On Punishment, and the City

Lesson: trying to punish someone you care about usually means you also end up punishing yourself. Lesson, taken note of. Lesson, learned? Probably not.



I have one of those picture frames above my desk — the type that can hold nine photos, allowing for a mix of friends, family, and general happy memories. I specifically filled it with pictures that reminded me of good times, and put it someplace easy for me to look up and remember. Problem is, I forget, a lot, to do that looking up and remembering. Probably should do that before I think about punishing. Another lesson to be learned.



I flew back into the Bay Area late Wednesday night. The best part about that night was crawling into my own bed. The worst part, that I had needed to leave New York to get there.

I did drink quite a bit, but not nearly as much as on previous trips: not once did I stay at a bar until last call. In fact, I did almost none of my usual NYC "must-dos" on this trip. There was no Cozy Soup 'n' Burger, there was no saunter through Washington Heights, there wasn't even a walk through Central Park. (Though I did hit up the Met, which is close.) I barely even got to do the one thing that has more or less defined my last three trips to the City — for a lot of reasons, I tried hard not to make this trip about that thing at all, which probably is part of the reason it turned out so right.



So. I made it back to the Left Coast. It was a fantastic trip, where I even forgot a couple times that I was only visiting and the city wasn't home. Is that because New York is still where my heart is? Is it because I've visited so often in the last few years that I've re-familiarized myself with the city? Or is it merely because so many good friends live there now, that I feel like I have a place there amongst them?



I'm still trying to get my head on straight back on routine. Already, it's a different week, and already San Francisco has entered a completely different season. I'm going to start compiling my bucket list. It's time to make a goal, because if I don't have something to go after, I'm going to keep thinking about what and who I don't have. Not a healthy way to live life. I probably haven't been living my life nearly as healthy as I should have been, the past two, three, five years.



My bus buddy probably gave me the best piece of advice anyone could have, or has, given: it doesn't have to be forever.

That might just be enough to push me over the edge.

Pass It On ... or Pass On It?

As seen this evening, walking home along 24th Street from the J.



I'm thinking that someone out there doesn't keep up with their Urban Dictionary ... from the 80s. Oops.

(And yeah, I know someone else must have taken a photo of this already, but I had to post it myself.)

As an aside, and totally to boast, but daymn I can cook.



Tonight's dinner was a new fishy adventure for me: rockfish. I've never cooked it, can't remember ever eating it, but picked it up on a recommendation from the guy working the fish counter at Whole Paycheck. So, first time for rockfish (which, well, rocked — it's lightly dredged in rice flour, salt and pepper, then pan fried in a combo of olive and vegetable oils; next time I'll probably up the pepper and salt, though), and also first time successfully pan frying a fish on my own. Go me.

The veggies are a basic medley of onion, zucchini and mushrooms, sauteed with a made-up red vinaigrette sauce. Really blew myself away with dinner tonight.

Staying Up With the Vampires[Insert exclamation mark here]

A few weeks ago, my parents drove up the coast on a little romantic, escape-the-house-full-of-progeny-and-dying-dog jaunt, just the two of them. They weren't sure exactly how far they would go, but after a few days they made it as far as the Olympic Peninsula up in Washington State. Last time they were up there was about 15 years ago, with all of us spawn, when we spent a few days camping or living in a cabin or something like that during the one dry and sunny week a year that part of the world gets. Which is probably why I have fond memories of Washington state, and am looking forward to my own upcoming trip.

(As an aside, it feels like the Pacific Northwest is the destination this year. Seriously, I know at least six or seven people from the Bay Area who have been there or are making the trip up there this year, not even including myself.)

At any rate, they were moseying along, driving through Podunk town after Podunk town, when they happen to enter this wee little village by the name of Forks. And my parents, unaware of the existence of such a place, much less the fact that it might have any significance to anyone beyond the people who lived there, were shocked when they suddenly came to a strip of stores that seemed ... out of place. My parents decided to stop and check it out, and it was probably when they walked into this store in particular that they (likely my mother) suddenly realized where the fuck they were.

I was at work when I got the phone call from them. "Guess where we are!" my mother proclaimed.

I did not guess correctly.

"What do you want from here?" This question put me at a loss. Now, admittedly, I've read three of the four books written by Ms. Stephenie Meyer. So I know where Forks is, what the hype is about. But I don't really want anything from there. I didn't even buy the books — my sister lent me her copies. Fuck, I still don't own a single Kelly Clarkson CD, and I like her a whole lot more (guilty, guilty pleasure) than I liked the Twilight Series.

My mother started listing the options, and I finally consented to two things:

1) a mug



(My co-worker was very concerned to see this mug on my desk. I'm expecting any day now to be inundated with the latest Sookie Stackhouse novel just to "cure" me of the sparkliness.)

and

2) a bag of Twilight-themed coffee. I finally had a chance to try some of the coffee this morning. It's actually not terrible. A bit on the bitter side for my taste, but that seems to be the way (to my inexperienced coffee-tasting tongue buds) they do that sort of thing in the Puget Sound area.

Now the real question: will I make a pilgrimage of my own out there while I'm up north? If I do, I will promise to make sure I do it with a camera. And a group of especially cynical friends.

Not My Friend

Well, that was a bad idea. On the bus ride to work this morning, we got to the halfway point of my trip when suddenly my stomach overturned and I started thinking it might be a good idea to look for a plastic baggie in case my morning coffee decided to come back up. We got to the Castro MUNI station, and after a shaky three steps I realized this was not the day to go to work.

Riding a community bus in a hilly neighborhood when you're feeling nauseous, by the way, is highly not recommended. I think the lady who foolishly sat next to me on a practically empty bus started to regret her decision when she noticed I spent most of the time with my eyes closed and clutching at the bar in front of me.

I spent the day in bed, having really strange dreams and being further thankful for Netflix via the Wii. A reminder to never, ever take Vicodin again. Ever.

Really. Never. Remind me of this next time I even think about it.

The Greatest Thing

Every wondered how far back a time period "The greatest thing since sliced bread" encompasses?

Thank you, Wikipedia, for now I know: today (the 7th, just slipping it in on time, PT) is the 82nd anniversary of the world's introduction to Sliced Bread.

Just thought we all should know. You're welcome.