Lavoro

Yesterday I heard a snippet on the radio that, of white collar workers, the unhappiest is someone who is an unmarried 42-year-old woman who is making less than $100K as a doctor or a lawyer. Note to self: do not become a lawyer next year for fear of sinking into suicidal depression.

Today I had trouble dragging myself to work, as I will spend much of the day cutting and sorting nametags, a task that makes me grouchy in the "I'm smarter than this" vein (though why it should, since I have to sing the alphabet song over and over again in order to alphabetize anything, I couldn't say). However, today's radio snippet was about unemployment in California. And you know what that was? Awfully damn sobering. I am newly grateful to have a job and to have my big budget struggle be whether or not I can afford to take Italian Level 2, not whether I can afford to pay my rent or buy food.

Hi there, nametags. What's up?

Marketers take heed

Girls in the hall are discussing drinking water. One girl is signing the praises of sparkling water over plain water. To sum up she says, "sparkling water....ignites your spirit."

And, really, you can't ask more of a beverage than that, can you?

*******

in unrelated news, Blogger has changed their interface and now, in order to have spaces between paragraphs, I am obliged to put in HTML codes. This displeases me. Not least because I know really nothing at all about HTML codes and must clunk along like the Frankenstein's monster of the digital age. In fact, are they even called HTML "codes?" I don't know. See?

Dear Blogger, remember when you did the technical things and I just, like, wrote stuff? I miss those days. If I wanted to be all technologically advanced, I'd use Wordpress. Love, Kari

Up to the minute

I am in the process of making a cake for my friend Meridith's birthday, which is why these two disturbing things occurred simultaneously.

1. I hear on the radio that the U.S. Post Office is in danger of becoming obsolete. Many jokes are made about email, etc. I assume these jokes are made by people who never receive letters. Because, really, is there anything more lovely than getting a real letter, handwritten by someone who loves you? (Hint: there isn't.)

2. The recipe calls for half an egg. And here I make another assumption, namely, that this recipe was penned by someone fairly unfamiliar with the properties eggs in their uncooked state.

So...go write a letter. By the time you're done, we'll know how the cake turned out.

Cliffhanger!

Non c'e

Last night found myself too exhausted to go to my Italian class. I know. Lame. If I had been able to teleport to class, I would definitely have gone, as I very much enjoy my Italian class, but I lacked the will to get downtown. Indeed, at the moment I should have been walking to BART, I was asleep on my sofa. These things happen. As a compromise, I watched Cinema Paradiso. It is about the same length as class, and unlike class, it involves no English whatsoever.

It breaks down like this.

In both class and in Cinema Paradiso, I recognize and understand some Italian phrases. Si! Vero! In class, I often laugh. In Cinema Paradiso, I also laughed a little. In class, I have yet to cry. In Cinema Paradiso I wept copiously and was overcome by feelings of painful nostalgia for hours afterwards.

Moral: go to class. (Vai in classe.)

Zombie head

You know what's sad? When you 1) drag your pitiful tired self to the laundromat on a national holiday while everyone else is at a BBQ with charming friends or similar

2) spend extra time on having lovely wrinkle-free bedding [did I iron the pillowcases? I totally did. I ironed and ironed, in fact. Where is my prize?]

3) take a pre-bed bath so as not to sully flawless sheets

4) crawl into perfect bed totally exhausted [probably from ironing] at the old timer hour of 10:18pm and then

5) spend the whole night in a sleepless, itchy allergy frenzy--very likely resulting from overly fragrant linens.

Now am post allergy-night work zombie.
I am not pleased.

This uninteresting addition to Cereal for Dinner (and likely many subsequent uninteresting additions) is brought to you by the Blog Bully and his relentless appetite for updates at any cost.

Hardy har har

I am unexpectedly going to be telling another story at the Mill Valley library on Friday. Oh. Oops. That would be TOMORROW. I am subbing for my friend Samantha who--just yesterday--had to withdraw. I am not ready. If you want to come and see if I get ready between now and then, do.

Generally, in what I laughingly refer to as "my work," I take unfortunate incidents from my life and/or personal shortcomings and make fun of them. Ta da! Humor writing. It's been working for me for years. Yesterday, I thought I had come up with a story for tomorrow's event that would lend itself nicely to this model, but what I am finding is that while I might be able to craft it such that others may be amused, I am not amused. At all. Embarrassed, yes. Sad, yes. Full of chuckles, not so much.

I am trying very hard to start shaking my head and smiling ruefully at all those gosh-darn romantic misadventures of yesteryear since I don't really have time to come up with a new idea, but [special behind-the-scenes glimpse into the creative process], I've been on the verge of tears since about 10pm last night. Hilarious!

NB: If you are secretly in love with me, this might be a good time to mention it.

Commerce

I'm not sure which is more remarkable, that Restoration Hardware sent me a catalogue that is 615 pages long, or that there is nothing in 615 pages that I can afford.

There was a heady moment when I thought a small lamp was $54, but how would that possibly have been true? [Lamp: $295, Shade: $54]

Farewell (or fare poorly. Whatever.)

My neighbors moved away today.
Things I will not miss about them:

1. The completely relentless crashing, crashing, crashing of things on their floor/my ceiling.

2. The fact that much of the crashing happened directly over the head of my bed, a thing I explained to them time and again, though they made no effort to change anything about their lives to ameliorate the situation.

3. The fact that they let their children bounce balls indoors, despite living in an upstairs apartment.

4. Ditto bike riding.

5. Their general stance that, though noise a bummer, it was entirely beyond them to address it in any way. (Suggestions: put a rug on the floor. Hell, put a towel on the floor. Make balls and bikes outside toys. Let your children play in any of your numerous rooms that are not over my bed. But no.)

6. Sometimes opting to sleep on the sofa so that I might not be awakened by the crashing over my bed. I was still awakened in the living room, but not quite so startlingly.

7. The fact that they additionally rented the building's third apartment so no one would move in and make noise under their bedrooms--a desperate move that, ironically, incited no empathy for my situation whatsoever. Indeed, they spent no time at all in the auxiliary apartment, despite the fact that had the children played there instead of upstairs, I would not have heard them.

8. Their practice of leaving numerous bags of soiled diapers on the (indoor) landing outside their kitchen door--directly over my pantry, which subsequently frequently smelled of shit.

9. Their refusal to break down boxes before putting them in the shared recycling bin, thus filling it to capacity.

10. The man's practice of sweeping leaves and detritus from the front entry and the sidewalk in front of his garage, but never from in front of my (directly adjacent) garage.

Things I will miss about the neighbors:

1. They were very quiet after 8pm.

2. Since they rented the only two other units in the building, when they were out, the whole place was mine all mine.

3. There is no 3.

*****
Sunday.
Just for the record, puzzled that my apartment reeked today despite a fairly robust cleaning and airing yesterday afternoon, I opened the kitchen door. And gagged. As I have so many times before. I then proceeded to take four bags of soiled diapers from the upstairs landing to the outdoor trashcans.

The song may be over, but the melody lingers on.

How about you?

The Anthropologist is a project of Anthropologie, the clothing store. It has nothing to do with clothing, or the store, as far as I can tell. It seems to be simply a celebration of beautiful things. I recommend you visit.

Doesn't this project make you want to create a collection of your own treasures, such that you might admire them all together? Why don't you?

Terminology

I am weary of hearing the delightful words "tea party" bandied about on a daily basis and having them relate neither to tea nor to a party. In addition to causing me personal disappointment, surely this is confusing for children and foreigners learning English.

For the record, a tea party doesn't look anything at all like this:




A tea party looks like this (you may click on the photo to enlarge it) :


Of course, there is also tea. At the time of the photo, the kettle was on. You don't want to get ahead of yourself. After all, you don't want the tea to get cold before your guest arrives.

There now.

Culinary irregularities

Very occasionally, I cook real food. And so rare is the occurrence that I become all proud of myself and am sometimes compelled to document my accomplishments. You are under no obligation whatsoever to care about this, particularly as I am certain you comport yourself as an adult and cook proper meals daily. I doff my cap to you.


Poulet provencal




Pork tenderloin, green beans almondine, mashed potatoes




Roasted summer squash with onions and tomatoes




Un petit poivre



Well, to be fair, I did not create that pepper, but isn't it pretty? It was a gift.

Bitterness

Look. If I could wear four-inch heels while just strolling around looking at sidewalk sales, I might also look, oh so casually, like a supermodel. [Photo from The Sartorialist.]

To wear these shoes, I would have had to strategize extensively about the proximity of the target venue to the chosen transport (how close is the bus stop? If I drive, can I park within three yards of the front door? Is it worth the money/effort to take a taxi? If not, do I have a bag big enough to bring flat shoes in which to access and leave the venue, pausing just out of sight of the front door to put on/remove the glamorous shoes.) My point is, there is no strolling. There is never any strolling. Even standing is pretty limited.

Fie on you all, towering women, for making me feel like I'm bad at being a girl.

Story time (Part 5)

This story was recorded by actual professionals, so it's quite swanky. This is also the final addition to the collection. I'd better get back out there.

June 2011. Mill Valley Public Library. The theme was "What Went Wrong."
You can see all the stories, or, if you'd rather cheat and just watch me, my introduction comes in at about 4:45.

Mill Valley Library - First Friday, June 2011 from MarinTV on Vimeo.

Fair warning

It is not unusual for me to pass random furniture that has been left on the street in the Haight. In fact, my friend Theo and I used to call it the Almost Furniture Collection--a chair with no seat, a chest with only two of its four drawers, a table with just three legs, things like that.

Today out by some trash cans, I saw one of those backless chairs you're supposed to kneel on at your desk. Do you remember those? On it was taped a handwritten note. I assumed it would say "Free," as is usually the case with abandoned items, but it said, "This is not that comfortable. Thank you."

I think the "thank you" was my favorite part.

Thank you, internet

One of the downsides of swimming is that I now frequently smell like chlorine and consequently make myself sneeze, which is kind of funny at first, but not for long. Today I thought I'd consult Google.

"Get rid of chlorine smell after swimming."

The good news is that many people are trying to deal with this same issue; the bad news is that there doesn't seem to be much to do about it.

Two of the more memorable responses:

1. Don't swim in a pool! No matter where you work, you're close to a canal or a lake.

2. Why would you want to? Is it that annoying? I'm only asking because sometimes a very light smell of chlorine can smell amazing on a woman.

My feelings:

1. I'm pretty sure there is neither a canal nor a lake anywhere near the Haight.

2. No matter what random issue you're dealing with (e.g. cleft palate, ingrown toenails, extraneous and/or missing limbs), there is guy somewhere who thinks it's hot. That's an absolute guarantee.

I only had to ask

It's come to this. I am posting something cheerful from Facebook. That's right, Facebook, you win again.

A few days ago, I posted something about the fact that there are no forks whatsoever in the kitchen at work. And then something marvelous happened. Voila.

Tracking

I have been feeling quite pleased with myself as regards the gym, which is to say that sometimes I actually go there. If nothing else, it gives me the chance to do an anthropological study of the locker room.

Here's what it isn't: sexy. Here's what it is: fascinating.

Really, it's a dissertation just waiting to be written.

Oh. I am also exercising. For real. I smell like chlorine, so I can prove it. Just now, feeling quite smug about my new fitness-forward self, I looked at the gym's online attendance tracker. In July, apparently, I went 5 times. Five. In a month.

Oh.

Oops.

On the bright side, it also says I've been 4 times in August and it's only the 9th. There may yet be hope for me.

Fortunately, there is no tracker for how many episodes of Mad Men I've watched in a week.

Story time (Part 4)

More unflattering photos! Yay! I thought I was wearing a great deal more makeup than I apparently am. Note: If you are going to the Elbo Room, ladle it on, ladies.

This is from October 2010, the LitQuake edition of the Literary Death Match. I was robbed! Robbed, I tell you! of the title by Jason Bayani who looks, it has to be admitted, pretty cute in his crown.













(please note how enthralled Jane Smiley is behind me. Sweet.)



And here I am indicating to this scary man, that he'd better not shoot me with a huge water gun, because I'm totally going to be finished by the 10-minute limit.








All photos by TJ Faust. The full set is here.

Blather

One of the enemies of [here you must insert the word that means "producing a great deal" which for some reason has left my brain. I have been staring at the wall for five minutes trying to lure it back, but it is gone. I refuse to see this as telling, though that is probably exactly what it is. The only words that come to mind are "voracious" which is altogether wrong, but leads me to think that the missing word might start with a "v" and "ubiquitous" which is closer, but also wrong. One might say, for instance, that having written something like forty plays, Noel Coward was a [missing word] playwright.]

What was I even saying?

One of the things that um...keeps you from writing a lot...is waiting until you have something to say. As you see, I am taking up arms against my enemy by writing with no regard to content. Ha! Take that! The truth is that my self-appointed muse, whom I would describe more aptly as a blog bully, will soon begin to tsk tsk if I do not generate some morsel for the consumption of my 2-3 readers. I shrink from being tsk'd and so am here.


Variously:
1. Not that it's any of your business, but I currently have less money in my checking account than I have since 1999--the leanest year of my adult life. It is disconcerting. Nevertheless, I do have rather a lot of flowers in my apartment, which, while displaying a certain lack of common sense, I hope also suggests an enchanting commitment to aesthetics.

2. Several weather reports today announced that it would be 70 degrees at the coast. These reports were demonstrably not made from the coast, possibly because the meteorologists were unable to locate it, shrouded as it is in fog.

3. Come Monday my summer vacation, such as it was, will be officially over. I am feeling panicky. Are you having a party tonight or something? Can I come?

***
Two hours later: It came to my while cutting a watermelon. The word is "prolific." But then, you already knew that. It's just as well that I couldn't think of it because I would have had to employ "prolificacy" which sounds like "proflicacy" and gives the wrong impression.

Specificity

Last night I dreamed that one of my colleagues moved to Stuttgart, while another left to become the official translator of Agamemnon for the US Postal Service.

Manual dexterity

Though everyone I know has told me I will love, love, love it, I had not seen "Mad Men" until yesterday. And yes. It is a brilliantly written, entirely convincingly acted, stylishly realized piece of work. And, admittedly, there are some dresses I covet. However, I did not anticipate it evoking a near constant state of feminist rage, such that I am obliged to flip off the screen--two-handed--complete with vigorous upward thrusting, at least once during every episode. I have to put down my bourbon and cigarette to do it too, which, obviously, is tiresome.

Ad infinitum

One more entry on the endless scroll of Things I Disdain:

People ordering things to go and then sitting at a table.


If you're going, bon voyage and bon appetit from afar; if you're staying, pay the tax and then use real dishes. You get to save a tree and be civilized. And who wouldn't want that?

Mysteries of my own mind

I'm doing a little blog tinkering and I discovered this in the drafts folder from February 16, 2011. It was nothing but a link to the Webster's definition of this word:
pococurante.

It is, undeniably, an excellent word. It is also a word I have no recollection of learning, let alone setting aside for the edification of my 2-3 readers. Is it possible that senility sets in prior to menopause? That seems unjust. Nevertheless, we shall try to adopt a pococurante stance on the matter.

Haute couture: not quite dressed

The other day I saw a teenage boy sort of tiptoe-shuffling his way down the sidewalk in what I'm sure, if you move in the right circles, was a very chic outfit. He wore a jacket, a bulky sweatshirt, plaid boxers, jeans belted entirely below his ass, and unlaced sneakers into which he had inserted his feet only half way. Is this a new trend? For those who want not only their butts, but also their heels to garner the benefit of a refreshing breeze? Niiiice.

It seemed like a good idea

Several months ago, someone tried to break into the trunk of my car. At least, this is my theory. I got a bag out of the trunk, went the store, came back 15 minutes later and was unable to open the trunk with either my key or with the trunk release lever inside the car. As far as I know, locks don't just up and break themeselve, so I suspect foul play. Apparently, it will cost $150 to replace the lock, so I have chosen to ignore the problem since there are scores of other ways I'd prefer to spend $150. And have. And continue to.

Today I had two bags with me--my purse and a tote bag (for additional things I was obliged to tote). As we all know here in the big city, it is a mistake to leave a bag sitting in the car even if it has nothing of value in it because someone is still likely to break in just on the chance that you have left a sack of cash carelessly on the backseat. So, I couldn't leave it there. Still, I was annoyed at the prospect of having to schlep this second bag to the movies with me.

Just as I was preparing to get out of the car, it occurred to me that I could use the fold-down capability of the back seats, sneak the bag into the trunk from the inside, fold the seat back up and be on my way. I got into the backseat and began to pull vigorously and with considerable force on the seat backs. This did nothing whatsoever, though I did try for rather a long time with increasing agitation. Finally, I fetched the owner's manual to see if there was some sort of release button I wasn't seeing.

There is. It's inside the trunk.

Story time (Part 3)

Levi's has (or had?) an initiative as part of their "Work" campaign called Levi's Workshop: a physical workshop that would be set up in a city for a few months to do cool things, then shut down and moved on. We had one on Valencia for a while last summer. It was full of printing presses and things and it was sad to see it go. They invited Porchlight to collaborate with them to make a little book of stories about work. Alas, I was not included in the wee book, but I was invited to fill in for someone at the last minute for the storytelling performance. The story (about being fired by the Red Cross) as a whole was not recorded, but there is still evidence that it happened. And that I made this face:



There are bits of me onstage here (I mean, all of me was onstage, they just recorded moments):

There's only so much to say

I assume that people who write for clothing retailers and magazines and the like sometimes look at the blank page and think things like, "what else is there really to say about cardigans?"

Moments such as those lead to emails such as today's from Anthropologie. Subject heading: "That's the thing about dresses" Email: "They make our world go round."

?

Photographing the model next to a globe didn't do all that much to clarify the assertion.

Plus, there was cake

My birthday was on Friday and I felt very well celebrated. There was miniature golf and lunch and a handmade birthday crown. Then there was fancy pizza and Harry Potter in the balcony of the theatre where you're allowed to drink wine (I drank wine). But the very best thing of all was this.

I walked in with my two friends to find our seats. We were in a little row that was three seats together (enough for us), a little table, and one lone seat in which a man was already sitting. I put my birthday crown on the little table and saw him glance at it.

"It's my birthday!" I explained. (I'd been telling people all day in case they might be very excited.)
"It's my birthday!" he replied.
We shook hands very enthusiastically and then wished each other happy birthday for the first of several times.

And if that's not jolly, I don't know what is.

Life in a small dwelling

Sole: A Cautionary Tale.

Kitchen. Dinnertime: Yum! That smells delicious.

Bedroom. 8AM the following day: Dear god. What a revolting odor. Has someone sneaked a dead fish under my pillow?


Scene.

Equal opportunity

I went to the Sports Basement today (I know; I'm practically an Olympian) in my continued quest to find some kind of sweat pants that don't look like they were developed as an anatomical guide (seriously. yoga pants = too much information) and to replace my swimcap. There are various kinds of caps, each of which is helpfully on display with a little sign explaining its merits. The sign under the one I purchased said "Gentile on hair."

I'm not even entirely sure what that would entail, but, to be on the safe side, I borrowed a Sharpie from the clerk and now the Jews of San Francisco are free to swim with non-denominational caps.

Making a list, checking it twice

I mentioned that I had made this list of things I'd like to do and that I'd taken preliminary steps to do some of them. I am pleased to report we have moved to secondary steps.

On Tuesday, I went to the gym for my "fitness assessment" which actually was not as horrible nor as shameful as I anticipated. The trainer who conducted the test would strongly disagree, as attested by her look of pure horror when calculating the amount of my body that is comprised of fat. Apparently, a lot of it. I suggested to her that she might want to work on her poker face. She replied, "But these are not the numbers you want to see!" Uh...right. Exactly. Maybe she has never heard of a poker face. Anyway, my level of fitness is "fair" in most areas, which it really has no right to be. And my so-called "fitness age" is only three years more than my actual age, rather than being 15-20 years more than my actual age. Again, a miracle. While the trainer was very scowly about all this, I thought it would be more appropriate to be popping the champagne. Not that she'd approve of that.

Immediately following Fitness 2011, I went to my Italian class. Buon giorno. Come stai? Io sto bene. Grazie.

See? It's totally working already.

Yesterday, I actually went swimming in the serious bathing suit and hear this: I did not die. My spindly arms felt like they might snap off, but still. It was a beginning.

Then I ate vegetables.

I know. At this rate I may become a superhero.

Will she continue on the path of righteousness? Or will she spend the weekend eating chocolate cake in her nightgown? Stay tuned.

Story time (Part 2)

This is my favorite. (I originally mentioned it here). Plus, although orange, I look pretty good. Later evidence will show that this is not always the case.

Porchlight's 8th Anniversary Show, July 2010. The theme was "Magic 8 Ball." Video once again by Evan Karp, whom I do not know, but who I made laugh a couple of times.

Festivals and parades

If festivals and parades aren't your thing, then maybe you could do some dancing in your living room or have a quiet drink. The point is, celebrations are in order. My accursed neighbors with their crashy, screamy children are moving away by mid-August.

There are no words to describe the joy this brings me.

Say a prayer to the gods of tenancy that whoever the new neighbors are prove to be light-footed book-readers who enjoy silent contemplation of life's mysteries.

Thoughts from Tahoe

1. Smoking indoors is legal in some places. You will have forgotten this. It will not be pleasant to remember.

2. When you win on a slot machine, it will be completely unclear to you why even though the "pay line" is helpfully highlighted.

3. Lake Tahoe itself is primarily made of melted snow, which makes it very cold indeed. Nevertheless, it is unaccountably elating to swim in it. After taking the full underwater plunge, you may not laugh uncontrollably for five minutes, but I did.

4. It is possible for a bed to be too soft.

5. Miniature golf is pretty much always a good idea.

Go jump in a lake

The "I am going to" is silent.


Off to Tahoe, but I'll be back.

BART's new service

A slightly garbled announcement is broadcast over the BART speakers.

"A reminder that passengers with bicycles must use the stairs or the elevator. Thank you and enjoy the sunshine."

Meanwhile, two guys hoist their bikes over their heads and make their way up the stairs. "What did he say?" one guy asks the other, "Enjoy the french fries?"

Ow: redux

You know what's more fun than a mammogram? A second mammogram. Oh, yes. After I had written this, I got a call that the screening showed some abnormalities and that I needed to come in for additional imaging and was I free that afternoon? And so I cried. And cried and cried. I was weirdly never concerned that I might have breast cancer; I just didn't want another test--particularly two days after the awful one.

I bring this up merely for the record. Now hear this: Mammogram #2 turned out to be much more like I expected mammograms to be to begin with. That is, kind of weird, a bit painful, not something you'd want to do as a special treat, but not horrible. Perhaps it was the pad they used the second time? Perhaps it was because I was crying and they took it to heart? Perhaps Friday was just a more robust and hearty day for my boobs than Wednesday? I don't know, but I am relieved.

Additionally, I don't have cancer, which is pleasant.

And now, I'm going to the circus.


P.S. During the ultrasound part of the screening there were three doctors and a nurse in a very small, dim room with me. Each of them, with the exception of the nurse, took a turn um...sonograming. When the attending physician had taken the wheel, as it were, another doctor said to her, "Do you mind if I just show this fellow how the machine works while you conduct your exam?" Since he was the only man in the room I thought he was going to go out in the hall and come back with some random chap who was interested in sonogram machines. Only slowly did it dawn on me that the other young woman--still a med student-- was "the fellow."

Story time (Part 1)

I have been weirdly paranoid about putting images of myself on my own blog, but then, I am a person who was for a long time very distrustful about depositing checks directly into the ATM. This Safety First stance might have had some merit back in the days when there really were no images of me online, but those days are long since past. There are all sorts of unflattering photos of me onstage, as well as some nice wobbly videos available for the determined Googler, so why be coy?

Out there in public over the past few years, I have told stories at Porchlight, and the Mill Valley Public Library's First Friday series, as well as done a reading for the Literary Death Match. For my own benefit as much as yours, I decided it was time to gather the evidence.

The first story I told for Porchlight was in December 2008. The theme was "All that Glitters is Not Gold." There is no evidence that this ever happened (with this small exception), which, considering that it was a story about an ex of mine, is just as well.

The second story I told was in March 2010. The theme was "Danger!" or "Beware!" or something like that.

It went like this:



video taken by Mystery Videographer, Evan Karp.

First the mouse, then the girl, now the camp

People, I just joined a gym. Sorry. I should have broken it to you more gently. Are you okay?

For a brief moment many years ago, I had a quasi-regular thing going with swimming and then I discovered that I had way more in common with Netflix. So, as is the way in these matters, I broke up with kinda-fitness and devoted myself exclusively to movies. It was going really well until I recently almost had a heart attack walking up the stairs from the box office to the balcony of the symphony hall. Bad sign. I don't need to be an Olympian, but I do need to be able to get to the cheap seats without having an episode.

And so. My "I'm a real swimmer" no-frills bathing suit (in which my Netflix belly will be unattractively prominent) will once again be reunited with water. I haven't told it yet, but I think it's going to be pretty excited. I have no idea how this will go, but having access to a pool is a first step. Please cross your fingers for me. I have trouble with this sector of life.

This is one aspect of a larger project that could be entitled: Stop Thinking Endlessly about Things and Actually Do Them except that that is not a very catchy title. I am going to Camp Mighty in November and I am terribly excited about it. I am not much of a goal-setter or a big-dreamer or even a list-maker, but Mighty Girl said I had to make a list in order to go have cocktails with delightful people and so I did. I will probably put it up here eventually (although, frankly, some of it is none of your bee's wax). The remarkable thing is just writing things down and knowing that I'll be talking about them in a few months has made a difference. I'm trying to be better about the blog; I'm going to renew efforts to not let my body totally atrophy; I got a cookbook with some inspiring vegetarian recipes; I am even taking an Italian class starting on July 12. Good lord, I'm already crossing things off the list and the list has only existed for about two weeks. She might be on to something.

Presumably the self-actualization will not continue at this frenetic pace indefinitely, but for now, I admit it. I do feel mightier.

Tell me no secrets

If the enemy captures me and gives me a mammogram, I am going to tell them everything I know. Immediately. Even if it means they will kill your entire family. When I was living cheerfully in ignorance an hour ago, I would have thought your secrets were safe with me, but I am now living on the other side of the dark curtain of mammography and I know different.

If anyone tells you that a mammogram will cause "some discomfort," punch them in the face. If someone says, "It will hurt more than you can fucking believe and you will wonder how this ludicrously ham-fisted procedure is the best we can do in a time when the iPad exists" thank them for being the only honest person you have ever met.


I wish, like a private eye of yesteryear, I had a bottle of whiskey in my desk drawer. Alas, I will have to wait until I get home to try to drown the memory.

Crank it up

From an NPR review of Gillian Welch's new album:

"Some of the territory is familiar: fear of the unknown, desperation, exhaustion."


Yee ha! Don't just stand there; ask me to dance.


*******

And then there's this from Netflix.

"More like Strictly Ballroom: Little Voice; Priscilla, Queen of the Desert; Cosi; The Piano..."

Excuse me? Did you just say The Piano? The PIANO?
That's certainly a double feature just waiting to happen.

Love letters

I send Marja an email telling her I'd just received the most depressing email of my life. Subject heading: We miss you!
Sender: Linens N Things.

An hour later I get an email from Marja.
Subject heading: You're my soulmate
Email message in its entirety: Bev Mo


Proving once again, boys and girls, that life without Marja would be merely a hollow, meaningless trudge toward the grave.

Open letter

Dear gentlemen of the Mission,

Please shave.
There are some indications that you may be quite handsome, but how could anyone be sure?

Thank you in advance for your attention to this matter.

Sincerely,
A concerned citizen

By special request

I am deriving some small pleasure from turning up Tom Waits to (attempt to) drown out the much-loathed upstairs-dwelling kinder. Not as much pleasure as I would derive from learning of their imminent plans to attend boarding school in Switzerland, but since it is a bit of a straw-grasping scenario, I'll take whatever pleasure I can get.

Now then. It has happened once again. The conversation that goes like this:

Other person: you should have a blog.
Me (sheepishly): Um...I do have a blog. I just don't tell people about it much. And I'm really bad about updating it.
OP: ??? [general bafflement at what sort of purpose a secret blog with no actual writing on it would serve]

Anyway, I provided this latest individual with the blog address, thinking that I might get more praise out of him (after all, there are more than 300 posts that he's never read), but I have just received an email that includes this. I shall quote. Ahem.

My dear, you really need to pull it together in the next four days and get a new post up there so there is not a big goose egg for June.

The nerve.

So here I am. Folding under peer pressure. Though, to be fair, he also suggested yesterday that I should take a bong hit, and I declined, proving that I am still in possession of at least a bit of spine. (There was no bong present for the conversation. It was more a theoretical bong hit of the future. Possibly, though not necessarily, in Yemen. He has a lot of goals for me, apparently.)

It is Pride weekend and though my instinct was to basically avoid all Pride-related things and zones of the city, that's not to say I'm not proud. Also, I would like a drag queen to teach me to apply eye makeup, so that I too may be glamorous. If you happen to be a drag queen with some spare time, do get in touch.

I came home from my sunny expedition having purchased a remaindered Mollie Katzen cookbook--yet another attempt to jump start a legitimate interest in vegetables and/or cooking--and, in related news, a bunch of radishes, which I am tempted to affix to the front of my frock, corsage-style. However, wishing to wear vegetables is not quite the interest in them I was trying to generate, unless wearing vegetables promotes slimness and good health as much as eating vegetables. If so, stay tuned for some sort of fetching cloche fashioned from kale.

June is no longer a "big goose egg." I hope you are all satisfied.

Slipping

Interestingly, the fact that I am still wearing my nightgown at 2pm does not disquiet me in the least, whereas my realization just now that it is on inside out startled me considerably, suggesting as it does that Standards are not What They Once Were around here.

I slay me

I woke up laughing at 4am from what was apparently a hilarious dream that involved rather a lot of singing. Then the very fact that I had awakened myself with laughter cracked me up, so I just lay there chuckling (and humming the hilarious song which I have since forgotten) for about five minutes before closing my eyes and getting back to the richly rewarding work of sleeping.

Idolotry

It is, we are told, forbidden to worship false gods. But surely it's just as sinful to fail to recognize the real ones when you see them. What if you should happen to find yourself in the enviable position of sitting at your kitchen table with two as yet unopened books--one by Peter Carey and one by Billy Collins? And what if, within minutes, it is clear to you that worship is really the only appropriate verb to apply to the situation? That were you to begin at the beginning: to admire, to appreciate, to applaud...you would find most verbs simply inadequate to the task. You might as well skip ahead to "w" perhaps pausing at "v" to venerate.

Maybe there is a simple way out of the theological quagmire. Maybe they are the one true God--two parts of the Trinity. Billy, the Son, making it look human scale and decidedly easy (which Jesus would be the first to tell you, it is not) and Peter, the Father, making it look magnificently impossible. Perhaps the Holy Spirit just moves between the two of them. Or maybe I am the Holy Spirit. And you. And every reader who finds, bounding from phrase to delightful phrase, that it is suddenly 4pm and she is still in her nightgown.

From Parrot & Olivier in America by Peter Carey

"[It] was one of those dazzling machines that are initially mocked for their impracticality until, all in a great rush, like an Italian footman falling down a staircase, they arrive in front of us, unavoidably real and extraordinarily useful."

From horoscopes for the dead by Billy Collins

Feedback

The woman who wrote from Phoenix
after my reading there

to tell me they were still talking about it

just wrote again
to tell me that they had stopped.

Mysterious

Outside, on the landing, are two small boxes that have been left neither in front of my door, nor my neighbors' door, but snugly against the door of the third apartment, which has been vacant since January. They have been there since I left for work yesterday morning. One box contains the unabridged audio recording of Brideshead Revisited and the other the unabridged audio recording of Pride and Prejudice. Both sets are recorded on cassette. There is no note.

My neighbors and I have now passed these tapes several times and neither household has claimed them. My confusion is increased by the fact that I have a great fondness for both of these books (while also harboring enough general snobbery and specific hostility toward my clattery neighbors [who fill the shared recycling bin to the brim with their uncollapsed boxes each week] to believe that a similar appreciation cannot be attributed to them). Yet, I do not know of anyone who would sneak up the stairs in the late night or early morning to leave recordings for me.

Perhaps most vexingly of all, even if these are a gift just for me from the patron saint of dead English writers, I no longer own a tape player.

John Hughes, eat your heart out.

Tonight at the school's spring concert:

A boy who two years ago was challenged by simply sitting in a chair (seriously, I saw him fall off a chair. Twice.) sang a rip roaring jazz solo accompanied by a full jazz band in front of hundreds of people.

A handsome, polished boy with a perfect suit and a shiny trumpet was the featured soloist on the next piece, after which he called a fellow musician onstage and formally asked her to be his prom date. (She said yes [who on earth would have said no?] and then went to get her bass for the next song.)

Another natty lad thanked his teacher, the band leader. "Scott," he said, "I wanted to say something, particularly on behalf of the seniors. For the past two or three years, you've guided us through the jazz desert. [Pause] We would have gotten you some flowers. Only they don't grow in the jazz desert. But I do offer my thanks."

If I could find a man of 40 with as much panache as the majority of jazz band seniors, I would marry him.

Happy V Day

Some students are producing Eve Ensler's seminal work this spring and they want to make sure we all know.

Of course, there's nothing profane about calling things by their anatomically correct names. And I am certain that if there were signs everywhere that said ARM or KNEE or even LARGE INTESTINE, I'd be just fine. Nevertheless, I do find it a bit disconcerting to have flyers all over the school screaming VAGINA in 200pt bright red caps. Apparently, I'm not all that mature.

Still, I guess it doesn't hurt to have a reminder posted every few feet. I wouldn't want to absent-mindedly leave my vagina in the lunchroom or something. Now I'm prompted constantly to just make sure I still have it with me.

Directions

Last week I was very aware of how all the cool people were at SxSW and how, if I had made some different choices, say, ten years ago, I might have been one of those people. But I did not and, thus, am not. To wit:

1. I am not altogether clear on what SxSW even is. I mean, yes, there is a lot of music. A great, great deal of music. But how is it also a technological extravaganza? I know nothing. I just joined Facebook for goodness sake.

2. Today, looking over the SxSW musical highlights on NPR, I find I have heard of exactly one of the performers. I am not familiar with his work, mind you, but I have heard of him,

I do have the DVD of North by Northwest, however, if you want to come over.

Only 6 Days!

Confession: I would not have known about this were it not for Facebook despite knowing Rob Reich and Circus Bella up close and personal. Fine. Whatever, Facebook. You're the big winner. Now pipe down.

The Circus Bella Allstars are so, so close to meeting the necessary goal to have their CD project funded. Let's see if we can get them there. Hooray for live, local music. Hooray for homegrown circuses. Hooray for friends who are far more talented than I.

Words, words, words

Recently I was informed by someone of higher authority in these matters than myself that if I continued to recoil in horror every time someone said "social media," I would render myself unemployable. I do not wish to be unemployable. However, I have never been a great one for adopting, "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em." I have chosen instead to live by the lesser-known maxim, "if you can't beat 'em, continue to carry bitterness in your heart and hostility towards 'em forevermore." Employers are probably not really looking for that, but, to be fair, it's not on my resume; it's secreted in my black soul.

But, fine. I'm 40. My life is passing me by. Time for a bright new tomorrow, etc. So, as informed I must, I joined Facebook. The world did not grind to a halt, though my friends did express astonishment. I think a pretty good indication that you are out of step with the normative culture is when you say to your friend, "So...I joined Facebook." and she replies with genuine concern, "Oh my god. Are you all right?" And the answer is: yes. I am all right. As a Facebook novice, I just have a very short list of "friends" who are actually friends. There is some satisfaction to seeing them all there in a safe little bundle. In some instances, seeing even three words from their keyboards represents more than I've heard from them in years. It's nice.

However, I am unsure what I'm supposed to do now. "What are you thinking about?" Facebook inquires. Well, Facebook, lots of things, but do I need to keep the world updated on all of them? And if I think of anything particularly droll, shouldn't I put it in my oft-neglected blog? How many platforms does one girl really need?

Heaven forfend I join Twitter, as well. Twitter & Facebook together would surely be the death of Cereal for Dinner, or, if not, my thoughts on crumbs and toenail clippings will soon be mined to the fullest.

Interestingly, running out of things to say never used to be a concern of mine. Welcome to the brave new world.

Snapshot

Stopped at a red light, I check out the prices of the tulips and daffodils outside the corner store (incidentally, it must be spring because they are a crazy bargain). Then, from just beyond the cheerful flower cart, a single soap bubble appeared and drifted languidly across the street.

That all seems awfully whimsical for the average traffic signal. Amelie? Are you in the neighborhood?

O! The humanity

I spent much of the day weeping over how I think cell phones are ruining the culture and how it breaks my heart that I will probably have to join Facebook in order to be employable. Weeping. Over Facebook. That's the sort of thing I do. And yet, despite all my nuanced feelings about how communication should be more personal, less general than Facebook status updates, I feel compelled to write about it on my blog. To....no one. To everyone. So, that makes sense. But there I was, in an existential tailspin, bemoaning the fractured nature of human connection.

Then I dried my eyes, powdered my nose, and went downstairs to see the winter production, which was Charles Mee's bobrauschenbergamerica. And guess what it was about? Human connection. Maybe the play I most needed to see at 4:30 today.

Art wins again. Thanks, art.

Colloquialism

Last Friday, my friends took me out to dinner. Wasn't that nice of them? I thought so.

At one point, Jon leans over to me and says, "You can't look when I say this, okay?" I agree. "There's a movie star sitting at that table. Um...I can't think of his name. Did you see that movie Closer? With Julia Roberts...."

Now. I did see Closer. I saw it more than once, in fact. And there are only four characters in it. Two of them are men. Those two men were played by Clive Owen and Jude Law. I figure that Jon would probably be able to come up with Jude Law's name, which can mean only one thing: Clive Owen is sitting mere feet away from me. I do not react to this certainty with dignified calm. Indeed, I get all giddy and flushed. My intention is to cut Jon off with some expression that means, "I am astonished and excited by this thing you are telling me. In fact, I can barely believe it's true." There are various expressions in the lexicon that, while perhaps inelegant, might have been appropriate. Among them, "Get out!" "Shut up!" "No way!"

Among the expressions that does not mean this at all is "F**k you!" And yet, that is exactly what I said. Specifically, I said,
"F**K you!! Clive Owen is NOT in this restaurant."

I realize that this is not the sort of thing that would horrify many people, but it definitely horrified me, as I generally make it through meals without hurling abuse at my companions, particularly when they are also my hosts. It also definitely, albeit very briefly, horrified Jon (he said nothing, but I saw it flicker in his eyes). I was too embarrassed to apologize. I'm so sorry about that Jon. I didn't mean it.

Also, f**k you, Clive Owen. You totally made me lose my cool. And then you didn't even come home with me.

Taking the broad view

My mother is horrified to learn that I have yet to buy a pad for the rug I've had for a year. Apparently, with every padless step I take upon the rug, I am shortening its life exponentially. I don't really see why this makes sense, but I am willing to accept it. After all, she is my mother.

I've done a little internet shopping for a pad and still haven't purchased one since they are more expensive than I want them to be (i.e. more than $20). It occurred to me that perhaps a likely place for bargain rug pads would be the same place I purchased the bargain rug in the first place.

I go to the website. I type in "rug pad" to the search window.

In reply, I get this message: "Couldn't find results for 'rug pad,' searching 'rug' instead."

You know what? There were plenty of results for rug. Probably because it is a rug store.

Thanks, technology!

Niagara

I watched Niagara last night, which, strangely, I'd never seen. Among other things, it made me pleased that I was not around in 1953. It certainly seems as though it was a very tiresome time to be anyone's wife.

It did raise some interesting questions though.

1. How did Marilyn Monroe wear that much glossy lipstick in bed without getting it on the sheets?





















2. How did 1953 fashions make women look so fantastic while making men look so extremely silly?

3. Why is wearing a rented raincoat and galoshes and being hit in the face with waterfall spray romantic?


But mostly, 4. How are we to believe that this lovely, good natured, sensible woman

(Sadly, I can't figure out how to get the full picture to show up, but if you click on it, you may gaze upon her whole face.)



would ever be married to this dull-witted, big toothed, braying oaf? (Here is a little montage courtesy of AndiBGoode of his idiotic mug. Look at him closely and Imagine him talking too loud, telling his wife to stick her tits out, chortling with his boss, or getting all excited about the Shredded Wheat company where he works. Because he is good at all those things.)

Bilingual

On "Fresh Air" Javier Bardem was asked what it was like to act in English and he said [this is the part where we pretend this is an actual quote when really it's just what I more or less remember. However, I don't think Javier reads this, so we're probably safe]:

"Even right now, as I'm trying to talk to you and express my opinions and thoughts and be relaxed, there is a very busy office full of people in my brain. They are working to make sure I get the right intonation, the right word.... It's exhausting.

When I speak Spanish, that office is closed."

I love that. As my French is used more and more seldom, the people in my office do not maintain any sort of regular schedule. Sometimes they're called in so unexpectedly that they are obliged to show up in their pajamas and then, man, do they have to scramble. That's probably why they can't guarantee the accuracy of the verb tenses.

Sweet

Walking back from the post office, I see a young woman approaching from the opposite direction. She, like 90% of San Franciscans, is holding a black square object in her hand. She is gazing at it as she walks and smiling sweetly, fondly. She has clearly gotten a text from someone she loves.

She then raises the object to her mouth and takes a large bite out of it.
Oh. Um, so not a phone then.

No, what we have here is a woman who has a tender affection for brownies. Long may she reign.

Family tree

The girl in the hall is telling a long story that involved the phrase "my ex step grandfather." Wow. I don't even know how to punctuate that. I imagine there should be a hyphen or two, but I decided to just let it go.

My parents have been married for 43 years and therefore, while I have two deceased grandfathers, I have no ex grandfathers or step grandfathers. And frankly, I find that reassuring.

Thanks, parents.

Valencia

1.
I am walking down Valencia Street behind a mother and her two little girls. The older one is walking beside her mother asking, "What is 3 times 4?" while the younger one stomps ahead of them. Is she angry? Does she just like making noise? Is this a nonviolent protest against arithmetic? As I pass her, I see her checking her reflection out in the shop windows. Turns out, she's wearing shoes that are supposed to light up with every step, but she's not heavy enough to activate them if she walks normally.

Thus: Stomp, sparkle; stomp, sparkle; stomp, sparkle...all the way home.


2.
I pass a man who is talking on his cell phone (let's be clear, I pass scores of people talking on their cell phones. It would be more noteworthy to write about passing someone who was not talking on a cell phone. Ahem. Moving on.) he says:

"I would trust you more if I could hear from you while you're with him, is all I'm saying."

Huh. That seems like it will all work out well, no?

2011

Hello all.

It has been, as is not uncommon, a while.

Brief summary:

Made it to the finals of the Literary Death Match, wore impressive shoes, but was bested by a poet in the final round. I would argue that he had several unfair advantages, but we needn't discuss that now. Jane Smiley gave me the thumbs up, so that's pretty cool.

Had heart broken yet again. Several sad months. Blah, blah, blah.

Spent New Year's Eve on sofa with fever instead of drinking champagne in a fancy frock. Was displeased.

But, I'm back, people. I'm back.



I have recently received a request (by which I mean insistent begging) for the address of this blog from a new acquaintance. I felt it would be shameful to not write something new before pointing him this direction, so here I am: writing.

There is something about being identified as a writer by someone who doesn't actually know you. Something about having a veritable stranger say, essentially, "You're clearly a writer. What are you writing? You should be writing." that is helpful in a way that hearing that from, well, everyone else you know (especially your mom) is not. So, thanks, mister.

Also, at a recent concert by the slyly hilarious and excessively talented Miss Katy Stephan (whose new CD you should purchase at once. Buy the real one, not the online one. The real one has how-to guides for charming crafts. It will make you happy), she brought something up that I have been pondering ever since. She said that before her CD release concert she had been fretting--It is so much work. What if no one comes? Is it worth it?--and composer/musician Darren Johnston told her that no matter what happened, making live music for people in one's community is a form of activism.

I have never before identified with the word activism. It evokes for me images of big crowds, petitions, and yelling, all of which are things from which I habitually shy away. However, art as activism is an idea that resonates though me like a gong. Not art that is "activist art" by definition. Not art that is trying to be political. Art that is its own true self and that for that reason brings people together into a two-hour community called an audience. Art that simply affirms the experience of being alive, together, in person, right now. Having recently seen a kick-ass play at Shotgun Players that similarly made me reflect that theatre when it's done well is as powerful and and visceral and profoundly human as it ever has been, the importance of art, particularly performance, has been zinging around my brain for weeks.

So yes. If people can go through the rigorous labor to make and send out into the world something as complicated and beautiful and fleeting as a song or a play, I can, at least, update my silly blog. Writing for me is a practice of starting over. Again. And again. And again.

2011. Ready? Go.

Do you think it ever misses me?

Seeing your old apartment all spruced up with some stranger in the living room is like seeing your ex with his hot new girlfriend.

It made me strangely sad to see the newly painted building and the fancy new window shades although I live in a perfectly lovely new apartment myself. Still, thirteen years is a long time. Somewhere in my brain that apartment where some younger stranger lives is still what I think of as home.

Bring it, brother!

As I am getting my hair cut, another stylist comes up to my stylist and says:

"Is it heavy? Should I bring it?"

And, seriously, do those questions not suggest that he would imminently be rocking the mic, busting a move, or blowing our minds with a hella sweet riff? They do.


Did those two questions instead relate to a steam cleaner? They did. The disappointment was bitter indeed.

Occupational Hazard

You know that mass email you got from corporate/the guy in the next cubicle/your client? The one that filled you with fury? Well, that was a drag, I'm sure. And that is why I am offering you this moment of perspective from the world of education.

Email received this morning.
Subject heading: Mononucleosis and lice


See?
Don't you feel better now?

To the death

Lit Quake is upon us and, for the first time ever, I'm participating in a literary-type way instead of only in an audience-type way.

Literary Death Match, people. Wednesday night. Come if you dare.

If you come, I think you and I will be the only people there without Pulitzer Prizes (I mean, I assume you don't have one, but I could be wrong), which means we could totally be friends.

Till death do us part or, you know, whenever

Periodically, I try to think of music I would like to have at my fictional wedding. There is really no excuse for this sort of behavior except, um, I'm a girl? The other day on the radio I heard an instrumental version of "There Will Never Be Another You." Gorgeous music, lovely sentiment. Ideal first dance material. I've been meaning to look up the lyrics since all I could remember was, "There will be another fall, another spring, but there will never ever be another you." And yes. That is a lyric. It's just that it falls somewhere in the middle. The lyrics in total are:

There will be many other nights like this,
And I'll be standing here with someone new,
There will be other songs to sing, another fall, another spring,
But there will never be another you.

There will be other lips that I may kiss,
But they won't thrill me like yours used to do,
Yes, I may dream a million dreams,
But how can they come true,
If there will never ever be another you.

Oohhhhh. So, that would make it the most cynical wedding song in history. Right. Just kidding. Still, a great song. Wanna hear it?

In other news, when I went looking for a version of it, I was sent to that link from somewhere else. It said "Hear it on We7." I saw no reason not to. Beside that it said "Yes, it scrobbles!"

Dear sweet lord, technology. What the hell is scrobbling and why is it worthy of an exclamation point? Give a girl a break, won't you? I'm still having all sorts of trouble with "blog."

Oh. Right. My blog.

Remember me? I was bitten by a vampire in May and then stopped writing? Yes. Hi.

After that kind of absence, it seems that there ought to be a Triumphant Return (capital T, capital R) and, frankly, that is why the absence just gets longer and longer. Today I am ending it. There will be nothing triumphant about it, but enough's enough.

Since last we spoke, I turned 40 and, so far, people don't offer me seats on the bus or rush to help me cross the street. Also, nothing has fallen off of my body, so that seems to be working out. I had a really lackluster summer vacation that involved leaving town for a total of four days. However, in July and August I told a couple of stories on stage that made people laugh. Also, people dressed up for my birthday party; turns out I have good looking friends.

In the last few months, I heard many radio commercials exhorting me to buy sweet seedless watermelon. I think it ought to be an exclamation. As in, "Sweet seedless watermelon, Josie! You scared the bejeus out of me!" See if you can make that happen.

But now, the time of sweet seedless watermelon has passed and we are in back-to-school mode. Among other things, this enabled me to overhear the worst ever "yo mama" comeback in the history of speech today.

Student 1: Just go away.
Student 2: Go away, your mother.

Newsflash

The radio newscaster says "Police are calling it murder." And then he goes on to report that a body was found inside a suitcase floating in the bay.

Um...I am also calling it murder.

My father

Quoth my father:
"...you have to be sort of crazed and committed, because there's no stopping."

And there, ladies and gentlemen, you have what I think of as my father's personal motto. Oh. That and also "run your ass off." In fact, you will see that he has almost no ass to speak of. That is because he has been living true to both these mottos my entire life.

Imagine him running much, much faster than this and you might be able to envision the Dipsea legend on race day. My fearless, fleet-footed father. Personally, you couldn't pay me to even walk that trail. But I do definitely look like him, so I did inherit something along the way.

I'm thinking vampire

This year, I have been plagued by mystery bites. These are bites that seem quite small and innocuous at first, but then become monstrous: venom-spreading, heat-producing, mind bogglingly itchy blights. Previous bites have been on my leg and on my hip. I have ruled out mosquitoes and bedbugs; I was thinking maybe spiders (although why suddenly after an almost entirely spider-free life, I would have them crawling into my bed and biting me, I couldn't say).

However, this time I have formulated another theory. Vampire. Don't you think?





Never having read any Anne Rice or Twilight, I'm not sure there's any documentation about people having an intense allergic reaction to a vampire bite, but it might make an interesting twist for a sequel. I may now be forced to live on human blood for all eternity and I won't be able to go out during the day, but that actually seems fine. Vampires neither ski nor hike, right? Perfect. In my old apartment vampires probably would have woken me up, but in the new place I wear earplugs, so I think it's entirely possible.

Yes. A rather dashing vampire finds me irresistible. Otherwise, poison bugs are crawling over me while I sleep. And clearly that can't be happening.

Recumbent women

This morning I had the occasion to ponder which song I loathe more, "Lay Lady Lay" or "Lay Down Sally."

The poor grammar is just the beginning.

Snap shot

I know. I'm not really on top of this writing thing. Let's not talk about it.

On Saturday I put on a hat and drank a mint julep from a silver cup (provided by my father, incidentally, who has won many such cups in a race. I'll bet the other winners of these cups don't drink juleps from them, which seems a pity) at my cousin's Derby party. She has a view of Mt. Tam and a pocket-sized bit of bay with sailboats. You'd like it. In fact, if you want to prove that you like it, you can vote for her in Apartment Therapy's Small, Cool Contest. She's in the teeny-tiny division. Let's make her the big winner, shall we? [At this very moment she is well ahead in the polls, which is exciting.]

Upon leaving her civilized gathering, I went to the car wash. It's a thing where you drive through, but there are also guys in there with rags and sponges and the like. They have this little platform that the guys can climb up on to reach the roof of your car. This means that, if the guy is short (and they all seem to be), when he is on the platform his crotch is framed in my window. That's how I happen to know that the guy washing my roof found it to be more stimulating work than I might have imagined.

I then drove home across the Golden Gate Bridge where, upon passing the north tower, I saw a bicyclist down flat on the ground surrounded by worried compatriots to my right and a would-be jumper clinging to the rail and in conversation with police to my left.

I don't really have a point except: huh. Bourbon in a garden, hard-on in a car wash, physical peril on a bridge. There's a lot going on out there.

The plane! The plane!

I have received an email asking me to order "three chicken sandwiches with everything and one roast beef, plane." Because I am a snob and because being constantly in charge of lunch orders already fills me with fury, being asked to order a "plane" sandwich brings all that simmering indignation to a boil . I'm willing to cut some typo slack on "your" and "you're" or "their" and "they're", but I am seriously drawing the line on "plane" and "plain." You have been warned.

Speaking of planes...I was in LA last week for work. I don't know why anyone would ever, every carry a laptop by choice and one wheel of my suitcase fell off somewhere between the Burbank airport and SFO, but generally it was okay. Flying out of Burbank, which seems like a Fisher-Price airport, was particularly pleasant. I was the only person going through security, so I took my time putting my things into three separate bins (again: laptop=a pain in my arse/right shoulder). During this leisurely belt and shoe removal period, the security man surveyed my driver's license. He asked me if I go by my first name or my middle name. Then he asked me if my mother called me by my whole name when I was in trouble. Then he said:

"How long have you lived up north?"
"All my life."
"Really? Do you ever go downtown?"
"Um...yes?"
"Do you ever walk around while you're reading a book?"
"Um...........sometimes."
"Yeah!" he said excitedly. "I was up there once and downtown I these people just walking while they were reading books. [pause as he sees this magnificent sight in his mind's eye.] I just think people are more intelligent up there than down here."


So, kudos, San Francisco. Nice work on the literary pursuits. Just please remember to look both ways when you get to the corner.

Vocabulary

Dear Office Workers,

If you mean email, then just say "email."
There's really no need to use "ping" as a verb.
Thank you for your attention.

Cordially,
Kari

Frabjous day

Is there anything more beautiful to read than this?

"We have reviewed your claim and found it to be valid. Therefore, the citation has been dismissed."

I just did a little victory dance around the living room.

Goodbye, $80 parking ticket; hello, justice.

Eeek

The school where I work is next to a daycare center. This morning as I passed, the children were outside playing in their yard. Two very little girls and a handsome twenty-something man were gathered at the bottom of the slide examining something halfway up.

The man turned hopefully toward one of his colleagues, a middle aged woman, and said, "We're afraid of bugs. Can you get this off the slide?"

What? Again?

I know. It's crazy. Two days in a row. Yesterday, I spent ten minutes trying to remember my login information and today....I didn't. So, see? Progress, positive reinforcement, etc.

******

Living alone is delightful in many ways, but it has drawbacks. Most notably, being unable to lift heavy stuff with my own two spindly arms and having no one around to help. I have asked many a stranger on the street to get furniture out of my car for me. I'm not proud. But I am, apparently, impatient. During the aforementioned period of furniture shuffling/purchasing, etc. I did carry a surprisingly heavy armchair up a flight of stairs, ditto a chest of drawers. (A thing for which I think I ought to have sold tickets. Kinda weak, stubborn girl+wide dresser+narrow outdoor staircase+rainfall=hilarious. For others. I did not find it hilarious, but it's over now.) Various other things, particularly those made of particle board, I could not lift, but at one point I did get a (different) chest of drawers out of a room by very laboriously dragging it on a towel.

By now, I have the great majority of my furniture in place, so most of that sort of thing should be done, but the prettifying still continues apace. To wit: bedskirt. In my very girly bedroom, I did need to solicit aid to hang the chandelier (that's right. There's a chandelier. In my bedroom.), but I figured "bedskirt" should fall well within my skill set. I mean, it's not like I was setting out to sew one. True, I did spend quite a lot of time ironing it, but on the whole, Operation Bedskirt is pretty low-tech. You know what, though? I cannot lift a queen-sized mattress by myself. Did I spend a half-hour lifting it a millimeter at a time and trying to drag a piece of fabric underneath it? I did. Was I absolutely certain I did not need help? Even when it was clear that the box spring was coated with some kind of nonslip surface to keep the mattress in place, such that fabric dragging was virtually impossible? I was. Did I sweat and swear and hurt my back? Yep. I then realized that the method I was using was really efficient at one thing: wrinkling fabric. A lot. Rendering forty minutes of ironing irrelevant. Damn it. I admitted defeat, removed it, ironed it again, folded it neatly and plan, begrudgingly, to ask the neighbors for aid tonight.


Following this household mishap, I went to a release party for the Nice Guy Trio's podcast. It was held in some kind of artists' collective space which means a big empty room with some instruments, a sound board, two kind of questionable couches and about 20 bicycles hanging on the wall. There were a lot of twenty-something guys with intentionally disheveled hair and/or beards. Had there been a contest, the winner would have been this one guy with copious white-guy dreads and a long pointy beard who was wearing shiny, possibly spandex polka-dot pants with a ruffle at the bottom, a jaunty ladies' hat from the 40's, and a little blazer. He was friends with the long-haired dude wearing the enormous furry hat with animal ears on top (a sartorial description that is sadly very generic in San Francisco). I also met an unassuming young man who was visiting from France where he 1) recently sailed from Bordeaux to Turkey, 2) plays saxophone in some kind of genre-defying band and 3) is about to go on tour in Eastern Europe with what is apparently a very famous metal band (think: opening act for Metallica) for whom he is a sound engineer and producer.

And I thought: you know what these people are probably not too worried about? Bedskirts.

I was never really gone

You'd think I'd have some sort of amazing story to share about how I've been trekking through the wilderness or was kidnapped or in an enchanted slumber or something. But no. Just not feeling very writerly. If it makes you feel any better, I always feel really lousy about myself when I write nothing for months (or years) on end. Actually, why would that make you feel better? You're not mean spirited.

But here we are on the brink of April and springtime and Easter. Rebirth galore. And I had a weekend full of great art:

1. ODC Dancing Downtown, which I think has now closed, but you can take a look at some video of my two favorite pieces "Grassland" and "Waving Not Drowning" here.

2. The Nice Guy Trio playing a fantastic concert of music by local composers (many of whom I know, which made me feel QUITE special, I don't mind telling you). You can see them playing a short set of their own music on this great podcast released every full moon. Tonight's the full moon and I don't know whether the new video is released werewolf-style once the moon is shining, or if it will be up sometime today.

3. Dan Hoyle's The Real Americans. I think Dan Hoyle might actually be magic. If not, I can't really account for how he inhabits so many other people onstage so entirely that you don't see him up there at all half the time. I don't really think it's because he puts on a different baseball cap. Lucky you, his show has been extended to May 30. If you want to see it, you should buy your tickets immediately, because part of his magic is that his shows sell out in the veritable blink of an eye.



If all those people can do all that beautiful work, I can probably update my blog. I can try. I mean, my friend Katy is committed to writing a new song every week for a year and that has got to be much, much harder than this, no?

So what have I been doing all this time? Well, lots of things, of course. But the short answer is: I moved and I met a fella.

I moved in January after thirteen years in one place. I only moved over the hill from one San Francisco neighborhood to another, but it still counts as a big deal. The new apartment is very lovely indeed and also very noisy. If you have an unusually loud vehicle of any kind--anything from skateboards or grocery carts full of bottles to semi trucks and Harleys--I invite you to join the endless parade outside my window. I wouldn't want you to miss out on the fun.

I think that all the noise may be to keep me from being insufferably smug, so enamored am I of the apartment itself. Is it possible that all my creative energy has gone into choosing furniture? I think it is.

As for the fella, I also spent quite a bit of energy (pointlessly, as it turns out) trying to win him over. He is determined not to be won, but, even still, it is refreshing to meet someone who awakens interest. I began to think such a thing was never to happen again.


At Saturday's concert, Nice Guy trumpeter Darren Johnston said at the end of a song, "I love those bittersweet songs. I do. 'Cause that's life. They're like 'Alleluia anyways.'"

And isn't that the glass-half-full view of "real life despite my best intentions?" Nothing really goes quite according to plan, but here I am in the middle of the messy celebration that is my life. Beautiful, noisy apartment. Delightful, standoffish man. I'll take it. Alleluia anyways.

Amen. Amen.

True love

As you know, I am deeply engaged in the project of online dating, but I generally choose to just keep it to myself. Until I write a book, that is (as I have been encouraged to do) at which time, I will humiliate myself for your entertainment. For now though, I felt that it was just mean-spirited to keep this from you. Behold the reply I received from a personal ad I posted. This is the entire text of the email. I've deleted nothing but the name.

i just got home
i am copier machine service tech i using my palm PAD phone to enter my services log end of each service call.
i using hand truck to carrier my the yellow tool case and vaccume cleaned, boxs of machine spear parts and paper work order.

Ummmm. Great. So it sounds like you're just about done with all that. When can we meet?

Courage and hope

And who doesn't like those two things?

Back in 2008 my young cousin was gravely wounded in Iraq. At the time, I thought he had lost one leg, when, in fact, he had lost both. Fast forward to now. He is walking on prosthetics and he is being given a house by this rather remarkable organization, Homes for Our Troops.

What is most amazing to me though is how positive he is and how unflappable. I really do not know him at all, but he impresses me mightily. I invite you to meet him here. I watched this video in my office the other day, while high school students buzzed around in the hallway, all jacked up on finals nerves. To hear Steven say, "I'm 21 years old" while listening to 17-year-olds chattering in the background was sobering indeed.

Small disappointments

1. My emails to the cyber-suitor whom I am most keen to meet are bouncing back to me, which means I may lose him before I've even found him.

2. I had graduated from strech-sitting to stack-sitting in my my posture class, but I have been demoted. It seems I am prone to sway my back, and yet also thrust my head forward, which seems impossible. In fact, this may be the most complex feat of athleticism I have ever achieved, so there's that, at least.

3. The lovely vintage pocketwatch I just got does not, in fact, keep time.


It is Friday, though. And there's a double feature of French movies at the Balboa tonight. So maybe I'll cheer up.

Words from further down the road

Are you married? Of course you are. Everyone but me is married. Oh. Sorry. Did I sound bitter? It's quite early in the morning, my defenses have not been bolstered by enough sleep and/or a decent cup of tea. I love online dating! It is rad! Thank God I'm not in a committed relationship where I'd be missing all the fun! (There.)

In any case, I know that marriage isn't the fairy tale happy ending; it's just a different story. If you're in that story or you think you might someday be, the few minutes watching this film by Andrew Zuckerman would be well spent. I found it very moving.

Indeed, much that is to be found on that site is worth looking into or gazing upon. It is some project of Anthropologie, the clothing store, although I don't see any direct correlation. Maybe after selling millions of $200 sweaters they just have so much money that they thought some of it would be worth spending on art and beauty. That would be nice. Caution: Though brimming with lovely things, the site is vexingly baffling to navigate. Breathe deeply first and approach it in a state of calm. It's always worth making time for heartening perspectives on the human experiment.

Weekend Highlight

I did quite a few things this weekend, including overcoming the sore throat I had creeping around for three days. (Ha! Not sick after all!) However, the best thing, no contest, was Dil Bole Hidappa (Translation: My Heart Goes Hooray!) at the Castro. In short, it is about a remarkably skilled cricketer who is not allowed to play because she is a woman. But wait! With a little spirt glue and a fake beard, dreams can come true.

It's quite possible that musicals are not your thing. I understand that many people feel that way, it's just that I am not among them. Bollywood musicals are like regular musicals on drugs. I'm not too familiar with drugs, so I'm sorry not to be more specific, but think speed with some kind of "Wow those colors are so amazing. Do you think I could eat them?" component. So what is that? Cocaine and acid together? Something.

The plots are ridiculous and predictable. And I love them. The movies are usually about three hours long, the better to have more! dance! numbers! Dance numbers that are introduced by such lines as "Are you going to invite me to the harvest festival this year?" "Of course, my friend." Cut to harvest festival! Which is like an enormous Busby Berkeley extravaganza only with a better beat. The song is about having the disco people move aside because the traditional Indian dancing is so superior in every way. Which is exactly the song you would anticipate at a harvest festival.

Oh, the joy.

Of course, The Castro Theatre is also my favorite place in San Francisco, and being there for a sold-out movie, whatever it may be, never fails to make me happy. Still, sold-out Bollywood is a straight shot of elation. My heart went hooray.

Whoooops.

Last night, I was moseying contentedly down the path of Everything Will Be Fine when I accidentally slipped and slid right into the Self Pity bog. (Possible other explanations/titles: The Internet Stranger Who Broke the Camel's Back or perhaps most simply, Online Dating Hurts My Feelings.) I sank quite deep and had trouble crawling out--it's damnably slippery, you know. In the end, I had to have a friend throw me a rope and haul me out as best he could.

Anyway, what with one thing and another, not a great night. Today's project is to regroup. What better time, therefore, to bring this out. I happened upon this list folded in a cookbook; on the other side is a shopping list. I have no recollection of writing it (you know how seldom I use my cookbooks) or what prompted me to write it, but it was very pleasing to find it. Here is what it says.


Some Things I Like

Making those little cream pitchers that have hinged lids "talk"

Very small spoons

Watching people in restaurant kitchens cook over those crazy huge flames and flip things in pans

Colored shadows of helium balloons

A good Manhattan

Manhattan

French movie matinees on grey days

Books that you want to read in one sitting

Men in hats

British understatement

People who don't wear jeans absolutely everywhere they go

Real letters in the mail

Witty repartee

Actually ripe tomatoes

Parking places in front of the destination

Movies from the 30s


Of course, I like a great many other things, but that's what fit on the paper. It's a cheerful list, don't you think? I like the girl who wrote it. That I am that girl is so much the better.

Tap your foot

The aptly named Nice Guy Trio had their CD release party last night at Yoshi's. And it was fantastic. So overcome with happiness was I that I resisted the urge to knock the damn iPhone out of the hand of the ridiculous man next to me. Dude. Listen to me now: Do not text during a concert. Especially not for an hour.

Anyway, a CD release party can only mean one thing. A released CD. You should buy it immediately, of course.

And while you're feeling musical, this is a fun thing to peruse. If you click on the more info thing, you can listen to a little song clip. And who doesn't enjoy a little song clip?