Fug Off!

She and I normally bat it out for the top Mommy position on college reunion trips with the girls. She always has her camera ready. She's always on time. She always looks so put together. She normally drives us everywhere we need to go. I compliment her skills by being the planner and always having Advil and Benadryl on hand.

So today, when I was in a bad mood, LGA told me fug myself. And just like mom's home cooking, or a trip to the ice cream store, or after a good workout, I felt better.

Go ahead and try fugging yourself now.

http://gofugyourself.typepad.com/

GLORIOUS.

I Lose

I love lists. More importantly, I love to check things off of lists. I love checking off so much that I write things down I just did just so I can check them off. It's sick. I didn't check a goddamn thing off today.

True to form, though, I'm actually performing quite well at being such a waste. It started when I woke up at 5:45 a.m. with every intention to go to 6:00 a.m. yoga. The alarm sounded, I turned it off, walked down the hall to pee, and then got back in bed and slept for two more hours. Note that sleeping in my yoga clothes did nothing to help me get out the door this mornig. I lose.

Then I spent the bulk of my day not doing any of the work I should have done. I responded to an email here and there, yes. But I hesitated starting the project I needed to start because I was supposed to have a meeting at 11:00 A.M. Don't know what happened to the meeting. The dudes back in DC didn't even call to let me know it was canceled. Rather than just get started on my projects anyway, I spent an hour and a half (more like 3...) on iTunes creating new playlists for Wilson. I lose again.

And if we're being honest, I lose double on the meeting because I was actually looking forward to it.

This afternoon, I tried to finish up what I thought would be a very quick little exercise in Excel. Have I ever mentioned that I need to remove Excel from the list of applications in which I am proficient from my resume? I love 'puters and informaiton systems, but when it comes to adding and subtracting and multiplying, from here on out I'm sticking with a No. 2 Sanford American and some lined paper. If it gets tough, I'll hunt for my TI-83. It's still around here somewhere. Even having to go to the store to buy a new one would take less time than it took me to figure out what cell in my spreadsheet had the the wrong formula in it. Again. What am I, 0 for 3?

More like 0 for 11.

1) Go to the Post Office.
2) Set up wireless network in apartment
3) Call LEJ.
4) Renew renter's insurance.
5) Complete expense report.
6) Buy new printer cartridge.
7) Pick-up new pants from Banana.
8) Order new charger for Sonicare.

Soy un perdedor.

Actually, I did make it out to the television to watch the lovely SKB on The Apprentice: Martha Stewart. 1 for 11. Go Me! And go Sarah! It WAS a LEGITIMATE looking flower shop. You rule!

So for tomorrow, we will attempt to re-do Wednesday. With an additional To Do item at the top of the list: BUCK UP, NIC!

Welcome Back, Wilson!

Sometimes I don't know how I ever functioned before Wilson came along. When he acts up, I am overcome by anxiety. I can't breathe. I can't concentrate. I have actually already been sweating each time he has done this before, but the glands always kick it into high gear in these situations, obviously in the form of upper lip and boob sweat. As if Wilson's lack of performance isn't bad enough, the Italian in me has to come out. In full bloom.

Mostly, though, my mind races. It tries to remember if I dropped Wilson at all. And then it tries to think about how to cover up those droppings. Because those "Geniuses" make you buy new Wilson's if you drop them, and I don't have $299 + 8.5% sales tax to get a FOURTH Wilson. I'd figure something out if I had to, of course. I certainly can't be expected to survive without 20GB of music in my pocket for more than a day or two, can I?

Luckily, Wilson's most recent crap out, during today's afternoon run, wasn't fatal. He has an identity of his own now, and therefore can cling to life. Before, when he was just, My iPod, there was no point in holding on. Today the electronic CPR - a nice factory restore - got him going again. He is currently resting in the ICU, connected to Matilda, my 'puter, drinking in 2716 units of tunes. Next time, I will make sure to share my Gu and Propel with him. No more bonking, Wilson!

Now that it's over, I do feel a little silly for the way I handled the recent scare. It's just that today I added a TON of old school rap to the collection... and some Eminem and Kanye. Not to mention some Ween, in honor of The Deaner's 25th birthday. I'm feeling totally left out of the celebrations tonight, but now that Wilson's almost up and running again - he's slurping up tune #2215 now - I will pretend I'm there with the crew.

SO... Welcome Back, Wilson!

And Happy 25th, Dean. You have more Phase Five pseudonyms than anyone else, by the way. Yikes... Let's not over anlyze that anytime soon. I REALLY hope you wore that shirt tonight, by the way.

How It's Really Going

Exactly one month ago, I arrived in Caliornia. I spent the night at a club in L.A. with Paris Hilton and Wilbur Valdemera. OK, they were there, but I wasn't WITH them.

Since then I have gone to fabulous beaches. I have driven through fantastic scenery. I have walked the steepest of hills and taken amazing runs and become a regular yogi. (Almost...) I have gone to exciting parties and captured beautiful photographs. I have started to frown upon sandwiches that don't contain avocado, and I have had multiple Pizza Orgasmicas. I have found the most interesting bookstores and flower shops. I met new, interesting people. I have stood on my roof and looked at the Golden Gate Bridge and said to myself, "I did it."

When everyone from home - a region loosely defined as Boston-Richmond - called, I said I was doing well. And that I liked it here. And that it was fun. And yes, that I'm still glad I moved.

This weekend, though, I actually started to believe myself.

During our walk through the farmers market and craft fair. After purchasing the most amazing new crochet hat. While talking to homeless people. Because I bought a $3 Hershey bar to support AIDS research. While watching the curb-side dancing at the Love Parade. And while doing my own dancing to Golddigger with my roommates on Saturday night. During a lovely Sunday brunch with HBP at the Crepe House. And when I realized I had a NEW FAVORITE BRUNCH spot. And later when we just walked around all day and knew where we were going. Most of the time...

This weeknd, my apartment felt like home for the first time. And I saw the people with whom I've been living, as well as the others with whom I've spent most of my free time, as friends. New friends, but friends, nonetheless. With a smile, I identified with the old man dressed in a fluorescent yellow track suit who said, "You live in this city long enough and you start to manufacture your own sunshine."

So really. I am doing well. I like it here. Hell, I love it here. There is so much to do and it is all too much fun. I'm REALLY glad I moved.

And I posted a lot of pictures, so stop by Pics by Nic when you get a chance.

[I] Love [a] Parade!

Summer is over everywhere but here, in San Francisco. And to celebrate the fact that it's finally warm enough to leave the jacket at home - for most of the day - the city had a parade. OK, that's not why Love Parade was staged, but it's definitely one of the reasons I attended.

Essentially, Love Parade is an 8 hour, daytime, outdoor, moving rave. I'm not really a fan of raving, or of techno music in general. Love Parade didn't inspire a yearning for a set of glow sticks and E, but it did make me want to dance, and it did make my heart pound.

Because it gave me an opportunity to really see the people of San Francisco. The people with lots of tattoos. And the people with fluorescent colored hair. The people who wear crazy outfits and the people who wear nothing at all. At the risk of looking like a tourist, I did bring my camera. Words can't describe it. Have fun.

But Love Parade also delivered heart pounding olfactory amusement. The parade route, brimming with marijuana, could have easily been confused with my favorite mirror-ceilinged room at my favorite fraternity house at UVA. Or this old white Volkswagon Golf in which I used to ride shotgun in high school. Doesn't the smell of pot make everyone think about high school or college? It's not really spurring those types of flashbacks anymore. Now and likely forever more, as affimed again by Love Parade, the smell of pot will make me think of my time in California.

I didn't really taste anything at Love Parade, so I guess the parade coordinators did overlook one of the senses.

The appeal to the sense of touch was not missed, however, and was actually my favorite aspect of the event. Couples of all colors and sizes and "preferences" held hands. Families laughed and danced as mothers and fathers deliverd liberal education lessons to pre-schoolers. Yes, pre-schoolers. Back in Philadelphia, pre-schoolers go to see Santa Claus at the Thanksgiving Parade and to listen to string bands at the Mummers Parade on New Year's Day. In San Francisco, small children accompany their parents to parades of trannies. And nudists. And pot smoking artisans. And ravers. And everyone else who just doesn't fit the mold.

Tolerance. It begins at a very young age out here. I effing love it. And THAT'S reason for a parade.

I Got the Monium

Man-de-mo-ni-um (mnd-mn-m) n.

The period of the cyclical dating lifecycle in which a woman has more men caling her than she can physically and emotionally handle. Also characterized by extreme confusion and disorder, normally caused by one male being better in the sack than another. "Another" is normally nicer, however. Always accompanied by a resurfacing of an ex-boyfriend to complicate matters even worse. Also referred to as the "Feast" period. (Antonym - "Famine.")

It's excellent, but we'll discuss later. Today, I have another Monium for yas.

Man-der-mo-ni-um (mndr-mn-m) n.

The state of frenzy in which I constantly find myself due to a friendship with my favorite redhead, AFS. Happy Birthday, AFS! We love you for all that you are to us...

• The First Year who couldn't get enough O'Hill.
• The RA who brought men back to dorms to hook up.
• The Patriot who sat 6 inches from the TV during the entire 16 Days of 2000 Olympics Glory.
• The Peeping Tom who when not in front of the TV for said Games attempted to watch events while peering into windows while traversing down 15th Street on our way to Coupe's.
• The Friend who was always on the couch when I came home "from school" and asked me to recount every moment of my day.
• The Victim of being STUCK IN A BUNK.
• The Guest of Honor at the BEST Flip Cup Tournament Ever! (Olay, olay, olay, olay...)
• The Owner of the smelliest car in college.
• The Singer with whom I love to harmonize Indigo Girls songs.
• The Woman with the strongest RANDAR ever detected.
• The Recipient of Doily Valentine Cards (Fuck you!) from adoring students in Baltimore.
• The Teacher known to grade quizzes at bars.
• The Chick who made out with a cop. (Or was he just dressed up like a cop?)
• The Renter who never remembers her keys.
  
• The Listener who always makes time to hear me out.
• The Counselor who always gives the best advice.
• The BEST Friend I miss seeing the most. (Except for the other 10 of you, of course.)

Happy 25th, AFS!

Run Shit

I worked hard on this resume objective:

I am a focused, career-minded individual in search of an increasingly challenging work environment. I am seeking a position as a Senior Business Systems Analyst / Product Manager creating new software and information technology products. I am an innovative thinker and results-oriented leader with solid judgment, excellent analytical and communication skills, and an unparalleled commitment to success.

Not a single word is a lie. I can back-up my statements with personal examples, project documentation, and even references. I honestly do want to be a "Senior Business Systems Analyst / Product Manager." If that's the title someone wants to give me, I know I can enjoy myself fulfilling that job description and all related responsibilities. However, I just don't need that many words to describe what my true career aspiration is.

RUN SHIT.

I want to run shit. Almost any kind of shit will do, as long as I'm in charge of designing, developing, deploying, and marketing it. And obviously reaping some benefits (profits) of it.

I've been running shit my whole life, to be honest. I couldn't just BE on the soccer team. I was a midfielder/Captain telling everyone where to pass the ball and when to hurry the hell up and get back on defense. I was the leader of the dance troupe. I was always placed in the front line, and before every performance I gave a very unique pep talk to get everyone to focus. And I couldn't just be a "member" of my sorority. I had to "mother" the house as well as the pledges. And in my spare time I built them a website.

I'm a born leader!

It's kind of nauseating, isn't it?

But here I am, 2,807 miles from my place of employment. The past few weeks, I have begun my days at 7AM PDT to keep up with the East Coast. Sometimes I haven't signed off until after midnight... PDT. I maintain at least 3 IM windows at a time, respond to never ending email threads, and participate in 4 hour conference calls. I worship the inventor of Bluetooth. And even though I don't pay it, I fear my cell phone bill.

My wrists hurt and I am seriously going blind. But I can't remember the last time I've loved my job so much. I'm tired and cranky and inspired and energized. FINALLY, hard work is paying off. (If only I could REALLY clarify that.) The clients are happy. The users are happy. The developers don't hate me. That much.

I'm close to running on empty. But I'm running shit. And it's THE SHIT. It's totally the shit.

Red is the New Black

He's cute. We like him.

Red

I spent yesterday hung over. All day. It's my own fault. Not the drinking too much and not getting enough sleep on Saturday night part. (I made out, nothing to be blamed for there!) But how I dealt with it on Sunday.

Instead of eating a big, greasy breakfast, I ate something healthy. Which means the entire day I was not only hung over and tired, but I was also hungry. You know those days when you can't make yourself feel full? Those days suck. And they always start with a hangover and healthy breakfast.

Head pounding, I couldn't really think straight. I should have gone to In-N-Out Burger and got a hamburger or something. Instead, I decided to fill the void in my stomach with a new pet. That sounds bad. I didn't eat the pet. You know what I mean, though. We went to Pepco, and we purchased Red, and now I have a new Beta fish for a pet.

I'm not going to pretend that making this purchase was easy for me. Not only did the smell of Pepco worsen my headache, but the guilt of replacing Murph made me quite nauseous. Red seems like he'll be a good fish, though. And since he's red and not blue, I am feeling a little less guilty about Murph.

I will post a picture of Red as soon as I can find my camera wires.

No Need for Novenas

Well that's settled.

After a very rough week "at" work, made worse by not only PMS but also the pending doom of parking tickets and what to do with my car, I ended the week with a Saturday night make-out. FINALLY.

See, the real issue isn't that it took three weeks to get some ass in San Francisco. I think three weeks is a respectable adjustment period for ass acquisition. The real issue is that I pay about $400/month for a car that has not accumulated more than 3 miles in the 3 weeks I've lived in San Francisco. I want to sell. Sock $400/month away for a couple of years. But what will life be like without a car?

It may be a litle rough, I know. Everyone keeps telling me to keep the car so I can get out of the city and go hiking and to the beach and to Napa. OK, I'm with you. Life in San Francisco only BEGINS in the city. But I've been thinking about it, and if I work a little harder at relations with the opposite sex, I might be able to kill two birds wth one stone, here. Car access plus regular spooning sessions. Think about it. It's a win-win anyway it's spun. Let's be honest - the secret to saving money has always rested with boyfriends. They pay for food, jewlery, and flowers. We, as girlfriends, in turn put out. In that order, nonetheless.

I'm not kidding. And there's no need for you to feel ashamed.

Back to my dilemma, I think selling a car and finding a boyfriend who has one is a solid plan. However, when I shared this plan with my father, he suggested I ask my grandmother to add this item to the list of her weekly prayers at church. (She has apparently taken to lighting candles and saying Novenas for me to pray for my happiness and success in San Francisco.) Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad, but I don't think we'll be needing any Novenas.

I'm back in the saddle. Let the games begin!

Never Stop Exploring

I spent today wandering around the city. I like to believe I wantedered with purpose, which in my book, is more affectionately referred to as Exploring. Oh, I love a good exploration. I would have given good ole Lewis and Clark, not to mention Sacajaweea, a run for their (or Jefferson's tax payers) money in the exploring department.

I explored my neighborhood Staples, where I found a nice wireless keyboard and mouse to purchase in the hopes of alleviating the carpal tunnel I have developed at 25. I then explored the venues at Union Square and purchased my very first North Face fleece. Never have I ever purchased a heavy jacket - with the intention of wearing it - in the summertime. But part of living in San Francisco is being open-minded and willing to try new things. P.S., I also gave in and bought a North Face Nalgene bottle. I couldn't help it. We need to stay hydrated and it was RED. I love red.

Next, I explored Chinatown and almost bought one of those little license plates with my name on it that you are supposed to put on your bicycle. And by bicylce, I mean tricycle, because anyone over the age of 7 who rides around on a vehicle operated by pedals with a license plate that has their name on it most definitely gets their ass kicked on the playground. It was an old school California plate, though. And it had MY name on it. I know there is something symbolic in that license plate. I will go back and bring her home one day... maybe tomorrow.

I ended the day's exploring with a walk around North Beach. North Beach, like the rest of San Francisco, is quite a cultural enigma. Who knew the Italians and Chinese could live in such perfect harmony? One side of the street boasts dead ducks glazed in sweet and sour sauce, the other dangles sausage and mozzarella. Even more exciting, amidst all the MSG and transfat, I stumbled upon City Lights, my new favorite bookstore.

The day is over, but the exploration is just beginning.

Home Alone

How come after you finish vacuuming it smells like barf? Am I the only person who describes the smell this way? Just wondering. I'd really like to see an engineer do something about the nasty post-vaccuum stench.

My first day alone in my new apartment and what was the first thing I did? I cleaned. Everything. NOW it's starting to feel like home.

Or maybe it just feels like home because I'm the only one here. Regardless, it's nice to be living alone again. Even if it's only for a weekend. I forgot how much I missed having a place to myself. Why do I INSIST on lying like that? I miss having my own place... pretty much constantly. I think about getting my own apartment out here a lot. When I walk into the house and see all the effing lint and dust on the stairs. And when I walk into the kitchen and see everyone's dirty dishes. During all the times I feel like talking to myself. Or singing really really loudly. And when I wake up in the morning and just want to walk around the apartment in my underwear and not offend anyone. (Or make them jealous.)

So, I think I'll relive the DC days and cook myself dinner and drink some wine by myself before going out tonight. Only this time, instead of sitting at my window and staring at The Ontario, I'll go up to the roof and watch the sunset beyond the Golden Gate.

Cheers!

Hot As...

I like to tell people I left DC because I hate sweating. This reason is 100% true in that I hate sweating and that I really hated DC for making me sweat so much. However it has nothing to with my actual depaurture. It does, however, make me LOVE San Francisco. Since I've been here, I think I've only un-voluntarily sweat once. It was that one freak day we had that was sunny and 86 degrees and I had to move my car and walk up and down 14 hills in the process. I didn't exactly sweat though. As Eleanor would say, I misted.

All that changed on Wednesday night, when I officially took my first real Bikram class. I'm more of a Vinyasa/Ashtanga fan. Bikram kind of... well, it's miserable as bloody hell. I never enjoyed breathing through the pain of my yoga. I'd still be a ballerina if hurting myself was a positive experience for me. But alas, I found myself there for the first time on Wednesday, and again on Thursday, and well, I kind of liked it.

The studio is very... CALI. When I first stopped by to pick up a schedule, I was greeted by a very muscular-bleech blonde-rubber-brown-tanned man folding towels in little shorts and a muscle shirt. He grinned and said, "Dude - have you DONE this? You gotta TRY it, MAN." On the East Coast, I'd be 100% positive this guy was stoned. Here, I'm pretty sure he's just high on yoga. I'm lying. He was stoned. Totally.

So on Wednesday night, wearing yoga pants and my maroon spaghetti strapped leotard, my favorite remnant of the ballerina days, I ventured the seven blocks to Funky Door. This outfit is tight and rather skimpy, but seriously, I have never felt so DC conservative. Once I arrived at class and set up my mat and towels, I realized I was surrounded by Yogis in Speedos. And they were all men. And they were more waxed than I am.

8 minutes into the class and I was ready for a water break. I would not receive it for another 15 minutes or so. After 30 minutes, I had more boob, back, and forearm sweat than I have ever had in my life. With the exception of Day 8 of The (Last) 12 Days of DC when I challenged - and schooled - Arturo in The Dance Off to End All Dance Offs at Saint Ex. So no, it wasn't that long ago since I was this nasty. But this time it actually felt good.

So, Bikram is intense. And it still does effing hurt. But the pain feels good, too. And it's good to intensely stretch again. I've never been as skinny as the other dancers, but I was always more flexible. I still am. I found my continued ability to fold myself in every which way possible pretty incredible. And as I've mentioned countless times before, I'm adept at sweating. Bikram Class #1 proved that despite leaving DC, I am still an effing expert at executing this bodily cooling process. However, the best part of Bikram Class #1 was watching Amazing Yogi Man in the puple Speedo. Did you know that penises sweat? They DO. I (involuntarily) watched him do his Dandayamana Bibhaktapada Paschimottanasana, and I am not shitting you, it looked like he was taking a piss.

So I have come to find new respect for the phrase HOT AS BALLS. I promise to use it sparingly heretofore.

Namaste.

Pointless Post

STOP FUCKING SPAMMING ME.

I feel better now.

Countdown

So I made this pact with myself while driving out here. If I ran into Adam Brody in Los Angeles, I was to take it as a sign that I was not meant to move to San Francisco. I was meant to live in Los Angeles and marry Adam Brody and be a yoga-going housewife.

DON'T mention Rachel Bilson. At this point, deductive reasoning would likely tell you I didn't run into Adam Brody in L.A. Don't ruin my daydream. Adam Brody would SURELY prefer dating an engineer like me than a hot actress like her.

Riiiiiiiight.

Next best thing: Season Premiere of The O.C.

Thursday, 8PM. 45 hours, 39 minutes to go.

And counting.

I Live Here (!!!!)

Thanks to laborers everywhere, myself included, I had nothing to do today.

So I put my pagan prayers to the Goddess of Distance Running to the test. Bless you, Goddess! I am BACK, Baby! I made it 80 minutes and at least 8.5 miles before I was a combination of tired, hungry, salty, chafed, and bored. Fine - 80 minutes and 8.5 miles before I was a quitter. You can ALL suck it, though. Do you know how much drinking I've been doing this summer? Go back and read-up. This run was an effing accomplishment.

And now, after picking up more Body Glide, my most troublesome running dilemna is deciding if the view on the run OUT - staring at Golden Gate Bridge - is better than the view on the run BACK - staring at the city.

I know, the going is really effing TOUGH out here.

However will I manage? Well, for starters, there's My Roof. It's not the best picture, but today the fog cleared enough for me to show you what the REAL view from My Roof is. I'll work on a better picture, but can you REALLY complain about this one?

Street SIgns

We liked each other immediately. He was kind and smart and challenging and GOOD. It was different. He confided in me things he didn't normally discuss, and I respected that. Because people are too fake anymore. Always trying to impress everyone with how great their clothes / hair / teeth / job / car / family / friends / LIFE is. Feigning perfection was tiring and fake and lonely. Even when it wasn't entirely pleasant, he wasn't fake. Which meant I didn't have to be, either. And It felt good to admit to someone that life fucking sucks sometimes.

We talked. We listened. We empathized. We commiserated. Humor spawned, and we laughed at ourselves and each other and at parents and politicians and Jon Stewart and the world in general. I laughed longer and louder than I had in ages. I went to bed at night smiling.

And I quickly found most other dating to be futile. Everyone I met after him I couldn't stand. Even the ones I could stand I couldn't stomach. Because the realness wasn't there. Everything else felt forced. He was the only person I ever met in DC that didn't leave a bad taste in my mouth.

But now, there's kind of an awful taste there. I think they call it bitterness. He's dealing with a horrible catastrophe and I feel terrible about it. But it can't be an excuse. This all happened before she came through. The past few weeks he has been dishonest. And incredibly self-centered. And immature. And unpredictable. And unavailable. And I'm going to cut myself off right there because being that resentful is only goint to have a negative effect on me in the end.

So I care about him more than I have cared about anyone in a really long time. Or maybe I just WORRY about him more. But I need to let this one go. I'm always friends with my exes. Having once loved - or even just really liked - someone, I have a hard time labeling them a horrible person with whom I never want to speak again. Maybe it's because it would then reflect poorly on my ability to judge people. Maybe it's because I can't let go. Or (gasp) maybe it's because they really ARE good people and it just didn't work out.

I hope it's #3 this time. Maybe it's something I haven't even thought of yet. It doesn't matter, though. At this point, little can come out of re-playing conversations and evenings that could and should have been. And I need closure.

You'd think it would be easy given that I'm in a new place and so far away from him. But I see his damn name on the street sign every time I step out my front door. The irony is not appreciated.

All bitterness aside, though - it is pretty damn funny.

Alone at the Top

I picked her up on Thursday night at the airport. Within only a few minutes in the car, I was delighted to find that we still think the same exact thing at the same exact time. (I know it's only been two weeks of separation, but...) I have always loved her laugh, but for some reason it sounded even better to me in the car on the way back to my apartment on Thursday night.

I met the infamous older brother Chris. Having heard stories about him for three years, I said hello to him like we'd already met countless times. Then remembered I should probably introduce myself. After a few short days, he has lived up to every story she has previously told me about him. He's crazy.

On Friday we got in some touristing time. Headed down to Ghiradelli Square and Fisherman's Wharf. Visited Pier 39 and the Sea Lions. We had a scary run-in with the Bushman, and decided that the homeless of San Francisco are way more creative than the homeless of DC. 8 miles and a powernap later, we dined on Sparks-tinis and DiGiorno pizza before heading out to a bar in North Beach, where I met my first new friend in San Francisco.

It's not surprising that with MMG in town, I have made my first new friends in San Francisco. They'll never come close to replacing her, but I should probably give them a chance to sit at the top beside her.