wind blowing, so I was delighted to stumble upon what, for me, was a perfect cafe. Doma Cafe on the corner of 7th Ave S and Perry, is a place I would go constantly if I were a local. It is quite small, but crammed with tables. Even though every table was occupied, it was strangely quiet--no one forced to yell at their companion. The house rules are posted on hand-written signs by the counter. "Absolutely NO to-go cups in the cafe. To-go means to go. Slow down." "Please no cell phones in here." "You're welcome for two hours, then it's time to leave." I had french toast at a table for one facing the corner where two huge windows met. A long blossom-covered branch reached into view of the nearer window and was more Eastery than any number of bunnies would have been. I pulled an ancient hardcover copy of The Bobbsey Twins in the Great West off the bookshelf, ate my breakfast, drank my tea, spoke to the requisite French people at the next table and was perfectly happy. The wind had died down when I left (before the two-hour limit, you'll be relieved to hear) and I was able to amble about a bit.

Finally, it was time to go back and fetch my suitcase. But first, I walked over to the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge to say hello. I realize I'd never actually seen it outside movies. It actually does exist. People walk over it in droves. I had a soft-serve ice cream cone, smiled at the people and the fountain in front of City Hall, and then, back on the trusty E, suitcase in hand, went back to JFK.

Now, home in my prosaic real life, I remind myself that somewhere in a fifth floor walk-up, some girl in Manhattan is dreaming of San Francisco.

The mathematics of drinking

I go to a bar with several playwrights. My friend Tim turns to me and says, "Let me buy you a drink." "Oh, no, no." I say. "No, really," he says. "I just talked to my accountant. If I buy you a drink, I can deduct it. Two drinks is "entertainment;" one drink is just me drinking alone."

Seriously? Aw, c'mon.

Chapter 1. Other People's Pastimes

I am not a big fan of the grown-men-skateboarding-recreationally-in-the-middle-of-city-streets phenomenon that's sweeping San Francisco. This could be because I'm not cool or it could be because I'm a rational human being/sometime motorist who risks offing some dude every time I drive through the neighborhood.

On my way home, I passed the guys who apparently skate in the middle of Cole Street every day at 5:05pm. I don't know if they just happen to start five minute before I walk by every day, or whether they actually do this most of the day. I'm guessing that the latter is more likely. Leaving them to their shenannigans, I crossed over the invisible neighborhood boundary into what I think of as my own neighborhood--generally free from the crazy antics of Haight Street. Imagine my surprise, therefore, when I turned onto the quiet, two-block street that marks the homestretch to chez moi, only to see a twenty-something guy on the sidewalk opposite me remove his pants. When guys on the street remove their pants, it's best to keep walking, and so I did. But seconds later I heard the sound of a skateboard behind me. I turned and, sure enough, there was the same guy skating down the middle of the road. Only now wearing shorts. Because, apparently, they're better to skate in. So much so, that it's worth taking your pants off in the middle of the street in broad daylight to make the change.


Chapter 2. My pastime

After many years of not owning a television (because I am a television junkie and can not be trusted to read books ever again if I were to have a TV), I discovered Hulu (wait. I can watch television shows for free and still not buy a television? Bring. It. On.)and was sucked immediately into the television vortex. Every so often, I would come across a program that was available only through a higher version of FlashPlayer than I have. Typically, I just get over it and move on to something else. Although, in the case when I could access all of season one of "The Riches," become totally, irrevocably addicted to it, and then discover that season two was not supported by my software um....let's just say that was a rough night. Still. There's always Netflix.

In the last few days, I merrily watched a couple of old Alfred Hitchcock movies and the most recent episodes of "30 Rock" and "The Office." All was well. Last night, I returned to a half-viewed movie to watch the end and was confronted with the "Download a higher version of the software" message. What? But I was just watching this thing with no trouble. I tried some other previously viewed things. No dice. Turns out that overnight they've revamped the WHOLE SITE to play only on software I don't have and, no, thanks for asking though, I can't download it because my computer is too old. Noooooo! So, now I must buy a new computer. In order to watch free television.

There seems to be a flaw somewhere in that plan. If I could only figure out what it is....

Cop out

I haven't written anything here in days and days. I am acutely aware of it and yet can think of nothing compelling to say. I hate that. So welcome to the What I've Been Doing Instead of Writing cop out.


I watched these people leap about in a highly impressive fashion; I heard this woman read about her life and even though I've known her since I was a little girl, I didn't know any of that stuff; I listened to this man do amazing things with a cello; I watched this play and was honored to be sitting next to the playwright as he made some notes for more changes; I watched this movie (later referred to by a friend who was not intending to make a joke as "Dude, I Love You, Bro") and laughed and laughed; I saw this movie and cried; and I listened to these guys play like mad.

It's been good, I promise.
And you? How've you been?

Daylight savings

Last week we "sprang forward" and turned all of our clocks ahead. But secretly? I'm turning the clock back, baby. I have just purchased a skin care system (that's what they call it when it's more than one substance that you slap on your face. They don't call it "a bunch of stuff" they call it "a system") from the Time Defiance line. Because, well, a close scrutiny in the mirror suggests that it is indeed the moment to begin defying time. Actually, it suggests that I ought to have started defying time two years ago, but alas. These moisturizers are formidable. And brown. I've never used a brown face cream before and am certain it is a sign of seriousness and scientific advancement. If I use everything according to the directions, I figure that I ought to look like an infant by May. I haven't actually read the directions yet, mind you, but I'm hoping that part of the system is to look fiercely into the mirror (without scowling, obviously. Scowling causes wrinkles.) while applying moisturizer and saying three times "Time, I defy Thee!" I think that would be a nice touch.

Cell phones (again)

Sunday 1pm

The homeless guy panhandling in front of Green Apple Books has to interrupt himself from asking me for spare change because he gets a call. He pulls his phone from his pocket and walks away from me to conduct his conversation in a more private part of the sidewalk.


Sunday 10:45pm

I tell Daniel it has been a pleasure to meet his friend. "Well, did you give her your cell phone number? Oh. Wait. That's right. You don't HAVE a cell phone."


.

Bibliophile

I heard on the radio the other day that the BBC has compiled a list of 100 beloved books. They suggest that most people have read six of them. Turns out that I've read 52 of them, but then, I don't exercise at all, so that gives me plenty of free time.

How about you?

One, please

I go to movies alone all but constantly. I like it. Plus, I don't have to share the Red Vines.

Still, I have to admit that walking up to the dude in the box office and saying, "One for He's Just Not That Into You" was a wee bit humiliating.

Self-help

Massages and pedicures are apparently meant to be the height of luxurious relaxation. Huh. Add them to the list of things I'm supposed to like but don't really enjoy. For me, massages are crazy painful. During one, the thought came to me unbidden: "I wonder if they do this to prisoners in Iraq." That kind of painful. I sometimes get one in order to try to fix my broken self, but this is a choice like realizing, yes, you really do need to suck it up and get that uncomfortable medical procedure. It's not a choice I'd make during a weekend getaway or girls' weekend or whatever. I mean do you and your beloved or your gaggle of giggling companions get together for colonoscopies? No.

Similarly, I very much enjoy my post-pedicure foot, but the majority of the actual pedicure, not so much. First of all, I'm extremely ticklish, so the exfoliating interlude involves my exerting Jedi mind strength to overcome the reflex that urges me to kick the tickler in the face. Then there's the poking and scraping with metal implements part. Ouch. And then, the crazy painful massage of legs and feet (see above). The sensible thing, obviously, would be to tell the lady that I would like her to skip that part but A) I am a coward and B) there is a significant language barrier. Instead, I hold my breath and grip the arms of the chair until it's over. Still, unlike the body massage where you know the torture will continue for the full 90 minutes, because, freakishly, that's what you've paid for, the pedicure eventually becomes just about painting and drying (read: sitting and reading). Not bad. Plus, I have ten little tidy red-polished toes to show for it.

Incidentally, another bewildering thing about the nail salon is the colors of polish chosen by other ladies. The woman next to me had her toenails pained a shade that was like a slightly oranger version of the Crayola crayon they used to call something like "flesh tone." (Presumably, in the new world of multicultural awareness, they've changed the name. Turns out, not everyone's flesh is the same tone. Go figure.) Anyway, does this color, whatever you choose to call it, make an attractive nail polish? I assure you it does not. I didn't tell her, though. Hopefully, someone who knows and loves her will break it to her gently.

Food, Glorious Food

I don't eat a lot of candy, but I do have a profound weakness for Red Vines. (Not Twizzlers. NOT Twizzlers. Seriously. They are nothing alike. Red Vines are delicious; Twizzers are repellent. See how those are not the same?) I only eat them in movie theatres(Hot tip: buy them for $1 at Walgreens and smuggle them in. Shhhh.) so it's not like I'm a total junkie or anything. However, I will consume the entire box, alone, in the course of 90-120 minutes. Yum. The package says "No preservatives. Fat Free. Very Low Sodium." So really, they're practically health food.

Except. The package also describes them as "Original Red Twists." Huh. That is certainly accurate. They are red twists, for sure. But as far as something you would eat, is that really enough of a description? Recently, I looked at the ingredients for the first time:
Corn Syrup, Wheat Flour, Citric Acid, Artificial Flavor, Red 40.

Um...but they're fat free. And sodium? So low.

Which, now that I think about it, I guess is often the case for food that is not made of food.

Networking

Hotmail is once again making changes to itself. Something to do with storage? Something to do with networks? Mostly I ignore whatever they do, as long as I can get to my messages (refresh, refresh, refresh). I am a glutton for correspondence. However, Hotmail really wants me to pay attention to its new personal network capabilities. Every time I access my account, it pulls random people from my contact list and suggests that these people would be a good base for my new network. The thing is, it uncannily selects people whom I don't even remember being in my contact list. Today, it brightly offers under the heading of "Suggestions for Your Network" a former colleague whom I last spoke to in 1998, and a man I used to know in Paris with whom I last corresponded in June of 2000. Huh. Great idea, Hotmail. Thanks!

The cool kids

For three days, I have been working at a high school other than the one where I actually work. This one has a cafeteria. Every day I have chosen the same seat: at the end of the far table next to a window. Having been given the hot tip, I have been eating at noon, between the seatings for the the middle school girls and the high school girls. Although I arrive in a nearly empty room, I am nevertheless still there when the high school girls arrive. The tables are designed to seat approximately 12 people, but the girls find room for as many of their friends as possible. At the table next to mine, they just keep coming. Each newcomer takes a chair from my table and wedges it into the rapidly diminishing space at the other one. Eventually, there are 18 girls at the next table. At my table, there is just me, and three empty chairs.

Although A) I am 38 years old and B) I know not one student at this school, this still makes me feel like a total loser.

Tomorrow I'll be back home where I have friends who will eat with me. Really. I totally do have friends.

Wow. That is talented.

There is a list of links under the header
Also on MSN

These are the first two:
Dolphins are talented chefs
32 tasty cookie recipes


Now, I could click on these links and spoil everything, but I prefer to think the second link leads to 32 cookie recipes developed by dolphins. In fact, I'm not even making the links available to you, so that you may share in this delightful fantasy. See how good I am to you?

In fairness, she did ask

As I was gathering my belongings in preparation to leave a party on Friday night, I heard part of a conversation among a group of people. One woman was telling a sad tale about how she'd wanted to wear camouflage capri pants on a trip to the Middle East, but had been persuaded not to by her friend who asked her to consider the state of the world and the unpopularity of Americans in the region. She was disappointed because, as she said, "But camouflage is fashionable. And I hate not being fashionable." (Considering the ensemble she'd put together for the party, I wouldn't have thought that was strictly true, but that's another story.) A man turned to the sensible friend and said:

Man: And you? Did you wear camouflage?

Sensible Friend: Ha. Right. Can you see me in camouflage?

Me: No. That's actually the point of camouflage.

Super

This morning (between pushes of the snooze alarm)the folks on the radio were doing a lot of chatting about the Super Bowl. Until then, I had no idea that the Super Bowl was this weekend. And you know what? I'm all smug about it. It's not pretty, but it's true.

Sundays

I'm not so good on Sundays. Never have been. I wake up too late, put on not-quite-dressed ensembles of sweatpants and old t-shirts and the sweaters I don't wear in public, start drinking tea and listening to the radio and then, somehow, never really leave the house. That could be fine, of course, and sometimes is, but usually it carries with it a general sense of ennui or perhaps malaise. Something gloomy and French, in any case. Today is no different except that it's possibly worse. I find myself listening to some radio station from London streaming online. It's something I bookmarked in some long-forgotten past moment and today clicked on accidentally. First I half-listened to an interview with a British-Iranian filmmaker and then it transitioned into something called "The Organ Hour," which seems to be some kind of um...alterna-punk-metal show, purportedly to do with organs, although I'm not really hearing organs. And while, for you, this might be a happy accident or a veritable treasure trove of musical delight, for me, it feels like some kind of Sunday afternoon rock bottom. We just heard something by a band called Lime Headed Dog. I am not a fan.

I've got to get out of here. Want to go for a walk?

Latest developments

1. Marquee over the Adult DVD and Video store on O'Farrell and Polk:
Now No Bush.

2. I had a brief email correspondence with my friend Samantha (have you met Samantha? You'll like her) in which I told her that I check her blog frequently and find her regular posting to be inspiring. Her discipline spurs me not to be such a blog slacker. Further, I suggested that "blog slacker" sounds like an invention of Dr. Seuss. She replied, "I would totally read a rhyming book about a bog-dwelling blog slacker." Me too.

3. Speaking of children's books, the second in the Chicken and Cat series by my awesome friend Sara is soon to be released. Do you have a child? Know a child? Pay attention.

4, Today my mother revealed, conversationally, that she has a Facebook profile. Apparently, there's a picture of the two of us on it. Of course, like everyone, my mother has also had a cell phone for years. I have neither of these things. Food for thought.

Welcome

You know all that civic pride I was talking about?

It's back.

Welcome, Mr. President. We're awfully glad to see you.

Weather Report

I know it's lame to wait days and days and then only talk about the weather, but really, it's the most notable thing. I've been restraining myself mostly out of respect for the Kingstons who were so briefly in San Francisco and beside themselves with joy to shed their snowsuits for a week, only to return to another Massachusetts storm. However, I can hold back no longer. With apologies to the rest of the country, it's gorgeous here. Crazy the-world-is-clearly-coming-to-an-end gorgeous, but gorgeous nonetheless. It's been short-sleeved and sockless. It's been eat lunch in the back yard, but don't forget your sunglasses. It's been switch to the less aggressive bedding.

Today on the radio the announcer said, "In Minneapolis it's 40 below zero; in Chicago it's 20 below." He reported the rest of the newsworthy national events, such as heroic plane-landing in the Hudson River. Then he got to our own weather report. "Clear and sunny today in the Bay Area. In San Francisco, high of 67 degrees; in San Jose, 70."

And that's just how it's been for days on end. I'm a little giddy with it. If it makes you feel any better, it's nowhere near this nice in the summer.

Back to work

The party's over. Everybody back to work. Yesterday I was prepared for it to be a bit of a disaster since, for me, coming back from vacation, even when I haven't traveled at all, requires a time adjustment that is not unlike the battle to overcome jetlag. On Saturday night (if you will) I went to bed at 3am and then got up at noon on Sunday. Unsurprisingly, I could then neither sleep on Sunday night, nor wake with any ease on Monday morning. Having shuffled into the office, I discovered that the heater was broken in my part of the building. It was about 47 degrees out and raining. (Please don't go on about how 47 degrees is practically balmy compared to sooooo many other places. I wasn't in so many other places. I was here. And it was cold. Very cold.) I did not unbutton my coat all day, nor remove my scarf. At one point, I put my gloves on, but typing was hard. It was all somewhat Dickensian. I did not enjoy it. Where were my slippers and constant supply of movies and books and pots of tea and snacks and blankets? Nowhere, that's where. Ah, vacation. How I miss you already.

Now it is a bright new day. It is no longer raining. It is several degrees warmer. However, after another night of thrashy, unsatisfying sleep, I dragged myself out to move my car for street cleaning. And then proceeded to drive in circles for 20 minutes, unable to find a single parking place anywhere proximate to my home. I could not simply drive to work since I was wearing an ensemble that was basically built around pajamas. Finally, I found a spot, returned home, and took a shower. Then, having dried about 30% of my hair, my hairdryer broke. No fanfare. No burny smell. No weird noise. Just ceased to function. I refused to walk to work with 70% wet hair, partially because of vanity, partially because of fear of pneumonia. I got dressed, went upstairs, and borrowed a hairdryer from my neighbor (thanks, Nicole!) which then for some reason, I couldn't get to work in the bathroom? So maybe my hairdryer isn't actually broken? Who knows. No time to figure that out this morning. I dried my hair in the living room, walked to work in not-so-great-for-walking-to-work shoes, and arrived 40 minutes late. Ta da!

In my real life, I wouldn't even be out of bed yet.


One small discovery, though, made while tromping to work. What smells more Christmasy than Christmas? The garbage truck that is gathering up discarded trees from street corners and pulverizing them. Obscurely depressing to witness? Yes. But so, so fragrant.

Refuge

Just home from the Revolution Cafe, which feels a lot like Paris only with a great deal more pot smoke and one fully open wall even though it's January and very cold. The band was fantastic (although every one of them had to blow on their freezing hands between songs). During the last hour some girls started dancing. One of them, Anna, could do a mean Charleston. We were delighted. And then she was delighted by our delight. "God it's good to be back in the Mission," she said. "Can I give you a hug?" And she did. "I was just in the Marina. Everyone was so blonde. And the attitude...." I knew just how she felt. No one is playing that music in the Marina and sure as hell no one's doing the Charleston. I said, "I know. I always feel absolutely hideous in the Marina." Anna further endeared herself to me by saying "You're so not. I wish I could rock bangs like you." So, ladies and gentleman, no longer am I "sporting the same haircut I've had since I was five." No. I am "rocking bangs" in 2009. I am also hugging Charleston-dancing fourth grade teachers who also purportedly teach 9-year-olds how to Jitterbug. I am hugging handsome, pot-smoking, anti-Christian, tile-laying, heavy metal drummers. I am hugging petite Japanese-American fiddle players. I am borrowing functional pens from the bartender so I can write a letter to Jules in Switzerland. And, as ever, I am smiling so much at the solos that my face hurts.

Thank you, gentlemen, for the music. Thank you, Revolution, for a glimpse into a happy 2009. I wasn't sure, but now I am.

Just kidding

See number 9 on this list?

Ha.

It is here. The Traditional Christmas Cold has arrived. I would stay to complain about it longer, but I have to go gargle with salt water for a while and then go back to bed.

Dammit.

Midnight miscellany

1. Last night at Evany and Marco's party, everyone looked fabulous. It was like my fantasy of my grownup life come true. Men in ties, women in cocktail dresses. Everyone standing in companionable cocktail party clusters chatting attractively. Just what I always wanted.

2. I saw MILK at the Castro this afternoon. It's been playing there nearly a month, so I assumed it would be me and maybe twenty other people, but the line stretched down the block. To see Harvey Milk's story in a sold-out house at the Castro where we all smiled at each other even as our umbrellas dripped unpleasantly on one another's shoes, where people clapped like mad for the organist before the movie even began, where there was (and always seems to be) an enormous feeling of good will... Well. That felt like a huge privilege. I am proud, proud, proud to live here.

3. The bus stop at Haight and Divisadero is strangely convivial late at night. I did not previously know this, but I was there at 2:30am on Friday night (Saturday morning) and just now, as well. People are chatty and bond over the ridiculousness of waiting for a bus in the middle of the night. People go out of their way to not seem scary since after midnight is a wary time among strangers. On Friday (Saturday for sticklers) I was coming home from the klezmer madness party I'd been at (really--accordions, clarinets, a drum, a bass, a viola, a violin, a bed tipped on end to accommodate them all) and the bus didn't come for a very long while. In the end, a man named Amir offered to share a taxi with me and then wouldn't let me pay for my leg of the journey. Thanks, Amir.

4. I have a crush on this band I just heard. Ramon and Jessica. They are charming in such a way that you want to put them in your pocket and keep them with you all the time.

5. Daniel and I were dancing in the lobby of Cafe du Nord as people cleaned up around us. The song over the speakers may have been "You Send Me."

D: I start my house-sitting gig tonight.
K: Oh yeah? You didn't tell me.
D: Yeah. A cat named Jack.

[We continue to dance for a while in silence.]

D: An actual cat. Not a guy named Jack who I call "cat" because I play jazz.
K: Oh. I'm glad you clarified that.

Merry and bright

You know what? I'm happy. I like it.

It's just a little mixed bouquet of things.
1. We had some impressive hail earlier in the week and I was safe in bed at the time, which, of course, is the very best place to be while listening to hail.
2. Having lost my normal gloves, I've been wearing elbow length leather gloves that are the color of boysenberry yogurt.
3. I'm going to an album release party for an accordionist tomorrow and just the very idea of such a thing makes me smile.
4. I bought jolly gifts for my family. Including a book about a chicken who goes on big adventures.
5. People I love are soon to be coming into town from distant places. (Are you listening, Jules? I'm still counting on you.)
6. I feel myself sneaking into my winter break schedule during which I stay up far too late for no apparent reason and then sleep and sleep. Since I still have three days of work, this is premature and makes for bad mornings. But...almost, almost time.
7. Last night, around midnight, while employing phase one of #6, I had some quality time with my Christmas tree. No other lights but tree lights. Just me, the tree, a blanket, some music, and some contemplative gratitude. The tree and I had been waiting to feel that moment of bonding. We're both glad it's come.
8. I haven't wrapped the presents yet and I love wrapping presents.
9. I don't have the Traditional Christmas Cold. (knock on wood, cross your fingers, say a little prayer...)
10. I've just discovered that I like Sigur Ros. I know all the cool kids liked Sigur Ros years and years ago, but what can I tell you? I'm a late bloomer.

My new calling

Last night I was one of the storytellers at Porchlight's Holiday Spectacular and I think I'm hooked. I spent days being stomach-churningly nervous about the whole thing, but a weird calm came over me after the first sentence came out of my mouth. I can't account for it. Even doing readings of my work (which I actually enjoy doing) in front of far smaller groups of people makes my heart pound and my hands shake. But there I was, obliged to use a microphone for the first time in my life, no notes to read from, a whole auditorium full of people and I just clicked into some mystery other self. I talked about dating mishaps and the audience laughed; I quoted the sweet thing my ex said on our first date and the audience "awwww-ed"; I quoted the psycho thing he said the last day I saw him and some woman in the third row said, "Oh, hell no." I got off stage and a man in an aisle seat gave me a high five. I felt like a rock star. Rarely do I feel like a rock star. Plus, since I went first, it meant didn't have to be nervous all night. Instead I got to listen to everyone else. And drink. Sweet.

Another highlight: Chuck Prophet's heartwarming Christmas song, "Jesus Was a Social Drinker."

Seriously. Porchlight. Check it out. It's always a good time. Warning: you will probably fall a little in love with these women. It's very hard not to.

Still not the same

Well, radio friends, we're back in this realm. Yesterday, I heard some ad on the radio that went on and on in the Twelve Days of Christmas vein. It said things like, "On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me seven slices of hot dog." and "On the fifth day of Christmas, my cupboard gave to me five golden potato chips." I thought it was some weird thing about dieting during the holidays. Um...turns out it was a public service announcement about people starving. Unintentionally starving not "oh my god, I'm so fat in these jeans, I'm totally going on the cayenne cleanse" starving. People in our own community who are suffering from poverty and hunger.

And really, if that message can be misconstrued as a weight-loss program, maybe there's a problem with the copy. Just a thought.

You shall bend to my will

Well, people. You can't say I didn't warn you.

It has happened. I am done with school and am now the Master of Humanity. Stay tuned for your orders.

Job sharing

I call from work to check my (nonexistent) messages at home. I'm struck by the fact that the recorded voice that asks me to "please dial my password" is not the voice of the lady who's been politely requesting me to dial my password for years. I find it oddly unsettling. The new lady is no more melodious than the former lady. Why the change? I dial my password. I am then requested to "enter my mailbox number." Amazingly, just as I was really beginning to worry about her, this second request comes from the original lady--the lady who's been keeping watch over my voicemail for most of the last decade. I'm reassured to hear her. All the remaining prompts are spoken by her. Who then is the password lady? Why does she get just one prompt? Is she in training?

I like to imagine that she the sister of the other lady, down on her luck in the economic downturn. Her sister says, "Look, I can't offer you a lot, but I'll try to help you out. You can be in charge of the first prompt. I've got to hang on to the other ones myself, but hopefully it'll be enough to keep groceries on the table."

She's very selfless and unfailingly cheerful. Such an act of sacrifice would be just like her.

Thanksgiving

Last night I got to sing along with the Decemberists and hundreds of San Franciscans to a song about being swallowed by a whale. And just now, I got carded at Trader Joe's by a guy who's about 15 years younger than me.

Plenty of things to be thankful for.

Good times

It doesn't take a lot to please me, so possibly my good times would only qualify as your so-so times. What can you do?

1. Last night I had to drive home from Berkeley in some sort of mystery condensation (It was a weather condition, not something emanating from my person, nor from my vehicle.) and I wasn't too thrilled about it. But then....it turned out the KFOG was playing ten songs from 1984 and, before I knew it, tiresome drive was magically transformed into Sing Along Spectacular! I became one of those annoying bass-booming cars. Because, you know, when it's the Thompson Twins, you've got to turn it up. Thank God I'm no one's mother. If I were, that child would be dying of embarrassment right this very minute.

Here's the set list:

1984

1. Wang Chung - Dance Hall Days
2. John Cougar Mellencamp - Crumblin' Down
3. The Cars - Hello Again
4. Alan Parson's Project - One Good Reason
5. Frankie Goes to Hollywood - Two Tribes
6. Zebra - Bears
7. U2 - The Unforgettable Fire (Best of Set)
8. Howard Jones - What is Love?
9. Thompson Twins - The Gap
10. Pretenders - My City Was Gone

For me, it was tracks 7, 8, and 9. You?


2. As I was walking home on Saturday afternoon, I encountered a largish group of teenage girls heading down the sidewalk toward me. There were maybe ten of them, all quite lovely, moving en masse. Very close behind them was an unusually tall man with long hair and sunglasses. In my constant need to make order of the world around me, I decided that they were some sort of traveling school group and that he was their chaperone. However, once the girls had passed and the man came fully into view, I saw that he was wearing a full-length billowing cloak attached at his shoulders, knee-high boots, and a large belt to which was affixed a sword and other less readily identifiable metal objects--presumably some sort of additional medieval weaponry. Um...so not the chaperone, then?

Or better, the most kick-ass chaperone ever hired by a girls' school. Muggers? That guy scoffs at muggers. Bring on the dragons. Bring on Satan himself.

Connections

I'm listening to gorgeous jazz on the radio--a station that I've never happened upon before. It's fitting as I just got home from a fantastic show by these guys at this cafe (you'll see my table on the far right), where they played one piece by this man who had written it for this circus created by this friend of mine.

I'm feeling that perhaps all art is connected to all other art and that I'm incredibly fortunate to find myself unexpectedly in the middle of it and to know so many people who are involved in creating it. They will definitely be on my Thanksgiving list of things to be grateful for.

In my own small non-audience artistic pursuits, I am doing the final edits on my final project for grad school--ten shiny little humor essays by yours truly. And I've been invited by these fantastic women whom I completely admire to participate in Porchlight next month. Oh my lord. I didn't know my name was up on that site until just this second. Did I just experience a wave of panic? Um...yes. Wish me luck.

The end

I have not had a television in my house for the last twelve years, largely because I am a total television addict and there is a risk that I will never read nor speak to another human being again if I allow myself to own one. Instead, I listen to the radio a great deal, watch movies from Netflix on my computer, sometimes read books, and even, from time to time, leave the house. These character-building activities sometimes fall short, however, and last night I found myself wandering around YouTube, like so many before me. I watched some excerpts of 30 Rock, a show I've never seen, but frequently hear mentioned. I noticed that all the clips were coming from here. And so, as though helplessly following the Pied Piper, I too, went there. At which point, my life, as I have so carefully crafted it, ended.

I watched FIVE episodes of 30 Rock after which I unapologetically watched a crappy movie. And I was entirely entertained for over three hours.

Shit.

Triangulation II

Last time, Haight and Ashbury; this time, Page and Ashbury--a block away.

I pass a small, bespectacled boy with one of those backpacks on wheels, like a little stewardess bag, but backpack-shaped. He is standing on the corner rocking the backpack back and forth to make a "click-clock" noise while he waits for his nanny to catch up. Weirdly though, as I pass him, I am enveloped in a cloud of pot smoke, unusual among the kindergarten crowd. Then I see the bearded twenty-something guy sitting cross-legged on a dirty white duvet on the edge of the curb, about ten feet away from the kid, smoking a joint, staring absently at the parked cars directly in front of his face. Across the street, a man makes his unsteady way down the sidewalk with a futon mattress draped over his head and back. It extends to his knees on either side, almost entirely obscuring him, as though he is hiding or pretending to be a turtle.

Democracy

I'm feeling all emotional and full of civic pride--partially it's my own "I Voted" sticker, but more, it's the fact that there are hundreds and hundreds of identical stickers being doled out within blocks of my office. If that's true, imagine how many there are all over the country. Look at all of us. Participating. I was 14th in line when I got to my assigned polling garage this morning at 6:45 (a time, incidentally, when I am very seldom even awake, let alone doing any sort of civic duty), and while I stood there, another twenty people queued up behind me. We might as well have been from Sesame Street such diversity did we represent: all sorts of ethnicities, all sorts of ages, some babies, a dog, and, about six inches to the left of the line, a sleeping homeless couple curled up under an woefully inadequate blanket beside an empty bottle of malt liquor. My neighbors. I felt an enormous affection for all of them.

Vive Barack Obama. Vive all those happily married gay couples. And hooray for every citizen waiting in a seemingly endless line to complete that seemingly endless ballot. Long may we reign.

Halloween

Halloween snapshot #1. Berekley. 7pm

A very small fluffy bear comes to the door with a slightly taller Oompa Loompa and a fairy princess. "Trick or treat!" they cry. When my friend's two-year-old son gets home from touring the neighborhood with his father, he pronounces that it was "a bit spooky" but that he saw a skeleton that "went up and down." That, apparently, was a highlight of the adventure.


Halloween snapshot #2. San Francisco. 10:30pm

At a stoplight a few blocks from home, I see a man across the street in "sexy Alice in Wonderland" drag with his friend who appears to be a more miscellaneous "sexy girl." They are both in very short dresses and wigs. Miscellaneous faces the traffic, while Alice stands bowlegged, holding himself up unsteadily against a parked jeep while he pees copiously over the driver's side door.

High school times two

I got to work early yesterday (Absurdly early. To make coffee. Let's not discuss it.) and consequently left early. I drove away at about 3:30. While waiting at a red light, I observed maybe a dozen dudes in the park skateboarding up a storm. I thought, "What the hell? Does NO ONE have a job anymore?" and then I thought "Oh, wait. Maybe they're high school students."

Something is off kilter when my first thought upon seeing a bunch of skaters is that they're unemployed thirty-year-olds. There was a time, not so very long ago, when a pack of guys on skateboards would have been BY DEFINITION teenagers. Not anymore. Not in this town. Oh hell no, not by a long shot.


************


Walking to work this morning, I found myself behind a small group of students. Another girl approached the group from the opposite direction and greeted a boy with a big hug. This was not a romantic-type situation, this was the heartwarming reunion of two teenagers who had not seen each other since the beginning of first period, about an hour earlier. I remember this about high school: it was very heavy on hugs. We were always exceedingly glad to see one another and/or very sorry to part. Either occasion was hug-worthy. And frankly, although quantity was certainly a primary factor, quality was superior as well. As adults, I fear we have really let this slide. In fact, the last really excellent hug I received was at my high school reunion. Coincidence? I think not. Let's see if we can step it up, friends.

Frankly, I could do with more hugs.

Le retour

I've said it before, but that makes it no less true: it is hard to start again once you've stopped. This is applicable for all manner of things, but for me it most often relates to exercising and writing. The former is so difficult as to be essentially impossible. It has certainly been more than a year since I've done anything that I would call Exercise with a capital e. Fortunately, I am still obliged to walk around the neighborhood from time to time, so my limbs haven't atrophied completely.

The writing? The writing is something else altogether. It nags at me differently, and perhaps more persistently, and it requires more concerted effort to ignore. But, as is evident to the four of you who read this, I have managed to put forth that effort for many weeks. Impressive, is it not?

Now, though, I am sitting here on a Sunday afternoon trying to sneak up on the writing through the blog, since the real task of the day is to work on the scary Big Project--the thing that would be my thesis if it were a thesis. Instead it is a Collection of My Work--a term which never fails to make me chortle. Nevertheless, it exists. Sadly, one of the designated readers has failed to be overcome by the brilliance of this mighty collection and has required many changes of me. So far I have reacted to his notes with A) defensiveness B) profanity and C) procrastination. Time is officially running out for this particular three-pronged approach. It is time to embrace such helpful notes as, "In humor writing, the jokes must be clever and work well." And try to make new jokes that this one man might find more clever or better working. Because, after all, I do wish to actually get the MA after all that homework and thousands of dollars and all. It would be silly to stop now.

Clever. Work well. Man, what a good idea. I'm on it.


Meanwhile, while I haven't been telling you four anything, I have been busy. First, I was sick. Seemingly interminably. But that excuse is weeks out of date now. Otherwise, it's been a cultural extravaganza.

A circus in the park.
A movie in the fog.
Colored glass.
Jazz at the museum.
More and more and more music.
One long play.
Movies indoors.
Six short plays.
Jazz in North Beach.

And, the glorious mistress of the Big Idea, Laurie Anderson. At Homeland on Friday, she held that audience in her thrall. When she played a encore on her electric violin, hundreds of people sat silent, silent. You could feel the listening humming through us all.

You should probably move here. There's a lot going on.

Split personality

I was stuck in traffic yesterday behind a large white Chevrolet pickup truck. On its tailgate it had a large sticker, presumably company provided, that said "Safety is my first goal" with an 800 number that other motorists could use to report that the driver was falling short of that goal or, maybe, to congratulate him on goal achievement. There was another sticker, however. A smaller one, nearer the actual bumper. This one had just two words: Death Ride.

Hmmm.

Branding

This morning on the radio there was a discussion of a nonprofit devoted to curing blindness in third world countries. And, despite this very clear context of BLINDNESS CURING, when they said "eye hospital," I heard "iHospital," which presumably would be Apple's new digital trauma center.

Triangulation

I am about to cross Haight Street. To my left, there is a dude standing in the middle of a vacant parking place pissing mightily onto Ashbury Street; in front of me is a guy blocking traffic and half the crosswalk with his giant SUV; to my right is a white guy with dreadlocks playing a banjo. No wonder the tourists flock to the neighborhood. It's a veritable vacation paradise.

Haiku for the Next Door Neighbors

The crying wakes me.
If I wanted a baby,
I would have my own.

The secret life of trees

Walking to work this morning, I pass a mother on a bike with her small daughter. Riding along on the sidewalk beside them is her larger son, on his own bike with training wheels. As I pass, I hear her say exasperatedly, "Well, that's right, Andrew. It's a good thing you were looking. Trees can jump out at you. That's why you have to keep your eyes open."


Later, I walk down a block where several trees have very recently been planted in the newly repaired sidewalk. In the small square of earth at the base of one sapling,there are three empty fifth bottles: two Hennessy and one Bacardi, and a pair of sparkly gold high heels.

Lessons:

1. Trees can jump out and grab you.
2. Trees, even very young trees, know how to party.

Pot Luck, Grab Bag, Miscellany, etc.

1. I know that I've mentioned this before, but I must mention it again or risk exploding with pent-up anger. The stompy, stompy neighbors. Oh how I weary of them. As I have already told you, there are but two men in my building, but between them they sound like a conquering army. Neither wears shoes in the house (thank goodness), so it is all the more difficult to imagine how they do it. It seems like it would be physically painful to bring one's feet down with such force without shoes. Seriously. It isn't so much that I hear them; I feel them. The man upstairs walks from room to room as though in a great fury and my chair trembles; my dishes rattle. Remember that this is Earthquakeville too, so that kind of thing can cause a great deal of anxiety. My next door neighbor is exactly the same, it's just that he isn't over my head. He shakes everything in my apartment when he is coming and going, since the hall to the building's front door runs alongside my living room. There are also three women in the building. But you'd never know it from listening.

2. My friends hosted an Obama party on Saturday, which was swell of them. They raised a good sum of money and gave us sausages and beer and it was also an almost unbelievably beautiful day. I was on 44th Avenue and I was wearing a sleeveless dress. If you are familiar with San Francisco, your mouth is now agape with astonishment. Sunny skies, lovely people, good cause, tasty snacks. So, all in all, very pleasant. However, once again I found myself in the role of The One Person With Neither Spouse Nor Child. Seriously, it was as though there was a rule that you couldn't come unless you bought a baby or toddler, but everyone was just too polite to tell me. It begins to be clear why none of my friends have managed to introduce me to my future spouse, whoever he may be. To do so, they would have to break up his current marriage. This makes me--well--sad, if you want to know the truth.

Later that evening, feeling lonely and blue, (I know. Believe me, I feel like an idiot admitting it in print, but it has been pretty pervasive lately. Pitiful? Yes. Also true.) I gave myself a stern lecture about actually Leaving the House and going Where There Are People. I cannot bring myself to go to a bar/club alone, so I went to a 10:15 movie. An Italian movie that proved to be quite melancholy, about the strain of financial problems on a marriage. A movie that THREE other people wanted to see that night. Woo hoo! Needless to say, after that I was no longer lonely or sad and when I exited the entirely deserted multiplex at midnight, there were rainbows of cheerfulness radiating from my heart.

3. Wristcutters: A Love Story. In the context of all that "I'm so sad" stuff, you may now be convinced that I am actually suicidal. Not so! It only sounds like that sort of movie. When really, with movies like this, why would anyone want to die? Think of everything you'd miss. I love this movie. I watched it twice. And yes, it certainly does have something to do with the fact that Tom Waits in it, and we know how I feel about Tom Waits, but I liked it even before his character showed up. So there.

Correspondence

In my email Junk folder there is one lone message.
It is from Norberto Joliet.
The subject heading is: When his wife is angry with you at night.


Is this spam specifically targeted at adulteresses? That is a niche market for sure. Thank you, Norberto. I don't even need to open your message for it to easily qualify as the most entertaining email I will receive today.

In Memorium

It is 4pm on a school day, which means almost everyone has left the building. On my way to the front desk, I briefly pass a deserted hallway that is lined on one side with lockers. On the floor in front of one locker is a cheap, grocery store bouquet comprised of red and white carnations.

Now, in all likelihood this is merely a tribute to one teen from another that has been accidently abandoned in the flurry of after-school activity. However, the placement of the bouquet and the poor quality of the flowers makes it look exactly like the beginning of one of those impromptu shrines that one sees on the roadside where someone has been killed in a car accident. Or...as though one of our students has perished in some unspeakable locker-related tragedy.

Spell Check

I am checking a work email, mostly because I have trouble spelling "acknowledgment" [in fact, I just spelled it wrong three times right this minute]. However, what spell check is upset by is "but many of you have--thanks." Have--thanks is just too much for it to accept. It offers these alternatives:

harvestman
haven't
handstands
hardstands
havens


Raise your hand if you knew that "harvestman" was a word. Okay, so there are three of you. Fine. How about "hardstands?" Right. That's what I thought. Nobody. Thanks, Microsoft.

We're the class of '88

In the last few days I have been on an internet date and gone to my twenty-year high school reunion. Prior to these events, I thought the former would be a fantastic success and the latter would be a depressing blow to my self esteem. Surprise! I got that backwards. The man I thought was perfect for me...um...didn't like me. So, back to the drawing board on that. Again. However, the reunion? The reunion was great.

First of all, let me just say that Tam High Class of 88 is looking good. Seriously. I kind of can't get over it. Yes, we look like adults. We are adults. But in no way do we look like scary, haggard, obese versions of our 18-year-old selves. There was no need for anxious nametag scanning. We are instantly recognizable. And frankly, pretty hot. Many of the people I graduated with were also my elementary school classmates and I found it truly moving to be there looking at the beautiful grownup versions of girls who were in my Girl Scout troop.

I feared that it would be Parade of Spouses and a veritable photo exhibit of offspring. I feared it would be all long-winded recounting of glamorous careers and recent large-scale propertry purchases. And that I would be all, "blah, blah single. Blah, blah secretary. Blah, blah rent control." Largely because that is my nearly constant inner monologue even when I'm alone. (Yeah. I know. I'm working on it: one resume update and one internet date at a time.) But you know what? It wasn't like that at all. Most people love their spouses so much that they spared them from the reunion altogether. Those who were there seemed to be happily in the spirit of things. And as for children? Maybe people were just happy to have a night off. Maybe it was enough to say their names and ages and then have another glass of wine and dance to another 80s cover.

I ended up wearing the thing that actually fits me, rather than the thing that only sort of fits me with the aid of miserable undergarments. No one hurt my feelings. No one was boastful and tiresome. Instead, I got some really high-quality hugs and was told by a dozen people that I was unchanged. We laughed a lot and sang along to every song and no one wanted it to be over, so we descended en masse on the town dive bar at about 12:45am. And it dawned on me that reunions are actually meant to be joyful. That's why the tradition lingers on. Not because every adult relishes being plagued by her high school insecurities. Oh. Well, that makes more sense. I wish someone would have told me sooner.

The only reunion stereotype that played out was that one guy who was a high school nerd is now a rocket scientist who is married to a stunningly beautiful woman who is? Yep. Also a rocket scientist. And you know what? That's my favorite reunion sterotype. I'm glad we didn't miss out on it.

Also, now that it's over and I am no longer determined to stuff myself into an ill-fitting dress, I hailed yesterday with a large plate of pancakes. Aahhh. The death of pretense is pretty tasty. Especially with maple syrup.