The Niners Flubbed It, and I Cocked Up My Beaver

I just spent about five hours standing in a bar, and now my feet and legs hurt like hell. I wouldn't mind it so much if there was a victory at the end of it all, but as luck would have it the San Francisco 49ers proved they still can't win an NFC Championship, so the pain is all for naught.

At least I can go back to not giving a shit about football again. I only gave a shit in the first place because my coworker James wanted to see the game with someone and asked me to join him. Otherwise I would have been "cleaning my apartment" (hahahah, that joke never gets old) and running errands like grocery shopping and maybe even a Goodwill run.

Day was not a complete loss: we did chilaquiles for brunch at SanJalisco (go there: hardly any wait on food and the place was packed with Mexicans, which says something about the quality and authenticity of the food), and really the first three quarters of the game were pretty good. Until the fuck ups started adding up and we had to face the fact that the Giants would be going to the Superbowl instead of us.

Assholes.

Last night, however, I did something at a bar on the other end of the spectrum: attended the annual Burns Night at the Edinburgh Castle.



My ex actually suggested the event — we were both lame and had no plans for a Saturday evening — and it turned out to be a bit more surreal and entertaining than we had been hoping for.



The featured celebrity was the guy who played bagpipes in So I Married an Axe Murderer (which I haven't seen, admittedly). Various special guests got up to read some of Burn's poetry to us, tell us fart jokes, and recite somewhat inaccurate history at us. (The problem with being a nerd, especially a British history nerd, is that I actually got bothered when someone was going on about how the Church of England was founded by Edward VIII, and how Mary Queen of Scots was under arrest and eventually executed by Elizabeth I because she refused to convert from Catholicism. Sorry, not quite true.) I even tried haggis, and while I won't say it won me over as my new favorite dish, it wasn't nearly as offal-awful as I had been led to believe. One more tick to my Belt of Adventurousness.

Tomorrow in San Francisco: getting my first facial. As an overly-generous Christmas present I got a gift card for a local day spa, and my company gave me a free day off for Chinese New Year (hooray for dragons!), so I'm using the combination of the two windfalls to see what this whole pampering thing is all about.

Cream of Wheat: It's What for Dinner

When you are a well-endowed woman like myself, sometimes the best part of the day is that moment when you can finally remove the bra and let your flesh relax. Not that those days are necessarily bad up to that point: it's just a good feeling. Of course, it's an even better feeling when someone else is removing that bra for you ...

But I digress.

It's too late to order in Chinese food, which I'm probably craving due to the remnants of a hangover, so while I wait for my Cream of Wheat to cook, I'd like to make a public service announcement:

Men, when going on a date with a lady, particularly a first, second or third date, it is probably best to avoid arriving at the date drunk.

I speak from experience, both distant and recent. Last night's OkCupid date — a first date, at Pisco Latin Lounge, which I can totally recommend for the drinks and food, bad company notwithstanding — was definitely, obviously (and self-admittedly) "tipsy" when I got there. It made for a uninhibited exposure of all his personality faults and inability to hold a conversation that wasn't 75% self-centered. There were some hints of positives, but they never got the chance to make more than a guest appearance.

I'm usually inclined to give a guy a second chance to make up for an awkward first date. Dating isn't easy, I'm still learning the ropes and the boundaries myself. But if you don't have control enough to keep yourself presentable for the pre-arranged first time I'm going to meet you, you're not worth it. I will be polite and listen to you for the hour or two that I have to endure it, I will "let" you pay for the drinks and food I have ordered, and I will not feel guilty about the fact that I don't intend to reciprocate the favor at any future point in time.

At least this one only verbally tried to pressure me into going home with him, rather than physically latching onto my arm like the last guy who showed up drunk to our date.

The night, in case you are concerned, did not end in a complete wash. Indignant at the thought of having wasted my time putting on makeup and ironing my sexy shirt, on the way home I stopped into my local bar for a quick drink, and ended up getting invited to play pool (badly) with a few guys. Which ended up in a couple more drinks being paid for, some healthy fun flirtation, and an after party of dancing to the Talking Heads, bullshitting and admiring appliances until the night was no longer night.

Hence the hangover, despite which I still dragged myself out this afternoon to join Elsie at Thee Parkside to see her friend Augustus play in his new band. (They were pretty good.) I ended up following her afterwards to the CD release party of a friend of hers, and then getting mistaken for a lesbian by a lesbian. I think I will take that as a compliment: lesbians are totally cooler than I am.