Pants on Fire

San Francisco is trying to make me out to be a liar.

In the seven years I've lived in this city, I've had two big complaints (let's pretend it was only two big and a lot of little ones): 1) it's always fucking 60 degrees and foggy here, except for two weeks a year in the spring and fall; and 2) there are no single straight men that aren't slimy douchebags.

I've got a lot of other reasons for wanting to move cross-country, but those are the two big ones. Fog is nice for a few days, depressing for an entire summer. Being single was fun ... for the first three years.  After that, it was just lonely, and again: depressing.

So, now that my departure date is set, what happens?

1a: We keep having warm spells — heat waves, if you can call 79 degrees a heat wave — with clear skies. I have a tan, people. I'd forgotten how pretty I look with some color in my face. It's shocking. I might actually start shaving my legs regularly if this keeps up.

2a: Single, straight men that I would actually be interested in dating are starting to pop up out of the woodwork. What's more, some of them even aren't slimy douchebags. It's not like I'm frequenting any different places, or doing any different things. They're on OkCupid, and at Krav, and downtown, where I've always been, and I'm wondering where the hell were you guys a year ago? Argh.

Granted, for both those points above, maybe I am doing things a little differently.

My tan is as much from a sunny San Francisco as it is from the day trip to Great America I took with Elsie a couple weekends ago, and attending the U.S. Golf Open with my dad last Friday, and the weekends spent in the South Bay playing golf with my dad or at the beach with my nephew.  (Did I mention, by the way, that I'm still learning to play golf? And actually liking it? It's a very strange thing indeed.)

And as for the men ... well, I guess it's easy to find someone when you really aren't looking or interested in looking (gah! "they" were all right, again!). And it's also easy to see who is right in front of you when you aren't obsessing over or distracted by some unworthy one else that doesn't want you or treats you like shit.


At any rate: San Francisco, if you'd been this much fun the last seven years, I wouldn't be leaving you. Or maybe it's because I am leaving that I'm taking advantage of all the fun you always had. I dunno what it is.

The last month or so I've been revisiting old stomping grounds, and hanging out and doing and rediscovering all the things I liked about California and the West Coast in general. Maybe it's living in a place makes you (or just me?) blind to what it has. Maybe it's feeling like this is your last chance, and taking it, that makes a place come alive.  (Is that a lesson on how we should live our lives?)

But then again, San Francisco isn't New York. Not by a long shot. So still no regrets.

75 days left. Reality is starting to set in.

Morton Saltesque

I want a torrential rain. The kind that explodes out of an oppressively hot humid day, that soaks you within five minutes, and then is gone in 30. I want to walk in that rain, be cloaked in it, breathe it in.

Really, that's the big thing I want out of this upcoming trip to New York. I'm going for a friend's birthday, and I'm giving my weekend to her (gladly: it'll be fun and great and hopefully cathartic), but I want a piece of the rest of the trip just for me.

I want my rain.

---

Tonight my date and I were sitting in Hecho at the bar, and suddenly found a giant entire tuna carcass (the wet bartender thought it was mackerel, but I think he was mistaken) in the hands of the sushi chef in front of us. The evening had already been a little surreal, what with the pairing of tequila with sashimi, and an uni-squid combination of which my mouth wasn't sure what to make. I was already two margaritas and a bellyful of raw fish in when the chef raised his knife and started (skillfully) hacking at the gills and slicing away at the scales. It was fascinating and strange and probably a little disturbing to anyone who isn't a kitchen science geek like myself. I can see now why most sushi restaurants keep this part of the process hidden in the back kitchen. But I'm glad this one didn't.

The food and drink here was pretty good, pretty expensive. If you want to go, I would recommend it, but if you're squeamish I would say you should avoid sitting at the sushi bar. Just saying. You never know when the next fish show will happen.

And now, Jeff Buckley, covering the Smiths:

Cheddar Asian Tiger

It is a comfort food kind of day. But only since I couldn't go punch things.

I'm not currently beating the shit out of some padding at the moment because I am a klutz. Hurrying down the BART station steps in my excitement to be going home at an early time of day (I'd gone into work at way-too-early 6 a.m.), I stumbled down the last few, losing both my shoes, twisting and scraping up both my ankles, and slamming my heel bone down hard on the steel and concrete. Of course, I also looked like an ass in front of a few dozen commuters, but my bruised ego is the least of my worries.

So yes, comfort food. I'm making Alton Brown's Baked Macaroni and Cheese, only I'm using Quinoa Corn pasta, and I didn't have enough cheddar alone so I threw in a bunch of shredded 3-cheese blend that I happened to have on-hand. Topped with the rest of the sauteed onions from this weekend, and we have a dinner.

Fret not, friends: I am icing the bejeezus out of everything podiatral, and hopefully will be fine to work out tomorrow and beyond. Seriously, I need it, both to relieve some built up disappointment and also to get myself looking a bit more svelte for the upcoming NYC trip. (The dream: make the owner of the TARDIS bar fall madly in love with me, and never come back. The reality: just have more room in my pants for lots of eating and drinking.) I should be nothing but jazzed — almost everything is falling into place like a charm — but I'm starting to suspect that I can't go on a vacation these days without somehow incurring some sort of bodily injury to myself. It makes me a little afraid. Please, gods, leave my back out of this one.

Does wine count as comfort food, too? Signs point to Yes.

Like Tears in the Rain

The hormones are hitting me hard this month. It's been a roller coaster of a day, emotionally.



Protestors ruined my evening commute. (I hope every one of those fucknuts gets testicular cancer.) I couldn't even get home without either making the 50-minute walk to Castro station or crowd onto the F train with all the other people trying to get home, so I hopped on the 3 Jackson bus instead and went straight to my ceramics class in my work clothes (I fucking wanted to knife the guy sitting next to me, who obviously had testicles the size of a football seeing how wide he needed to keep his legs spread into my seat). I hate having to wear my work clothes to ceramics, and I hate even more not having my car with me to get me home afterwards on a convenient schedule, since we pretty much always go out to eat after class.

Bad enough that I agreed to work a later shift (by an hour) for the rest of the year's Mondays, so my entire eating and functioning schedule was throw off.

So I was feeling a little bit of anger today. There might have been some over-enthusiastic venting on my part about dickheads who think they're making a statement by ruining other people's routines. Eventually I calmed down enough to finish my latest monster (not sure on a name for him yet) and hold a normal, less angry conversation. I will say, though, it felt really good to hit up Roadside afterwards and tear my fangs into a few ribs. Really good.

Even the ride home wasn't as bad as I had expected. I made my transfer by two minutes, meaning I got home 20 minutes sooner than expected. Things were looking up.

Now I've got some important decisions coming up:

Do I want to spend the money to make a weekend trip to NYC next month, for Benny's birthday?

Do I want to spend a couple days working out of my company's NY office while I'm there?

What do I want to buy my nephew for his birthday?

And, more immediately, how do I want to reply to the message I just found in my inbox from my ex?

August Tidbits

I came home today really grouchy. I wasn't that way when I left work, though maybe it has something to do with the fact that I didn't go to Krav today — my wrist has been feeling weak and a little sore lately, figured it would be good to give it a break — or I ate too many carbs at the afternoon crew birthday party. Usually I'm more or less zen about stupid people being assholes on public transit. Being a regular MUNI rider kind of requires it. But over the course of the commute home I felt more and more like knocking the shit out of the people around me. Especially the oblivious chubby teenager that couldn't stand still and kept swinging around so that his ginormous backpack kept nudging against my back and shoulder. Fucker.

When I'm home before 7 I try to pretend I'm going to be semi-productive. Maybe do a few dishes, wipe down the mess from making lunch in the morning. Instead today I just stripped down naked, hopped into bed and took a two-and-a-half-hour nap. Not sure yet if that soothed anything, since now I'm just fuzzy and dehydrated.

On the subject of grumpy (sort of): One of the bloggers I regularly read actually discussed OkCupid in one of her posts, and made a good point. "The guys prefer to make the first move. If the female makes first contact the female gets sent to the death star." Thinking back, I have to concede she is correct: in all the online dating I've done this year, not once have I actually gone on a date with a guy I contacted first. Not once. Usually I don't even get a response, or if I do it's pretty noncommittal and monosyllabic. Really, then, what's the point of my even trolling through the men and messaging them in the first place, if those end up being the ones that I definitely will not be seeing over drinks or coffee? Might as well just go to the bar every night (in my Other Purposes shoes?) and take my chances.

On the subject of going out: I was, for once, reminded in advance that the International Pop Overthrow comes to town once a year. I may try to attend one of the shows. Interestingly, I know two of the bands already (of course, they are playing on separate nights), both of which I saw with Sweetness back in 2004 just before he dumped me. Still, I like Hotel Utah, it's been a while since I was last there. Anyone want to join me? I'm thinking of hitting up the Thursday and Saturday shows.

Also on the subject of going out: Cute Guy™ mentioned going blues dancing of a Monday night. He promised that there were single men, which of course immediately caught my interest. It's late enough that I could do ceramics class and still make it. I am tempted, though it's been a long time since I did any type of partner-involved dancing. I will have to look up the two-step again, to remind myself how it goes.

Getting back to the subject of MUNI: I feel like the advertising on buses really shows how poorly most marketing types are at keeping up with modern casual conversation. But I have to wonder if anyone is socially awkward enough to actually look to bus ads as a guide for expected human interaction. For instance: GrubHub has an ad for their mobile app (so you can presumably order dinner on your commute home and get there as it arrives ... assuming that MUNI isn't having another meltdown), and the one character in the ad is announcing to the other that he has successfully ordered pizza, and adds "Up top!". Does anyone actually say that any more? That ad always just reminds me of the guy I made out with seven years ago who was a high-fiver. As in he would want to give a high five every time something happened or I said something that he deemed was awesome. I don't remember that guy's name, but I do remember his high fives. That's something, I suppose. Maybe he's saying "Up Top!" now instead of "High Five!" Maybe I should hope I've become choosier about the guys I make out with.

On the subject of awkward: Am I getting more so lately? Or was I always like this?

On the subject of like: The Creme Brulée Cart is my hero.

How the Mighty Are Pissant

Warning: complaint time ahead.

It's been a crappy week. I was already starting to feel cruddy Monday evening after two separate verbal assaults by crazy homeless guys in the same day, and "woke up" Tuesday morning not really having slept and with the beginning of a bug.

A bug that has lingered now for three days. I'm actually starting to get bored with being trapped in my apartment, but don't really have the energy to do much more than warm up leftovers (thank heavens for Sunday cooking) and wave a Wii-mote to put on the next thing in my Netflix queue.

I've found evidence that I'm still living with a furry little roommate, despite the exterminator the landlord had over back in April to look at the place (I guess he didn't actually exterminate anything, alas). And after getting woken up by the building manager clearing weeds off my patio area, I get an email telling me that my front herb garden experiment stinks, looks messy, and needs to be cleared away because it's interfering with the weeding.

I'm starting to think this city doesn't want me any more. Well, fuck you, SF. The feeling's mutual.

In other-people-suck news: Yeah, I watched some of the Boston-Vancouver Stanley Cup Final last night. Like, the final two periods. And to be honest, I wanted Boston to win, so I'm pleased enough with the outcome. I do want to note that Vancouver, in the last 24 hours, has most definitely proved that Bostonians deserved this win far more than they did. I mean, seriously, have you seen the pictures? Is it me, or do all the Vancouver rioters look like a bunch of over-privileged douche-bag frat boys, rather than suffering fans? Get over yourselves, you look like (worse than) Americans.

April Write Off

So, in case you were wondering, I didn't even place in the top 10 for short story contest I had entered. But if you'd like to read the stories I wrote for it (I think Greg at least wanted to), they are below:

Round 1: "The Swap" (Sci-Fi/wedding planning)

Round 2: "Frogs and Dogs" (Horror/a prodigy)

With that disappointment, and a few others, I think I'd like to write off the month of April this year. It wasn't horrid, just utterly disappointing.

May, I'm looking to you.

At least the Sharks made it to round 2 of the playoffs. That's something.

On a side note: I got a jury summons for this morning, and spent half my day down at the courthouse, waiting and listening and waiting and filling out paperwork. I have to go back next week to find out if I'm actually on the jury, which is supposed to last through the month. (My luck, I will probably end up on the jury. It's happened two times previous already.)

I'm sort of torn about whether or not I look forward to being selected. On the plus side: meet some people, get to see justice in action, and (best of all) working on a city government schedule (so, over before 5 every day). On the negative: miss a lot of work, at a sort of critical time, which will also leave me with effectively no time off for the rest of the year. It is a balance.

And, just to do a little touting for others than myself, my friend Geof took a film making class recently, and his first short is completed and up on YouTube. I think he did a great job, especially considering this was his first go. You should watch it. It didn't win any awards, either, but in this case I feel like he was cheated while I was just ... yeah.

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.

Backing Up

Chiropractors are like mechanics.

They overwhelm you with information, explain what's wrong in words that you think you remember from high school biology class, do a little adjusting, and you still walk out of there wondering if that was worth the $100, or if you just got taken for a ride.

I'm not saying my chiropractor is a bad one — from what I understand, the fact that she's only recommending three sessions total, instead of 10 or more on top of X-rays and other thingies, is a good thing. She also seemed really confident that my back pain is fixable, so long as I take care not to sit so much, and to have proper posture when I do.

Only problem: I sit in front of a computer for a living, and most of my hobbies (knitting, ceramics) involve being hunched over in an improper position. Oops.

Admittedly, the back feels better, even though it still hurts from time to time. And on a positive note, trying not to sit in front of the computer for long periods of time has forced me to do some good things, like sleeping enough at night and cleaning the apartment a little. Downside: no Krav for at least another week or so (I've already missed the last two or three weeks), and my Hulu viewing is down to bare minimum. Life is totally hard.

My second appointment is tomorrow evening. Because I know how to spend my Friday nights in style.

For the Un-Win

From time to time, I have my suspicions that there is some higher being, watching us all and making his/her presence felt.

Today, I am sure of the existence of that higher being. And I am also sure that said higher being really doesn't want me to go on my road trip.

First, it was my poor, beloved car, slowly dying and forcing me to admit that she was no longer road trip-worthy. Fortunately, my family was able to provide me with another car — my brother's — which was expected at any time to have a new stereo installed (it came without, being the cheapest thing on the lot when it was purchased). One attempt to ruin my trip thwarted.

Then, my entire family came down with the stomach flu, right in time for the weekend that my brother was supposed to get a stereo held for him by a friend installed for free. Again, that obstacle was overcome (and again with parental assistance) by the simple expedient of my going down to San Jose and getting the damn thing bought and installed myself. (Lesson learned: if you want/need anything to be ready by a certain time, never trust anyone else to get around to it. Hercules helps those who help themselves.)

But finally, tonight, as everything was falling into place — offerings of beer purchased, laundry in the process of being done, bags being packed — that higher being made one more try to keep me here in San Francisco. The metal leg of my desk chair may have won the battle between itself and my right fourth toe, really. That toe may well be broken (it hurts enough for that). But by the Belt of Orion, I am not going to cancel this trip because of a small digit of pain. I don't care if I end up limping around the entire Pacific Northwest; I'm leaving in the morning, and that's that.

So, higher being, here is a big old middle finger salute to you. You will not ruin my vacation. You will not, you will not, you will not.

Red Interlude

Now, this may just be the hormones talking (Auntie Flo is visiting), but I'm pissed. And frustrated. And men are douchebags.

It's a recurring question in the family: How's my dating life going? Do I have a boyfriend yet? I must be out every night, mustn't I? Blah blah blah. How's it going, you ask? Well, it fucking sucks, that's how it's going.

I've been single well over five years now. I'm tired of it. Not in the sad I-can't-define-myself-without-a-boyfriend kind of way. I know who I am — definitely better than I did back when I was dating Sweetness — so I guess I'm thankful for being single long enough to give me that. But I'm tired mostly in the doing things by myself kind of way. I want someone to share things with. Someone to have inside jokes and go on random trips and sleep in on a weekend with. Someone to cook dinner for (or rely on to cook dinner for me).

I have a feeling my singlehood is not going to change anytime soon (so much for hope and crushes and all that bullshit). And I'd like to think I'm not completely blameless in this. Sure, I've probably been a dick once or twice (or a few times) myself ... which is the reason I'm not dating Sweetness anymore in the first place (and thank heavens for that). But for instance, here's just a sampling of the guys I've dated or had interest in over the last few years (varying levels of douchebaggery):

• Nice guy, but insisted on the third date that we watch the Superbowl -- alone, not at a party -- despite my insistence that I severely disliked football. And no, the commercials were not good that year, and no, it wasn't even a local team.
  
  
• Slept with me once after several dates (and a couple years of sexual tension), never called back, ended up going back to his ex-girlfriend ... who lives 1,000 miles away. Oh, and he stood me up a couple times because his World of Warcraft guild "needed him for a raid".
  
  
• Wholesome. Really wholesome. Decided to quit his well-paid tech job to become a cop (which is not a bad thing for most people, I guess). Didn't like the hat I knitted for him as a Christmas present, because "he's not a hat person". And then proceeded to ask me, after a month of seeing each other, where I saw the relationship going and if we were a steady item. (This one, admittedly, was not so bad ... just not my type. I still kind of feel like the dick in this relationship, even though I knew he wasn't really for me.)
  
  
• Showed up to the second date drunk, and tried to take me back home after dinner for a quickie. Note: we'd not even kissed at this point. (Also: not a great kisser, which he did to try to convince me that a quickie would be a great idea.) I had to forcibly extricate myself from his grip and hurry on to work — this was back when I was working Graveyard.
  
  
• Spent three hours having a great conversation at a bar, I felt like we were actually kind of bonding, until the very end when he threw in the comment "... and since I'm probably not ever going to see you again ..." What a great ego boost.

I'm not even including the latest, since I guess technically he still has a chance. It's only been a few days. People are busy. But I don't have much hope.

So tell me: Is it me? Am I doing something wrong here? I just don't get it.

Sometimes

the cure just makes you wish for the disease.

My week of crazy busy-ness left me a bit exhausted, and the month of May continues to fill my social life with all sorts of goodies. I'll give an update soon, I promise. Maybe even tonight.

But first, work. And then, a glass of wine and (hopefully) a Sharks win. I'm glad it's Friday.

Don't Forget the Phone Book

I'm two days into a nine-day bout of being too busy for my own good. Every night for the next seven days I've got work- and friend-related activities planned: it's the week of the big ol' three-day work meeting we've been getting ready for, and I've got plans for at least one of those days, if not two. I've also got interspersed throughout the week dinner or drinks plans with friends, culminating with a surprise visit from my one of my Portland friends, Elk, who will happen to be in town on this coming Sunday.

It's going to be a rather whirlwind week, all part of a whirlwind month — I'm booked every weekend day until June starts, from here on out. I don't know how I do this, and why everything can't spread itself out more evenly throughout the year. Not that I'm complaining too much ... being this social keeps me from being curled up in my apartment wallowing in self-pity. Or something.



This weekend was full of family activity for Mother's Day: Saturday with the paternal side, Sunday with the maternal side. I went down and spent last night Chez Parents, mostly because my mom likes having a house full of her children. I also got to play with my nephew a bit, and applaud his latest trick: rolling around on the floor. I'm so proud of him.


(Oh, my lord: I have indeed become one of those aunts, haven't I?)

Tonight, I got my first crank call in a few years: some guy claiming to have found my number at a strip joint. (Ha, ha. So funny.) What didn't bother me so much was his knowing my name, but more when he started reciting a familiar address — I hung up on him mid-call. I should have been smart and mocked him for being so "clever" in being able to use a phone book, but of course we never think of these things at the time. It did remind me to check the phone book to verify that the same address he mentioned is actually what's in there. And it's also making me jump at the slightest odd household sound. Hooray, paranoia, welcome back.

Time to sharpen my Krav Maga skills.

Let's Up the Dose of NyQuil

Bachelor Number One in my Quest for Three Jews by Sunday made it easy, sort of.

I forced myself into the office on Thursday, in part because there was a meeting I wanted to make, and in part because I wasn't completely convinced that I was actually sick. You know how it is: you're feeling ick, but you can still see straight enough to iron your work pants, so you force yourself to go. I made it a whole hour-and-a-half before the mental fog sent me stumbling back to bed.

Stopped by the computer on the way between the medicine cabinet and bed, and must have left the JDate window open, because when I rolled out of bed five hours later, I had an email saying I'd missed an IM. A very brief, simple, almost sweet: "bonjoutr [sic]" (My profile says I speak some French.)

Okay, then. Points for trying, not everyone can spell French, anyway, and his profile read as ... well, not perfect, but a little zany. Couldn't hurt to try. So I type up a little note, along the lines of "my apologies for missing your message. You seem interesting ... yadda yadda". I bring up a question about where he lives - his profile says "San Francisco", but he mentions living in the "burbs". Basic stuff, hopefully opening up the lines of communication, whatever — hey, it's been a long time since I've actually had to do this. Exciting, I'm already one-third of the way to happiness for the week (or, at least, fulfilling my homework) and maybe I'll have a date for Sunday? Who knows, with this crazy internet dating phenomena?

Today I make it into work, stay the entire day (unproductively), jet back home for more pajamas and comfort bedding, and I have a message in reply. Eagerly, I log back into JDate — was my opening successful? What hints into the depths of his soul will I be getting with this response?

I'm sure most of you by now can see the set-up I'm leading you towards. But for those who can't, and those who don't know me, here's a little bit of information: I edit for a living (it says that in my profile). And I've been trawling the Internet for somewhere around 15 years now, starting back when there was still a little bit of etiquette to be picked up from those around before the Eternal September. I do my best to write in proper English, my grammar tends to be more-or-less correct, and using ALL CAPS is just rude, especially in an email. I like to give the impression that I give a shit when I write to someone.

So what's the entire response from my beau-to-be?

"LOL
SUNSET closer to SF STATE"

Wow. I totally need a cold shower now.

Next, please.

The Cure for Most Kinds of Pain Is Chinese Food

Not to count my chickens (on the subway or otherwise, Geof), but as of now I am a "yellow belt" in Krav Maga. Yellow belt in quotes because, really, it's just a naming convention — Krav doesn't have belts, there's no special ceremony, really just a certificate and the ability to take classes involving more intensive techniques.

I'd like to say that the test was the most grueling experience I'd ever put myself through ... and that's probably the truth. Three hours of more-or-less continuous movement, including the hour-long warm-up and two hours of actual technique testing. It's like a marathon ... a marathon of slamming various body parts into a hard vinyl pad. Or having your partner's limbs slam into you.

What I'm most impressed with is not that I knew the material so well — can't help that when you've been attending the classes regularly for 8 months. It's that I actually was still upright at the end of it all, and ready for some more. I guess adrenaline really does work. (It also really works to dull pain: I barely felt the clip to my jaw my partner gave me accidentally during a chokehold. Though I did feel it in my femur every time she round-house kicked into it, through the pad.)

Right now, however, I really feel like I had a bad drinking binge last night, completely with a mild auto accident. Ow.

And now I get the opportunity to take more classes, ones that will actually involve the purchase of protective gear (shin guards at the least are required, apparently ... my poor legs). All to train up for the next level test, the "orange belt", which is apparently longer and more grueling than this one was.

Yay?