Two to the Fifth

When I was a little girl, as my mother likes to remind me, I had a love-hate relationship with birthdays. I loved getting all the presents, but I hated having people over and having to deal with them and most of all I hated not being able to win any of the party games because I was the hostess and it would be rude to do that.

Inevitably, so Mom tells me, I would end up hiding in my bedroom, and there would probably be crying.

Fast forward 25 years or so later, and I no longer balk at inviting a bunch of friends (though notice that they aren't invited over to my actual house, just to meet at a public spot). I no longer expect presents. But the crying remains. Just a little bit, this year, I swear! But it seems like something of a tradition that I just gotta keep up. (Crying rule exception: my birthday in 2007. Thank you, Spyder.)

As readers of this blog may suspect, I had been planning a trip to Disneyland for this weekend just past. It was in honor of my 32nd birthday, and honestly probably ended up being the best birthday ever. Of my 30s, at least. Call me a consumer whore if you will, but sometimes it's just worth it to sell out your soul.

Especially when it gets you a chance to do breakfast with Eeyore.

Through the Looking Glass, this is.


Just about to hop on Star Tours.

There is just something about Disneyland that makes it special. I was trying to explain it to Michelle and Tamica tonight, and Michelle had to comment that she was amazed at how my monologue about the experience had absolutely no trace of my usual sarcasm or cynicism. That's how amazing it is. (And perhaps a peek into my secret self that still, sort of, wants to grow up to be a princess. But shh! That's just between us, right?) Something about the idealization of reality, and the strict adherence to a code of conduct that is likely beaten into the park's employees, just makes it a perfect bubble. It's almost — almost — enough to give me a reason to move to Southern California so I can have access to it any time I want.


Perhaps I'm the only one who thought this was an odd juxtaposition of signage.

So yeah, I regressed to being a seven-year-old. A seven-year-old with a 30-something's income and cash flow. And credit cards.



I might have spent a lot of money. I'm not saying, and neither are my new plushie Eeyore, my R2D2 plastic drinkstein, nor my Disneyland Castle Throw.

Ahem.

Emily and I drove back into town late last night, and today after mooching around the apartment and then throwing her out, I got dolled up for the SF celebration at House of Prime Rib.


These people did a really great job of convincing me that they liked me. So either they are good actors ... or I'm really pulling the wool over their eyes. Thanks, everyone. You really made me feel amazingly special, even though you all are the special ones.

I love being a meat eater. Sorry, my veggie friends.



Could I have had a better birthday extravaganza? Perhaps, if, as Laura had suggested, I'd been able to get myself a 19-year-old cabana boy to take care of me for the evening. Or had won the lottery. Or something. But those are dreams. And being realistic, I couldn't have asked for anything more awesome.

Best. Birthday. Ever. With or without the crying, I still win.

Waiting for Magic

Daffodils are my favorite flowers, which is kind of saddening when you realize they are only available at this time of year. The rest of the year I have to make do with other, lesser blooms. I'm waiting for this batch to Pop open.

I had a friend over tonight for crockpot-carnitas tacos. (And yes: they were amazingly delicious. I make a good spice rub.) The best part about having a guest over — aside from the whole "I have friends!" joy, and the conversation, and the sharing of food, and all the other things — is that it really is the only thing that actually motivates me to clean the apartment. Never can do it just for myself.

I leave for my Disneyland vacation in less than 36 hours, and only just now did I bother to rustle through my papers to find the Disney Rewards card I'd gotten from Chase. I've had a "Mickey Mouse" card for years now, and the big rewards was Disney dollars. (Not that I was thinking about the rewards at the time I signed up for the card: I was thinking about the 0% APR on transferred balances, and the crazy-at-the-time 17% APR I had on my Discover card. Disney dollars were bonus, even if I never used 'em.) This is now $170 I wouldn't really be able to spend anywhere else — The Disney Stores don't have movies anymore, it seems, which is a bummer — meaning that my living paycheck-to-paycheck habit just got me a free Disneyland lunch. And maybe one of those mouse ear hats. Huzzah.

More Proof That I'm a Dork

The world didn't start to end today, as had been foretold by crazy prophets out of Oakland, but I've gotta believe that's because Macho Man Randy Savage saved us all by threatening to snap Jesus like a Slim Jim if he tried anything. (Yeah, I know — I'm so original in repeating a meme.)

My face is a sunburned red from spending all day down at Maker Faire with the Ceramics Crew and Elka. I think we all had a blast, despite the herding cats experience of trying to keep track of everyone at once. Maybe I shouldn't have bothered, and just gone with it. But the Crew is always good for some shenanigans, can't help wanting to stick with them.


We got to ride a school bus in from the parking lot. There were a lot of signs ... as well as an interesting type of emergency kit.


Josh and Chuck try to be the next awesome Make Magazine cover.


Obligatory ride on Lindz's awesome Electric Giraffe. A perk of being an ex.

Sexy moment of the day: the Doctor Who theme song as played through two Tesla Coils. I didn't think about trying to get a video until it was too late, and I'm really peeved at myself about that. But it was kind of like this, just without the goofy guy in the suit doing hand dance:


Tomorrow will be a recovering day at home, roasting a chicken and watching the Sharks hopefully dominate in Game 4 of the Western Conference Finals against the Canucks.

The (mis)Adventure Part 1: Oregon; or, How I Didn't Die of Dysentery on the Oregon Trail

I am home. And I survived, despite the actions of that darned Higher Being who is out to get me.

Have to wonder what I did to deserve that.

We left off last entry with the smashed toe. It was still hurting the next day, Labor Day, when I left for my trip, and by the time I'd been on the road several hours (and made it to Crater Lake), had turned a lovely shade of blackened-blue.



That picture isn't even the most colorful it got. Another 24 hours gave it even a wider palette of hue, but by then I was too busy with Not Dying of Dysentery on the Oregon Trail to take a picture.

(It wasn't really dysentery, but I did end up getting that stomach flu from my nephew. I made it all the way to Portland, and promptly threw up upon arriving at Steph's place. She must really love me.

Then again, maybe not so much.)

The drive up was beautiful, at least, and before my abdomen started feeling queasy, I spent some time at Crater Lake taking a bunch of pictures:


Basically reestablishing that Crater Lake is the most beautiful place in Creation.




There was a forest fire burning up the woods to the north of the Lake. Fortunately, not near enough to the route I had to take that it would delay my drive to Portland.

The roads to and from Crater Lake are beautiful, but the northern route — taking OR-138 through the Umpqua National Forest — feels like a drive into forever. Beautiful forever, to be sure, but forever. I didn't get a chance to take pictures (I was on a mission to get to Portland before it got too late), but if you do it, I highly recommend taking the time to meander through, and maybe spend the night at some lodge along the way.

At any rate. I didn't realize that all this time my body was busy incubating the most horrible 24-hour virus known to Sarahkind; the effects didn't start to be felt until about an hour outside of Milwaukie, where my friend lives, though I guess I should be thankful that everything stayed in until I actually got to a toilet. To be crude: I spent about 18 hours purging my digestive tract of every foreign substance. From both ends. (Fortunately not at the same time.) To be even cruder: by hour 12 or so, when there wasn't much of substance left to eject, it started to have the color and texture of baby poop.

Steph spent a lot of time laughing at the sounds I was making. I had to laugh, too, between the crying and the cursing of that Higher Being.

It took a few days to fully recover (my appetite), but I did manage to venture out for decent food, wandering around the Hawthorne area and, of course, a required pilgrimage to Powell's Books. Sadly another pictureless adventure, but it was also a short trip, since I think Steph got a little bored by hour two, whereas I could have probably lasted until closing the next day. I made it out with a paper-bagful of books, and a total cost to me of about $34 (thanks to Lauren for the $30 gift certificate he gave me last year!).

Most of the time with Steph was necessarily laid-back. My stomach couldn't take much food or drink, and I tired easily what with still recuperating. We did do one Big Night Out(tm) to Pok Pok and had a drink at the Gold Dust Meridian, and I was very pleased with myself for actually being able to enjoy the entire thing.

And I think that's it for now. Next time I'll cover the Washington portion of my trip, which involved less bodily suffering, and more dangerous close encounters. Stay tuned.

Things Brighten

It's been a while since the last update.

The sun came out last week, burning away the fog for whole hours during the day and bringing Vitamin D back to the bodies of San Francisco's denizens. The window near my desk at work faces west, so every day I watched with joy as blue slowly appeared in the morning until it dominated the sky, and then with depression as the fog came back, long fingers shooting between the tall buildings of downtown covering the city once again in its gray shadow. It was a windy week, too.

Today, however, I woke up (granted, at 11 a.m.) to a cloudless blue sky, and plans to spend some time at Sunday Streets, which was going to be out along the Great Highway. Since I don't own a bike (and neither of us decided to rent one), I guess I didn't enjoy the experience to its fullest, but it was nice to walk along hand-in-hand and soak in the sunlight. The weather also afforded a rare spectacular fog-free view of Market Street and downtown from an apartment on Twin Peaks ... which, unfortunately, I neglected to photograph.

I did manage to photograph some of yesterday's shenanigans, which added up into a frickin' awesome day, all said and told. Despite the fact that it was oppressively dark for most of the morning, with a gradual burnoff into the evening. It started with brunch with Claire and her friends at Dottie's True Blue Café:





Unfortunately, I didn't get any food shots until we were pretty much finished. I'm a bad food blogger. But the food was delicious, and just barely worth the 1 hour wait:



Next I joined the Ceramics Crew for some goofing around at Leonie's place and exploring the Indie Mart. I bought a couple jars of buttons, and a gift for my nephew's birthday.

Grr.

The End is Nigh. Next year.

Josh is wiggin'.

Chuck is sexy.

My baby brother happened to be in the city, and joined us for a while.

Daniel is excited to be in front of the Full House house.

Finally, I headed off to a coffee date, which turned into a movie date to see Inception at the Marina Theater. What a head trip ... it's probably a movie I should see more than once. A little predictable for the end, and while it's not getting me to question my own reality, it does provide some interesting food for mulling over, as far as the film's story goes. Hmm. I kind of also like the side focus, that future actions can be and are controlled by ideas seeded in the depths of experience.

Goodbye, Cookie Hound

Luke,

Your entrance into our life was probably an accident of Fate. Mom, desperate to fill the hole in our lives that Charlie (the canine love of her life who, just like the Charlie in All Dogs Go to Heaven, was a German Shepherd) had left when he died, had met with several failed attempts to find a replacement. It was pure chance that she and Dad happened to see your mother, tits down to the ground, on a walk with our neighbor.

"That's a bitch who just had puppies," Dad said. (Probably not his exact words, but close enough.) And he was right. And as it happened, those puppies were close to being weaned and ready to be adopted. We would never have chosen a chocolate lab, much less a purebred one with papers, if not for this.

Your mother's owner told us to pick the one with the softest head — for quality? — and that was you. We sat around petting you for a while amidst your siblings and then brought you home, where you were a sleepy puppy for the first few weeks, except for the times when you were busy dragging our other dog, Clifford (named for the dog of the books, though neither big nor red) around by his collar.

We picked your name for Luke Skywalker, because I was newly a Star Wars fan at the time. It seemed to fit you, better than the other options that would reasonably come up for a dog of your color.



You were not the smartest of best friends, nor even the most loyal (I'm thinking here of the time you ran away and jumped into another family's car, as if you were going to join them on their vacation). But you were the best to snuggle with on a day home sick from school.

And you were always the first to know when a package of cookies was being opened somewhere in the house.

Mom fed you pieces of chocolate "to help him keep his color" on lazy Saturday mornings. Dad would always have to be the one to walk you, because the minute you got on the leash you would fly forward with all your weight, eager to be out and piss on every bush you could raise your leg to. My sisters and brother and I would joke about how when you died we would make an area rug out of your coat, and fight over who would get your soft soft ears to make into mittens.



Sometimes you were frustrating. You liked to bark at passersby who came within 100 feet of the house. You loved to steal food from the dinner table. You hated having to be outside when we had company over. And once you even peed on Dad's foot when we didn't let you out, even though you'd been standing by the door for five whole minutes. (That last was pretty funny.) Eventually he forgave you.



As you grew older, and your body started growing lumps and sores, and your legs started to not work right anymore, we kept wondering, Is it time yet? But you kept being so aware, and you kept hounding after those cookies. Your head didn't seem to know yet that your body was done with, and we couldn't bear to let you go. So we bore with you, carrying you in and out of the house, lifting you up so you could perform basic bodily functions, grumbling to ourselves how annoying you were, but still not able to give you up.

But today, we all had to admit to ourselves that it was finally time to let you go. Sixteen years we had you — more than half my life. The house will be empty to return to without you.

I hope there are a lot of cookies for you in the big Dog Park on the other side of the ocean. Sleep well, old man.

Exercising my Options

After an initial humiliating experience in the Conditioning class at my Krav Maga studio (which, I notice, I failed to mention on my blog at the time in a stirring act of self-censorship), back at the end of September, I was finally convinced to attempt it again by the instructor about a week and a half ago. Thought I'd only be able to make it halfway (the first time I lasted 20 minutes), but the instructor and some of the other regulars in the class talked me through the entire thing, until I found myself at the end of the hour, trying to support myself with my weak, shaky arms through Downward-Facing Dog and the cooldown stretches. Yes, walking (or any movement, really) was difficult for the next four days, but I was so damned proud of myself. You'd think I'd won the New York Marathon or something, instead of just making it through 60 minutes of full-body movement.

I went again this past Thursday, partly to convince myself that the first time wasn't a fluke, and mostly to try and make this into a part of my regular weekly routine. The Cute Guy was there, and he and I finally had a conversation while waiting for the class to start. Found out that he delivers wine for a living (access to wine = big plus!), but we also spent most of the 20-minute conversation discussing his new '07 Toyota Camry (car talk = somewhat of a minus). Not that he'd ever be interested in someone like me — I'm probably lumpier than the type of girls he'd generally go out with — but for some reason talking with him made me feel much more like a regular and a part of the "Krav Krowd". I made that term up, by the way. But if I do somehow become popular at the facility (hahahaha), I'm totally making a FB group called that.

In other news: Today I missed taking the Krav Maga test to move up to Level Two. I think I was ready for it, but I was also supposed to help my grandparents move out of the house they've lived in for almost 60 years into their new apartment at a retirement community. I was kind of torn, since I really feel like I'm ready to move on after about seven months of going pretty religiously, but you know how it is — sometimes you have to put things off in favor of the more immediate need ("family first", yadda yadda).

Except it turned out they didn't need me, so I should have signed up and just taken the test, anyway. Now I have to wait three months until the next one. Not that I'm peeved or anything. No way.

The day turned out to be not so much of a waste. My sisters called up to see if I wanted to hang out, and I drove down to Mountain View for a few hours to do breakf- err, a late lunch at Sizzler and shopping at Cost Plus.



Call me crazy, but any time spent with my nephew just seems to make life better. Does this mean I'm getting old?

Why Is Being Normal So Hard?

It seems I have been negligent in my journaling. I apologize. A lot's been going on, and I didn't really have the words to say it. (I still mightn't, but here's to trying.)

In lieu of taking my planned trip to Portland — good thing I didn't, because I'm broker than broke these days — I ended up spending the Fourth of July doing something I've never done before: sail on a boat around San Francisco Bay, and seeing the fireworks from the backside. It was pretty neat — my friends piloting the boat, a couple that met while they were serving in the U.S. Coast Guard (so they should be somewhat trusted on "open" waters), even let me "drive" the boat for a little bit just to get a feel for it. A couple pics below, but the rest, as always, can be found on my Flickr account:







On top of getting to do something awesome and new, the not-taking of the trip also gave me a 5-day weekend to relax and prepare for my new big adventure: working days. It's official: I've permanently dropped my vampiric ways, and have become a complete Daywalker. A perfectly reasonable, 9 to 5:30, Monday through Friday job the likes of which I never imagined I'd have again while still in my 20s. With a new job title to boot — not so much a promotion as a side-motion, but still. It's movement, and it's actually the job I've been hungering after for months. It's perfect for me, and gives me some room to grow (I hope).

It hasn't been easy. I never imagined that joining the ranks of the "normal" (as my family likes to call it) would completely throw my body out of whack. I'm waking up now around the time I used to get off work, and sleeping when I used to be working. In fact, I should probably be in bed right now, but ... well, old habits are hard to break.

We'll see how long I last like this. I keep getting told that in a few months, I won't even know how I used to be able to do Graveyard. But right now, I miss my old crew, I miss feeling like a hub of everything, and I'm still trying to figure out my niche in the daylight hours.

American Grafitti [sic]

A couple pieces of "urban poetry art" down the street from my apartment that make me think, "Gee, maybe we shouldn't teach hoi polloi how to write."



A better question would be, "When does my spray paint spellcheck turn on?"



... yeah, I don't think there's going to be a wedding happening anytime soon. Sorry, hon.

And then, while checking my Flickr page yesterday, I came across this frightening piece of evidence that the English language is completely going to shite:



Please excuse the French, I like to make some things difficult on myself. Like Flickr.

I wonder if this nitpickyness is really me, or just the 4th day of the Atkins diet talking? Hmm.