Tricking the Trees

It was cold today and yesterday, but the previous week's worth of "hella hot" weather (as per the SF Examiner, our local rag paper) fooled our local flowering trees into blooming.

Ha, ha. Dumb trees, now your flowers are cold, and we're back to our usual near-frigid 50s,-low-60s temperatures. Brr.

It was a near-perfect day, from the best-friend call in the early morning, to Chilaquiles ramon for brunch in the Mission followed by mimosas at Revolution Café (a place that makes me feel officially square), ending with dinner at Avatar's and a viewing of The King's Speech with Lauren before he makes his great trek into Fatherhood by way of Kentucky.


He looks so red because I had the "vivid color" setting going.



Notes on The King's Speech: probably the best film I've watched in a long time. I think it blows Inception out of the water. Beautifully done, and watching Colin Firth spout out profanity for a full 60 seconds totally turned me on. Is that a bad thing?

A Salty Motto

I know I've done a great workout this week because my arms are sore with bruising, and there were two or three days where I couldn't cross my legs without pain.

I also recently got more evidence that I'm becoming entrenched in this city. And a reminder that it's really a small, small town. On Tuesday evening, I met up for a drink with a guy who, it turns out, works with my good friend Jeremy. Completely random. This sort of thing happens to me with greater and greater frequency these days.

That last week was a blur — Wednesday was the only day I actually had the evening to myself (aside from Krav); there was a lot of wine poured down my throat, come to think of it. My usual Clay and Wine class on Monday, wine at my local on Tuesday, a Castro wine bar on Wednesday, and last night had friend Claire down for a bottle of Mourvèdre and half a bottle of the only port wine I've ever really enjoyed. And I think I'm going out for brunch with mimosas this morning. Making up for last week's home-sickness? I certainly hope so.

Illin' on Netflix

My immune system: weakened on four years of working nights, hiding from the sun and contact with other humans.

The punishment: still getting hit with bouts of sickness once or twice a month for a year and a half after I converted back to Daywalker status. Apparently, my vitamin-wrangling of Tuesday's under-weather state wasn't enough to scare it off completely; it's been lodged in the back of my throat for the last couple of days, just festering enough to keep me from being antisocial, yet still with a restless hunger to get out of the damn house.

Fortunately, I have the Netflix. (However, I'm starting to suspect that the Netflix subscription actually comes with a monthly dose of germs, slipped into my drinking water by red-cloaked ninjas in the middle of the night. Just to make sure I keep watching.)

Now that I've opted out of taking my disease to the slumber party I was scheduled to attend this evening (Netflix also doesn't seem to want me to have a social life with friends from high school, seeing as I keep getting sick on weekends that involve major exciting plans with anyone of that crowd.) (Hmm ... actually, that is an interesting pattern. Cathy's wedding. Stomach flu on the way to Steph's house. Now Alysha's birthday. I sense a pattern here.), I'm settling in for the night with knitting and an engorged queue of old movies and TV shows to watch. Watched so far this weekend: Commando, and Walk Don't Run.

Commando has been one of those movies that, as a girl who prefers hanging out with guys, I long knew I would have to see one day. It's one of those "Guy Flicks" that will randomly get referenced in conversations, or have clips linked to on Facebooks, or get spoofed in movies and/or TV. It was inevitable: if I didn't watch it myself, it would be forced upon me by one of the men I love, complete with grunting, beers, and "AWESOME" commentary.

And I have to say, after seeing it: Why the heck haven't you guys made me watch this film before? I feel like all the male friends in my life have failed me, forcing me to watch this movie on my own, on a Friday night, of my own volition. I think my conversation with friend Geof, who insisted on hearing my review of the movie once I'd seen it, sums up my feelings fairly accurately.


At least now I am in on The Commando Jokes ... and only missing Schwarzenegger's term as Governator by three weeks! That's me, always just missin' it. Thanks, boy friends.

(Speaking of boyfriends, my boyfriend is actually in town this weekend for SF Sketchfest, and I'm having to miss him. Fate keeps trying to keep us apart, but don't you worry, beloved. Someday I will meet you and you will understand exactly what you've been missing your entire gay life. Trust me.)

I also want to say something about Walk Don't Run, which was really only on my Netflix queue because I like Cary Grant, and this was his final film. I admit: was impressed. I feel pretty sure that Sophia Coppola took some inspiration from this film when she made Lost in Translation (and I don't just mean the location), but — this being the mid-60s — without the angst and loneliness pathos that characterizes the more recent film. The movie was pleasing, funny, and not entirely predictable. The comic sequences stretched just long enough, stopping before they got old, and I was pleasantly surprised to realize that one of the minor characters was George Takai, just before or right at the beginning of his Star Trek career. Hollywood is, apparently, a small place.

Risk: Free!

After a bout of sickness that was successfully wrangled down within 24 hours via the taking of vitamin supplements (but not before it sent me home from work in a wave of nausea and woozy), I decided today that it was time for me to keep a bottle of supplements at the office, so that there would be no way I could forget to take them in the morning.

Mind you, I generally don't believe in vitamin supplements — always figured that if you can't get it right from your diet, then you must be doing something wrong. But then, I spent half of my days off last year being sick, and I'd kind of like to avoid that for this year. Thus: a trip to the GNC around the corner from my office.

As I was checking out, the clerk popped this down on the counter next to my box

saying, "They want us to give this to you with your purchase. It's just a sample." He might have explained more than that, but not very much. And I shrugged, and paid my bill (heck, whatever it was, it's free) and didn't take a closer look at it until I got back to the office.

Note the little box of text on the front of the bottle. This is what it says:


I don't know about you, but two things stand out to me, looking at this label:

1. The wording kind of makes it sounds like this drug's true power is like a gigantic cock: only the most experienced can handle it right.
   
2. Why are they giving away for free something that tells you it needs to be run by a physician? Not even a caveat of "if you're weak in some way, then you should ask your doctor." No, it's straight up: better check with the doc before you even think about popping this baby open.

So is it me, or does it just seem sort of wrong? Perhaps I am just weak.

Turtle Neck Seasoning

I am not intending to knock the amazing friends I have locally, but: why do I have so many fabulous friends who live so far away?

Some of them were in town this weekend, and there was the usual drunkenness and goofing around that happens when I see these guys. I got a group of gay men singing along to "Day Man", ate some good food, had some good conversations, drank too much Goldschlager ... and really, you know it's a good weekend when it involves glow-in-the-dark bubble bath. Trippy. I already miss them all,

I've bought my tickets to visit some more of my fabulous out-of-town friends, the ones out in NYC. I'll be messaging them soon — the ones I haven't yet poked — to let them know of the impending doom err, visit and timing.

In the meantime, my amazing local friends seem to be intent on keeping me busy the next few weekends. Add that to a short story contest I'm participating in, the upcoming NYC trip (which will also include a few days in Cleveland, Ohio) and a couple potential dates in the next seven days (in and of itself is a kind of scary thing), and, well ... this year's kind of shaping up to be an interesting one. Hopefully one with good blogs. Fingers crossed.

At the very least, I haven't cried over my morning ironing in over a week. That's definitely gotta be something.

Breaking Up Is (not that) Hard to Do

I dumped one of my banks today, and it was much easier than I expected. They were going to start charging me a $12/month fee for not keeping or direct-depositing enough money every month, and I decided it was time. Most of my money went to another bank, anyway, for bills and such; this was just my "fun money" account, and now I have the credit union account for that.

So goodbye, Bank Who Obviously Doesn't Want My Pittance of Money. You've helped me on yet another step of this thing called "Growing Up".

The last two or three days have been a complete 180 in mood from my last post, and definitely a far cry from my mental and emotional state on Monday (where I was sobbing over my ironing, on top of feeling like the start of a cold, a good day to call out sick). Probably due to:

• "Aunt Irma" leaving town.
  
• A sudden happy coming-together of things that means I'm going to be heading to New York (and, possibly, Cleveland) this March. Be warned, my New York Friends: Sarah's Coming.

Tipsy Epiphany

When did I become such a lightweight? Two glasses of bourbon, and I feel three sheets to the wind. Okay, maybe it's just two sheets. But whatever.

I know being a grown-up is about sacrifice, but when did I decide I had to stoop so far? This might be the PMS talking (boys, it's hitting hard time this month: probably best to keep away until, say, Wednesday), but I've felt so dejected and hopeless about finding something or someone even in the general area of what I want (gods forbid I look for exactly what I want), I'm starting to wonder if it's even worth the effort.

Like I alluded to in my naval-gazing New Year's post, I'm going to start just letting things come my way this year — wait for doors to open instead of knocking on random ones hoping that they're the right one. But fuck, I really wish something would just fall into my lap right now, and push me. I need to be pushed. And not in a career way, o ye gods. You should know by now what I'm whinging about; I'm happy with most of my life, and thankful for it.

And wow, this is a completely rambling post. Perhaps it's a night for early bed. Thank you, Knob Creek.

Awkward Is

Being on a dating site, rating men at random ... and then coming across an ad for the company I work for. Full-on with our mascot.

Ow. Time for a big ol' piece of chocolate. Or a stiff drink.

Syne

Rewatching the old Hitch Hikers Guide to the Galaxy, the one from the early 80s, I am forced to a realization: as much as I really, really want to see myself as a Trillian, I have a suspicion that sadly, really I'm more of an Arthur Dent than any other character. If I had to be a character from the books/miniseries/radio show, of course.

I'm sure there's a Facebook test for that somewhere ... but that's too much work to bother with.

New Year's Eve was spent at Norma's place with the Ceramics Crew and Emily, who was in town to see me during the brief week she's home from law school. It was fun, and low-key, and full of food and wine, and extra bonus was that I didn't have to drive anywhere, since Norma lives within walking distance of my place.

Actually, the real bonus of the evening might have been watching Josh get a sparkly manicure:



The nail dryer is serious stuff.

Either that, or Teresa's amazing peanut-butter cup pretzels. It's a close contest, there.