Twelve. Reset the Counter.

I've felt cooler and sexier the past week than I think I've felt in a long time. An increase in alcoholic intake may or may not have something to do with it.

I will also blame an increase in time spent with friends — I saw both Jeremy and Laura during the week, though unfortunately not together (hopefully to be remedied this coming week?), as well as getting the chance to help Claire celebrate her American citizenship. And, more directly, I can attribute the feeling to seeing more live music this week than I have in a long time. I got to be a minor groupie Saturday afternoon/evening, and felt utterly awesome for it.

The groupie thing led to dinner, which led to drinking, which led to a discussion of a project that actually has my interest piqued. I hope it honestly had his piqued, too. We shall see, and at least it's something else to look forward to, on top of everything else September has in store for me.

At any rate, there was a column on the Huffington Post recently (someone on Facebook linked to it, I'm terribly not a regular Huff-Po reader my self) about the disappearance of the "tough girl". And of course, as a woman who knits, cooks and takes Krav Maga, I took a bit of offense (as did pretty much all the commenters). I do think that there has been a shift back towards the home in terms of redefining womanhood, but considering that the home is still the basic unit of what communities and nations are composed of, that's not necessarily a bad thing.

But on top of that, I think Ms. Aloi, the columnist, misses an important point: women (and we're talking about Western First World women, of course) aren't the only ones "losing their toughness", if they are even doing such a thing. In fact, they'd be losing it far less rapidly than their male counterparts. Men can cry now, and that's all dandy, but I get the impression more and more than it also gives men an incentive to keep feeling entitled to being taken care of by society and other people. He goes out to restaurants more because that means he doesn't have to learn how to cook for himself. He doesn't have to be macho anymore, which means he can let his beard grow out and develop the watery lank musculature of the walking-not-working man. He can have an entire wardrobe of t-shirts with 80s cartoon characters on them. Taking care of himself involves paying someone else to launder his Nordstrom Rack purchases, having a maid over to clean his apartment once a week, and keeping his mustache trimmed all by himself. Violence is a big no-no, and guns are scary and should be banned. Don't forget to admire the new electronic toy he just bought, it comes in pretty colors.

Yes, women are going along the same route. But why not talk about the supposedly-true toughies, the men, doing this, before we bemoan the death of G.I. Jane?

By the way, yes I know I'm criticizing really only one group of men. But Ms. Aloi's article seems to really only be criticizing that same group of women.

Silent R

Everywhere I go, the last couple of days, people have been a-buzz. There's the tiniest of chances that it might possibly snow in San Francisco tonight or early tomorrow morning, and everyone's excited. Those of you who live in regions that have seasons that aren't just "Foggy Time" and "Sunny Time", please humor us and try to understand: if the snow does happen (of which, of course, there's only a small possibility, and it probably wouldn't even make it downtown), it would be the first time SF has seen snow on the ground since 1976.

That's before I was even born. Before Sarah. Total B.S.

Of course, if the snow comes, I will try to grab the camera and snag some evidence. Since I live on a hill, I might also be able to catch pictures of cars foolishly trying to navigate a snowy drive downhill. This ain't Tahoe, people: San Francisco doesn't have any snow plows.

Apologies for being so quiet this month. I have had things I could talk about, but some of them I don't think I'm quite ready to share with the world yet. Also: life has been pretty awesome lately. I was lamenting to my friend last night about how being happy sucks when you're a blogger — no one wants to hear you gush. It's true: if every entry was about how awesome life is and how happy I am, I bet 4 out of the 8 of you would just stop reading.

But for those of you who aren't here just to read about my misery and poignant-yet-funny opinions on life, let me tell you: things are going swell. February was damn good, my short story is one I'm somewhat proud of (thank you, Editor Mine, and fingers crossed that I make it to round two!), and March is looking like it's going to be a blast. I can hardly wait for it all, though it's kind of nice right in this current moment of calm.

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.

By the Way: I Have Boobs

It's sad to have to say this, but I must admit: I think some small part of my enjoyment in volunteering for the Santa Cruz Blues Festival every year is all the male attention I get.

This is probably because I live in San Francisco. Any other city, and I'd be sick of guys ogling my tits. But two days a year, I'm guaranteed hordes of dirty old (and some not-so-old) men talking to a point four inches below my chin for eight hours straight a day. And damn, does it make a girl feel giddy ... it's my male attention fix for the year. And I didn't even have to wear something fashionable or outrageous for the occasion!

This year I was "banished" to the coffee tent from my usual spot in the money tent, which I suppose works out because this is the first year I actually drink coffee. I got mad tips (see above!). I also learned how to work one of those fancy espresso machines, and how to make espresso shots, lattes and cappuccinos. Awesome.