Very stupid things I've done in the immediate past:
1. Bought (and opened and generally rendered unreturnable) a laundry bag, even though I already have a laundry bag.
2. Walked right into a spam scam. RIGHT INTO IT.
3. Did a load of laundry without soap.
4. Misread a song title as "Si Tu Doris Parker" when it is, in fact, "Si Tu Dois Partir."
5. Believed (again, still) that the project of online dating would result in something other than bruised feelings and an overarching sense of futility. Yay!
If one of you writes that as-yet-unwritten song, "Si Tu Doris Parker," you'll let me know, right? I'm very interested in hearing that song. Also, I'm growing increasingly suspicious that I need glasses. You'll want to stay tuned for the resulting "I feel silly in glasses" crisis.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Looking up
So far today I got:
1. Eight, uninterrupted hours of sleep. This has not happened in many thrashy, coughy nights and I am so thrilled to be restored to rest that I could just kiss you.
2. Two--TWO!--real letters in my mailbox. Letters that actually must have arrived yesterday, but my mailbox is so stupid that the good stuff often sinks down to the bottom while the ridiculous newspaper circulars get stuffed into the top where I have to rip and wrestle them free with two hands, only to recycle them immediately. But on my way past this morning, I glimpsed another crumpled advertising postcard and when I reached in to grab it, I unearthed two slim envelopes with my address penned in the recognizable handwriting of people I love.
3. A glimpse of five elderly Asian ladies on the tennis court in Dolores Park, well bundled and doing slow and deliberate calisthenics. I need to befriend some elderly Asian ladies to instill in me a commitment to exercise. Nothing else has worked.
4. The last parking place on the desired block.
5. Two compliments on my outfit.
And yesterday, in the good mail I did manage to find, in a teeny envelope within the larger one, I got a gold star. It's nice to have a friend who rewards you for sticking to hard resolutions.
I don't know, but I think 2013 is starting to come together for me. Here's hoping you can say the same.
1. Eight, uninterrupted hours of sleep. This has not happened in many thrashy, coughy nights and I am so thrilled to be restored to rest that I could just kiss you.
2. Two--TWO!--real letters in my mailbox. Letters that actually must have arrived yesterday, but my mailbox is so stupid that the good stuff often sinks down to the bottom while the ridiculous newspaper circulars get stuffed into the top where I have to rip and wrestle them free with two hands, only to recycle them immediately. But on my way past this morning, I glimpsed another crumpled advertising postcard and when I reached in to grab it, I unearthed two slim envelopes with my address penned in the recognizable handwriting of people I love.
3. A glimpse of five elderly Asian ladies on the tennis court in Dolores Park, well bundled and doing slow and deliberate calisthenics. I need to befriend some elderly Asian ladies to instill in me a commitment to exercise. Nothing else has worked.
4. The last parking place on the desired block.
5. Two compliments on my outfit.
And yesterday, in the good mail I did manage to find, in a teeny envelope within the larger one, I got a gold star. It's nice to have a friend who rewards you for sticking to hard resolutions.
I don't know, but I think 2013 is starting to come together for me. Here's hoping you can say the same.
Monday, January 21, 2013
A dream
It only just occurred to me as I turned off my light last night that President Obama's second inauguration coincides with Martin Luther King Day.
A hopeful sign, indeed.
A hopeful sign, indeed.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
2013
Here is a surprising confession: yesterday, I felt quite cheerful. I wouldn't mention it, except that I have not been feeling cheerful for rather a long while and it made a nice change. I spent the day blue-fingered and generally freezing (and please, dwellers of other lands, I know it is colder where you live and Californians discussing winter sparks great mirth and/or derisive snorting for you and your family and when you come here, you persist in wearing shorts because it is so balmy, etc. etc. I understand that cold is relative. However, I am still cold much of the time. I'm not kidding about the blue fingers. I hereby decree that I am allowed both to live in San Francisco and to be cold. At the same time. Thank you.) but when I left work around 7:30pm, there was a very crisp sliver of moon in a cloudless sky and it seemed benevolent. Upon my arrival at home (a place where there is a very reliable heater, praise be), I did some dishes (I am hoping the new year will prove to be a tidy one) and then settled in to watch the latest episode of "Downton Abbey" which I had somehow forgotten to watch the day before. If you are me, the revelation of a forgotten, unwatched "Downton Abbey" is akin to finding crumpled twenty-dollar bill in the pocket of your recently laundered jeans. This, along with tea and some small, delicious cupcakes made my the inimitable Katy Stephan, made me feel for the first time in weeks, like maybe everything is looking up, after all.
I had planned for my Christmas vacation to be a veritable festival of cocktails and treats and cinema excursions. Instead, I had the plague. No need to go on about it; after all, you're familiar with being sick, but it was a particularly miserable and lingering affair, not at all conducive to holiday jollity. Then, approximately two days after achieving near-wellness, I had surgery and went back to bed. Sigh.
Still. Happily, the kidney stone is no more. And soon, I hope, the remaining pain will also be awarded the past tense. And then--hoo boy--will I ever be a champagne-drinking social butterfly.
The afternoon of New Year's Eve, I finally felt well enough to go to a movie at last. After poring over my options, I chose Les Miserables. Now then. I am a girl who likes a musical, but somehow I had never actually seen this one. Frankly, that seems impossible to me, yet it is true. Ultimately, I think film is a very bad way to be introduced to it. I didn't know it was one of those opera-style shows where the singing just doesn't quit. That doesn't bother me onstage, but it turns out it bugs the hell out of me on screen. I became an eye-rolly snorter. No one wants to sit next to that girl. Sorry, everyone. I was really shocked by how much I didn't enjoy it. Before the revolution even got into full swing I thought, "Okay fine. Those two will get together. That one will die. I'm done here." And, people, I left. I almost never leave a movie. It felt quite rebellious. I think there was still a full hour to go. I tromped back to the parking garage where I had very begrudginly parked my car only because the movie was too long for the two-hour street parking limit. That damn garage charged me $10 which may be commonplace, but which made me absolutely furious. All in all, going to a movie I didn't like and didn't see all of cost me $20. Grrrr.
All of that may be why I enjoyed this so very much. There's a little mp3 clip that I invite you to listen to.
Edited 4/1/13 to add: Better yet, this. This is exactly my experience. A couple days later I found the antidote: Lincoln. Oh, how I loved it. If people in the 1800's actually spoke anything like that, I am truly sorry for the anemic state of the modern vernacular. But then, what I experienced may not be the conversation acrobatics of a bygone era; it may simply have been the conversational acrobatics of Tony Kushner. In which case, Tony Kushner, I thank you most humbly.
I had planned for my Christmas vacation to be a veritable festival of cocktails and treats and cinema excursions. Instead, I had the plague. No need to go on about it; after all, you're familiar with being sick, but it was a particularly miserable and lingering affair, not at all conducive to holiday jollity. Then, approximately two days after achieving near-wellness, I had surgery and went back to bed. Sigh.
Still. Happily, the kidney stone is no more. And soon, I hope, the remaining pain will also be awarded the past tense. And then--hoo boy--will I ever be a champagne-drinking social butterfly.
The afternoon of New Year's Eve, I finally felt well enough to go to a movie at last. After poring over my options, I chose Les Miserables. Now then. I am a girl who likes a musical, but somehow I had never actually seen this one. Frankly, that seems impossible to me, yet it is true. Ultimately, I think film is a very bad way to be introduced to it. I didn't know it was one of those opera-style shows where the singing just doesn't quit. That doesn't bother me onstage, but it turns out it bugs the hell out of me on screen. I became an eye-rolly snorter. No one wants to sit next to that girl. Sorry, everyone. I was really shocked by how much I didn't enjoy it. Before the revolution even got into full swing I thought, "Okay fine. Those two will get together. That one will die. I'm done here." And, people, I left. I almost never leave a movie. It felt quite rebellious. I think there was still a full hour to go. I tromped back to the parking garage where I had very begrudginly parked my car only because the movie was too long for the two-hour street parking limit. That damn garage charged me $10 which may be commonplace, but which made me absolutely furious. All in all, going to a movie I didn't like and didn't see all of cost me $20. Grrrr.
All of that may be why I enjoyed this so very much. There's a little mp3 clip that I invite you to listen to.
Edited 4/1/13 to add: Better yet, this. This is exactly my experience. A couple days later I found the antidote: Lincoln. Oh, how I loved it. If people in the 1800's actually spoke anything like that, I am truly sorry for the anemic state of the modern vernacular. But then, what I experienced may not be the conversation acrobatics of a bygone era; it may simply have been the conversational acrobatics of Tony Kushner. In which case, Tony Kushner, I thank you most humbly.
Monday, January 14, 2013
Bright new tomorrow
I am not dead. Have I been sick since seemingly the dawn of time? Oh, yes. And yet, I am coming round, people. I am almost back. Tomorrow, in fact, I will try to actually write things for your edification and amusement.
In the meantime, let it be known that I'll be at Porchlight for the aptly-themed, brand new year of storytelling next Monday, January 21. I guess I should specify that I'm going to be telling a story. "I'll be at Porchlight" is often the case, but usually I'm in the audience. Not that I wouldn't want you to say hi if we were both there, but, you know, it's kind of a bigger deal that I'm performing. To me, anyway.
Phew. That was hard. I'm totally out of practice communicating with other humans. Though I do talk to myself aloud quite a lot, it's not quite the same. Hi.
In the meantime, let it be known that I'll be at Porchlight for the aptly-themed, brand new year of storytelling next Monday, January 21. I guess I should specify that I'm going to be telling a story. "I'll be at Porchlight" is often the case, but usually I'm in the audience. Not that I wouldn't want you to say hi if we were both there, but, you know, it's kind of a bigger deal that I'm performing. To me, anyway.
Phew. That was hard. I'm totally out of practice communicating with other humans. Though I do talk to myself aloud quite a lot, it's not quite the same. Hi.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Another
Frankly, when we started out, no one thought our union would last more than a couple of weeks, but today my kidney stone and I are celebrating our two-month anniversary. It's almost better than Christmas.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Cultural signifiers
1. I think it would be good if I could eradicate from my personal repertoire flashing two thumbs up at people. I do this strangely often, but never well. Despite the enthusiasm that presumably sparks the action, I lack follow through and often forget to actually employ the critical thumb part of the thing, leaving me with my two puny fists raised toward someone in a baffling, albeit cheerful salute. The whole thing lacks dignity.
2. My French friend tells me he was watching "Breaking Bad." There was a scene in which Jesse Pinkman and his cohort were greeting each other. "What up, biotch?" they said. Unfamiliar with this charming form of address, my friend heard, "What up, brioche?" and was briefly hopeful that French pastry was taking American slang by storm. Would that it were.
2. My French friend tells me he was watching "Breaking Bad." There was a scene in which Jesse Pinkman and his cohort were greeting each other. "What up, biotch?" they said. Unfamiliar with this charming form of address, my friend heard, "What up, brioche?" and was briefly hopeful that French pastry was taking American slang by storm. Would that it were.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Marry Christmas
Last night, I went to Evany and Marco's Christmas party. This is not all that unusual. I've gone to Evany and Marco's Christmas party for years. I used to go to it when they lived in an apartment in another town, before they had a child and bought a house. There has been the phrase "Evany and Marco" for a long time. For me, there has been "Evany" for even longer. (I've mentioned her before, for sure.) Almost forever, really. There were parties in other apartments. There were other pre-Marco boyfriends, but I don't even remember their names. And, can we just be frank? I'm pretty sure they were nowhere near as good-looking as Marco. Marco has many excellent qualities, which would be well worth enumerating, but he is also a hell of a handsome guy. It is impossible not to notice this.
Last night's party seemed to be sort of dialed up a notch: more crowded than its predecessors, no child or dog in evidence, a taco truck in the driveway, balloons filling the hallway, paper pom-poms festooning the ceiling, catering help in the kitchen, Evany in a shimmering cocktail dress along with gold shoes with butterflies in her hair, Marco in a suit. But the TV with the yule log was, as is traditional, blazing in the back room. All the usual guests were in evidence. So not so very different, maybe?
Except that, yes. Different. Historic, in fact.
Because in the middle of this party, Evany and Marco got married.
photo by Brian Mello
I have never been to a surprise wedding before, let alone the surprise wedding of two people who--for years--have already been joined by a conjunction in my mind and by their child and their home and their life together. Two people whom I thought had long since decided to forego this particular formality. But now, having been to just such a surprise wedding, I can tell you that the rightness of it is nearly breathtaking.
Evany talked about Marco's extraordinary generosity. She said that he brought out in her the best possible version of herself. She said that when she comes home in the evening she's excited to see him. Marco said that, before Evany, he had always seen love as a supplement, not as a completion. Now he gets it. He said he misses her right away whenever she leaves.
photo by Jill Stauffer
I cried. Obviously. Then we all drank champagne and our friends were married. Marco came out and changed the "e" in on the Merry Christmas banner to an "a." And then we danced, as was only fitting.
That the happy couple could make such tributes to each other eight years into their union is extremely affirming. I want, more than I can say, to find just that with someone. While it is--oof--lonely not to have yet found it, it is greatly encouraging to know that it is not a thing I only imagined to be possible. Indeed, it's right there in my friends' living room. I'm holding out for it, people.
Marry Christmas.
photo by Jill Stauffer
Evany and Marco, long may you reign. I love you crazy kids.
Last night's party seemed to be sort of dialed up a notch: more crowded than its predecessors, no child or dog in evidence, a taco truck in the driveway, balloons filling the hallway, paper pom-poms festooning the ceiling, catering help in the kitchen, Evany in a shimmering cocktail dress along with gold shoes with butterflies in her hair, Marco in a suit. But the TV with the yule log was, as is traditional, blazing in the back room. All the usual guests were in evidence. So not so very different, maybe?
Except that, yes. Different. Historic, in fact.
Because in the middle of this party, Evany and Marco got married.
I have never been to a surprise wedding before, let alone the surprise wedding of two people who--for years--have already been joined by a conjunction in my mind and by their child and their home and their life together. Two people whom I thought had long since decided to forego this particular formality. But now, having been to just such a surprise wedding, I can tell you that the rightness of it is nearly breathtaking.
Evany talked about Marco's extraordinary generosity. She said that he brought out in her the best possible version of herself. She said that when she comes home in the evening she's excited to see him. Marco said that, before Evany, he had always seen love as a supplement, not as a completion. Now he gets it. He said he misses her right away whenever she leaves.
I cried. Obviously. Then we all drank champagne and our friends were married. Marco came out and changed the "e" in on the Merry Christmas banner to an "a." And then we danced, as was only fitting.
That the happy couple could make such tributes to each other eight years into their union is extremely affirming. I want, more than I can say, to find just that with someone. While it is--oof--lonely not to have yet found it, it is greatly encouraging to know that it is not a thing I only imagined to be possible. Indeed, it's right there in my friends' living room. I'm holding out for it, people.
Marry Christmas.
Evany and Marco, long may you reign. I love you crazy kids.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Thursday, December 13, 2012
What? Oh. Not that.
To be added to a long list of misunderstandings.
As I have surely mentioned, I am currently fruitlessly engaged in the project of online dating (as seems more or less always to be the case). The site I'm using bases its "matches" on users' responses to a vast number of questions, of which I have answered less than a hundred, but of which there may well be thousands. Yesterday I happened upon this statement, requiring a yes/no response. "I enjoy animated nudity."
I puzzled over this for quite some time, imagining it to refer to some preference for a frolicsome approach to nakedness rather than, perhaps, being naked and just lying around. Then I thought it might be trying to politely address the level of vigor one might desire in one's sexual collaborations. But then, there are many other questions that address that very issue with, if anything, disconcerting frankness, so why would they suddenly be coy? It finally dawned on me that the question referred to uh...sexy comic books? X-rated cartoons? Something? I'm sure there's some approved term for those, but I have no idea what it might be. So I guess maybe I'm a "no" on that one. Having sorted that out, I'm sure to be united with my future spouse shortly.
Then this morning on NPR, I heard part of a series about people doing community-service oriented jobs. I heard the introduction as, "Today we will hear from an emotional Management Counselor working to help women transition from prison back into society." I thought that it seemed reasonable that that sort of work might make someone emotional, but also thought it strange that they mentioned it. "Well," I reasoned, "Maybe she cried through the whole interview or something." Only well into the segment did I realize that Oh, wait! It's Emotional-Management Counselor. Not emotional Management Counselor.
As I have surely mentioned, I am currently fruitlessly engaged in the project of online dating (as seems more or less always to be the case). The site I'm using bases its "matches" on users' responses to a vast number of questions, of which I have answered less than a hundred, but of which there may well be thousands. Yesterday I happened upon this statement, requiring a yes/no response. "I enjoy animated nudity."
I puzzled over this for quite some time, imagining it to refer to some preference for a frolicsome approach to nakedness rather than, perhaps, being naked and just lying around. Then I thought it might be trying to politely address the level of vigor one might desire in one's sexual collaborations. But then, there are many other questions that address that very issue with, if anything, disconcerting frankness, so why would they suddenly be coy? It finally dawned on me that the question referred to uh...sexy comic books? X-rated cartoons? Something? I'm sure there's some approved term for those, but I have no idea what it might be. So I guess maybe I'm a "no" on that one. Having sorted that out, I'm sure to be united with my future spouse shortly.
Then this morning on NPR, I heard part of a series about people doing community-service oriented jobs. I heard the introduction as, "Today we will hear from an emotional Management Counselor working to help women transition from prison back into society." I thought that it seemed reasonable that that sort of work might make someone emotional, but also thought it strange that they mentioned it. "Well," I reasoned, "Maybe she cried through the whole interview or something." Only well into the segment did I realize that Oh, wait! It's Emotional-Management Counselor. Not emotional Management Counselor.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Rock steady
To answer your question, yes. I do still have a kidney stone. Every time you think "Man, I sure am tired of her talking about that." I invite you to think about how tired I am of having it. There. Do you feel duly chastened?
In brighter news, the Human Dermal Product is coming along nicely. My oral surgeon did a great job, as he will be the very first to tell you. If I had anything like the, um, let's call it "self-confidence," of my oral surgeon, I would probably be in charge of the world by now. But then, no one wants a poorly trained namby-pamby in charge of sewing things into their mouth, I suppose. I have been eating apples with gusto.
Yesterday, I went downtown to return some misguided online purchases and I felt rather sentimental about living in a place where my very glamorous Gap cashier, with long hair, flawless makeup, beauty mark, skinny jeans, and chiffon blouse was a youth named Kevin. I hope Kevin gets a fantastic employee discount. Gap clothes should be so lucky as to be chosen by Kevin.
The Banana Republic staff were very friendly, though not one of them shared my feeling that the song playing in the store was the stupidest song ever written. I don't know what this song is called, but I'm going to guess it's "I'm Waiting at the Airport." Do you ever musically narrate your day to yourself? Well, I do. Perhaps I wouldn't if I didn't live alone. However, it's not uncommon that I might sing a little ditty about, say, eating lunch. It would go something like "Hey. You should eat some lunch now." The tune would not be an act of musical genius, but it would pass the time.
That is exactly what "I'm Waiting at the Airport" is like. I don't know who sings it, but he tells us over and over again that he is, indeed, waiting at the airport and then, at some point, in a pretty dramatic plot twist, he sends a text. I tried to share the moment with someone, but, incredibly, no one else seemed stunned or amused by the relentless inanity of this--possibly very popular--song. It was a lonely time. But then, though all I did was return a tee shirt and mock the Banana Republic soundtrack, they presented me with a small complimentary jar of jam.
Christmas magic.
In brighter news, the Human Dermal Product is coming along nicely. My oral surgeon did a great job, as he will be the very first to tell you. If I had anything like the, um, let's call it "self-confidence," of my oral surgeon, I would probably be in charge of the world by now. But then, no one wants a poorly trained namby-pamby in charge of sewing things into their mouth, I suppose. I have been eating apples with gusto.
Yesterday, I went downtown to return some misguided online purchases and I felt rather sentimental about living in a place where my very glamorous Gap cashier, with long hair, flawless makeup, beauty mark, skinny jeans, and chiffon blouse was a youth named Kevin. I hope Kevin gets a fantastic employee discount. Gap clothes should be so lucky as to be chosen by Kevin.
The Banana Republic staff were very friendly, though not one of them shared my feeling that the song playing in the store was the stupidest song ever written. I don't know what this song is called, but I'm going to guess it's "I'm Waiting at the Airport." Do you ever musically narrate your day to yourself? Well, I do. Perhaps I wouldn't if I didn't live alone. However, it's not uncommon that I might sing a little ditty about, say, eating lunch. It would go something like "Hey. You should eat some lunch now." The tune would not be an act of musical genius, but it would pass the time.
That is exactly what "I'm Waiting at the Airport" is like. I don't know who sings it, but he tells us over and over again that he is, indeed, waiting at the airport and then, at some point, in a pretty dramatic plot twist, he sends a text. I tried to share the moment with someone, but, incredibly, no one else seemed stunned or amused by the relentless inanity of this--possibly very popular--song. It was a lonely time. But then, though all I did was return a tee shirt and mock the Banana Republic soundtrack, they presented me with a small complimentary jar of jam.
Christmas magic.
Thursday, December 06, 2012
If they want it, they give you a cup
In the ladies' room near the urology department, I discovered that not one of the toilets been flushed following its last use.
I attribute it to either an over-enthusiasm about urology or a slight misunderstanding of how it works.
I attribute it to either an over-enthusiasm about urology or a slight misunderstanding of how it works.
Wednesday, December 05, 2012
Sudden springtime
As I was driving down Oak Street, there was a car from Tennessee slightly ahead of me in the next lane. I saw a young woman in the passenger seat reach back to throw something out the open rear window. I was getting ready to be all tsk-y about it (no one likes a litterbug) but it proved to be a handful of flower petals. Pink. Possibly from a peony.
She did it three times. The petals fluttered behind their little hatchback and gave the busy street an air of a parade or a spring wedding. It was quite lovely. Then, having finished her work, she reclined her seat all the way back so she could smoke politely, holding her cigarette out the same open, back window.
I think her life might be markedly improved if they got the front window fixed. Maybe Santa is looking into that.
She did it three times. The petals fluttered behind their little hatchback and gave the busy street an air of a parade or a spring wedding. It was quite lovely. Then, having finished her work, she reclined her seat all the way back so she could smoke politely, holding her cigarette out the same open, back window.
I think her life might be markedly improved if they got the front window fixed. Maybe Santa is looking into that.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Next step: PhD
Today I got a CT scan and also filled out a questionnaire in which I said:
A. That, yes, I know what a radiologist is.
B. That no, a radiologist is not a doctor.*
C. That I have a master's degree.
So. That went well.
*The whole time I was filling it out, I had in mind the technician who performs the scan, but there's no going back now. I am very hopeful that it's anonymous and that all the radiologists don't get together at lunch and say, "Did you see this Kari? Ha! Master's degree, my irradiated kidney. I bet she's got some pathetic MA in, like, Humanities." And then they all laugh and laugh, entirely unconcerned about choking because, even though they're radiologists, they all totally know the Heimlich.
A. That, yes, I know what a radiologist is.
B. That no, a radiologist is not a doctor.*
C. That I have a master's degree.
So. That went well.
*The whole time I was filling it out, I had in mind the technician who performs the scan, but there's no going back now. I am very hopeful that it's anonymous and that all the radiologists don't get together at lunch and say, "Did you see this Kari? Ha! Master's degree, my irradiated kidney. I bet she's got some pathetic MA in, like, Humanities." And then they all laugh and laugh, entirely unconcerned about choking because, even though they're radiologists, they all totally know the Heimlich.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Cafe culture
This afternoon, I went to my favorite cafe on Valencia Street. It has some good armchairs and floor lamps. They play no music. When I order tea, they give it to me in a diminutive pot along with a cup, a tiny pitcher for milk, and a wee spoon. All this they put on a little oval tray. The cafe is attached to a bookstore. It is clearly a cafe for people who want to read. I thank them for it.
Today, the chair I chose was facing and fairly proximate to the bathroom--not in a "last row of the airplane" unpleasant way, just in a "hard to ignore the bathroom line" way. Generally, to access the bathroom, you must fetch a key from the front counter. Today, however, the door was not firmly closed, such that when cafe-novice would-be bathroom users approached, they could quite simply push the door open and walk in.
Unfortunately, when the system is meant to involve a key, and there is a sign explaining this on the bathroom door, to go into the bathroom without the key is to have a false sense of security. Really, you are open to a sudden and embarrassing encounter with someone who does have the key.
For a long while, people came in and out without incident, each letting the door fall mostly, though not entirely, closed behind them, essentially perpetuating the perilous situation indefinitely. I worried about it for about an hour and remained ever-vigilant. Finally, someone came out and pulled the door closed--click--behind him and I was able to relinquish my self-appointed role of Bathroom Door Guardian.
Everything about this episode strikes me as terribly telling about my character. I am not altogether pleased.
And now, to make me seem even worse, a small screed
Dear sir,
Aside from this one, every other cafe on Valencia, of which there are seemingly hundreds, seems primarily designed for you to come with your colleague and a variety of electronic devices and talk loudly about your business plan for hours on end. Everyone else will have their earbuds in anyway, or their own business plan to discuss, so they won't even notice.
If you feel you must do this in the one cafe for miles around that does not scream "hipster internet millionaire," I think you should have the courtesy to at least buy a cup of coffee. Seriously. Even if you don't want it. We are all renting our chairs for the price of a beverage. That's how this business model works.
I feel better now. Thanks.
Today, the chair I chose was facing and fairly proximate to the bathroom--not in a "last row of the airplane" unpleasant way, just in a "hard to ignore the bathroom line" way. Generally, to access the bathroom, you must fetch a key from the front counter. Today, however, the door was not firmly closed, such that when cafe-novice would-be bathroom users approached, they could quite simply push the door open and walk in.
Unfortunately, when the system is meant to involve a key, and there is a sign explaining this on the bathroom door, to go into the bathroom without the key is to have a false sense of security. Really, you are open to a sudden and embarrassing encounter with someone who does have the key.
For a long while, people came in and out without incident, each letting the door fall mostly, though not entirely, closed behind them, essentially perpetuating the perilous situation indefinitely. I worried about it for about an hour and remained ever-vigilant. Finally, someone came out and pulled the door closed--click--behind him and I was able to relinquish my self-appointed role of Bathroom Door Guardian.
Everything about this episode strikes me as terribly telling about my character. I am not altogether pleased.
And now, to make me seem even worse, a small screed
Dear sir,
Aside from this one, every other cafe on Valencia, of which there are seemingly hundreds, seems primarily designed for you to come with your colleague and a variety of electronic devices and talk loudly about your business plan for hours on end. Everyone else will have their earbuds in anyway, or their own business plan to discuss, so they won't even notice.
If you feel you must do this in the one cafe for miles around that does not scream "hipster internet millionaire," I think you should have the courtesy to at least buy a cup of coffee. Seriously. Even if you don't want it. We are all renting our chairs for the price of a beverage. That's how this business model works.
I feel better now. Thanks.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Thankful
I will not try to make an all-encompassing list of things for which I am grateful because A) it would be impossible and B) it would be boring for everyone but me. Maybe even including me. I try to stay pretty actively grateful year round, so for today I'll just look to the recent past and the imminent future and see what I come up with.
First, I am so overwhelmingly grateful for my parents that it brings tears instantly to my eyes to even think about it. I'm grateful they're so nearby and available to keep me company and feed me custard when I have a mouth full of newly-sewn human dermal product, even though I'm a grown-up. I'm grateful that my mother can hear all my weird issues about how our tiny three-person Thanksgiving makes me feel like a lonely spinster and then devises a Thanksgiving plan that involves swimming pools in Calistoga and going to a restaurant. Ta da! Magically transformed from sad day with not enough people to glamorous California outing. My parents totally top the list. I like them. Long may they reign.
My friends come next. I like them too. Have you noticed how good it is to have friends? I'll bet you have. You're pretty perceptive like that.
Next I'm going to say:
1. Grant, my colleague's husband, who hardly knows me but who calmly answered the phone and then drove me to the hospital one morning at 4:30am.
2. Health insurance
3. Drugs and the kind people who administer and/or prescribe them.
I know it's a bit kidney-stone centric around here, but I am very serious about my gratitude for having access to a whole system that let me step quickly from agony to painlessness and then continue to keep the pain at bay for what is now almost a month. It's no joke. I have been thinking a lot about people who are obliged to suffer because they don't have that access. It shouldn't be allowed. Period.
Oops. I didn't mean to go quite so Power to the People there, but seriously. Health care. It's a good thing to have. Still, so as not to leave you on quite so serious a note, I will add one more:
4. The guy who just moved in next door who looks like he was sent here after an open casting call for "hot neighbor."
What? Like there's no room in Thanksgiving for a tiny bit of objectification? C'mon.
May your own blessings prove too many to count.
Happy Thanksgiving.
First, I am so overwhelmingly grateful for my parents that it brings tears instantly to my eyes to even think about it. I'm grateful they're so nearby and available to keep me company and feed me custard when I have a mouth full of newly-sewn human dermal product, even though I'm a grown-up. I'm grateful that my mother can hear all my weird issues about how our tiny three-person Thanksgiving makes me feel like a lonely spinster and then devises a Thanksgiving plan that involves swimming pools in Calistoga and going to a restaurant. Ta da! Magically transformed from sad day with not enough people to glamorous California outing. My parents totally top the list. I like them. Long may they reign.
My friends come next. I like them too. Have you noticed how good it is to have friends? I'll bet you have. You're pretty perceptive like that.
Next I'm going to say:
1. Grant, my colleague's husband, who hardly knows me but who calmly answered the phone and then drove me to the hospital one morning at 4:30am.
2. Health insurance
3. Drugs and the kind people who administer and/or prescribe them.
I know it's a bit kidney-stone centric around here, but I am very serious about my gratitude for having access to a whole system that let me step quickly from agony to painlessness and then continue to keep the pain at bay for what is now almost a month. It's no joke. I have been thinking a lot about people who are obliged to suffer because they don't have that access. It shouldn't be allowed. Period.
Oops. I didn't mean to go quite so Power to the People there, but seriously. Health care. It's a good thing to have. Still, so as not to leave you on quite so serious a note, I will add one more:
4. The guy who just moved in next door who looks like he was sent here after an open casting call for "hot neighbor."
What? Like there's no room in Thanksgiving for a tiny bit of objectification? C'mon.
May your own blessings prove too many to count.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Say what?
In a radio commercial I am hearing constantly of late, Taylor Swift informs me in the flat voice of someone new to reading aloud that:
"Wonderstruck Enchanted is the next chapter in the story of my Wonderstruck fragrance."
What? Do fragrances have chapters?
To me it sounds as though someone has taken a lot of arbitrary words and strung them together in the hopes that, for the listener, being confused will be similar to being fascinated. Bicycle tea cozy astonished dumbstruck harmonica wheelbarrow. Also, a pretty girl! Coming soon!
What? Do fragrances have chapters?
To me it sounds as though someone has taken a lot of arbitrary words and strung them together in the hopes that, for the listener, being confused will be similar to being fascinated. Bicycle tea cozy astonished dumbstruck harmonica wheelbarrow. Also, a pretty girl! Coming soon!
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Holiday glow
People are all fretting about the potential shopping mayhem of Black Friday--crowds! crowds1 CROWDS!
The big secret is that everyone is flocking not to the mall, but to the UCSF radiology department. Or, I assume so, based on the fact that when I called to make an appointment for a CT scan this morning, I was on hold for an hour. It was a dramatic hold, replete with sudden breaks in the hold music suggesting that I may have been disconnected; many recorded updates letting me know that they were experiencing high call volume (a thing I was able to deduce by the very fact that I was still on hold, but thanks); and many actual rings of the phone that implied someone was about to answer, but really, just prompted another announcement that everyone was busy. It was all very exciting.
So, if you gaze into the faces of your loved ones in the coming days or weeks and see that they seem to be positively glowing with holiday spirit, it is highly possible that they have been recently irradiated.
In related news: kidney stone, joke's over. We know you're still in there, and we're coming to find you.
The big secret is that everyone is flocking not to the mall, but to the UCSF radiology department. Or, I assume so, based on the fact that when I called to make an appointment for a CT scan this morning, I was on hold for an hour. It was a dramatic hold, replete with sudden breaks in the hold music suggesting that I may have been disconnected; many recorded updates letting me know that they were experiencing high call volume (a thing I was able to deduce by the very fact that I was still on hold, but thanks); and many actual rings of the phone that implied someone was about to answer, but really, just prompted another announcement that everyone was busy. It was all very exciting.
So, if you gaze into the faces of your loved ones in the coming days or weeks and see that they seem to be positively glowing with holiday spirit, it is highly possible that they have been recently irradiated.
In related news: kidney stone, joke's over. We know you're still in there, and we're coming to find you.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Two meals
1.
Last night I waited for a very long time at Pizzeria Delfina, where I had been planning to have the Margherita pizza, my favorite. However, once I was confronted with the menu, I entered into a spiral about how always getting the same thing is illustrative of how I lead my sad little life, etc. and so ordered the special. It was liberally seasoned with some mystery herb that my waiter informed me was part of the catnip family. I still ordered it. It was a misguided decision. Let's just be honest, shall we? Even without catnip being involved, no matter how fancy it is, pizza that does not involve tomato sauce always disappoints me. Viva marinara! (as they no doubt say in Italia).
2.
It occurs to me that in this increasingly gluten-obsessed town, with its passion for soy products, my breakfast of Cream of Wheat with 2% milk is totally punk rock.
As you are no doubt wondering, but too polite to ask, yes. There is still a kidney stone stuck in me somewhere. I believe this is day 23.
Last night I waited for a very long time at Pizzeria Delfina, where I had been planning to have the Margherita pizza, my favorite. However, once I was confronted with the menu, I entered into a spiral about how always getting the same thing is illustrative of how I lead my sad little life, etc. and so ordered the special. It was liberally seasoned with some mystery herb that my waiter informed me was part of the catnip family. I still ordered it. It was a misguided decision. Let's just be honest, shall we? Even without catnip being involved, no matter how fancy it is, pizza that does not involve tomato sauce always disappoints me. Viva marinara! (as they no doubt say in Italia).
2.
It occurs to me that in this increasingly gluten-obsessed town, with its passion for soy products, my breakfast of Cream of Wheat with 2% milk is totally punk rock.
As you are no doubt wondering, but too polite to ask, yes. There is still a kidney stone stuck in me somewhere. I believe this is day 23.
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