Re-fizzing

Late Friday night my cell phone started beeping. I had a new message. And it was from The Homeowner. He wanted to know if I was free for dinner.

Lesson Learned: Never let a cell phone company ruin a relationship.

We had dinner last night. And as we drove around the city trying to find a parking spot, I asked if I could have a sip of the soda that was in the cup holder of his car. He said it was kind of old and FLAT. (If he only knew...) He grabbed the soda as we were getting out of the car, and he tossed it into a nearby trash can. Which was exactly what I was thinking.

Dinner was GREAT. He is GREAT. I am... an over-analyzer. But I think I'm closer to reaching peace. I don't know if this relationship is going anywhere - Hell, I don't know if I want it to go anywhere. And (because I'm immature and I've been reluctant to ask him what HE thinks about all of this) I don't know if he wants it to go anywhere, either. But I think it's perfectly acceptable to classify "Dinner" as a destination. Dinner is one destination we're definitely heading towards again.

And that suits me perfectly. It's always great to re-fizz.

A Very Sac-Town Christmas

Very little in this world leaves me speechless. But 100+ people, mostly middle aged, alternating between the chicken dance and bumping to Tupac with their twenty-something children, all the while nearly black out drunk, on a Sunday night, while wearing designer jeans in the suburbs is just a little hard to wrap my head (which still hurts) around.

Additionally, very little in this world paralyzes my plans of action. However I stood at this party not knowing what to do with the rest of my life. Do I marry a wealthy Silicon Valley entrepreneur, make beautiful blonde children who grow up to play water polo at Cal or Stanford, and retire at 40 so that I can also throw very large insane parties on Sunday nights in my gated community? Or do I...

Wait a minute. Plan of Action still very much in tact.

I love California.

She's Leaving Home

She drunk eats vegetables late at night. She makes me scream, "Saki.... BOMB!" in loud, small, crowded Japanese restaurants. She has a nearly unhealthy obsession with Friends. She eats Oreos and milk for dessert almost every night. She cries while watching The Biggest Loser. She agrees that the Cala grocery store, a mere 3 blocks away, is quite a hike. She debates the issues. She brings new, intelligent perspective. She calls, "Bye, Love!" to me each morning as she leaves for work.

She has packed up her room. And she has emptied all of her food from her shelf in the pantry. She has moved out of our apartment.

And although she is only moving 8 blocks away, I cried as I watched her pack. Out of sadness that I will no longer see her every day. And although odd, I think I also cried out of a little bit of joy. Joy that I have been here long enough to have really grown to love a new friend.

Flat

Sweet, fizzy, and refreshing. Like a Fountain Soda. A Cherry Coke! Man, I LOVE Cherry Coke. That's how we started out. And every week throughout the past couple of months, we'd have another fountain soda together. That's what our dates were. Every one. A Cherry Coke. Sweet. Fizzy. Refreshing. And good. Really good.

It's just that I barely drink soda anymore. It gives me gas. And it so often has a really bad after taste. And to be honest, I haven't had a REAL fountain soda in - man this is embarrassing - since junior year of college which was about 5 years ago, now. And in a lot of ways even THAT soda wasn't a REAL fountain soda.

So now, given that it's been a while and I'm actually doing quite fine without the REAL stuff, I'm kind of picky. I mean, THIS was fountain soda. He - Me - we aren't crappy cans of storebrand pop that's sold individually. We're both pretty high end. Gourment, if you will. It just turns out that neither one of us is that big of a Chery Coke fan.

He called tonight. But I missed the call. He didn't leave a message. And it hurts more than I thought it would.

I guess that the only way to explain it is that last week, when we poured another soda, neither one of us felt like having much to drink. And as the days have passed, it has just sat there. The bubbles have stopped floating to the top. The fizzy has mostly fizzled flat.

The part that I hate the most about this flat soda is that it doesn't taste bad. Flat soda is still really sweet. It's just hard to drink it without the bubbles. Without the fizz. Without the excitement.

Domestic Goddess

At 2:00 p.m. this afternoon I entered early retirement. And what better way to celebrate than to cook dinner for my roommates? Yes, you read that correctly. I cooked. And because so few of you will believe me, I am posting the pics to prove it. Strangely enough, I enjoyed both the cooking and eating... Looks like I just may have a chance at being a Domestic Goddess afterall!

Grandfathered

"Not Exactly." That would be my usual response to the often-asked pre-move question, "Do you have any friends who live in San Francisco?" And by it I meant that while I didn't have REAL friends there YET, I had plans to make some people I knew lived there become my friends. In particular, an older brother of MMG.

I have been hearing about the Three Brothers G since Day 2 of Friendship MMG. I have known I would like each of them even before I ever met them. And since it took almost three years of stories and forwarded emails before I actually met Cowboy, #2 in the lineage and ten years the senior of MMG and me, I basically felt like I did already know him before we met. So much so that I actually forgot to introduce myself to him the first night we hung out. I just started talking...

And we proceeded to have a few beers. PBR's, no doubt. And then I told him a few bad stories. Pointless, bad stories with long awkward pauses in the middle due to lost trains of thought. I think MMG forgot to tell him about that unique trait of mine. A few days later, with MMG still in town visiting us, we brunched at his apartment. And I took a "nap" on his sofa, whilst the rest of the brunch party continued to... well, party.

Time has passed. We've had a few more PBRs together, the most recent ones consumed on Sunday night. After a dinner party, red wine, and some kick-ass biscotti. And when I awoke with a headache at 7:30 Monday morning, the first thing I thought I needed to do was call MMG and tell her a) how much I love her, b) how much I miss her and want her to move to San Francisco, c) how grateful I am that she has an older brother who lives in San Francisco, d) that she Grandfathered him into my friendship circle.

It is certainly great to have reclaimed my dignity with Cowboy after the Introductory Meet Nic Weekend. And it is really nice to have gained a Big Brother figure in moving to San Francisco. But mostly, it's great to share a new San Francisco friend with one of my best friends from home.

Crapshoot

I know I should have called him. But if I did, how would I have ever found out if he would have called me? And I know I should not have played any games. But without one, how was I ever going to find my way through this way too straightforward relationship?

When you boil it all down, dating is really no more than one big game. Right? The more I think about them, the more I marvel at how suprisingly accurate are the Theories of LCJ. Slurring-ly dispelled to me on a balcony in Charlottesville - in between sips of a Nattie Light and drags of a Marlboro - she taught me one of the most important lessons of college: Love is a Crapshoot. (It is also a battlefield, but that lesson was taught while standing in beer sludge inside a fraternity basement, NOT on a balcony...)

And so by not calling, I found out. By playing a game I got my bearings. Since he always bought dinner, the only money I lost during this crapshoot was on a couple cups of coffee. And the emotional wounds from this battlefield are relatively small. They can be healed with a small band-aid.

I am sad. But willing to anti-up again. Not willing to bet hard sixes that he'll call again, but I'll venture a bet on the pass line. Because thing best thing about craps is that the house advantage actually isn't that terribly out of wack. In the short run, we CAN win at craps, and hopefully, in love.

Underwear in the Kitchen

Standing in my kitchen. In my underwear. Singing,"Bring It on Home to Me." Loudly. While ironing my pants.

My roommates are out. And I am getting ready to go to a dinner party. It is being hosted by the one person here I have actually befriended on my own. Sort of. And while I am genuinely excited to go out tonight, I can't think of another time when I have been more homesick for Washington. For my old apartment. And for my old friends.

I haven't stood in a kitchen in my underwear for over four months.

As I wipe away a tear, I laught at the ridiculous crap I miss. And the nonsense that makes me realize I miss it.

What Do You Do?

I'd have to venture that the most frequently used run-on sentence in DC is, "What's your name what do you do?" (A close second within my circle of friends may be, "I'm a Democrat you're a Democrat, right?")

With slightly less confidence, I'd bet that the most frequently used run-on sentence in San Francisco is more like, "What's your name do you want to go hiking/skiing/boating/eating/drinking/shopping /loitering with us this weekend?" (With a close second being, "I'm OBVIOUSLY a Democrat you're OBVIOUSLY a Democrat, too, right?")

The difference in these two sentences is definitely one of the reasons I love San Francisco. While I do genuinely WANT to know what people I meet do for a living, I really love that asking and responding to "What do you do?" is not a San Francsco mingling standard. I love that the people of San Francisco are more likely to find out that I have run 3 marathons before they learn how I afford the entrance fees.

But today I OFFICIALLY accepted a REALLY awesome new job. With a growing, vibrant company. And a nice set of perks. No longer consulting to the government. Instead managing the development, customization, and implementation of software to manage data collected during clinical trials. Being part of a product development team. And traveling all over (the world!) to introduce the product and work with users to make that product better. It just may be that dream job I have been trying to communicate to someone outside of my brain since I was in college.

So tonight, at RLP's bar-thday party, if someone asks me "What's your name what do you do?" I will buy them a drink and tell them the ENTIRE story.

Quitters Sometimes Win

The graph below depicts my 9-5 mood the past six weeks.
I wonder if the nadirs have anything to do with my job? I wonder if the peaks have anything to do with the days I wasn't working and was hanging out with my friends and family? I wonder if the surge to 100 has anything to do with the fact that I went on a great interview on Tuesday? And that they offered me a job on Thursday? And that I QUIT on Friday?

I wonder who made up that stupid cliche that quitters never win... Because this quitter is winning. Definitely winning.