Tulle Skirt

Goodbye London

2010-04-11T14:33:00.000-07:00

End of trip.

My last weekend in London I decided to not do much at all. Friday I spent most of my time at Borough Market. Which is worth wandering around on a lazy day. I circled the stalls sampling bits of cheeses, spreads, cookies, olives, breads and jams. it was a tiny bit of heaven. Or many tiny bits of heaven, suspended on toothpicks, until they found their way to my mouth. Inspired again to be a decent house guest, I bought a greek spread with soft cheese, mint, tomatoes and onions, a crunchy baguette that smelled like angel wings, an assortment of olives and some savory pies. The pies came in many varieties. I took forever to decide until settling on leek with brie, broccoli, walnut with stilton and tomato with goat cheese and herb de provence. I'm surprised that two of the pies actually made it all the way home. The market is bustling, people shopping for groceries or lined up for lunch. It seems to go on forever, each corner a new culinary surprise.

That night was family night. Hung out with Steve and Patrick until Janetta got in. Then we went and met Tessa for Tapas. I love sharing food and sampling as much of a menu as a I can. Tapas is perfect for me. It was a small, quiet local place. Simple, well seasoned food. We had a nice time and time to really talk. A small space without a three year old, not that we didn't miss him, but still a slice of adult conversation is nice from time to time.

Saturday was my last day in town. I spent most of the day doing not much of anything. Working on the suitcase, soaking in the bathtub, drinking tea. Eventually I made it out of the house to meet Janetta and Tessa. Luckily, Steve had stopped by the house and led me to downtown. I had forgotten that the tube line was down. I would probably still be there, trying to figure out the buses, crying into my scarf if it wasn’t for him. He was my knight in shinning tennis shoes.

Janetta, Tessa and Patrick were seeing a film. I showed up, we walked a bit around the city, we walked behind a chocolate festival, sampling. And then after that we sat for drinks. There was a party associated with the film festival. Apparently we never made it to the backroom where the party was. We were in the bar room, wondering why there was no dancing. I managed to meet new friends. Talking about the US, UK and traveling in general. Paris came up. My new friends said that my American accent would be better there than a British one. Smirking, the younger boy stated, “old rivals, French and British”. “Still mad at them for helping America break up with you?” I asked. “They got you away from us and gave you a statue, what have you done for the French?” “World War II?” “The stupid French surrendered.” “Well, you still have to be nice to me because of the war.” A beer was earned. Let this be a lesson kids--those history classes will come in handy (thirty years later, in a bar, while you are awkwardly half-hitting on two men), both probably gay. Stay in school.

A twisty drive through the streets of London and a night full of half sleep ended my last night in weekend.

And now, hello America. Hello friends, pets, 5,000 work emails. I’ve missed almost all of you

UK March 2010: Winding Down

2010-04-08T23:13:00.000-07:00

Because I am apparently legally insane and want to collapse when I get back to California, I ventured out the other day for a full, full day of site seeing. Left the house at 9:30, am got back at 11:00 pm. Let me explain. The original plan was a full day at the British Museum. It's a pretty full museum especially if you like Greek, Assyrian or Egyptian artifacts. I had three main things to see on my list. The collection is very impressive. The British did a great job of looting from the world for centuries. You can see a huge chunk of ancient world treasures and artifacts without ever leaving London. It's easy to get overwhelmed by the number of important items there and get burnt out before you finish your tour. Pack a lunch, break for water. Span time.

My first item was the museum's big draw-- the rosetta stone. Even those of us that are slightly jaded, have to be taken back by the importance of the stone and how much was learned through it's discovery. I have a weakness for Egyptology, so it's been a big win for me. And also, I have the rosetta stone to thank for my coffee mug from the Luxor that spells out 'Rachel' in hieroglyphs. Talk about ancient treasures, I've had that thing of beauty for five years now. Everyone was huddled around the stone. Some there, slightly bored, seeing it because their tour map told them to. Some of us just staring for a bit, walking around the front. The back. The sides. Sizing it up. Somehow these treasures of importance that you read about in school, like the rosetta stone, seem to detached from your daily life of cleaning the house, fighting for a seat on BART, and wrangling chihuahuas. And then you see it and suddenly things are more than captions in books, this is real. Very real and probably very heavy.

From there I took a one minute stroll over to the Parthenon. Just like that, I was looking at an Athenian treasure. Or parts of it. The British Museum has quite a bit from the ancient structure, in a room designed to house the bits and pieces known as the Elgin marbles; named after Lord Elgin that sold them to the museum. Greece kind of, sort of wants them back. A small sign in the British Museum states that the marbles are still there because they 'would not survive being moved'. Do your own math on this one.

Another big item on my list was seeing the bog man. I became a interested in the whole bog body thing while traipsing around Ireland. Learning about the landscape and how the peat grows in layers, the old layers begin releasing acid which preserves the bodies and since it is a low oxygen environment there is not much to rot them. So you see lines on hands, scars, tattoos and analyze stomach contents from people that died in the Iron Age.

At this point my day was running late. I'm known to wander. One of the items on my list was the National Portrait Gallery. They are open late on Thursdays, so I decided instead of heading back for dinner that I would grab a bite and hit that museum before my evening plans started. I was hoping to see the Irving Penn exhibit, so I was happy it all worked out. I think we can all sense a theme of me being drawn to photography exhibits in general, and then you add in the Vogue factor. I would've been upset if I missed it. I stayed in the gallery with his work for awhile. Mixing up the order I saw everything in, zooming in close and zooming out. I had made small talk with the gallery employee at the door on my way in. Probably what stopped me from being arrested during the zooming in part.

With time to kill and a credit card I had emptied before I left for my trip, I felt inspired to take a quick look again around Soho and see if I needed a proper souvenir. I found a pair of shoes to properly mark the trip in my memories and justify the exchange rate. Here.

My next step was the opera I had decided to see: Satyagraha. I butchered the title several times and then just settled on calling it 'The Gandhi Opera'. I have never been to a proper opera before and had settled on going to this for three key reasons: you try new things on vacation, it sounded interesting, the balcony tickets were cheap. And so there I was with my heavy coat, big purse, camera and box of new shoes squeezing into a tiny packed row for a three plus hour show. There were four women, a group, between me and the aisle, and we all chatted for a bit before the show and at break. I had bought the program. The opera was in Sanskrit. I wasn't sure I would've fully understood in English, so this gave me an excuse to read the program heavily. I shared it with them at break and we all spent a couple of minutes picking out the literal items from Gandhi's life and the ones created for the show. They helped me with the Hindu gods that appeared, I figured out Krishna and Ganesh, needed help beyond that. The show was moving, the music simple, more like a backdrop to the voices and to the stage set. The set was also simple, but powerful. Non-violence and transformation were the key themes throughout. Gandhi goes from a lawyer dressed in British clothes to the image we are more familiar with, him in a robe. First the shoes come off, then the coat, the hair... The newspapers in the set are held up by the players and become a temporary screen for words, then for weapons, then they are taken off the stage and then giant paper mache creatures come out.

Gandhi gets linked to Martin Luther King Jr. towards the end. A small door opens in the top of the corrugated back drop of the stage. You can see the figure with his back facing you and know who he is. At the podium arms slowly moving, not to distract from Gandhi and the Salt March scene on stage, but to accent. And to link two big figures of non-violence. Two more windows appear in the backdrop next to King. They are covered in thin screens, you see the backdrop of The March on Washington. First photos from the march, thinned and vague, then the heavy outline of players acting out the protest march. In silhouette only-- a figure crouched on the ground, shielding his head while two other figures stand above with billy clubs. The other screen, a person on the ground, the outline of a thick boot repeatedly kicking them over and over. Powerful. Then the screens are torn open and people in riot gear climb down ropes, meeting the stage, and flooding around picking off the salt march protesters and pulling them off the stage. The stage is left with just Gandhi and the MLK Jr. figure still up in the backdrop. Curtain drops.

Entering the streets of London again after that was surreal. But I weaved through the crowds of theatre goers, all seemingly let out at the same time. Found my way to the crowded, crowded train and through myself into bed as soon as my key clicked the front door closed.

Almost done. One more travel update to go. Stay with me folks, I'm running out of steam.

UK March 2010: Aran Islands

2010-04-01T17:18:00.000-07:00

So, the Aran Islands are amazing. As is Galway. In Dublin I loved the sites I got to see, the places I went to, the discoveries. I just didn't fall in love with the city. Paris, New York, San Francisco, London-- those cities can kidnap me anytime. Dublin will not be as successful. Galway and the Aran Islands could easily charm me into repeat visits. I happen to be of the thought that a ferry ride itself is pretty exciting. Then we landed and things got better. I went to Inishmor, the largest of the three islands and the most populated-- around 800 regular residents, more in season. I was still a bit tired from staying out late-ish in Galway and watching bands, so I headed to the b&b with my duffel bag and settled in to my room a bit. Knowing it was the best way to really explore the island, I still declined the use of the bike, I was craving a nice hike and it was a beautiful day. I stopped by the sweater mart first to check out the aran sweaters you hear so much about. I decide not to buy a sweater there. It's an investment and for a bit more you an order online the exact type of sweater you want and to your measurements. If anyone hails from Irish heritage especially the Galway region, you can order a sweater from your clan. If you knit, you can order a kit that comes with the wool and pattern (based on your height/size). Each clan had it's own pattern that was handed down from generation. The different types of stitch work had different symbolic meanings and together made up the clan's pattern. On the grim side, if a fisherman was found after dying on the seas, he could be identified by the sweater in most cases. So if you have an extra couple hundred dollars around and want a warm sweater that shows your heritage, check it out. And if you need my measurements, so you can surprise me for my birthday, just let me know. After exploring the market, I started on my hike. I walked down the road for a bit, charmed by the new houses, the bold Galway Bay, the miles and miles of low, crumbling dry stone walls. Some walls new, some old, they are a way of clearing the piles of rock off the land so that some grass and plants can grow and providing land and area barriers. It is quite a site, the maze of stone walls climbing up the cliffs. Some cows or horses in some, some with new fences, some old and half run down. The patchwork of grass growing between the stretches of stones. People are friendly on the island. Not exactly bustling with activity, I still passed some cars and people on my walk. Everyone waved or said hi. I got into the spirit of things and my the end of the day was taking the lead on the greeting exchanges. There got a point where I decided the real hike would need to begin, bending my map around to what I hoped was the right direction, I found a turn off road and headed up. And then up a little more. And up. The stone walls became less frequent, I was walking on grass, then limestone slabs. It seemed almost purposeful like an expensive, modern floor, but this was just how it had been for centuries. Slab after slab with a little grass thrown in between. The island is known (in addition to the sweaters and knitting) for the stone fort ruins. Dun means fort in Irish. Dun Angohasa is the one most people get to. By the end of the hike, I found myself at a different one, Dun Duchathair or the Black Fort. Hanging on the edge of a cliff, crumbling stone fort on a slate and grass patchwork floor, surrounded by dry stone walls and overlooking the raging sea. I was the only person or creature around for as far as I could see. There was nothing between me and the cliffs. It was a mild day, no wind. I laid on my belly and stared at the sky, then switched to my back and stared down at the wild sea crashing against the rocks. I don't know how far down the water was, the drop seemed endless. And even then, when I walked around a bit, there was a spot on the top of the cliff that was getting wet from the spray. Somehow there must have been a hole or passage in the side of the cliff. One sudden chunk of wetness in the middle of the dry stones.

Two things I tend to do whenever I start to feel out of sorts is look at the water if it's around, or stare at the sky. I don't know what it is, but somehow the beauty and expansiveness of the sky or the waves just stops whatever thoughts are plaguing me and steals them and my breath for a few minutes. Day or night, sunny, cloudy, rainy, I've never not been in awe of the sky above my head. Try it. Downtown San Francisco, crappy day at work, step outside, lean against the wall of some building on Market Street, and just stare up. I then found my breath again, took fifty million pictures and started to weave through the rocks again back down to the road. Those of you that are connected through Facebook have seen some of the shots, those of you that aren't I am hoping to keep going through the and post them soon. When I say I have over 600, I am not exaggerating. But, they aren't all sky and water.

I ended the night with a simple dinner in the pub. I did mention they are a friendly people? I walked in, the women sitting at the tables, men gathered around the bar. As I walked past the bar to grab a seat, an older man grabbed me and pulled me over. "I just need to ask you a question young lass; are you happy?" "Yes". "Well, glad to meet you happy, I'm Owen." Then roaring laughter from about ten, weather beaten older men as I smiled and found my seat. Leaving Ireland involved getting back to Dublin, since leaving from Dublin made things a lot cheaper ticket wise and easier with train connections in London. So, it went like this: ferry to bus to bus to plane to train to train. And then a short walk to Tessa's house and back to my old room.

The next day, Tessa and I just hung out. Went to downtown London to check out some galleries we were running late and worrying about time since she needed to get back in time to pick Patrick up from school. Then at the train station we rain into her ex, Steve. He was able to pick up Patrick from school, so Tessa and I found ourselves with a bigger block of time, walking around Soho, chatting, and running errands. Had one of my favorite days. I'm loving all the sites I'm taking in, but there is something charming about a day with no agenda. Shifting into a shop when the mood hits. Remembering last minute something you needed to do, switching course and just doing it. We got back, Tessa and Janetta had a meeting, so Patrick, Steve and I hung out and talked about dinosaurs. It was nice to be settled back into London, even with the threat of rain looming all around. March is a fickle month for weather.

opefully London will still be kind.

UK March 2010: Galway: Home to the Ferocious O'Flahertys

2010-03-31T18:48:00.000-07:00

Saturday I got up at a decent hour, anxious to explore Galway after resting most of Friday. The hotel does a great breakfast. I'm not really the Irish Breakfast type, but was very happy with my poached eggs, wheat toast, fruit and tea. I took an apple for later and headed out. First I decided to just walk around and get lost on purpose. Then ended up at the Galway City Museum and the Spanish Arch by accident. it was a nice stroll, looking at this exhibit on traditional Irish currach (skin boat) which is still used by some fisherman today. It went into details about the differences in the boats by area and what goes into making them. Your food, income, life were all linked to these vessels. Some fisherman carried small vials of holy water in a rope they tied to the boat and left in the water-- to bless both. Priests would pray over new boats before they took their maiden voyages.

In case any of my east coast family members have been wondering for the last 20 years what it would take to get me to attend mass again, I've stumbled on the answer. Apparently all that needs to happen is that I show up at St. Nicholas Cathedral about five minutes before service begins and I will anxiously grab a seat and sit through the service. I'm very lucky I found myself in a Catholic church so that I could follow along without prompting. Everyone was very nice, the service was short. I wondered halfway through if they were going to read the Pope Benedict XVI letter like other churches in Ireland have been doing, but they did not. The letter has had mixed results on the island from what I can gather. Some glad to have it, others wanting more of an acknowledgment of the Vatican's reported role in any cover up and more about what other countries are facing. Some felt a bit picked on, felt like more needed to be said about the survivors of the abuse, and some appreciated that there is no longer silence at the top levels. This and the American health care debate are the topics of discussion. It is interesting to have the different perspectives on both.

Galway county is where the Irish branch of my family hails. According to what I could find we have quite the reputation around here. Apparently, part of the reason Galway was walled off was because my ancestors wanted to take it back over from the English after being driven out centuries before. A plaque was placed on the city walls," From the Ferocious O Flaherty's O Lord deliver us". This plaque is infamous and mentioned to me by friends at the music pub (see below). Now, any of you that have encountered me on a bad day know that it would take more than a damn wall and plaque to keep me out. Still, it was a touching gesture. And now that you know a little more of my family history perhaps you will never talk to me like that again or give me that type of look. Thank you.So, I hear there is this thing called "Irish Music" so I decided to head out and hear some. I left the area of my fancy hotel, clogged with drunken college students and headed across the bridges (quays in Ireland) to an area where there are slightly less drunken college students. I settled in to a bar stool and ordered a glass of Guinness. A glass would be a half pint and looking around the room, I quickly realized that unlike Dublin and London, women in Galway still drank by the half pint. Where as the guy next to me averaged about 2 pints of Guinness to every half pint I had and I am not a very slow drinker. Though, luckily, not much of a drinker these days. I was done with a pint's worth. He is still there. The music was good a blend of traditional Irish and country/bluegrass. Audience members at a couple points sang there own solo ballads to the crowd. I made friends with the older crowd around me. Talked about Ireland and the US and families and travel. I also got a good recommendation for a band to see Sunday night. Hopefully my feet hold up.It was a nice night, relatively quiet in a crowded bar. Small conversation, smaller beers. I unwound my way home to the hotel and opened my window to hear the noises of the party crowd and feel the welcoming night air on my tired skin.

Sunday started with breakfast again. Like church, the way to get me to breakfast is to just put it in front of me. I went for oatmeal this time with stewed fruit and a poached egg on the side. Protein to keep me on track during the day. Sundays are quieter. You forget when you live in the US that some countries still close down at 5:00 in the evening and don't open on Sundays. I like it though. Strange for me, someone that thrives on off-time shopping trips, but it does allow people more community time. The shops close, the pubs, restaurants and cafes open. People mill about and meet up. Dinner on time with the family. Dogs get walked often. The money I save on food by eating apples, hummus and soda bread all day, I spent on an over priced massage at the hotel. My back and legs were not going to forgive me if I didn't. After the massage I took advantage of the outdoor, wooden hot tub that overlooks the bay. And now, yes, right now, I'm sitting in a pub in Galway, watching a fantastic band. Wow, that guy I met yesterday was right, they are fantastic. He says they are one of his favorite local bands ever and he is clocking I'm over 60. I like the thought of him seeing this somewhat mohawked, alternative, band in the flood of college students that make up the audience.

By now I am homesick, but still happy to have these adventures. I'm looking forward to a restful night in the Aran Islands and the journey back through Ireland to busy London.

Uk March 2010: Dublin to Galway

2010-03-30T22:10:00.000-07:00

Let's start with a list of my favorite things about Dublin (no real order):

Chester Beatty Library
Kilmainham Gaol
The ease of having random conversations with strangers
Tea on demand
Watching television in Irish (Gaelic)
Mary Gibbon's Newgrange Tour
Learning three words in Polish (I'll forget by the time I get home, don't quiz me) from my new friend, Miarana, on the Jameson tour
The view from the gravity bar at the Guinness store house
The flood of green on St. Patrick's Day that wasn't in a green beer Boston kind of way

My last day in town was where I finished up my site seeing. I had two items on the top of my list to cover-- The Chester Beatty Museum and Trinity College. With my tendency to wander on purpose and accidentally (some people call this 'getting lost') I still had to stay on track. My hotel room fridge was stocked with food-- Indian leftovers, bread, cheese, apples, grapes, yogurt--this makes it easier to get up and go. Apparently, I've managed to eat (along with buckets of tea and pounds of cookies) 1,500 grams worth of red grapes and six super large apples. I eat some bread or yogurt in the morning, stuff my pockets with apples and grapes and face the brave outdoors.

I got to Trinity college first, easily found my way to the Book of Kells. It was just as amazing as you heard, but I found it equally amazing to walk through the other historical books on display there and ended up spending a big chunk of time in the Old Library. Lined with old books and dark wood shelves to house them from end to end, the pathway in the middle littered with glass display cases full of history, it was a tremendous experience. One of the highlights of the library itself is from the 1916 Rising-- the Proclamation of the Irish Republic. This is one of the first things you see when you walk in the doors. Housed in the college that British soldiers used at the time to fire on the rebels.

A big fan of gift shops, I browsed and browsed around the shop at Trinity until deciding on a cd rom of the Book of Kells, all of it. I figure I'll have everyone over and we can stare at my tiny laptop screen and look at it together. All around 680 pages of it. Pack a lunch.

After being set out of the shop. I wandered around the campus and then took off to do errands. I was supposed to meet the Germans around this time to do some site seeing together. I met the Germans on the small tour to Newgrange. We talked for awhile and then made plans to meet. We talked about many, many things that day but somehow, oddly never bothered with names. So, on the bus we had the French guy, the Germans, the Boston women, the two hungover girls from New York, the party people at the back of the bus, the woman that ran a small hotel in Greece and me. The Germans sat next to me, a mother and daughter team. The daughter was staying near Cork and working as a nanny, the mother was here for a visit and they were touring the island together. We chatted most and then made plans to meet and if it wasn't for my uncanny ability to get lost in a paper bag, we probably would've met up and had a great time. As it was I took a wrong turn, it took me awhile to realize it and with the back tracking I arrived 20 minutes late. Sigh. I liked hanging out with them and I really felt like my plan to stay in touch and suggest visits to each others home towns would've been well received. Now one of you will need to put me up in Hamburg and show me around town.Thanks in advance.

I still got up the energy to continue on to the Chester Beatty Library. I’m still puzzled why more visitors to Dublin don’t find their way to this nice gem. It’s in the middle of Dublin Castle, easy to find when you are looking for it. And it’s free. The library is from the private collection of Chester Beatty, an American with a penchant for world travel and Asian artifacts that made his home in Dublin. There were two temporary exhibits on during my visit. One on narrative and figurative paintings from China during the 15th-20th century. These paintings and scrolls were visiting from the Shanghai Museum. The other exhibit was about the lost religion of Manichaeism. It was a very interesting story about this religion which most people did not know a lot about since most records were destroyed. Then these books got found in the early 1900's and they were found in very poor condition. One by one the pages, stuck together by dirt and salt for centuries are being separated from each other, preserved and translated. A whole complex religion that bases itself on the duality of good v. evil and dips into Buddhism, the complexity of stars and the night sky, and links this all to Christian belief structure is being unraveled and pieced back together, page by page.

And wait, there's more. The Library is best known for the collection of ancient religious texts, from many different paths. The collection of around 260 Qur'ans is supposed to one one of the best in the world. They are amazing to look at. And there is a lot to be learned. The materials in the Library help break down the different texts and where they are from, how they were used, but also educates you on the religions themselves. And then a step further, breaks down some different paths within the religion. A broad overview of the differences in Islam between Sunni and Shi'a beliefs, the three main types of Buddhism and the orgin of each. The collections of bibles is wonderful. Biblical Papyri from the second century AD including the oldest known copies of the four gospels and Acts of Apostles. Then they explain the difference in the apostles, their backgrounds and what their writings focused on. I spent a lot of time wandering around the collection, reading the texts, staring at the illuminated manuscripts, watching the interactive videos. I am more than a little interested in going a bit further and taking some comparative religion courses when I get home. There is something about those treasured books, how much went into their creation and how important it was to have them-- the process to create the paper, make the ink, the knowledge and study it took to be able to decorate and write one. And then the way they were treasured, for the words, the meanings, the connections people had to the spiritual world through them, and the sheer beauty of the books themselves. Reverence.

And yes, to answer your question, I did go to the Guinness Tour. I was not so much looking forward to it. The hungover and newly drunk again teenagers, well that was getting old. Still, I do like Guinness and I wanted to sit in the gravity bar with my pint and stare across Dublin. It was a pretty clear day. It was pretty amazing. I managed to sift through the crowd and get a seat. I spent a very long time there, staring around the city and getting lost in my thoughts. They only problem was I was out of grapes and getting hungry. I don't care what the old advertisements say, Guinness is actually not a meal. Well, maybe in my twenties, but not now. I shifted off the seat, climbed down a million stairs and went back through the streets of Dublin to the hotel.

This was my night of relaxation. I loaded pictures on my laptop, washed out clothes in the sink and put them on the heated towel rack to dry, massaged my sore feet, soaked in the bath until the water went cold, and began to pack.

My dear friends at the world's crappiest airline, Ryan Air, had done a number on my suitcase. This is a roller bag that I was not planning on taking home. I stuffed this smaller bag inside my bigger suitcase. The plan was to use the smaller bag in Ireland and donate it to a thrift store in London when I got back to Tessa's house. I have another similar, but better bag at home. But now the handle was half broken. And then in the middle of crossing a street, it became fully broken. Let me pause and mention that pedestrians do *not* have the right of way in the London or Ireland. I am smart enough to have figured out how to jimmy the removable shoulder strap from my purse to use with the suitcase. It still sucks, but at least I don't have to carry it. Now I have to decide if I am even going to bother with taking it one to London or dump as much as I can out of it and use the small duffel bag I take with my on travels. Apparently being overly prepared does have it's occasional advantages. Of course the dream was I would stuff it full of some treasured gifts for all of you. Instead we are looking at my collection of rain gear filling the bag. Hope you all like the used umbrellas you are getting for Christmas!

So, the bus ride to Galway was simple and easy. Sit, access wifi, load photos, arrive in Galway around three hours later. Still, I looked a little torn up. Wearing my traveling attire which is marginally better than what my clothes look like after camping for three weeks, pulling a broken suitcase with a homemade strap apparatus on it, hair falling out of the barrettes. You get the picture. Then I arrive in my really, really nice hotel. Where there is a fancy, fancy wedding reception going on. And the lobby is littered with guests all in nice suits and beautiful bright jewel toned designer dresses. I could not have felt more out of place.

Still, I can clean up well on occasion. I grabbed the new dress from Dublin, fixed the hair, went downstairs and had a water in the bar watching the pretty people party.

This being my day of rest, I sat outside and stared at the people picking up groceries, pulling in to pubs and then back inside for a nice relaxing night with a long, hot bath and more confusing Irish TV.

UK March 2010: St. Patrick was not Expecting This

2010-03-29T22:13:00.000-07:00

Monday some sites are closed in Dublin, but the enterprising young(ish) traveler can still eke out a decent day of site seeing. I started my day with more wandering, got lost, found a new dress, got on my way again. I walked across the city to Kilmainham Gaol (jail). It was one of the top things on my list to do and well worth the walk. The tour was great, we wandered through the cells and the yard, getting filled in on the history of the prison, the history of Ireland. The crux being the 1916 Easter Rising. The leaders of the rising (or rebellion, depending on your politics) where held and executed here. The popular thought is that the executions ended up helping the cause towards Irish Nationalism. The people felt torn and tired, but seeing the dead fighters, revived them into action again. Certainly this cause has had its ups and downs in Irish history, tied into waves of immigration and exodus, religious strife and resource allocation. Not that this battle is completely finished. I'm not going to Northern Ireland this trip, but still have been plagued with the torn history of the Ireland and the realization that the Good Friday Agreement partly worked out by Bill Clinton, was just not that long ago.

Needless to say, after all that, I needed a drink. Since I had lost track of time and things close early, I was running up against some limited choices. The Jameson Distillery turned out to be my next stop. Not the most exciting tour visually, but we had a nice guide, and that helped. I also was smart enough to know to volunteer at the beginning for the taste testing at the end of the tour. They lined up the scotch, Jamesons and Jack Daniels and I helped decide the winner. One guess which I picked. I know where my soda bread is buttered.

I then got out of there before I got into trouble. Not to strengthen any stereo types, but there does seem to be a bit of pressure to drink in Ireland and to do a fair amount of it while you are at it. I've been exiting gracefully with made up plans whenever possible. This day, I sort of had some. I went to the Irish Film Institute to check out the facilities and to see 'The Fading Light', a new Irish film that was playing there. Not the happiest of films, but anyone that has made the mistake of letting me pick out a movie to watch knows that besides my odd Will Ferrell obsession, most of what I gravitate to can be a downer. I finished with a nice, light dinner in the film institute's cafe and then my windy night time walk back to the hotel.

Tuesday and Wednesday I decide to tour some of the outskirts of the Dublin area. I'm drawn to crumbly ruins on my vacation trips. Tuesday I went to Glendalough in Wicklow county. This area is linked to what is known as Ireland's 'golden age', when Ireland was the seat of learning in Europe, partly due to the monastic settlements and the education they provided. Saint Kevin of Glendalough was supposed to have gotten this while thing going. After living in solitude for seven years, he came down from the cliff and started building the monastery. That's a lot of time to plan a community, even in those days. Glendalough translates to 'valley of two lakes' which kind of gives you a rough idea of the landscape. After touring the crumbling ruins. I walked the path built on the boggy land that borders the lower and upper lakes.

Then back to the tour bus. The tour started with a brief drive and history lesson about the land around us. When we stopped for coffee, the driver pulled out a bottle of whiskey and asked if I wanted a shot in my espresso. I said no, put my drink down for a second, and when I picked it up noticed it was twice as full and smelled like Jamesons. It was 10:30 in the morning. After that he stopped a car passing us and handed out shots to everyone in the car. Then answered his cell phone and read texts while driving a vehicle roughly the size of a Greyhound bus. All I'm saying is Ireland is a good place to rediscover your religion. One way or the other.

Wednesday was another tour day (originally this tour was supposed to be on Thursday, but I got bumped). This is the trip I was really looking forward to, to the ruins of Newgrange. There are a lot of these stone circle/tombs around this area, only some of them have been excavated. It is interesting to think about all the history still to be discovered. Newgrange is from the new stone age (neolithic to you smart ones out there) period. A site older than Stonehenge, older than the pyramids. Plundered like most of the sites. And carved into the stones, somewhat modern graffiti from the Victorian Era. You know 'Albert was here 1869'. Actually, kidding aside, that is not far from the truth. Apparently the need to put your name and date on things is not a new phenomenon. So kids, get out your spray point and just go. Someday, 150 years from now, others will be staring at it in wonder.

It should be noted that this was also St. Patrick's day. From slave to bishop to patron saint of Ireland, this man really had a life. He is credited with bringing Christianity to Ireland; picking up the shamrock and comparing the three leaves to the holy trinity. The snakes he drove out of Ireland are thought to actually have been the druids and pagan ways. What he didn't manage to drive out of Ireland where hoards of 18 year old drunkards. Downtown Dublin, 3/17, can make you rethink wanting to lower the drinking age in America. I'm not sure we should let them join the military or vote either. I tripped over scores of them when I walked through the cobblestone streets of Grafton Street and Temple Bar near Trinity College. I did manage to randomly fine a nice, casual Indian restaurant. Ate my fill and packed up leftovers that will certainly last me through the end of tomorrow. Best six euros I ever spent.

Full and frazzled by the throngs of revelers, I headed home. I felt a tiny bit worried that I was not fully celebrating. I stopped into a random pub, had one pint of Guinness, chatted with the bartender and a six year old that was overly enjoying her new penny whistle. She was cute, her uh, talent, was annoying. But she needs to practice now. She will be able to legally drink in 12 years and will need to be able to manage to play after eight hours of solid drinking on that St. Patrick's Day.

My favorite thing about the hotel is tea and cookies on demand. I rushed home based on this benefit. In the room, I put down my bags, called for tea, ran the bath water and drank two cups while soaking in my Irish lavender bath salts.

UK March 2010: London to Dublin

2010-03-27T03:40:00.000-07:00

Dia dhuit!

I finished up London with an art day. After sleeping in, talking a short bath and drinking a lot of tea, I wandered to the tube station and made my way back to the city center again. I got off and a short walk later was in the posh area of Chelsea/Sloane Square. And to the Saatchi Gallery and the Empire Strikes Back exhibit. I loved the exhibit. It was a collection from modern, Indian artists. The first gallery started with a piece by Jitish Kallet, who is based in Mumbai. The piece was a speech by Gandhi, spelled out in about four inch high letters that were made out of acrylic made into the form of bones. That was one of the standouts for me. The other favorite was the comic book style work of a Brooklyn based artist, Chitra Ganesh.

After my dose of art, I walked quickly back to the tube station, shielding my eyes from the array of luxe, high-priced stores found in that area. Even taking into account the free admission price at the museum I would've gotten over my head just by window shopping. Plus, I may or may not have purchased a necklace at the gallery gift shop. A piece called 'Love-o-Meter'. When I get home everyone can have a spin (family excluded) and we can see how well it works.

I grabbed lunch on the road and then found myself at the Photographers Gallery. A small, nice photo gallery. For me, the most powerful piece was by Anna Fox: My Mother's Cupboard, My Father's Words. A series of small photos of the treasured and mundane items in her mother's cupboards juxtaposed by angry, violent quotes by her father. The book from the exhibit is about 3 1/2 inches high and in a pink cover. The small pictures, clear and simple. The quotes, unadorned and jarring.

I managed to sneak back to the British Library after this and finish up where I left off the other day, circling around the notebooks of some of my favorite writers. Staring in wonder at the collection of illuminated manuscripts and religious books from a wide range of traditions. A quick walk and a quick tube ride later and I met Janetta. She escorted me through the London bus system where we found a pub, waited for Tessa and then made our way to a Turkish restaurant for dinner and belly dancing.

The next day was also nicely filled with hanging out with Janetta and Tessa. We went to a Farmers Market, strolled through some shops, found our way to a very nice tea room for a simple, delicious tea.

After a brief rest, mainly filled on my part with packing for Ireland, we freshened up and went out to see some live music. A new favorite band of Tessa's Blood Red Shoes was playing. Months ago she scored me a ticket to the sold out show so I could check them out live with her and Janetta. A powerful, two piece, they put on a great show. The space was filled, but manageable. Good time had by all. It was nice to see the night sky instead of collapsing after dinner from sight seeing related fatigue.

The next morning, I had another chance to show off my public transportation skills. I rolled my suitcase through the streets and went from tube to train to plane. After dealing with the always frustrating Ryan Air and the almost always frustrating Ryan Air employees, I briefly relaxed on an over crowded flight and found myself in Dublin. A short bus ride and shorter walk later, I found myself at my Dublin hotel. I'm in Ballsbridge (barely). It's a nice area right outside the center of Dublin. It's nice to know that I am a short run from the American Embassy in case I get into too much trouble. Though, that is just not as easy as it sounds in Ireland. Let's just say, they have a high tolerance for a lot of things.

Shops and the likes close fairly early, but I was anxious to check out the city. I took a short. relaxing bath in the jacuzzi tub and wandered about. I found my way to a pub, they are hard to avoid, ordered my Guinness and settled in on to bar stool. A band was playing, a jazz quintet, they were great. They brought up two singers to sing some American standards. It might not have seemed like the typical Irish pub music scene, but a nice blend of the two countries, easing me into it all. After awhile, the band stopped playing. I sauntered back into the Dublin night, bustling with activity, and found a falafel sandwich and walked back to my new home. I like being a little outside of the center of the city, the neighborhood is peaceful, but in a couple minutes I can be in the middle of as much St. Patrick's Day week activity that I can handle. The room is small, but well-equipped. Single bed, desk, jacuzzi tub and an in-room sauna. I don't remember the sauna being advertised when I booked the room, but what a wonderful surprise. Makes the room smell like cedar, warms up in the time is takes to get through a quick bath or shower. Blissfully silent and relaxing.

Tea and cookies are brought to my room on request. I'm not sure why I should leave. Luckily for the cleaning staff, my Dublin agenda is filled with sites I want to see.

UK March 2010: London

2010-03-26T02:27:00.000-07:00

So, after a couple of days your hosts will start to cut the cord. Throw you out of the nest, let you test out your wings. Fight. Flight. Somewhere in between. So, the other day after eating my fill of thick, fresh, sliced and toasted bread covered in lemon curd, Tessa and I headed downtown for some sight seeing. She warned me this was it, and for the next few days I would be all alone in my sight seeing, with just me alone in the London with my tube map, a to z, and a pocket full of foreign coins. But before the cord cutting ritual, we had time together at the Wellcome Museum. It's sort of an eclectic museum-- science, art, the mind, the intersections of all of the above. We went to see the 'Identity' exhibit. Eight 'rooms' that contained artifacts, writings, photographs and videos of different people. Most of whom have dealt with identity and defining what it is to be in different ways. The small wooden rooms were made from freshly cut wood, which gave the exhibit an overwhelming IKEA-like smell, but still it held our interest. The intersection or overlap of identity, art, genes. How people define and refine who they are or how they try to categorize others. It was well worth the free admission and the tube ticket price. And between you and me, the cake in the cafe was beyond belief. When I grow up, I would like to be defined by cake. I would like my IKEA smelling room to be covered in icing and sprinkles.

To prove I am a giver as well a taker, I prepared dinner that night for my hosts. Ravioli with lemon infused olive oil, dab of fresh pesto, chopped broccoli, leeks (it is illegal to cook anything in England without leeks). I topped it off with fresh shaved cheese and toasted walnuts. The fresh bread was called sourdough by the local bakery. I guess because of the shape. I hate to get all new world and everything, but that was not sourdough. Still dinner was nice, we drank ginger beer, read stories to Patrick and threw in some cookies for dessert. Girl scout cookies, smuggled in a heavy suitcase all the way from SFO.

The next day I headed to The Tower of London, one of my favorite destinations. I like walking around the towers, listening in on the history, being dazzled by the crown jewels. The beefeater/guide (Phil) was fantastic. Very animated, chatty, witty and well-informed. Got some lesser known stories from him about the tower and an animated replay of the more commonly told ones. He ended the tour by answering the question he stated "Must surely be on the minds of every lady here." "Unfortunately, I do have plans for this evening.".

Before he broke our hearts, he took us into the chapel, my first time inside and walked along the stone floor listing out the bodies underneath our feet, all in unmarked graves, buried without ceremony. Piles of bones from centuries, too good to be put in commoner graves, too bad to be put in Westminster Abbey. Exiting, I walked gently-- half in awe of all the history and half scared that the ghost rumors were true and that I should be on my best behavior. Hopefully they will go after that one tourist that put on their hat before leaving the inside of the church and leave me alone.

It being a beautiful day, (beautiful, this time of year in London meaning not pouring down rain), I bundled myself up in gloves, heavy coat, scarf and a hat and walked along the river Thames. Taking pictures of all of the bridges. Tower Bridge (which most tourists mistakenly think is the London Bridge, because of it's ornate stone design), the London Bridge (the second, the first now residing in Lake Havasu, Arizona), Southwark Bridge, and finally to the Millennium Bridge. This bridge is not for those of you afraid of heights, but I love it. The steel slat and wire design, guiding me across the river to the Tate Modern.

The Tate Modern is another familiar haunt of mine when in London. I usually go to whatever the special exhibit is and then dance around the floors looking at favorite paintings and trying to find new ones to love. Exhausted from that much dancing, I sat for a spell in the cafe, chugging espresso and eating cookies. Eventually I filtered through the gift shop and headed down the other side of the river bank to get back to the tube. I passed by Shakespeare's Globe Theatre (not the first one, that got burned down, not the second, that gone torn down, but the third). Exhausted, I found my way to the British Library, eating a sandwich on the way. I did not do the library justice before it closed for the night and I owe myself a second look. Hopefully, there is more to come.

But wait, I'm not done. I decided to try this beer thing that the kids all talk about. Well, by beer I mean cider. I went into a decent looking pub and ordered a pint of cider. Of course, my accent makes it hard for people here to realize I am speaking their language. The bartender started to pour me a pear cider but I stopped her in time. I drank my pint, got on the tube and headed back to my three week long London home. I was getting hungry and had missed dinner, so stopped into another pub in the neighborhood for a stilton, mushroom and leek pie and chips (french fries if you speak American). This bartender asked me for the number of the table I was sitting at and he repeated the question three times but I still could not understand a word he was saying. Finally he made a sitting gesture and I said "16", then we both laughed. I told him "You should see how badly I do in France". I think I got extra chips for my wit, it was much too much food to finish. Interestingly enough even though I can't understand a damn word the English say to me, I still get mistaken for local from time to time. I gave directions twice, both of them correctly, one to someone from the UK and one where I did not even have to pull out the A to Z on my iPhone to give them accurately. I'm not bragging, I'm just saying...

The next day was about me braving the heart of one of the more touristy parts of London, Westminster. I started with a new-to-me museum (I'm trying to do that for at least half the trip, seeing what I haven't seen before, expansion), The Cabinet War Rooms and Winston Churchill Museum. You may have guessed that this particular locale had a lot to do with WWII. The museum itself is built into the bunkers that housed Churchill and his staff when things got heated up. Most of the rooms were left in tact or filled in later with furnishings from that period. There were loads of recordings and pictures of staff that had worked from there and a dazzling sampling of quotes from Churchill himself. Lots on his life, WWII and all in a fun underground setting not too far from 10 Downing Street where Prime Ministers live when not in bunkers.

After that, lunch break. I fought through crowds of tourists (damn tourists!) and school children to cross the Westminster bridge and meet Tessa for lunch at her work. We walked by that part of the River Thames and the London Eye. An area that is sort of like Pier 39 in a lot of ways. Lots of tourists, lost and scrambling about, water, and street performers spray painted silver. Alas, no sea lions here either.

Fueled by food, I plowed through the crowds on the bridge again and went into the Houses of Parliament to see how this whole two house government system is trying to work. I went for the House of Commons, desperately wanting them to yell at each other like everyone says they do. I believe the spattering of MP's in session that day were all on Valium. No one yelled, no shoes got thrown, no fist fights, boring. Like CSpan but with accents. Still, it was worth it. I loved being inside the building, sitting in my bullet proof glass perch and staring at government in "action".

I was a bit tired after all that sitting, but since Westminster Abbey was still open and across the street, it did seem insane to not peek in. I forgot how amazing it was. The sheer history, lives and deaths, wrapped up in those stones and altars. The mix of old and new. When you have been around since 960 and still a functioning church, there is a lot of time spanned. I spent the most time in the 'Poet's Corner' staring at the graves and memorials of writers that have fed me for most of my life. Some that I struggled with, some I still read on my iPhone to this day.

I like moving about the abbey at my own pace, peaking into corners, stopping when something catches my eye, checking out the flowers in bloom outside, wandering. Then I get out the audio guide and let them pace me through in the order they want me to follow. Stopping and listening, reading, more staring. Seeing what I didn't notice the first time around or hearing the history of what had caught my eye before. Layered tour taking. Try it.

UK March 2010: San Francisco to London

2010-03-20T12:38:00.000-07:00

I should start my first trip note with a hard, firm fact. Packing light is not one of my numerous gifts. Though the great thing about packing too much is you show up in other countries with twenty pairs of shoes that you will never wear and then on the way home you have fifty pairs of shoes because 'who knows when the American H&Ms will get these in stock?'. Sadly, there is a dark side to packing too heavy. Mainly there you are at Heathrow, jet lagged, with a headache, trying to pull a suitcase that weighs more than you. And you clock in a little higher on the scale than the average super model. Luckily, I'm not a quitter. I pulled that case through the airport and to the underground station. Then things got a bit messy. Like when they told me that after four stops the line was closed due to rail work. So, I would need to get on the train, then off the train and on to the bus that was pretending to be the train, then off the bus pretending to be a train and back on the actual train. Then I would sit and then transfer lines. Hopefully at the correct stop.

I pushed back the tears, found helpers to get me up and down the stairs, pinched myself to stay awake and eventually arrived in Walthamstow.

My friend Tessa, who is American born, but as I explained to the guy in customs, she has lived in London long enough to 'count', met me there with her son Patrick. After hugs, I had buckets of coffee and cookies. The staid and true diet of travelers everywhere

Then food, baby sitting, playing dinosaurs and forcing myself to stay up to a decent nighttime hour. I watched the Spike Lee documentary on Katrina. It was shameful that the British member of the household had seen it twice and I had not seen it yet. I did manage to talk articulately about the health care debate/progress. I'll be keeping up with the NY Times online in case I get quizzed on more American topics. One thing about travel, you are responsible for everything your country does wrong in the world and expected to be a subject matter expert on all items related to your home. Pre-trip I spent my time catching up on American Idol while memorizing the Declaration if Independence. Speaking of which, do any of you have those tacky new-ish American passports? With the weird Americana icons oddly sized and thrown together haphazardly on every page? That shit is embarrassing in customs. I'm open to any kind of green card marriage one of you would like to arrange, just so I can eventually get a second passport, from another country, that is less painfully awful.

The first full day of the trip, Tessa and her girlfriend Janetta and the surly/happy three year old, Patrick took me to Old Spitalsfield Market in East London. A market that has seen some changes in its 300 hundred plus years of existence. A decade or so ago it was run down, then discovered by students and artists that needed cheap rent and now that artsy charm has led to a new found fame among the moneyed members of society. It is a blend of upscale boutiques and random market stalls. Some with hand painted ceramics, some with more-than-gently used dvds and clothes. Sort of like the 'wares' you can find for sale in the Tenderloin mixed with the shops around Fillmore in Pacific Heights. I bought a belt from a guy in a stand. He helped adjust the size to hit me, slicing the leather and redoing the rivets (or whatever you officially call rivets once they are on a belt). I was then talked into a leather bracelet, thrown in at a 'discount' and also adjusted to size. The American accent often leads to the up sell. Still, the bracelet was probably more of an essential. I have freakishly small wrists for my height/weight and it was wonderful to have one shrunken down to the right size. And it's a nice sky blue to match my new dress. The dress is sky blue with a retro pinup girl motif, trimmed in red swiss dotted fabric and black bows. They are handmade in this one small shop and amazingly well priced considering.

Of course, shopping is not the purpose of the visit. In fact I'm settled with my purchases and good until Ireland where perhaps a sweater will find it's way into my suitcase. So, as I was saying, after walking through the market, we went to the city farm in the area. Great fun for fickle three year olds and for their aunts visiting from America. Chickens, goats, donkeys, pigs, but the real scene stealer was the indoor room full of guinea pigs. I was not overly excited about the, um, guinea pig smell, but Patrick was in love with them and we spent a good part of an hour watching them eat, shuffle about, pretend to threaten each other and similar guinea pig things.

Tuesday and I found Tessa visiting her friends and eating homemade leek and watercress soup, followed by peanut butter, chocolate chip cookies. I suffer. I suffer. After that I got on the train and walked around the downtown area by myself, just like a big girl, for a few hours. I just wanted to be in the city for a bit, in the middle of a weekday, half tourists, half businesswomen and men. Fighting to get down the stairs at the tube stop, staring at cookies and scones in the window fronts. The tourist sight seeing has not begun yet, but I am wandering around the city, staring and getting the feel of everything and wandering randomly into shops. Repeat visits are nice, not as much pressure to rush to see Big Ben as soon as you step off the plane. You discover more of the city, randomly exiting the train and looking around. I know the coins and money easy enough to count out exact change in a split second. I know the basic train lines and how to use the Oyster Card to get in and out of stations. And I will still show up at the Tower of London with my camera. No worry there.

Half my tourist stop, half my old friend. Hello London.

I Need a Little Love. And I Mean a Little.

2009-07-14T22:22:00.000-07:00

This weekend I found myself in SF. Or Frisco, as it is never called by anyone that lives anywhere near it. So, I'm there I'm in the Mission buying pvc skirts and burritos. And in between those purchases I stop at Walgreen's to get a soda. What can I say, eating a lot of carbs and dressing like a whore can tire a woman out. Well, it took a long time to get the soda. There was a guy in front of me engaging the clerk in lengthy discussion about condoms. Apparently, this particular store keeps all their condoms behind the counter. Which makes me think they do that because people steal them. Which makes me think this would be a good area to distribute free condoms. Anyway, fifteen minutes on condoms while the line behind him is snaking through the store. And we can all see him. And hear him. And all know all about his business. Like the fact he doesn't want the Magnums. And the fact he only needs a three pack. And wants to know why they aren't on sale like the bigger boxes.

He might not have been embarrassed to ask these questions, but I was embarrassed to hear them. I mean, really? I am happy for him for practicing safe sex. I am sad for him only anticipating having protected sex three times in the decade before the condoms expire. Though, I imagine his willingness to engage in this kind of public humiliation in the middle of a drugstore might be decreasing his street value.

And for the record, when I find myself needing to buy condoms in the middle of the afternoon, in the middle of a crowded store, I buy three boxes of the biggest boxes of the biggest condoms, a tin of breath mints and a bottle of whiskey. I want people to know I like to party.

Paste Magazine

2009-05-23T08:34:00.000-07:00

To those of you that may have benefited from me illegally copying cds for you. Or maybe I introduced you to an artist you then fell in love with and got tattooed on your arm and you now spend all your days stalking, er, following them on tour. Here is your chance to give back to the world.

Paste Magazine, a magazine I have been a fan of for some time, is losing ad revenue and needs a shot in the arm to continue. And by shot in the arm, I mean cash. They are doing a fundraiser on-line:

http://www.pastemagazine.com/savepaste

I read their magazine and listen to the free mp3s/cds that come with every issue to learn about new music and keep up with the artists I have tattooed on my arm. Consider a subscription. But, if nothing else, consider floating them $5.00 so that my world continues to be happy. I'm still crying at night over the loss/transformation of Craft Magazine, the loss of Paste would be too much.

Dads

2009-05-18T19:46:00.000-07:00

Recently, I dug through the stuff of my dad's that I've kept. I made an effort to keep the things where our interests over lapped. I kept some of his well-worn cookbooks because he liked to cook and I like to cook. I grab them from the shelf in the kitchen and think about him. Stir, cry, mix. I like that more than storing boxes and boxes of things that I don't really want. And kicking them and tripping over them and getting angry at them. I like that the items I kept get used. A legacy of sorts.

So, I dug out the two signed albums of his that I kept-- a Clash album and a Nick Lowe album. Surprisingly, I managed to get off my ass and get them framed. More surprisingly, I even managed to hang them. And now, I look at them whenever I leave the house.

Still, that ain't shit compared to how my friend Phil choose to remember his father. Phil, a friend from college and beyond, is an immensely talented artist. When his father was killed, he did an elaborate piece made from leather. It sounds lame when I type that, but it's awesome. And then it hung in the Oakland Museum as part of their dia de los muertos exhibit. I saw it there and was blown away. I sat by it and took it in for a good chunk of time before wandering around to the other displays.

Recently, Phil has unveiled a You Tube video that shows him making the piece. I know you have five minutes to spare. Go look.

Collusion

2009-05-15T10:08:00.000-07:00

Person buys butterscotch lollipop from See's Candy.

Cat finds lollipop on counter, plays with, swats, knocks lollipop to the floor.

Dog finds lollipop on floor, unwraps, eats lollipop.

Person pissed.

Mother's Day

2009-05-12T07:37:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure that this will be surprising news to anyone that knows me, but Mothers' Day is not my favorite holiday. There is the fact that the lazy pets never get me a present and the, let's just say 'strained', relationship with my own mother. In years past, I would get up early on that day and call my Grandmother before the coffee ever hit my system. I can't put into words how much it sucks to not be able to do that. Well, to not be able to do that without some sort of seance. And a seance seems complicated without coffee. Plus, I bet I don't have enough candles or scarves around to really pull it off.

So, I wanted to do something this year. Something besides being in a crappy mood for a week and something besides yelling at the pets over and over again about how ungrateful they are. (I mean, after all I've done for them, really?).

It is important to express gratitude (I hope you are reading this Fondue). So, I did what the kids do, I went into Facebook and sent an email. Specifically, I went into Facebook, scrolled through the list of high school friends until I got to ST. In high school, when things with my mother went from chaos, to extreme and absolute chaos, ST helped me out. I went to her home and lived with her and her family for a month or so when I deconstructed and reconstructed my entire life. I can't imagine I was a breath of sunshine during that period.

So, life got reconstructed, I got moved to California and eventually the friendship with ST simmered away. There is more to the story, but I'm trying to focus on gratitude and not the petulance of high school students.

Ok, my point. I emailed ST on Mothers' Day. I did have coffee first, but then I sat down and emailed her. And thanked her. I'm not sure I got around to doing that in the two decades since I stayed with her. And even if I had, I'm sure I'm overdue for doing it again. So, I thanked her, for taking me in, for helping to give me this life, for helping in the reconstruction. A life I like and am grateful to have.

Mother's Day isn't so bad.

I still miss those calls with my Grandmother.

Race, iPhones, and Google Earth

2009-05-02T17:05:00.000-07:00

I know I look healthy, but I still get to spend a nice chunk of time at the doctor's office. Recently, I was sent to the lab for some blood work (I'm fine, no need to send the fruit baskets). The lab was behind. Way, way behind. I was in the lobby with an eight year old girl and her Grandparents. Waiting and waiting. Eventually, we started chatting. Actually, the girl approached me. Here:

"Is your phone white because you're white?"

I glanced at her Grandparents, they had horrified looks on their faces. I motioned that it was ok.

"No, it's just a coincidence."

"What does your phone do?"

And that is when I handed it over to her and we started exploring. When I opened up Google Earth things really heated up. I did a quick overview of how it works, showed her how to navigate and let her explore on her own. She was a quick study and was zipping through the continents in no time. Eventually, she brought me the phone back.

"Show me where President Obama lives"

Then I took over, giving her an overview of Washington D.C., the White House, and US History in general. I think it went well; she offered me a cheeto.

It was probably the longest wait for a blood test that I've had to date. And I've been blessed with a lot of lab time. Still, it was one of the best waits. Minus the cheeto stains on the iPhone.

At My Age

2009-04-20T21:07:00.000-07:00

So, I've always thought it a bit silly to sit around and worry about aging. Not because I am so enlightened and mature that it doesn't affect me. But, because I'm rational enough to know that there are plenty of things within my control to sit around and worry about. So, I keep ticking off the years and putting money aside in my 'future plastic surgery' account. And sit around and worry about things I could do something about if my couch wasn't so damned comfortable.

My point is, every once in awhile, I still get floored by the amount of time that has passed. You know, how much time has passed since high school, since college, since I only had one pet instead of a zoo.

The other day I got a call out of the blue offering me a free Green Day ticket. Of course I said yes. But at the show, that whole 'time passing' issue came up.

Here:

Me: "Remember when we saw them at Gillman St.?

Friend: "Fuck. How old are we?"

Me: "Well, we met in high school and we graduated 20 years ago."

Friend: "Fuck."

Me: "Yeah."

Leave the House

2009-04-01T22:02:00.000-07:00

I know, t.v. is f-ing awesome. If I could get away with doing nothing but watching People's Court all day, I would. Actually, when I say I'm 'working from home' that's code for watching People's Court, putting scotch in my coffee and yelling at the pets while sitting on the couch in my bathrobe. You always suspected; now you know.

Still, fresh air won't kill you. Here is what you need to do. Mark the date April 22, 2009 on your calendar, and go to Modern Times Bookstore in San Francisco. A friend of mine from college and beyond, is having a book signing. Here. The book is amazing. More than a book-- an art collage, a memoir, a true story of childhood chaos. Cori is beyond talented. Creative in all the ways you wish you were. Check out the book; check out the reading. Get out of the house already.

Update

2009-03-05T01:40:00.000-08:00

I know you all have been losing sleep over the COBRA changes that went into effect 2/17/2009 and what they all mean.

The main items are:

To be eligible you must have been involuntarily terminated-- no quitting--between 9/1/2008 and 12/31/2009.

And you need to elect COBRA (hopefully you kinda figured that one out on your own.

65% Discount on COBRA costs (paid by employers and then taken by employers as a tax reduction)

Discount lasts for nine months worth of premiums paid on or after 2/17/2009 (3/1/2009 for plans that charge premiums on a calendar basis)

Special election opportunity for individuals that would qualify, but didn't elect COBRA during the initial notice period. They get an additional enrollment period ending 60 days after the plan provides them notice.

Income limits. If your modified, adjusted, gross Federal income is over $125,000 ($250,000 for joint filiers) during the year the premium assistance is granted, the premium gets reduced-- at $145,000 ($290,000 for joint filiers) the premium is removed and must be repaid.

For more info, go here.

HR Tip of the Week

2008-12-29T17:08:00.000-08:00

I've been talking about this subject more often than I would like to lately. It's one thing when those conversations are work related-- they pay me well. But, having these talks with friends has really, really sucked. Consider this my Public Service Announcement for 2008. A PSA that hopefully, fingers crossed, will be utterly useless to you. It's about what happens to your employer subsidized health benefits after you lose your job and how COBRA is not always the miracle you think it is. Hang on, I'll explain.

COBRA (the Federal Consolidated Omnibus Budget and Reconciliation Act of 1985, duh) was designed to allow employees (and qualified dependents) to keep their group health care rates, for a limited time, when they lose their jobs due to no fault of their own. This could mean long term unpaid leave, or a few other circumstances, but it usually means after you were fired. I mean, laid off. So the logic is that the group health care rates will be much better than rates you would get if tried to purchase a health care plan on your own, as a private citizen. COBRA lasts from 18-36 months depending on the specific 'qualifying event' (or life status change as we say in the trade), but 18 months is the most common scenario so let's just concentrate on that one. Also, we could complicate things by including Cal-COBRA (and specifically Senior COBRA) but let's not do that either. So, 18 months of group medical coverage after you are laid off.

If you elect COBRA you are responsible for both the employee and the employer portion of the health care premiums, at the group rates. That means, expect to pay considerably more than what had been deducted from your paycheck while you were working. That is the first thing that confuses people. Pay attention to your COBRA rate sheet.

The second thing that confuses people is the assumption that COBRA is always cheaper than what they can get on their own. In my case, this is probably true. But that is because I have a chronic medical condition that makes my fine ass virtually uninsurable at the tender age of 38. Gym membership or no gym membership. In your case, you might be okay. So, here's what you do:

1) Review the benefits covered by COBRA and see which ones you will need. Most likely this is Medical. Dental and Vision you may be able to hold out for until you get your next job. Evaluate what your particular situation is.

2) Review the dependents (spouse, children, NOT domestic partner-- separate but equal, my ass) covered by COBRA and see if any of them have access to other Medical, Dental, Vision care. They may be on your plan because it was the cheapest and that may no longer hold true. Or maybe you just don't like them anymore and don't care if they get sick. I'm not here to judge your life.

3) Actually research what a plan purchased all on your own might cost. Contact the main providers in your area. You may be able to get away with a plan that has less benefits (and cost) than your group plan, but still covers all your health care needs.

4) Check out this resource: www.coverageforall.org. They can help you see if there are plans in your area that you or your dependents might now qualify for. Mainly they let you know about Government and community funded plans are available. And they also have resources about which private insurers are in your area and statistics about local and national uninsured populations.

5) Thanks to the crappy health care situation in this country, when we talk about medical premiums, we are talking about a lot of money. Money that can be better spent on clothes. Get creative with your analysis. If you are researching how much a plan would cost for you, your spouse and a child, still take into account everyone's individual situations. Children often have more free and low cost health care resources available to them. So maybe you elect COBRA for you and the spouse, but find an alternative for your child. Maybe you are someone who is expensive to privately insure because of pre-existing conditions, but no one else is. In that case, maybe you get COBRA for you only and buy private insurance for everyone else.

6) Stay insured. I cannot stress enough how important it is to have the health care coverage, even if it is very expensive. Look into ways to keep costs down, but don't jeopardize your long term financial picture or your health, by getting less insurance than you will actually need or by going without altogether. Trust me, if you saw my medical bills, before they get submitted and paid by Blue Shield, you would cry. And I'm walking around on two legs looking as healthy as all get out.

That's it. Easy enough. If you have questions contact your HR Department or me if you know how to find me. Don't attempt this on your own; I'm a certified professional.

Birthday Resolutions

2008-12-28T23:06:00.000-08:00

I know, I can't hardly believe I'm 38 either. You're right, I don't look a day over 25. Still, I feel it. It's been a good birthday. I kept it low key. After spending Friday and Saturday-- working, making out with strangers in the front seat of my car, hiking, drinking whiskey, hanging out at the MOMA, cat sitting, meditating, getting a brazilian wax, eating cupcakes, being sung 'happy birthday' to by my gym weight class, buying poetry books-- I was tired.

I started with the resolutions, what to concentrate on for this coming year:

1) Get back on track for remembering and acknowledging everyone else's birthdays.

2) More time on my writing and photography.

3) Using my MOMA membership instead of just renewing it for another year.

4) Buy more clothes!

Because I'm an over achiever, I woke up early this morning, despite a busy weekend, to get a head start on#4. Also, the Thakoon for Target collection arrived today and I knew that bitch would be selling out very quickly. Even though I made it there before the coffee kicked in, I had to settle for a less than ideal size in the dress I wanted. On-line it was sold out altogether. Sigh.

Then I got treated to a movie, hiked in the Oakland hills. Rounded off the day off with a hot tub, massage, dinner and drinks. We had a rousing birthday toast: "Please let us age like Marisa Tomei and not Mickey Rourke."

When everyone gets back in town, you know who you are, we'll celebrate with a larger crowd. Still, I want to keep it simple. Something involving strippers, tequila body shots and an in depth discussion of Abstract Expressionism.

Lived In

2008-12-25T22:12:00.000-08:00

The slight ache of Tuesday. Somehow, with my eyes shut, I

see the last two stars get scattered out of the morning's sky.

The pillow gets pressed against your face. I pull my hair

into a pony-tail; turn toward the floor. This day is already

impossible. You lean in for a kiss. Straddling the side of

me. Hip bone to pelvis. I capture your bottom lip between

my dirty teeth. Bite down. I don't know. Twisting, you fold

yourself back into sleep. I throw my eyes open. Settle my

sights on that awkward picture of us, crooked. Against the

cream-colored wall. No one throws my mornings off like

you do.

Broken Poems

2008-12-07T19:51:00.000-08:00

For the record, I have been writing. Poem after broken poem. Do you remember when all I did was write? When you were forced to stare at my badly typed xeroxed pages of poems and short stories every time you accidently ran into me on the street? How you hid?

I don't know what it is. The journals get carried everywhere, and mostly written in. Am I more critical about the free write and refuse to even try to turn that crap into finished work? Am I too lazy? Have I written everything I'm going to write that has a decent helping of artistic merit? And everything else will just fill small black journal after small black journal. The lexicon is stale, and my form can be pegged from 1,000 paces. I stopped caring about that a long time ago.

Fuck it, I don't care anymore about any of it. There are two prose poems that I'm going to finish even if I hate them and three more experimental ones-- somehow a combination of L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E and Confessional Poetry. I don't know how that is really possible either, but I keep looking at them and I don't know what else they could really be. Sometimes the words get to the finished page the same way they get out of my pen to the draft, as if they were put through a blender.

Have fun when I make you read them!

Rightly Named Holiday

2008-11-27T21:12:00.000-08:00

This has been a good Thanksgiving. I'm a fan of thanks and a fan of gratitude. I know I have a good life. Even on those crappy days when all I want to do is watch Court TV, I still know I have a good life. Some people don't even have cable.

My holiday meal was early. I found myself in San Jose at 1:30, standing in my cousin's hospital room and waiting for my turkey and gravy. It's been awhile since I've written about Tiffanie and you should know she is doing about 500% better. She is awake, and talking, and sassy. She isn't herself. Well, she isn't the Tiffanie she was seven months ago before the accident. Her brain is still in a different place. She is awake though and remembers my name and blows me kisses and sticks her tongue out whenever I take her picture. So, she is herself, just a different self than the 2007 Tiffanie. Last time I was at the hospital, visiting, this was hard for me. That time I hung out with her awhile, hugged her goodbye, and sat on 880 missing the conversations we used to have.

I was a little anxious today. Wondering if the sadness would come back. The complicated sadness that had me missing her 'old self' and being ecstatic about all her new progress at the same time. But, today I walked in to the room, saw her, smiled and just sat down to talk.

I loved watching her try to steal more rolls when we were eating, loved watching her blow me kisses, spell my name. I got it this time. The gratitude. That she made it out of that awful accident alive, that she came out of that coma, that she knows who I am and who she is and how good those damn rolls are.

It was great to be able to share a meal with my family, to catch up on the gossip, to pile my plate with too much food and then go back for seconds, but leaning down to hug Tiffanie and having her kiss my ear. That's all I really needed.

Yes, I Would Arrest Me Also

2008-11-19T12:45:00.000-08:00

Speeding tickets aside, I'm a half decent driver (well, I use turn signals, sometimes I down shift near crosswalks). I imagine if you were in the car with me a few weeks ago when I went to Amoeba to sell my dad's old records you might have a different opinion of my driving expertise. My step-sister was with me and oddly enough now every time she gets in my car she double checks the lock for the seat belt and makes the sign of the cross. Even though she was raised Jewish.

So, Suzanne helps me load box after box in the back of my car. I thought I was fine. We got on the freeway, got off the freeway, drove to Amoeba. Then, I guess it turns out I wasn't exactly fine after all. Grief, not linear, doesn't lessen by a small amount every day. It's circular. Better one day, worse the next, then better, then better-er, and even better-er. Then you dig up your dad's old records from your garage and so, worse again.

So, I turned the wrong way down a one way street, instantly realized it. Made an illegal u-turn. And then because boxes of records can be heavy, I parked at the corner-- yellow loading zone be damned--and put on my hazard lights.

I got one box of records to the counter while Suzanne watched the car. When I was picking up the second box, the Berkeley bicycle cops arrived. Not exactly to help with the lifting. Apparently they had seen, um, everything. And, in case I had forgotten my driving errors, they helped remind me:

"Mam, you're parked in a loading zone"

"I'm so sorry, I'm taking these boxes to Amoeba and they are heavy and I was just dropping them off and was going to re-park. I should not have parked here though, I know that was wrong."

"Yes and before that you went the wrong way on the one way street, followed by an illegal u-turn."

"Yes. I did do that. I turned down the street and when I realized I was going the wrong way, tried to correct it. I don't normally make mistakes like that. I don't know what else to say. These records were my dad's and I'm selling them because he passed away. And I'm emotional about that, but I didn't realize that it would effect my driving like this. I can't believe I went down that street the wrong way. It's very dangerous."

Then she stared at me for awhile, and turned to her partner.

"You have any questions for her?"

"No"

And then back to me.

"You still have all those boxes left to bring in?"

"Yes"

"Hurry up and then get parked correctly and then be more careful next time"

"Yes"

Then, I just stared at her for awhile. I'm used to things like this happening to me. I know how to remain calm. This is my life and after 37 years it's all common place. But, somehow, this being Berkeley bicycle cops and all, I was still expecting to end up in handcuffs. And as hot as ending up in handcuffs can be from time to time, I was happy not to go there with them. And not even a ticket.

True Love

2008-11-10T17:46:00.000-08:00

I could write about my own dating life, but why? Half of you readers have already received late night phone calls from me gushing/bitching about it in painful detail. Making you read about it would just remind you of how inappropriate it was of me to place that call, that late, that drunk, on a work night and get me thrown out of your will. And what would my life be without the promise of someday inheriting your aromatherapy candle collection? I can't risk it. I'm going to talk about my step-sister's dating life instead.

Of course, since she is my friend as well as my step-sister, we all know she is something special to look at. If you're my friend, you are hot, hot, hot. No offense to the uglies out there, but when talking for hours to someone about my chihuahua or court tv, it's important to me that they be easy on the eyes. So, she's a hottie and she placed an ad up and promptly had her email box blow up with potential suitors. Some she liked, some she didn't. The thing is, unlike me, she's nice. She had one guy that she wasn't really in to, but still thought he was nice and interesting and had a hard time breaking his heart. Eventually she did. She let him know that she wasn't attracted to him in a romantic way, but would still like to hang out, but would understand if he didn't. I think when she typed the last bit of that sentence she maybe didn't realize how exactly he would take the news. Just so you can can understand his lack of understanding, I'm pasting his exact email below:

"Here's more or less how things are going to go from here. You have two choices. You can:a) never hear from me again.b) Call me before 3:30 pm. Apologize in a sincere fashion for being dishonest and foolishly, prematurely judgmental. We had no opportunity to establish chemistry Sunday. You will sincerely acknowledge that. If you wish, you may admit that your reaction has been due to the embarrassing way you presented yourself, and a desire to avoid feeling as though you were the unattractive party (you were). You will give your word never to lie to me again under any circumstances.

If I believe you, I will say so and graciously accept your apology. You will then ride the BART to Fremont, arriving no later than 6pm. You will call me. I will pick you up.I realize you probably have plans, and am totally unmoved by any problems this causes you. We will have dinner. At no time will you complain or question my directions, you will simply follow them. You will trust in my demonstrated honesty and respect for you. Since you're a free citizen, you'll have the opportunity to leave at any time. Doing so will result in us never speaking again. I will not negotiate with passive-aggressive, disrespectful people unless I absolutely have to. I don't have to in your case. This is your one and only chance to become my friend, much less anything more.

FWIW, I really enjoyed writing this, on so many levels."

Oddly enough, she has decided not to respond. Not to reveal too much, but I've pissed a few dates off in my life and I've dated a few kinda crazy people in my life as well. It's the combination of the two, added to a slightly dominant personality that allows the creation of the above masterpiece. Frankly, I loved the fuck out of the email. Except the part where he thought it was ok to send it to my step-sister. She isn't giving me his address or phone number, but I will find it eventually. And when I do, I will drive to Fremont, give him the chance to apologize in a sincere fashion for being a total asshole. And I will allow him to give his word never to talk to her again like that under any circumstances. Then I will graciously accept his apology and kick his ass anyway. And, FWIW, I will really enjoy doing that last part on so many levels.

Customer Service

2008-11-05T14:40:00.000-08:00

I'm sure y'all already know this, but last week was the Amateur Porn Awards sponsored by Good Vibrations. Being a big supporter of the arts, I volunteered to help out at the VIP party thrown beforehand. Also, I made my step-sister and my friend Leslie, volunteer with me. I bribed them with pastries from Tartine. You can buy friends, you just need the right currency.

Leslie got a grown-up, responsible job, checking for VIP wrist bands and making sure everyone was where they were supposed to be. Suzanne and I were in the corner, guarding the top of the steps on the side of the floor that had the access roped off at the lower level.

Not many people snuck past the rope to go up our flight of steps to visit us. There was the one guy that when he found out I had a decent camera at home, gave me his business card because his "friend" was looking for someone to take dirty pictures of him. I was gracious, but you know, that card made it into the recycling bin pretty quickly once I arrived home.

Then the guy, at the beginning at the night, that wanted a refund because he didn't like the choice of beer. For the record, those bitches at Good Vibrations can throw a party. Free beer and wine, performers, snacks, a wheel you could spin to win adult-themed prizes. And tons of hotties just wandering around, some barely dressed. There are worst ways to spend a night, Budweiser or no Budweiser. So, first I told him "after the 10th beer, you're not even going to be able to taste it anymore, don't give up so quickly, no one likes a quitter." That didn't work. Then I went with "You should switch to wine anyway, this is California." Well, being a hater of local economies, he replied "You can't chug wine." I happen to know for a fact, that you can. You don't go to a crappy high school, spend your college years in a drunken stupor, and not come away with a few life skills. I told him that and added "bring the wine over here, I'm going to chant 'chug, chug, chug' and help you through this." That didn't work either. So, I took his VIP wrist band and gave him his money back. Ending the night having made ($10.00) for the cause. Not the most successful volunteer. Which may explain how I ended up sitting in the corner in the first place.

Oh well, Suzanne and I didn't care. We made our own damn fun.. Mostly, we spent the night making up new dance moves: 'The Cracked Egg', 'The Vegan Grocery Shopper', 'The Lunch at Cafe Gratitude' and 'The Keeping the Damn Pets Off My Lap So I Can Get Some Get Work Done'. It's hard to put into words the sheer brilliance of the dances. Our next step is to dust off our go-go boots, iron our tube tops and head out to dance clubs to show off the moves and make our fame and fortune. Luckily for you, you knew me when.

Spin

2008-10-31T06:35:00.000-07:00

I've been using my time off of work wisely. I walk pets, answer emails, and watch 5,000 hours of Court T.V. everyday. Also, I go to classes at the gym. Because of my overwhelming lack of self motivation, classes are a great way for me to get in exercise. Without the peer pressure of other people watching and an instructor yelling at me, I'm on the stair master for 10 minutes or less, convincing myself it's more than enough time.

Since my days are now driven by my timeline and not my clients' timelines, I've been able to attend steadily. Two nights a week I attend a weight class, where I keep my guns and six pack in working order. After weights, I stick around for yoga. Two mornings a week, I go to spin. My gym has two morning spin classes: the 6am and the 9am. The 6am is where people who work for a living show up. The 9am is the retiree spin class. That's where I've been going.

It's great. Everyone is at least three decades older than me. The teacher turns 67 next week. He's about 5'3", 90 pounds of lean muscle, bald and wears spandex bike shorts. Actually, except for me, most everyone shows up in tight, spandex, bike clothes. Which makes sense, since they are all in 20x better shape than me.

While slightly introverted, I'm still friendly enough, so I've been making an effort to chat with everyone before class and get accepted into the fold. But, you know, they're suspicious of me. Mainly because I don't remember the Great Depression and because I'm too young to be this out of shape. I think they can also tell that I cheat in class. I've always cheated in spin class. It's probably why I love spin so much. I look like I'm keeping up with the class. I'm on the seat when I'm supposed to be, off the seat when I'm supposed to be, and keep the same pace as everyone else. Thing is, the part where you are supposed to turn the dial and increase the tension? I rarely bother with that. But, in case anyone is watching, I pretend to. I sort of cup my hand around the dial, and make the motion like I'm turning it. Then I pedal a little slower to match the retirees' pace and look like it's harder for me to move. I stopped making the groan-y face because I thought that was over kill. A little too deceptive.

So, that's where you can find me two mornings a week, at the gym in baggy sweats and a head band, being out pedaled by a room of people older than my Grandparents.

So Nice of You To Stop By, Whoever the Hell You Are

2008-09-30T13:06:00.000-07:00

So, I am doing medical things. Medical things are complicated and rarely pretty. Aging is not for the weak. So, these medical things are affecting my short term memory. I will awkwardly navigate my world without it, and then it will come back. And I know what the question is on everyone's mind:

How can we f*ck with me, while it is gone?

I have some ideas. The main one is around blog posting. I imagine I will forget about my blog, or what blogs even are, or maybe, if we are lucky, I will just post the same thing every day for two months or so. Repeat as needed. It's like Memento, but without having to keep a tattoo artist on retainer.

But what to write about? I have some ideas about that:

*How chihuahuas always f*ck up

*How self-sacrifice sucks and new clothes rule

*Why bad t.v. is so fantastically good

*Today on BART someone annoyed me

*How cats always f*ck up

Read, discuss, vote.

East Coasting It

2008-06-09T12:29:00.000-07:00

This may sound like a familiar sentence: in a couple of weeks I will be taking a red eye flight to the east coast for a family wedding. It may also sound like I do not learn my lessons. It is all true. One thing you need to understand is that for someone is so sarcastic, bitter, and exhausted, I am also surprisingly optimistic in nature. So, once again, thinking the red eye flight will be fine and not lead to a total and utter mental breakdown, I book it.

So, sleep is for the weak. And this way I get to spend some of the first day of my vacation with my family, instead of losing it to the airplane flight and time change. And if I'm grumpy when they pick me up and demand they get me coffee before talking to me, that's fine, I am there by birthright and there is not a damn thing they can do about it. Reading that last sentence and realizing how true it is going to turn out to be, I'm surprised they keep inviting me to these events. Perhaps they think this trip, I won't be grumpy and moody and cry for no reason. Maybe the misplaced optimism is genetic.

Your Pet is My Favorite, the Rest I'm Forced to Watch

2008-06-08T13:29:00.000-07:00

Today, I am in charge of three dogs, five cats and a fish. That is a lot of f-ing paws and a gill or two. Needless to say, they are trying to break me. I go to three homes (well, one is mine, so maybe I go to two) to see them all. Everyone gets petted and gets treats and gets litter box cleaned or let outside in the yard. No one feels like that is remotely enough. Everyone wants a piece of me.

Anxious to take advantage of this good weather, that has led to this drought, I packed up the small dogs and went to the small dog park. The intention is to get them to play well with others, the result is they play with each other.

Two tiny, bad-ass dogs check out the dog park

And promply choose to play only with each other

Updates

2008-06-07T12:57:00.000-07:00

This week, the clouds cleared and the sun touched my pale, pale skin once again. My first year at the HR Farm is coming to a close and I feel like I had to survive a trail by fire the last two months to get to this anniversary. But, let's not dwell on the stressful bits. Let's talk about the good things. I found myself once again reaching out to customers, just to say hi and check in with them. I rearranged the little piles of papers on my desks to better, more organized little piles. A pencil got sharpened. Three days in a row, I woke up on time and looked at my clothes before hurriedly putting them on.

In other news, Clinton and Obama have worked through things. Along those lines, when I become a presidential candidate, I insist on being called by my last name just like the boys. You do not get to act overly familiar with me because of my gender, you do not get to spend time writing about my pant suits, and you can get me a cup of coffee while you are up and rub my feet when you are done with that.

"It's Janet. Ms. Jackson if you're nasty" You know you're nasty, so stop calling me Rachel.

Your Kindest Attention Most Honored Sir or Madam

2008-05-27T20:55:00.000-07:00

It's a very exciting day at my house. Today Lolita got his first 419 scam letter. The phone has been listed under his name (well, one of his nicknames) for many. many years now. Sadly it has taken this long for him to be recognized in all the flowery, over the top, grammar grandeur he deserves. One of his unknown relatives has passed away and he has the chance to make quite a bit of money by getting a fax machine, opening a bank account and contacting this high powered estate manager in London that sends 'official' letters on cheap copy paper with a yahoo email address.

Sadly, Lolita can be suckered. Not for money. But if this man was willing to fly to California, pet Lolita a bit and maybe let him run around in the yard for awhile, I bet my bank accounts, retirement plan savings and mutual funds would be liquidated in no time.

Actually, I'm going to go shred that letter now. That cat has turned on the computer before, with much less to gain.

Sunday Afternoon Photo Essay

2008-05-25T20:59:00.000-07:00

Fresh sheets and the same, stale pet fight

Sugarlicious

2008-05-24T22:14:00.000-07:00

I don't want to bore you to tears, but life at the HR Farm is very busy. Crazy sometimes. And not in ways that get you involved in top secret projects that may change the very face of HR and perhaps life itself. No, not that. Mainly, repeating the same 30 minute dumb speech to otherwise smart customers. And there are meetings. You might suddenly find yourself in the women's lounge at Bloomingdale, eating a creme puff from Beard Papa, trying to prepare for a training session. The beauty of the creme puff does not last, and neither does the sugar high. Soon you are almost asleep in front of a group of people trying to present something or other to them for some reason or other.

That session went badly. I tried to recover by giving a review of the new Dolly Parton album and discussing my dog's upcoming quinceanera. When all else fails, bring up the chihuahua. And this is for a customer you actually like. There are other customers, that you want to like, but they make it veryveryveryveryhard for you to do so. Imagine for a minute how those meetings are going. There aren't enough creme puffs in the world to make up for that pain.

Yes, this too will pass. But it ain't passed yet.

Middle Management

2008-05-12T11:31:00.000-07:00

Snitch!

Fondue has decided that entry level jobs are for lesser dogs and she is strictly management material. The other day, while I was in Modesto, she was at my Aunt's house supervising their yard work. My aunt and her girlfriend were working hard and Fondue kept tabs on them to made sure they didn't f it up. She would lounge in the sun, then go over and check out what they were doing, then go back to lounging. So dedicated!

Last night, late last night, maybe it was early this morning, she tested her management skills out on the cats. So, around 1:00 am Fondue starts barking. I was happy with the sleeping, so I'm a tad upset. She then jumps out of bed and acts like if she doesn't get outside that second the world will end. I am upset, but figure it is a dog related emergency and let her out. And there on the other side of the door is Galileo. Then I realized I had opened the window without the screen in error. So, I guess the cats saw their freedom chance and Fondue got upset and here we are at 1:00 am. I let Galileo in and then notice I'm still a cat short. Luckily, Fondue is on it. She is in the yard, trying to corral Lolita back inside (kitties are indoor kitties, everyone knows that; everyone except Lolita). Fondue runs up to me, leads me straight to Lolita and then blocks him on one side, so I can scoop him from the other.

Fondue would like you to know that if you are on break, you should be clocked out and if you aren't on a break you shouldn't just be standing around like that. Also, she would like you to know she isn't paying you to read this blog all day, she is paying you to work. Also, she can only pay you in kisses. Also, you are lucky to even get them as lazy as you are, so stop complaining.

Lolita Says: Chihuahuas suck

Five a Day

2008-05-11T21:56:00.000-07:00

I'm not the biggest fan of Modesto. Or the Central Valley in general. The fact that I have to drive five million hours to get there does not help (the 580 to the 205 to the 5 to the 120 to the 99, oh my) Still, Modesto has manged to fall short of the low expectations I have for it.

At the very least, Modesto should be able to provide me with the following:

1) Kick ass Mexican food
2) Tons of vegetables and fruits everywhere
3) Good quality, fresh meth

So, number three isn't a real requirement. I really don't have the time or energy to become an addict right now. Plus, with my shitty teeth, meth would be the worst choice I could possibly make. No way could I afford the drug addiction and the escalating dental bills. So, that leaves Modesto with only two things to provide me with.

My first day at the hospital, I had chicken tacos brought in. Seriously, I've had better Mexican food in France.

Next day, I went with a sandwich. My avocado and cucumber sandwich comes back to me from Togo's with ONE slice of mealy tomato and TWO half wedges of cucumber. Seriously? You grow the vegetables out here, but can't manage to keep one or two for your own community before putting them on the trucks?

So now I bring my own salads with me. I think about how those vegetables have to travel from the Central Valley to get to me, and then I buy them and take them back to their birth place.

Time is Brain

2008-05-10T11:55:00.000-07:00

My cousin had a horrific car crash the other week. It is maddening to sit around and wait to see how she will be when she pulls through. I don't do well with waiting, with the in between. I require direct communication. I like the facts. I like the action. I don't handle silence or ambiguity with any grace what-so-ever. So, these days, I drive to Modesto, and sit in a hospital NICU waiting room with my family. And sit. And wait.

It's amazing how much time and energy waiting can take up. Sitting in the small room, trying to get the air conditioning right, changing the tv channel without the remote, running out of small talk. I stare at the sign in the waiting room that tells you how to recognize the signs of a stroke. The sign is in English and in Spanish. The English version lacks the grace of the Spanish version. At one point it talks about how one sign that a person may have suffered a stroke is that they don't make sense when they speak. Then the sign ends with the following phrase in a 40 pt font: 'Time is Brain'. ?? I have decided that as soon as that phrase seems logical to me. It is time to call in the doctor and get me evaluated.

I don't go in and talk to Tiffanie. I don't know why. It feels too hectic for me. I sit in the room, I pull apples and carrots out of my bag hour after hour. I wait and wait and wait.

Dogs Love Clothes

2008-04-27T20:13:00.000-07:00

With Fondue walking around in her bad-ass bedazzled shirts for weeks now, I knew it was only a matter of time until all of her dog friends got jealous. In the spirit of animal fairness, I got out my rhinestones, sat on my couch in the lotus position, and waited for the creative energy to flow through me.

These two projects are part of my "Rock of Love II" series. Inspired by Bret Michael's guyliner, cheap hookers and cuervo shots. But then again, what in my life isn't?

Sometimes at night, I look up at the blurry, smoggy, Oakland sky and try to imagine what my world would be like if the stars were intensely multi-colored and maybe even visible. I took that desire and my bedazzler and created this for Lily:

I saw my imagined stars against a deep, black background. A black background streaked with milky white patterns and bedecked and bedazzled with stars. Surprisingly the stars, in this piece, seem to resemble the letter 'L'; coincidentally Lily's name begins with a 'L'.

You never know what in life itself is going to call on you, become your muse, and push you to the next level in your art. The other day Fondue and I went to the vet for shots. Well, she went for the shots. I went for the shitty coffee and high credit card bills. On the way there, in order to detract myself from the mellifluous sounds of chihuahua whining coming from the back seat; I looked out the window at the rolling hills that border the 580 and saw the goats. I don't know the full story about the goats, but they move around from location to location around the bay area and seem to be employed as grass mowers. I was moved by the combination or urban and rural. Goats by the freeway! Not smelly goats that you need to feed and take care of, but pretty goats that you look at while speeding on the freeway. Urban, rural, the combination and the contrast. I was overwhelmed and couldn't wait to get home to create this for Trixie:

Surprisingly, the eyelets in this piece seem to resemble the letter 'T'. Coincidentally, Trixie's name begins with a 'T'.

Next, I put Jay Z's, American Gangster and Dolly Parton's Backwoods Barbie in the cd player, hit shuffle, close my eyes and let the bedazzler and my subconscious do the rest.

'Adult' Madlibs

2008-04-25T19:06:00.000-07:00

Sadly, you cannot judge a book by it's cover. More accurately, you cannot buy a book of Madlibs because you glimpse the word 'adult' on the cover and get all pouty when they are lame and sexist. Still, the money has been paid and it is non-refundable.

ARE YOU TOO DEMANDING?

Women certainly know the many PLURAL NOUN to get what they want, but are we too demanding of our PLURAL NOUN? Take this ADJECTIVE quiz to figure out whether you're just a/an ADJECTIVE gal or if you need to learn to a [sic] little more flexible.

Which best describes what happens after a/an ADJECTIVE Argument?

(a) You go into the ROOM, slam the door, and wait for him to VERB.

(b) He spends NUMBER hours screaming and telling you that you are ADJECTIVE.

(d) You give him the silent NOUN for NUMBER days before forgiving him.

Answer: Hopefully you picked (c), you'll get ADJECTIVE evening out of it!

Still Breathing

2008-04-16T15:42:00.000-07:00

Please stop calling my house at all hours of the night to see why I have not been keeping up with the blog. I've just been busy. I'm going through a something or other right now. It's not you, it's me. Well, mainly it is the HR Farm. It is one of our busy times. You may not have been hearing from me, but my customers have. I know they cherish my calls, the dulcet sound of my sweet, sweet voice, but must they keep delaying doing what they are supposed to do in order to make me call them EVERY DAY? Sigh.

I have tried to make time for you, and the blog, and personal hygiene. Alas, it was not meant to be. My days are spent with the calls and the meetings. At night, after enduring the two mile commute home, I fall on the couch, deaf to the cries of lonely pets. I handle the stress the best way I know how, Bedazzling shirt after tiny Chihuahua shirt. Dogs love rhinestones. It’s a fact. Bling aside, it’s been a crazy couple of weeks.

I do still love you. Please stop with the tears.

Today's Letter

2008-04-10T21:52:00.000-07:00

Dear Crazy Guy on BART,

First, I'm not sure if you are really crazy or maybe just a little drunk. At 1:00 in the afternoon on a weekday. Your eyes were bloodshot and you kind of over-shared in an odd, frantic way, still I was doing my best not to pay too much attention. I was actually trying to read the new 'Consumer Reports'. You may have noticed that it was on my lap and I kept glancing down at it while you were talking to me. As much as I tried to stay on point, I don't think I retained any of the product reviews. If I end up buying shitty toothpaste, it is your fault. And frankly, my teeth cannot handle the risk. But I digress.

What I really want to say is I know I may appear friendly and approachable. And in many ways, I am. But I don't do well with crazy. I do even less well, with crazy, that spends half their time talking about how their girlfriend wants to marry them and the other half of the time flirting with me.

First of all. I am tired of that tired old gender cliche talk about how guys don't want to marry and gals really, really do. It's stale, it's annoying, and I don't find it very accurate. Marry her! Don't marry her! Just stop flirting with me and let me read my magazine.

Also, while I appreciate advice that is helpful. I'm not sure you explaining to me that I have not ever been in love was very helpful. A) because I have. B) because maybe crazy people and girls on BART that try to read Consumer Reports just might feel love in different ways.

Still, you were nice enough. And when you said 'you don't bite' that was accurate. At least for the BART ride. And that's good. Because if you weren't crazy. Or drunk. And you weren't overly into gender cliches. And if you didn't have a girlfriend. And if I was even .05% attracted to you. I would insist on being the one doing the biting.

Now, leave daddy alone. She's reading about toothpaste.

Stichin'

2008-04-10T21:24:00.000-07:00

So, my sewing classes were supposed to start last night. I was anxious, to say the least. If I'm going to get on the next season of Project Runway, I should probably know how to thread a bobbin and say, turn on my sewing machine. So, I show up at the middle school that the class is supposed to be held in. E Hall, room 2. Now how hard could that be? Well, it is complicated by the fact that C Hall was next to H Hall. I'm no alphabet expert, but that seemed wrong to me. It also explains why people seem so concerned about the quality of education that the California public school system provides.

Finally, the really nice, really short janitor guy helped me out. We made jokes about the uh, order of the halls and found our way to E-2. Which was empty. So, that was excellent. The janitor, was still helpful. "Well, I know that E-1 has an ESL class, could that be it?" "No, I'm all good there." He laughed, he helped me find the number for the adult school people. So, I call and they tell me that the class was delayed a week and 'everyone' was called. "No, not everyone". Then I was informed that the supply list had changed and I should bring my sewing machine.

Now, I do have a sewing machine. That isn't the problem. The problem is, the fact that you need a machine for the class was not mentioned anywhere in the write up. While I am not a mensa certified genius, I am still smart enough to realize that's some crazy shit to forget to mention.

So, that was my yesterday. Except the part where it gets better. You know the old saying: When one door closes because the f-ers at the adult school don't even know the alphabet, another door opens. My friend Michele called and had an extra ticket to the Ani DiFranco, City Arts and Lectures interview.

Honestly, that made everything better. 500% better or so. Rough estimate.

On Cherry Hill

2008-03-28T10:01:00.000-07:00

Do you remember the first dirty joke you were told? Not something you overheard an older relative telling someone else. The first dirty joke one of your peers went up and told you. I remember mine. I also remember not quite getting it at the time. I knew it was dirty, I got that it was sexual, but I was still not fully aware of the complete, uh, mechanics of it all.

So, a boy walks into class 5 minutes late. The teacher, she keeps a tight ship, she sees him come in late and pulls him to the front of the class and asks "Why you are late?" And the boy simply states, "I was on cherry hill." and he sits down.

5 minutes later a second boy walks into the class, also late, in fact, even later. The teacher pulls him to the front and asks "Why are you late?" And his answer is word by word the same as the first boy, "I was on cherry hill".

5 minutes after that a girl walks into the class. Now, she is 15 minutes late. The teacher is just beside herself. She doesn't even bother pulling this girl to the front to talk to her in private. She is exasperated and says to the girl, "Don't tell me. You were late because you were on cherry hill" The girl says, "No, I am cherry hill."

Get it? Get it?

I'm not even sure I thought it was funny at the time. I was in first grade. A friend told me. She certainly got the joke. Public school is nothing but trouble.

Why am I telling you this? My lovely step-sister and I are about to birth a new, joint blog, called "On Cherry Hill". The vision is to deal with sexuality and sensuality, the personal and political of it. Geared towards the early experiences. A teen-ish perspective. It will be an open blog, meaning we will be looking for people to contribute. Both people that want to get rights to the blog and contribute on a regular basis and people that just want to email us with items and have us post it anonymously. We want it to be more than words, comic strips, art, videos, all are in the scope of the vision. As well as everything we haven't thought of yet. Here is our call to action:

"What was the first dirty joke you ever heard? The one you heard before you quite even knew what it meant. We want to hear that. We want to hear about your awkward early dates and sexual experiences. We want to hear how abstinence only education makes you scream. What do those sexually suggestive bracelets the kids wear even mean? Why isn't oral sex considered real sex anymore in high school? We are trying to get our muther fudging blog off the ground. We want it to be about sexuality, the personal and the political aspects. We want it to be a mixed media affair. We want it to be fierce. Help!"

Eventually, if you don't volunteer, I'm just going to show up at your house and make you. Eventually when that is squared away, the blog will be off and running.

Today's Letter

2008-03-24T12:01:00.000-07:00

Dear Asshole in the Hummer by Home Depot,

Here's the thing. If you choose not to use your turn signal, you give up the right to honk at me if I cut you off. While I am a woman of many, many, many extraordinary abilities, psychic powers are not among them.

Also, since the chances of your automatic transmissioned tank catching up to my car were slim to none, it occurs to me you honked not because of potential vehicular related danger, but because you are an asshole. Not only is that firmly against my understanding of what the state of California code allows, it also could startle the people working at Togo's. The people at Togo's cannot be startled at lunch. They have to make my avocado and provolone on wheat.

Thanks,
Rachel

Meeting of the Minds

2008-03-23T09:34:00.000-07:00

"That 3o minutes I spent with the Backstreet boys is a half an hour of my life I'll never get back" Trace Adkins

From your mouth to God's ears, Trace.

I don't normally watch The Apprentice. Mainly because few people annoy more than 'The Donald' does. Sure, his hair. But mainly he is a greedy, misogynist asshole. With bad hair. But, I was forced to watch Celebrity Apprentice the other day. Because the draw of watching Trace Adkins help plan a Backstreet Boys concert was too powerful to resist. First he has to call their tour manager to set up a meeting to review their concert rider. He has to say his name about ten times, and then spell it, and then explain his role. So, that got off to a good start.

Then the freakishly tall country singer and the freakishly bad boy band meet face to face. Trace breaks the news that there is only going to be one dressing room for the band. Then he fields requests for room temperature water, hot tea, and wheat grass. Which is great because Trace has no idea what-so-ever what wheat grass is. And you know, I'm a native Californian and I still am not really willing to juice grass and drink it. Seeing what it was like to explain that concept to someone born in small town in Louisiana, was pure television gold.

And soon, the finale, where the Backstreet Boys ask Trace to get black nail polish for them. (!).

Today

2008-03-22T21:18:00.000-07:00

Today Fondue ate cat poop. Threw up cat poop. Ate throw up. Threw up throw up. By then I had a hold of the paper towels and put an end to the vicious cycle. Today is not my favorite day.

Flight Club

2008-03-20T11:06:00.000-07:00

There is this certain age during youth. The early, early teen years. The pheromones kick in. The hormones kick in. Your body changes. But you are still not sure what to do with it all. I love seeing kids in this stage. Trying to figure out what to do with the body that is almost adult and the feelings that are almost adult and the thoughts that are as adult as they can possibly be. Except sometimes when they just aren't. And to have to hold all of this constant, crazy change. Oh my. This is why the kids are just nuts.

It is important for you to know that I was that age once. Not that it is a specific age so much as a specific phase. Some go through it at the end of grade school, some in high school, some get out the gate way too quickly. For me, it was towards the end of grade school. I was tall, gangly, looked older, was full of angst and contemplation. Awkward. And also pretty. Pretty in an awkward way, which just seems to make you prettier. Not that I ever thought I was pretty. The self awareness was being tested. Suddenly, others notice you. The objectification begins. You are fully unprepared. You are fully curious. Lethal, lethal, lethal.

And this is where the groundwork for your future relationships gets created. This is the testing ground, the emergence. I had swooned over the unattainable boys for years. Rock stars, actors. Poster after poster torn from magazines and taped to my wall. But now, the boy crushes were real. Not the innocent flirting of the younger years, but the lusting of the magazine boys taped on the head of a real boy. The yearnings had begun and I was scared shitless.

There was this boy. Who, technically, was recently out of high school so maybe more of a man. He was beautiful. Even better he was beautiful and cool. Even better, beautiful, older and a bad, bad boy. He sold pot on South St. in Philadelphia. He hung out there. He was beautiful. Did I mention that? I met him at my mothers friends' house. I guess they were my friends also. I hung out there a lot. I would sit on the couch and they would get stoned and talk and I would just learn. I learned that smoking pot makes you hang out on your couch a lot, learned who Nelson Mandela was, how red lights never last more than a minute so you should never run them, and that Hall and Oates were gay. I also learned that the beautiful boy that stopped by their house to buy pot to sell on South St. liked me. You know, liked me, liked me. And as much I yearned for that with every ounce of my gangly body; I was not ready for that.

He took a few weeks with it. Talking to me, throwing compliments my way. Watching the combination of terror and desire in my face. Gauging his place. Then he went for it, escalated it. Asked me to walk up to South St. with him for some reason or another. I said yes, but I don't know how or why. I walked with him, up the stairs, out the door, and around the corner. We passed the Wawa and that's when it happened. He ran into a group of his friends. More older boys. Beautiful boys, cool boys, pot-smoking-south st.-hanging-out boys. This officially made it just all too much for me. I was a bundle of nerves and confused feelings and just not ready to be around that many beautiful boys. My would be suitor walked a little ahead of me, to talk to his friends. I lagged behind. And then. And then, I just cut around the corner without saying a word to any of them. I took off in a completely different direction. Sat in a park for awhile, let the hormones rearrange themselves, got on the SEPTA bus and went home.

Sometimes you end up being more flight than fight.

Jolly Ranchers

2008-03-19T13:10:00.001-07:00

I am safely home and back to work and even in the actual office, instead of sitting on my couch with my laptop and Divorce Court. It's nice to be back here. Yesterday, a co-worker brought in lunch for me. Because she remembered I like Korean food. And she's Korean and had cooked Korean food. And mainly because she is nice. It was excellent. And a fantastic welcome back. I've missed my co-workers and my plants and the basket full of snacks the HR Farm keeps in the break room. My fingers are still covered with almond dust from today's snack break. I need wipes.

The broken elevator has been fixed. The receptionist has refilled the candy jar. But she still managed to pick out all the cherry jolly ranchers and keep them for herself. She's pregnant. Once the baby comes I will insist on getting access to the cherry ones again. In the meantime, I make do with the green apple.

Lucid Dreaming

2008-03-17T22:31:00.000-07:00

I have a lousy track record with remembering my dreams, but a fairly decent track record with the occasional lucid dream. Lately, the dreams have not been that great. The worst part of that is that I have not had the best track record of getting to sleep in the first place. It's not my most stress free year. I get that. Two weeks ago, I had an awful night full of tension dreams. I woke myself out of the bad dreams three times (!). Luckily, with the lucid dreaming skill, I can wake myself out of bad dreams. Unfortunately, I have not yet learned how to harness those powers for good and just turn the dreams around. And, I am more concerned about getting the sleep than getting the dreams.

I have been, however, been reminded of my very first lucid dream. Or the very first lucid dream I was aware of. It was in grade school. I was in the school yard in the dream, then suddenly I willed myself to do something in the dream. And I did it. And suddenly I was aware I was dreaming and somehow still asleep. I wasted no time. Next thing you know, I was making out with Rob Lowe. But in a grade school kind of way. Still, good times.

I think what I am saying is where is Rob Lowe when I need him?

Sub-Urban Living

2008-03-17T08:31:00.000-07:00

So. I live in a slightly transitional area. Not quite urban, not quite suburban. Sadly, not rural at all. What this means is I have a neighborhood watch group and a liquor store on the corner. I have easy access to public transportation and street parking in front of my house.

Well, the parking. Now that is a story. It's important to know that my block is suburban enough so that I know everyone's business through the gossip grapevine. And, everyone knows mine. Which mainly involves trying to figure out which one of the neighbors I am related to. I look nothing like my Aunt's girlfriend and even less like my Aunt. Also there is that I lock myself out of my house wearing only a robe and I never wash my car. Gossip is powerful. Not powerful enough to convince me to clean my car. But powerful.

So, the latest news is the guy on the other side of my Aunt's house. He is an outgoing guy, friendly enough. I forget his name. Which is okay, because my understanding is that he refers to me as 'the girl in the yellow house'. For the record, my house is green. So, friendly guy that can't bother learning my name or my house color stopped by my GREEN house a few months ago to get me to sign a petition that allowed him to create a handicap parking space. Fine. Then he paved over his yard so he didn't have to deal with grass. Fine. I don't like the look of concrete lawns, but unless you have an effective grey water system in place I don't like the idea of you watering your lawn all the time either.

The other day, while sitting on the porch sharing a sandwich with the tiny dogs, I noticed some construction going on at the friendly guy's house. On closer inspection, I noticed he was putting in a driveway next to his house. Fine. Oh wait. He now has one spot designated handicap parking and just took away another parking spot to create a driveway. This is going to create some issues.

The thing you should know about the sub-urban slightly transitional areas is that people are really, really, really particular about their parking. When I lived in San Francisco, I considered it a success to get within twenty city blocks of my apartment. And usually I only got that space because of some street cleaning sign I forgot to look at. In the suburbs, you park directly in front of your house. You feel entitled, you feel ownership. If you have a driveway, then the spot in front of your house, is in case your friends stop by. It is never to be used by your neighbors or your neighbor's friends or those f*ing out of towners that clog the street on crab feed days. I hate those people.

So, my sleepy block of homeowners are faced with two less parking spots. And people are talking. Things are about to get animated around here.

Last Words

2008-03-14T21:18:00.000-07:00

It is important for you to know, gentle readers, that I have been near death these last few days. Suffering from the common cold as no one has ever suffered before. I knew it was coming. I knew my life style full of non-stop-rock-star-like-partying would catch up with me. There was the whirl wind, snow filled, trip to Boston. Then late night after late night watching the step-sister gamble in Vega$. Then. Then. I checked myself into an almost local hotel for a work training session. You think, Burlingame is so close to my home. I can sneak over the bridge at night and visit the tiny pets. You don't know during all that thinking how tired you will be. The HR Farm likes you to learn shit. They pack your day full of classes that use all the remaining brain cells. Then the HR Farm wants you to bond. They pack your night full of team dinners and team building exercises. After that I am too tired for the bridge and I don't really even remember where my car is parked or really remember how to drive a stick anymore.

So I got sick. The best part is my voice is going out. So I tried to work at home as much as possible. People insist on talking to you when you are in the office. "Hi Rachel, how are you feeling?" Selfish bitches. The best part is my voice is going out and I have to do a presentation for big important client on Monday. A big important client in Vegas. Oh yes, sin city, voice or no voice, I'm coming back to get you.

Las Vegas

2008-03-10T21:27:00.000-07:00

Vegas loves a bride. Vegas even loves four girls with a cheap veil pretending to be a bachelorette party in order to get in everywhere for free.

Home, sweet and tawdry, home

Kickin' it old school at Ballys

Liberace. People go through the museum of excessive bling and still don't think he was gay.

Seamed stockings

Disco horse at the Bellagio

Topless hula hooping dancer at the Double Down

At Red Rock, hiking the sin away

Some tree I'm too lazy to look up the name for.

Moss on the rocks

Boston

2008-02-26T10:51:00.000-08:00

Hours before boarding the plane to Boston my brother sent me an IM. "It's 20 degrees here" Seemed reasonable to me, until he typed, "It's supposed to snow". That's when I realized he meant 20 degrees fahrenheit. Quickly, I opened the suitcase, and stuffed it with a down jacket, gloves, and rain shoes.

all wintry and bundled

The flight to Boston was, well, unawesome. Crowded. Delayed. The guy next to me kind of fell asleep on me a little bit. I wanted to push him off, but his wife wanted me to take pity on him. Which seemed odd. Maybe they were swingers and that was some sort of mile-high club foreplay. Regardless, it made it hard for me to sleep. I survived the flight and my brother picked me up at the airport.

My brother's self named 'wedding of the century' was in mere hours. It was too early to check in at my hotel, so he took me to the step parents' hotel. They were happy to see me and tried to engage me in conversation. I went to their couch, made a pillow with my down jacket and took a nap. They were not completely surprised. I had been a petulant child after all. Gingerly, they woke me up in a couple hours. I patted down my hair, smoothed my skirt and went with them to Cambridge City Hall for the wedding.

After the wedding, we took over a local restaurant for lunch. Still somehow awake, I had an excellent time talking to the other guests and snapping pictures. Eventually, the energy waned. I was escorted to a cab and sent to my room.

I was staying at the Hotel Marlowe in Cambridge. The rooms were very nice and warm and they had nightly wine receptions in the faux living room off the lobby. I tend to be a fan of the faux living room thing. I grabbed a glass of wine, some coffee table books and made conversation with the other hotel guests. It was chock full of lesbians in town for the KD Lang concert. So, I felt right at home, but with snow.

The best part of the hotel was the drapes in the guest rooms. They had the Declaration of Independence on them. Not the original, here you can see:

Life, liberty, and the pursuit of textiles

This guy at the wine reception thought they were "US Constitution Drapes". I imagine a few, cold hours walking the freedom trail will help him sort that all out.

So, the snow. It snowed all day on Friday, which makes a pretty back drop for a wedding, but means I had to wear a dress that matched my rain shoes. The roads were unsalted according to the taxi drivers and not safe. I was alarmed to think it was the kind of storm that even 'professional' drivers would not want to venture out in, but the KD Lang fan I befriended said "they're all from Ghana, how would they know how to drive in the snow". Perhaps all the above is somewhat true. It did mean that the dinner with the family, turned into me eating french fries and drinking wine in a faux hotel living room, because no one wanted to drive. Still, there are worse things than french fries and free wine.

The white powder from the sky, she burns.

Saturday, we did all manage to huddle together and make our way to a fantastic brunch. Afterwards, I indulged in some fabric shopping. Still, not past the curtain stage with the new sewing machine, but I am determined to make myself some new clothes, since this year they cannot be bought. I went to Marimekko to pick up vibrant prints for some sort of future skirt project. In china town, I went with bright silks. Something slinky, but simple. From china town we made our way down town, past all the brightly lit clothing stores that used to demand my attention and credit cards. My brother was impressed by how brave I was, barely glancing at the H&M, when we passed by. Out of pity he bought me a pair of chihuahua socks. Socks with chihuahuas on them, not socks for chihuahuas. Though, chihuahuas will indulge you:

Socks as hats!

After being gifted with socks, I put myself on the T and found my way back to the hotel without the help of breadcrumbs. After a grueling twenty minute work out at the hotel fitness center (people, I am a machine), I had a lovely dinner with my brother and sister-in-law. My french fry recommendation was well received.

The next day, I had an early breakfast with my friend Shannon and her son, Matthew. She was nice enough to drive to meet up with me and take me to the airport, even though I didn't even tell her I was going to be in town until the last possible minute. I'm glad she made it. It was nice to see her again and it was nice meeting Matthew in person. He has those fat baby cheeks that demand pinching. There are worst things.

Must. Pinch. Cheeks.

The rest of the story involves more delayed plans, more awkward seating arrangements, me spilling water on the guy sitting next to me and finally arriving home to the disco wall at the airport BART station.

Disco wall!

Michael and Huaiyu: 2/22/2008

2008-02-25T09:52:00.000-08:00

The newlyweds!

Let me tell you a few things that I don't like about the east coast: the winter. Let me tell you what I do like about the east coast: my brother. And that, in short, is why I found myself on a crowded, miserable red-eye flight to Boston last week. Huaiyu, my brother's girlfriend, had agreed to make an honest man out of him. Finally.

After dating for a billion years and enduring the world's shortest engagement, they exchanged vows at Cambridge City Hall. It was a simple, sweet ceremony. Scheduled last minute, to make sure Huaiyu's parents caught the show before returning to China. Still, there were enough family and friends there to crowd the room. Afterwards, the couple treated us all to lunch. Now they are back at work. Honeymoon to be scheduled. I suggested Maui. A few billion times. I think they are afraid, if they actually went there, that I would show up at their hotel room, trying to crash on their floor.

Michael, avec bling.

So, snow aside, delayed red eye flights aside, lack of sleep and flat, hat hair aside. It was a good day. Sometimes seeing two people that are great on their own, even better together, and nice enough to be considered living saints, smile until their teeth hurt will just do that to you. Crazy.

Me, with my new sisters, my new brother, and my, uh, old brother.

I look tired because I am.

The day after the wedding, Huaiyu's family gathered in her small Cambridge apartment. Her dad, got out the construction paper and made a huge, red double happiness symbol for the kids to put on their wall. The way things have been going with Michael and Huaiyu, I don't know if they even need it. Still, let's all wish it for them anyway.

Hey, Hypocrisy? It's me, George!

2008-02-19T10:37:00.000-08:00

"Eventually, this transition ought to lead to free and fair elections — and I mean free, and I mean fair — not these kind of staged elections that the Castro brothers try to foist off as true democracy." George W, talking about Castro's resignation.

Um. Speaking of elections and Florida and brothers and I mean free and I mean fair.

Tag, You're It

2008-02-18T22:22:00.000-08:00

It is Galileo's turn to be the Bad Pet of the Month. Her picture is proudly displayed in the living room, her name on a plaque for all to see. Originally, I had considered starting a Good Pet of the Month competition, but then I realized, good isn't what my particular pets are competing for.

Galileo, was certainly the dark horse in the competition. Sneaking under the radar, to come in first. She cinched it with a couple of bold moves. One, was stealing my food. I had a salad with chicken on it, but decided I didn't want the chicken. I put the little chicken pieces in a container for potential future use. Once my back was turned, Galileo jumped on the kitchen counter and ate most of it. Two, was stealing Fondue's food. During Fondue's morning feed time, Galileo came into the kitchen. Normally, she wants (and by wants, I mean demands) fresh water. It's not enough that the water glass and bowl are full. She likes to see me, put the water in. She does not trust. So, I give Fondue food, go to fill the water glass and when I turn I see Galileo eating some of Fondue's food that dropped on the floor. Fondue looked at her with sad puppy eyes.

Lolita says: I am sadly disappointed in this month's results. I thought the fact that I scratch the beloved couch every single day would make me a shoe in.

Fondue says: She only got it because kittens are better jumpers. I tried over and over to get on the counter. Boing. Boing. Boing. Boing. Boing. But I could not reach it. I like chicken!

Galileo says: Don't hate the player, hate the game.

Memory

2008-02-17T14:20:00.000-08:00

I know getting older is better than the 'alternative'. I get that it is natural. Still, I'm going to be bummed when my memory starts to go. It's quirky, but serves me well. I remember what you wore that night, when you said that thing. Please don't try to deny it.

Friday, between client meetings, I managed to shovel in a late lunch and pick out a new eyeshadow. It's spring-ish. I wanted a pastel-ish shade, but a solid, pastel, not a wimpy one. SPRING, not spring. Last time I went to Vega$, I had a new, greenish (what's with all the 'ishes'?) blue eyeshadow and it turned out to be a damn good trip.

So, I get done with the meetings and the BART rides and make it home to the barking dogs and my new treat. I hadn't been able to test it on my eyes yet. Generally, colors good for Vega$ are not good colors for client meetings. So, it's this chalky blue, slightly shimmery shade. Somehow it reminds me of the first 'eyeshadow' I ever wore. The blue chalk at the pool hall. The memories just came flooding back. You know, when they really hit you, and you have to just sit down and just remember?

Before I was Grandma's girl, I was Grandpa's girl. Technically, I am the oldest of 30 cousins, but unofficially, I am really the youngest of 10 kids. When your parents have you at a young age and they are on the older end of their clans, the generations get blurred. My youngest aunt and uncle (twins, please don't ask if they are identical) are about seven years older than me. About, because my birthday does fall a whole day before theirs. So, I fell neatly into the fold and since my parents were still trying to figure out what to with a baby, the village took over.

So, my kindergarten, was very close to the high school that my Grandfather coached (football, basketball, softball) and taught at. Some days, I would be dropped off at his door. I loved hanging out at the school. I would visit with my Grandfather, eat whatever I wanted at the cafeteria, and draw pictures in art class. Some days, when school let out, my Grandfather would take me to the bar with him. I know it sounds awful in the light of today's parenting standards, but this was a while ago and you know, we're Irish.

I loved it. The bartenders would give me change to buy sodas from the machine. One of those soda machines where all the wares were in glass bottles and the machine had a built in bottle opener. The bar-flys sitting on the stools, would give me money and I would buy candy. You have to remember that at this point of my life I was living in the country, with my barely of age hippy mother, no t.v., no sugar, no bath tub, no heat, no fun. Candy was beyond decadent.

They had a couple of pool tables in the bar. Every once in awhile someone would try to teach me how to play. I never was very coordinated or graceful, so I would inevitably give up. Still, I'm a helper. I would take the cue sticks, grab the small squares of blue chalk, and get everyone ready for their next shots. And, I would use the chalk as eye shadow.

My Grandfather let me. He had me on the world's longest leash. Once, I talked him into cutting my long, shimmery, blonde hair and giving me a bob. He certainly wasn't the world's best hair dresser, but he was a damned good Grandfather. I loved sitting with him, with my blue eyeshadow, ruining my dinner with candy bar after candy bar. When the memories begin to fade, I want this one to cling until the end.

Busted, Almost

2008-02-15T08:48:00.000-08:00

So, yesterday, I left the HR Farm a little early. I figured I would let the dogs run around in the yard and finish up my work from home. When I turned onto my street, I noticed two Comcast trucks parked in front of my house and the Comcast guys kinda looking at my yard. Needless to say, I was more than a little worried that I was busted and they were there to disconnect my beloved, illegal cable.

So, I did what any other highly ethical person would do. I parked in from of my Aunt's and, without pausing, entered that house with my spare key. Then I sat on their couch and watched until the guys left.

Luckily, my illegal cable is still in effect. Even better, because I'm dense, I still haven't learned my lesson and won't be doing anything about it.

Valentine's Day

2008-02-14T13:32:00.000-08:00

Dear Pretty Co-worker,

Thank you so much for the $.25 box of Necco Sweethearts. I felt like we had something and am happy to have tangible proof that it is mutual. I'm happy that you want me to be your valentine. I'm a little sad that, judging by the amount of boxes of sweethearts that you brought in today, that you want everyone else to be your valentine as well. I still feel special, but in a slightly used way.

Luv,
Rachel

Cashmere Lipstick

2008-02-13T08:55:00.000-08:00

1. Cashmere

2. Lipstick

3. Cat

4. Other Cat

5. Dog

Not only are cashmere and lipstick the top two items on my 'What I want with me when I am stuck on an abandoned island' list, they are the keys words in the titles of two lame ass t.v. shows.

I know, it does seem weird for me to offer t.v. critique. I schedule my Sunday activities around watching Rock of Love 2 and reading the NY Times. In that order. But even I, apparently, have taste limits.

I hate to start getting all feministy on you, especially with my history, but Lipstick Jungle and Cashmere Mafia are just backlash shows wrapped in shiny, Prada bows. So, here is why these shows make me grit my teeth and get all frowny when purely crap shows like Rock of Love 2 don't.

LJ and CM try to act like they are all empowered and then just force the same broken-sisterhood shit down our throats. I get it; career girls are lonely and their men don't love them. I get it; women are too nice to do 'hard' things like fire fucked up employees. I get it; men don't like to hire women in high positions because they have babies. I get it; girls can't wipe their asses without asking the other girls if it is okay.

Let me just say that these things all still happen in the big bad world. But, if most sexism was this transparent we should all be so lucky. The real shit is layered and it's the under currents that can pull you under.

Pet Updates

2008-02-12T21:47:00.001-08:00

Galileo has decided that her over priced cat food is just not enough. In the past week she has stolen food from both me and Fondue. She really isn't the food stealing type of pet. That is Fondue and sometimes, Lolita.

Garcon, the menu please.

While I am still going strong on my goal to not buy new clothes or even new, old clothes, or even shoes (ay dios mio!), Fondue has a new winter coat. People, she was cold! Chihuahuas get cold! It's for health.

I used to be cold, but now I am hot, hot, hot.

Lolita says no pictures please. He is sleeping on my New York Times and he would like more treats when he wakes. That is all.

Yes, You

2008-02-05T16:26:00.000-08:00

Hey! Why are you wasting your time reading this? Go out and vote!

IN YOUR FACE

2008-02-04T13:56:00.001-08:00

It is a fine day today. Yesterday, you may be aware, was Super Bowl XLII. That is 42 for those of you who do not read Roman. You may not be aware that yesterday was also my second (annual?) 'Super Bowl Party for People Who Don't Watch Football'. It's the social event of the season. It involves me making enchilada casserole and watching the game on my smallish t.v. with other people that don't actively follow football. We get easily confused by the rules of the game and spend a lot of time switching to The Puppy Bowl on Animal Planet. I started the tradition last year when my uncle's team The Chicago Bears made it to the Super Bowl. I knew there was no way I was going to get away with not watching the big game and still be considered part of the family.

So, this year, my other uncle's team made it to the Super Bowl. Did you know I was related to so many football coaches? Look at how broad my shoulders are; how could I not be? Unfortunately not everyone in my family has the drive and determination needed to be a highly valued HR Professional. Some of them are forced to take high paying jobs in professional sports instead. Still, I try not to rub it in their faces when I see them. That would be rude.

So, for the second year in a row, I was forced to watch sports on t.v. (for the record I love going to see games, just not into the whole game on t.v. thing). I took the enchiladas out of the oven, gathered the pets, and cracked open a beer at 3:00 on the dot. Twenty hours later the game really took off.

Even if you are not a sports person, you still need to find someone who got that crap on tivo and watch the fourth quarter. Amazing. I got up when there was about five football minutes left in the game (note: one football minute equals one hour of real time) to go to the bathroom and never made it there. I just stood, staring at the game.

And best of all. We won. We really won. Take that other East Coast football team that also wears red and blue. Take that.

The Queen is Dead; Long Live Vega$

2008-01-30T17:34:00.000-08:00

First the bad news. I will not be doing my winter tour of London and Ireland in February as I had originally planned. I carefully packed away my new rain coat, boots, and sweaters. I hope to pull them and the tour books out in the spring and reschedule my UK adventure.

Still, one needs a break. A break from the bedroom full of boxes, the office full of work, the phone full of unanswered calls, and the yard full of tiny, barking dogs. I yearn to be back in Maui. Crave it, dream of it, fill my nights full of mai-tais in anticipation. But, you know, I can't afford it. So, I'm heading to Vega$ and pretending I'm in Maui. And Paris. And Venice. Some of my bitches will join me, so we can hit the town and Liberace Museum in style. We will eat macadamia nuts by the slot machines and dance through the Bellagio at midnight in mumus.

While in Vega$, I will go by the name 'Rachel'. There is no shame in my game. Though, regular readers of the blog might think there should be.

Inheritance

2008-01-24T22:05:00.000-08:00

So, most of you know that my dad passed a couple weeks ago. That's a hard thing. He had been sick, gone through chemo and then was better. Then my aunt shows up at the HR farm to let me know that I needed to go to UCSF that minute, that my dad got sepsis and wasn't expected to make it through the night.

In this twisted modern world, relationships between parents and children get complicated quickly. My relationship with my father was no exception to that rule. Still, my father loved me to the best of his ability and he loved me more than he loved anyone else. That counts for something and then some.

So, after the death, is the work. I spent most of my days last week in his cramped, San Francisco apartment, filling trash bag after trash bag with a lifetime of waste. Two year old tv guides, old vhs tapes, newspapers. This weekend is more of the same. My family and friends have been very helpful. Muffins and spare hands arrive like magic.

It's also been a crash course in making funeral arrangements. I don't care how many seasons of Six Feet Under you have under your belt, it still catches you off guard. And, of course, the cost is off the charts. And, I wanted to pick out a charity for the whole 'in lieu of flowers' thing. Since my aunt called into question the legitimacy of 'The Rachel Maui Fund', I was forced to go with Meals on Wheels.

So, now I am in my living room, newly cluttered with boxes of dvds, audio-visual equipment, books, and the like. Going through his wallet was hard. Something so intimate about that. This object, attached to him daily, filled with random cards, a picture of me, $17. I took the cash and bought a bottle of wine. I know it's not wise to blow through your inheritance in one day like that, but I'm a rebel. I opened the bottle on Saturday, surrounded by his family and friends. I toasted him in silence.

Dream Landscapes

2008-01-08T09:58:00.000-08:00

Last night in one of my dreams; I revisited the scene of a previous dream from weeks ago. It was odd, the dream took place in 'Philadelphia'; though it didn't really look like any part of Philly that actually existed in my memory. At some point during the original dream, I actually questioned this false Philly in the dream itself. Suddenly, in the dream, it dawned on me that it didn't look like Philly. Like my waking brain chimed in and questioned what my dreaming brain had come up with. My dreaming brain though, is a smart, wily creature, it decided that the dream landscape was the university city area in Philly. A neighborhood I was not very familiar with in real life. So, the dream was able to progress. It mainly involved moving back to Philly, bike riding with my friend Alisa, and talking about things. It's like my real, waking life, except with exercise. And this dream last night was kind of the same thing, bike riding with Alisa, going places, talking about things. Pithy, pithy stuff.

It was just so odd that the dream landscape Philly was the same one as before. Like my dreams take place on sound stages and there are a limited amount of sets. I talk to Alisa, I bike ride with her, I bike ride myself in this fictitious Philly. Last dream, I took in a museum, but this time woke up before I got in any sight seeing. Alisa and I did start a conversation about the differences between west coast racism and east coast racism before I pedalled away. My dreaming brain is very subversive; if I start sleep walking the dominant paradigm better watch out.

Friends Romans Bitches, Lend Me Your Ears

2008-01-02T13:58:00.000-08:00

I need to talk this through. I am trying to be a decent person. I am trying to lead a good life. I am trying not to be an asshole. I have set goals for the New Year. Some of these goals seem decent enough and I'm already on track. No more plastic bags! Open an account with a bank that is not funding facism! Go to that gym place that all the kids talk about! And then there is the big goal. The hard goal. No new clothes or shoes purchased in 2008. Help! I think I have lost my mind. It is already day two and the withdrawal is unbearable, and this is a leap year, an extra day, 366 days. The insanity. Dear LordBabyJesus please help me.

Also, you can still buy me clothes. That is allowed. It would be rude to not accept your generous gift. Please. Please. Please.

Literacy

2007-12-28T11:12:00.000-08:00

Sadly, the holiday season is winding down. I decided to start to put away my holiday decorations. Actually, my 'holiday decorations' only consist of Xmas Stockings with the pets' names on them (and mine, from childhood). Actually, most years I don't even bother hanging those up. Actually, this year was one of those years. I'm not really into holiday decor. Still, I had removed them from their top secret under bed hiding place, so it was time to put them back there. They were conveniently located in the middle of my living room floor where Fondue left them after she attacked them. Trespassers! Interlopers! You will be punished! So, I lift them up and notice that Fondue has destroyed the leading 'L' off of Olita's stocking. Poor Olita, that dog has had it out for him from day one. I'm not surprised that Fondue focused her rage and fury at Olita's stocking instead of the other three. I am a bit surprised that she can read.

B and E

2007-12-26T14:43:00.000-08:00

There are things that I do, that are not common, but do not seem out of place. I mean, they aren't things I do all the time, but also aren't things that seem incongruous to my personality. What I am trying to say is, last week, in the harsh 60 degree California winter I locked myself out of my own house while wearing nothing more than a robe and socks. People have keys to my house. I have always handed out spare keys like candy in case I ever lost my keys or locked myself out; I just never thought I would actually do it. It's like how I have enough AD&D insurance in my name to pay off my brother's considerable medical school loans, but don't plan on actually dying or dismembering. (Note to Michael: killing your sister to pay off your medical school loans is not only wrong, but will also mean you will be forced to care for three badly behaved pets.)

Let's go back to the beginning. It is Sunday. It is late to still be in a robe, but I have just gotten up and frankly won't be dressed any time soon. I let the chihuahua out to do her outdoor chihuahua things. Sniffing, Bathrooming, Running in Circles, Barking. The barking is getting out of hand, she is targeting the kindly retiree across the street. He is walking over to say hi to her, I think about going outside to intervene, the barking escalates, I notice my Sunday NY times is missing AGAIN. I am out of my mind with anger and confusion. I go outside and shut the door behind me, checking to make sure it is unlocked, but perhaps not paying too much attention to the results of that check. Neighbors get talked to, chihuahuas get calmed down, papers are still missing. I start to head back inside, turn the doorknob and hear the little click it makes when it does not open for you.

I'm a resourceful woman. I pick up my chihuahua and start ringing the doorbell of my spare key wielding neighbors/aunts. No answer. Now, I'm a little freaked out. I go to my messy backyard to figure out how to break in to my house. Unfortunately, I usually think about my house security needs in terms of how to keep people from getting in. There is no faux rock hide-a-key or unlocked back door. The only window that happens to be cracked is the bathroom window. It also happens to be a very high, very narrow window. Still, I grab a chair, pop out the screen and start considering how I will get through it. The one problem is I won't fit through it. The other problem is I would need to exit the window head first onto my porcelain bathtub. So, I'm stuck. Luckily only figuratively.

My next decision is that my neighbors'/aunts' yard is much nicer to stay in than mine. If their gate is unlocked, I can hang out in their jacuzzi until they come home. After all, I'm dressed for it. Fondue and I head back over and break into their yard. We are sitting on the porch, waiting for my heart rate to go down, when my aunt opens her back door. Apparently, she was in the shower during my doorbell ringing frenzy, but now she is clean, dry and ready to let me in my house.

Also, my New Year's Resolution is to start wearing PJs to bed. Not sexy, but apparently, necessary. Very, very necessary.

Keepin' Curfew

2007-12-21T13:33:00.000-08:00

I think we are all making time this busy holiday season to start knitting baby blankets for the young Ms. Jamie-Lynn Spears. I am not here to start in on accidental pregnancies or young parents, after all both of those were critical factors in my own conception and birth. I just want to talk more trash about the Spears family.

So, first the parents name her after themselves, Jamie and Lynne. I don't know, I would go the George Foreman route myself. Rachel-Dog, Rachel-Cat, and Rachel-Other-Cat.

Then, she's 16 and pregnant.

Okay. And then we are surprised because she "never missed curfew"? Really? Because you can't pregnant before midnight? Because you don't have to talk to your children about sex and birth control until they get sent to juvie hall? So now, this poor girl, is now about to become some sort of symbol for all that is wrong with today's youth. And she's just a young girl, that became accidentally pregnant in the midst of much family chaos.

Any decent stage mother would've shipped the girl off to Europe for nine months and then pretended the baby was Britney's. Britney is too messed up to keep count at this point, so who loses? But, Mama Lynne in her infinite wisdom, allowed another of her kids to be thrown to the wolves. Brilliant, she should write a book. Oh wait.

Ten More Shopping Days Until My Birthday

2007-12-18T10:46:00.000-08:00

A $3.00 egg McMuffin for $50.00? Sign me up!

click.

Newsless Sunday

2007-12-16T11:22:00.000-08:00

I am trying to have a good Sunday. I am watching Weeds Season Two on dvd and wrapping Festivus presents for you, gentle readers. That should bring me great joy. But, there is a dark cloud hanging over my day.

After crawling out of bed at an unreasonable hour, I went outside to get the paper. Just to discover that my Sunday New York Times was missing. Oh no, the neighborhood car radio theft is one thing, but fucking with a girl's erudite crossword is another thing altogether. I know, I can't finish it, but I still like to fill it up with random words and keep it on my desk at work. Makes the bitches think you are all kinds of smart.

I better not be missing out on important world geo-political news because I am without my Style section. I better not.

Sleeping Like a Rock (of Love)

2007-12-13T10:37:00.000-08:00

When I finally tear myself away from the t.v. at night and crawl into bed, Galileo is always there to greet me. She does happen to be a big fan of the bed, and unless she is sitting next to me on the couch, or meowing for fresh water, she is on the bed. So, we always have two seconds alone before the other animals catch on that it's bed time.

I've been trying to dream more, or remember my dreams more, or something. I try to say (out loud) what I want to dream of at night before I fall asleep. I've decided that saying this out loud to Galileo is slightly less crazy than saying it to the pillow. So, Galileo and I sit in bed and, uh, talk about what we want to dream of. Last night we decided we would dream of fish, mittens, and hot cocoa (she normally picks fish, fresh water, or human slaves to constantly pet her). Our dreams did not come true. Or mine didn't. Galileo looked pretty happy this morning, so she probably had the fish/mitten/hot cocoa dream that I was gunning for. So, what did I dream about? Rock of Love: Season 2: Return of the Cheap Strippers. Now, it's not on the air yet, so we will all have to wait for the real deal. In the meantime, let's review what the sandman delivered to me last night.

So, in this dream, I am on Rock of Love: Season Two. Except, I'm me, not a cheap stripper. More like a would-be-expensive stripper, or a HR professional with low morals. And I am just making out with Bret the whole time. What a dream! If Bret and I were together my life would be full of touring with a crappy band, spending my free time in strip clubs, and dating a man that wears more makeup than me. And, then, the downside, listening to his crappy band all the time, never having a dollar for a diet coke, because I spent all my $1's at the strip club, and getting pink eye because my whore of a boyfriend used my eyeliner again. I guess, that makes it more of a nightmare.

Tomorrow, I plan to ask to dream about bad 80's bands, balding rock stars, and stripper poles. Hopefully doing that will guarantee me that nocturnal cup of cocoa.

Galileo says: if you put down the camera, you could pet me with that hand...

Soup Season

2007-12-11T17:13:00.001-08:00

The good thing about the unbearable harshness of the California winter (rain, more rain, and sometimes wind!) is that it is the perfect weather for eating soup. I've been on a soup frenzy. Minestrone, Pureed Roasted Vegetable, White Bean and Sage, Won Ton and Hot and Sour. Most of them I've been making myself, but occasionally I outsource the job to a local Chinese restaurant.

The White Bean and Sage soup is fantastic, super simple and hands down my favorite soup to make. It goes like this:

2 Cups Diced Onions
1 Cup Diced Carrots
4 Garlic Cloves, Pressed
1 Tbs Olive Oil
15 Large Fresh Sage Leaves
6 Cups Cooked White Beans (if using cans--about 3 cans, reserve liquid from canned beans)
3 to 4 Cups Veggie Stock
Salt and Pepper to taste

1) In soup pot, saute the onions, carrots, and garlic in olive oil on med-low until onions are translucent. Stack the sage leaves and cut into thin strips. Add sage to vegetables. Add cooked beans and 3 cups of vegetable stock, bean-cooking liquid, or water. Continue to cook on medium heat, stirring occasionally, until the soup is hot and simmering.

2) Ladle 2/3 of the soup in blender in batches. Puree until smooth and add back to pot. Thin soup with remaining veggie stock if needed. Add salt and pepper to taste.

I also add fresh rosemary with the sage a lot. And I have adapted it into a better blended, less liquid state to make white bean puree, which is fantastic on toasted bread.

The Pureed Vegetable Soup may be even easier. I like to roast vegetables in the winter months. Lots of them. I cut up as many root vegetables as I can find, toss them in olive oil, sprinkle with sea salt and Herbs de Provence. Roast in oven at 350 ish for 30 minutes ish, stir on occasion.

The vegetables are great just like that, but you can make a double batch and puree half of the roasted veggies in the blender with some veggie stock and you have instant soup. Almost as fast as ordering from the Chinese place. But, alas, no fortune cookies.

Où Est Mon Chien?

2007-12-09T11:15:00.000-08:00

Fondue says: if I don't sleep under blankets all day, I won't have the energy to bite your toes all night

I think you are aware that the weather is getting colder. I will spare you my diatribe on the agony I feel when the temperature dips below 70. I will focus instead on how the rest of my household suffers. The cats do okay, they are well-insulated with their soft fur, and they sleep on the bed in a kitten pile. That leaves the chihuahua. Her fur seems to be mainly decorative, not very functional. And judging by how my black coat looks; her fur sheds if you merely look at it. She is a tiny dog; and she is cold.

She has clothes. First I bought her some clothes from Target. After all, that is where I get most of my clothes. She didn't seem to like wearing them. Since we all know tiny dogs love to be dressed, I figured her objections were based in social consciousness. So, I went to American Apparel and got her some sweatshop free t-shirts. Alas, she still seems unhappy. So, while we still wear clothes out and about; we run around naked in the house. Even in the bitter, bitter cold of the California winter.

So, how does a tiny dog stay warm, in an unheated house, without clothes? Apparently, by burrowing under blankets. The problem is when you are tiny, and sleeping under a lumpy blanket on the couch, you are effectively invisible. So, Lolita steps on her a lot and that leads to barking and meowing and general discord. The other thing that happens is I tend to 'lose' her a lot. It's happened a couple of times. I tear myself away from the t.v. and try to get some chores done. A couple hours later, I realize I have no idea where the dog is. I look for her, room by room and can't find her. I try to remember if I have let her outside and just forgotten about her (I get it, I'm not going to be mother of the year). Then when I head to the computer to start working on the 'missing dog' posters, I notice the blanket on the couch is moving.

Then she pokes her tiny head out, looks at me with her chocolate-colored eyes, and burrows back under.

Delay in Enlightenment

2007-12-07T19:27:00.000-08:00

What am I doing right now? Typing to you. What am I supposed to be doing? Going to Buddha school and reaching enlightenment. But, I can't. I need to get some more work done for my customer. Sure, I'm mad. I should be getting my mother-fucking meditation on right now, not avoiding work by writing in my blog. I'm not surprised though, I am used to everything conspiring against me on buddha school night.

Once there was some bay bridge accident and the other cars made it so I had to drive s-l-o-w-l-y and then everyone in the inner Richmond district got home ten minutes before I got to the neighborhood and took up all the parking spots.

Then there was the time that the critical mass people got to the intersection two minutes before me. So, I had to turn off my car and read my book instead of driving to buddha school. Then the one guy stopped his bike to chat me up while I was parked there. Actually, that part wasn't so bad.

Then tonight, I get back from lunch and find out a customer is announcing a merger and I need to drive to Pleasanton to be there for the announcement. And work on materials for them to distribute tomorrow.

It is important to know that I will not be defeated. To all you haters, trying to keep a player from their beginner's mind, you will not win. You can block the bridge, steal the parking spots, scream at me about my oil consumption, make me do the job I'm paid for, but you will not win. I'm still going to get my mother-fucking zen on. Namaste.

Out and About

2007-12-04T14:55:00.000-08:00

Friday night Sara and I went to see my hippie boyfriend, Sam Beam, of the Iron & the Wine play. The sound was off for the opening act, we ended up sitting in the lounge area, reading The Economist and drinking wine. My boyfriend sounded good. But, I guess I prefer the spared down Iron & Wine, just Sam and maybe his sister, some guitars and the angst. The band was too much. Or maybe not enough. Needed more to get things really going energy wise, and was too much to keep things quiet, moody, and spare. The emo blade cuts both ways.

It should be noted that Sara and I are on a kick to expose ourselves to nighttime culture as much as possible. Sara, to celebrate a much deserved break from grad school studying. Me, to reluctantly force myself out of the house and away from my television. Thanksgiving week, we went to the Berkeley Rep to see "After the Quake" a play based on short stories by Haruki Murakami. As much as I hate missing Ghost Whisperer, I agreed to go because Murakami is one of my favorite writers. Even though that one part of "Kafka on the Shore" (if you read it, you know) still freaks me out to this day. Luckily, our love is strong enough to overcome and luckily, he didn't repeat any shit like that in "After Dark". So the play was great, though I thought the female lead was horrible. Next up we are going back to the rep to see "Argonautika". We like our shit to be mythical. That's how we roll. The fact that I am giving up a precious Wednesday night (America's Next Top Model, Gossip Girl, AND Project Runway) speaks to my commitment to local theatre, friendship with Sara, and Jason & the Argonauts. Except, you know, the whole Medea thing could've been handled better.

Music Review

2007-12-01T15:27:00.000-08:00

"Ya boy is off the wall. I'm Michael Jackson, these other niggas is Tito" Jay-Z 'Party Life

The good things you have heard about the new Jay-Z cd, American Gangster, are all true. It's many kinds of retro fun, references from the orginal gangsters of the 20's, 30's, 40's, heroin superstars of the 60's and 70's, and the Sugar Hill Gang 80's. A lot of the lyrics feel heavy, feel dark. New York film noir of music. And then the retro riffs threaded through, lightening everything up. And a soupcon of misogyny. It is important to not forget the bitches.

The story behind the album, is that Jay-Z saw an early screening of American Gangster and was struck, not just with the tale of Frank Lucas, but the parallels to his own past, and his love of rapping about drugs in general. I guess that shit impresses Beyonce, so keep on keeping on

Most importantly, it has a good beat and you can dance to it.

Additionally

2007-12-01T14:15:00.000-08:00

My friend, Karen, one of my fabulous Maui co-vacationers, shared with me what the kids are asking for this holiday season. Apparently, while waiting in line with her son to visit Santa, she overheard the young boy in front of them ask for, "a wheel barrow full of cake". Indeed. Please consider my holiday list edited to include a wheel barrow full of cake. It would be great if the cake was a white cake with either mocha or lemon frosting. It is critical that the wheel barrow be red. Much depends on that.

Aloha Maui Flora

2007-11-30T11:48:00.000-08:00

Maui smells like heaven and I wish you could scratch and sniff your computer screen so I could prove it to you. Instead, squirt some floral perfume in the room and look at my pics from the island.

Aloha Maui

2007-11-30T01:58:00.000-08:00

How was my trip to Maui? Abso-fucking-lutely wonderful. I am a California girl. I like California. I pay the taxes and barely whine about it. But Maui? Te amo, Maui.

A good vacation is always enhanced by top rate traveling companions. For Maui, here is the cast of characters:

Trish, looking sultry at the condo welcome meeting

Karen, primping in paradise

Me, making random tourists take my photo

Maui, like most things in life, is best described in lists of small, connected, observations:

1) In Wailea, if you want the local valets to respect you, you need to roll up in your rental car, cranking the new 50 cent cd from the crappy stereo.

2) When on an all day scuba diving trip, it is best to wear five times the amount of sun screen you think you need and then reapply every 2 seconds. Am I right Trish, or am I right?

3) If you drop off your friends for their all day scuba, skin burning trip at 7:00 AM, you can get to Hana and back by 2:00 PM. Regardless of what the concierge and tour books tell you. It is important to get the other cars on the road out of the way so you can drive as fast as you like.

4) The seven hour round trip to Hana also includes stopping twice to take pictures, once for a leisurely breakfast and a short hike in the sacred pool area above Hana.

5) Mai tais are best when you float the dark rum on top and decorate the glass with a fresh flower. Of course, it is hard for the mai tai to be bad.

6) Pineapple tastes better when you make Karen cut it the fancy catering way.

7) The appetizers at Wolfgang Puck, Maui, are better than the entrees.

8) You are never going to figure out how to work the surround sound in the condo, so please don't waste precious vacation time attempting it.

9) They do make hula outfits for chihuahuas; don't give up until you find one.

10) Before you go to the beach, paint your toe nails bright purple. It will help you feel more tropical.

Aloha Oakland

2007-11-29T01:31:00.000-08:00

Well, these are a bit late. But, in case you think I missed the chance to dress up the chihuahua for halloween, I wanted to set the record straight.

Here is Ms. Fondue is her hula girl costume:

Already losing the leis that were lovingly tied to each paw, but still looking sharp. Even from the side view:

I looked all over Maui for a dog hula costume and couldn't have been happier with it. I got a regular sized one for myself, but didn't want to get upstaged by Fondue, so I went western.

Rachel is the Reason for the Season

2007-11-28T10:44:00.000-08:00

By unpopular demand, here is my demanding holiday gift list. Don't be freaked out by the high prices; you are buying for Christmas and my birthday.

Practical Gift

Pretty Gift

Pet Help Gift

Pet Escape Gift

Pro-recycling Gift

Precious Metal Gift

Predatory Gift

Falling Apart

2007-11-28T08:30:00.000-08:00

Not all of you know how I have suffered the last couple of weeks. Let me break this down. I woke up one day, not only suffering from the common cold, but from lady cramps as well. Being the brave little trooper that I am, I still managed to drag myself into work at the HR farm. I took calls, I answered emails, I drank coffee. I am a fighter.

The next day I woke up feeling twice as bad. Still, I had meetings with clients and emails and coffee to conquer. I squeezed into a suit and embarked on the one mile journey to the office.

Every once in awhile, I am made aware, that there is a force greater than me in the universe. I feel it is a positive force, that tries to guide us in a productive direction. I am also aware that I am not always so great at picking up on hints thrown my way to guide my journey. But eventually, I catch on. Case in point. I sit down at my desk, sick with the cold, achy from lady cramps, I try to make myself feel better with a piece of toffee. Crack. My dental crown falls off. Yup, I am literally falling apart at my desk.

I took the hint. I made an emergency dental appointment, cancelled my meetings, went home and sat on the couch with a couple of pets, a box of kleenex, and a heating pad.

Macho

2007-11-27T08:57:00.000-08:00

It is hard to be a man in a house full of bitches. Poor Lolita. He spent almost ten years as my only pet, and now not only has another cat, but a crazy dog to deal with. This weekend he found his out. I left the door open accidently, and he went for freedom.

I don't know how long he was out there. It took me awhile to realize the door was open, then I had to go around the house and do roll call. When roll call came up short, I headed out. It was dark. I couldn't see him, so I turned and was going to get a flashlight. Then I noticed Lolita, standing on the fence. Then he saw me, and did that cat thing, where you turn around and pretend no one can see you. Even if you are a 13 pound cat perched on top of a fence with a white belly glowing in the moonlight. And you just made eye contact 2 seconds before.

I grab Lolita. He meows, mourning his lost freedom. A dramatic wail; a wail that could wake up the hounds of hell themselves and set the world on a... Wait, where was I? Yes, Lolita was grabbed and escorted inside. And he was dirty. Dirty, dirty, dirty. The white fur a dingy grey in the light of the house. I don't know how long he was out there, but I know he spent every second of his freedom just rolling in the dirt.

He still smells a bit earthy

Things My Dog Won't Eat

2007-11-26T10:01:00.000-08:00

Lettuce
Grilled Tofu
Beets

This is Where Your Bitch is at

2007-11-20T20:30:00.000-08:00

Shhh. Shhh. It's okay. I know, I know. I've missed you too. I am sure you have made good use of our time apart. I imagine you have used your free time to memorize my previous postings and recite them, drunkedly, at parties. I bet you have found the time to finally sort through the underwear drawer, to wash your pets, braid your hair, and learn conversational Russian. I have also been very, very busy. With what? Catching up on back issues of The Economist? Building dioramas of past bad dates? Don't be silly; I've been watching non stop trash t.v. Pop culture is still culture people. Recognize.

I am even sadder than you are about the writer's strike. Luckily, I have awful taste in television shows; the shit I watch writes itself. So with Project Runway ramping up, and America's Next Top Model barely holding my attention when sober, I've been almost overwhelmed. Still, I have managed to take in the occasional episode of I Love New York 2: Return of the Man-Ho. Thanks to that Steven Covey workshop, I know how to make time for what really matters. I managed to almost avoid Tila Tequila, but the cat fights keep drawing me in. And this week Tila takes her slurred speech, barely dressed, trampy self to meet the parents of these people? That is what I call focusing on the family. I hope by starting to watch the show, I can answer that age old question: Does a slutty bisexual really have twice as many choices for a date on Friday night? Or just twice as many chances for vd?

Dear George W,

2007-10-13T10:21:00.000-07:00

Fuck you very much for all you have done for the world.

Sincerely,

The Nobel Prize Comittee

Hope

2007-10-12T10:03:00.001-07:00

Attracted as I am to glittery things, in much the same way birds and babies are attracted to them, grabbing wildly, trying to put them in my mouth, I bought the word 'hope' this week. It was silvery, glittery 'hope', big block letters dusted in shiny decadence. It was an early winter holiday time decoration (can we say christmas, even if we do not exclusively mean christmas? It's much less to type); purchased at Kohl's, because I am klassy with a 'k'. I debated between 'peace', 'joy' and 'hope'. But lately, hope is what I have been missing the most, so I took it to the check out counter, got it wrapped in plain brown paper, and took it home to hang on my bathroom mirror.

So, every night when I brush, but pretend to forget to floss, my teeth I stare at 'hope'. Every morning when I finger comb my hair and debate if I want to spend the extra five minutes required to put on makeup; I stare at 'hope'. I have definitely felt like I have needed some hope these days. So then I started thinking. How productive is it to have so much hope? Not in a pessimistic way, but maybe in an alternatively optimistic way. Hope, to me, implies some grabbing, some reaching and searching for something not yet on the horizon. But. Does that stop us from seeing what is in the present, what is already here? Does hope take us away from our current condition in ways that encourage, or allow us to ignore the condition? Does this hope related yearning propel us forward when we are stuck? Or does it hurl us forward and cut us off from what we are at the moment? Is it both?

It's amazing how much philosophy you can buy at Kohl's for under $5.00. Maybe I should go back for the 'joy'.

Lydia

2007-10-01T20:25:00.000-07:00

As days go, I've had better

I got a call from a good friend of mine. The news was not great. The news was awful. A mutual friend of ours, Lydia, committed suicide early, early yesterday morning. Alisa (the friend that called), Lydia and I went to grade school together in Philadelphia and then all to the same high school. I cut out and headed to California a few months later.

Lydia and I have not been the best at keeping in touch. She came to California a few years back and stayed with me for a week. That was great. Then last year, we got back in touch again. She sounded amazing. Her life was exactly what she wanted. She had fallen in love, gotten married, and was about to have a baby boy. I was so happy for her. Lydia was someone you liked and someone you wanted everything for. Almost as much as you wanted it for yourself.

Then a few months ago, her life went 180 on her. She was splitting from the dream guy, he had taken custody of their son and she had not been able to see the baby in over four weeks. And then sometime this weekend, she had enough.

A couple weeks ago, I had this dream. In this dream a friend of mine (not Lydia, a different friend) came to me, sat by the edge of my bed, and told me she had killed herself. Outside of novels, foreshadowing can just be a bitch.

So, let's raise our glasses to Lydia. Let's hope she can now find peace. In her honor, I will share some of my favorite memories of her.

The girl could sew. 8th grade, home economics, I am struggling with putting my shitty, purple apron together. Lydia is across the room, sewing a dress with pleats.

She knew how to accessorize. During her trip to California to visit with me, she bought about six pairs of new shoes. Obviously, the girl had her priorities in order.

She was smart as hell. I remember this even during grade school. She just knew things. Full of culture and random facts and handy to have around.

Lydia was goofy. Half the time she came across as somewhat loopy, but she was just a sharp girl that didn't always advertise.

In summary, she was pretty, nice, smart and complex. She was a good person to have in the world. It sucks that she no longer wanted to be in it.

Uh-Oh

2007-09-25T09:53:00.000-07:00

No one explained this to me in college. *

While I am freaking out by the idea of having to deal with 10 more cats (plus a chihuahua, ay dios mio), I am very excited about the idea about getting to wear Prada while cleaning the 12 litter boxes.

*the thing with Salon links, like my link above, is you first have to watch their 'ad of the day' before you get to the actual article link. Click the next, watch the ad, enjoy the magic. Unless you are me and you just pay them their annual blood money for premium log-in service so that they will just leave you alone already. I am here for all your tech support needs.

Get Thee to a Nunnery, Perhaps Though a Buddhist Nunnery

2007-09-19T18:29:00.000-07:00

There are very good reasons why I have not been keeping you all updated on my dating life. It is not because I have not had dates. Know this people: I get play. It's just, well, let me illustrate with two recent examples.

* A guy asks me out to dinner. Says, "Can I take you out?". Vetoes the place I suggest for a place three times as expensive. Asks to split the check. I am not one of those girls who reads 'The Rules', I am feministy, I do not follow traditional gender roles. I just think that whole thing could've been communicated differently. That's $45 I could've spent on strippers.

* Same guy, at said dinner. Asked what books he has read recently. Says, "I don't really read books, I have a hard time finishing them." That is not something you say to an English Major. He might as well mentioned his love of taking sex tourism vacations in order to meet young boys. I glanced down at my plate and attacked my overpriced (but tender, so tender) chicken mole.

* Then he mentions that he did, a couple years ago, manage to get through 'The Tao of Pooh'. A book with slightly less words and pages than 'Goodnight Moon'.

*That same night I come home to a frightening email. Another guy. I read the words no woman wants to hear (or see typed). "I'm really into soft rock." Aren't rocks, by definition, supposed to be hard? I bet it is easy to cheat when challenging this guy to rock-paper-scissors. 'Scissors cut rock. I win!' Envisioning a life chock full of Kenny Loggins' songs. I clutch the chihuahua to my bosom and cry.

And yes, you want to know about Maui, of course you do. It was wonderful. Wailea smells like plumeria, Hana smells like guava, and Kihei smells like surfers and mai tais. More to follow once I get the pictures loaded...

Maui

2007-09-13T10:07:00.000-07:00

There is a chance that I will not blog at you for awhile. Please don't leave nasty phone messages if I don't (you know who you are, Suzanne). If things go well in Maui, I will not have time to blog or I will only blog after the mai tais and then promptly delete the posts when sober. Thanks for your understanding, now I have to pack my things:

brazilian cut bathing suit

bikini waxing kit

patent leather go-go boots

camera (what happens in Maui, will make its way back to California)

sun screen

advil

attorney's cell phone number

food who packs food on vacation? Um, me. It's a condo, so I just wanted a few things available before we have the chance to hit the Hawaiian supermarkets. I'm only bringing essential items, things you can't get on the islands. Coconuts, pineapples, sugar, kona coffee...

Winnie

2007-09-12T10:24:00.000-07:00

That's my Grandmother. This was the last picture we had taken together. I dreamt about her the other day and am still processing it.

Ugh. This just happened to me a couple weeks ago and now here it is again. The other week I had this break up dream, where I broke up with a long term partner. I went around the entire next day feeling like I had just dumped someone. Who wants that? But, the most recent one is worse. In this dream my Grandmother had just died (she died in June and we were very, very close). Instantly, with her death, I was cut from my family. Not in a rude, I saw what you blogged about me way, but my main connection to them got severed. So, in the dream, I am in my Grandmother's house. In the tiny room I like to sleep in when I am there. I am trying on pairs and pairs of her shoes because I didn't have the right ones of my own to wear (this is how you can tell it's a dream). Everyone is running around and ignoring me.

I am having a shoe crisis, my Grandmother has just died, and I am alone in a busy, busy house.

So, I wake up and I know that the dream was not how things really went down. In the reality, my Grandmother's passing was still a hard, hard thing (we shared the same birthday, she helped raised me, she bought me shoes). But my family was great and I had never felt more connected to them. I loved being around them and cracking jokes, eating food, making someone buy me another beer. And, of course, in reality I had the right shoes. I always have the right shoes.

I also feel, I hate to get too woo-woo, but I feel like I haven't really lost my Grandmother. She was older, her health was failing, and I got to spend so much time with her in this last year. I was sad not to see her anymore, but felt like it was a relief for her to move on.

Still, today I am sad.

The Lion, the Lamb, the Lolita, the Fondue

2007-09-09T15:50:00.000-07:00

Even though they normally fight like, well, cats and dogs (figuratively, literally, constantly), Lolita and Fondue have found some common ground. United in peace for minutes on end, they spread pet hair over my freshly laundered sheets.

When, I showed how upset I was at the prospect of washing the same sheets twice in one day, Fondue responded like so:

The Big and the Small

2007-09-08T13:30:00.000-07:00

A tiny dog, named Fondue, encounters the ocean for the first time while camping in Big Sur.

"Oh, what is that? It is so magnificant. I must hike down, must get closer. It's smells fishy, heavenly. Oh, birds. Soft, soft sand. Wait. No! What is this? I hate when my paws get wet. This sucks. Let's go home to the kitties now."

Vay-Cay

2007-09-07T08:13:00.000-07:00

Oh Kittens. It is an exciting time around here. Next week, at the tender age of 22 (can I get away with 22 or is that pushing it? Maybe 26?) I am heading off to Hawaii for the first time ever. Maui even. Which I hear is very romantic. Sadly though, I cannot bring the pets with me.

What makes this trip exciting and different for me is that I will be forced to do nothing the whole time. Nothing. I am what you call more of an adventure traveler. I like to hike until I get blisters, hit every museum and rodeo in town, and then spend the last hour left in the day shopping. I get back home and am exhausted. And I sit at my desk at the HR farm with my head against the keyboard. People talk. But on the island I will be sitting on the beach in a bikini that I will surely look good in again by next week, sipping drinks that involve fresh juice, colorful umbrellas, and buckets of rum, and eating the flesh of young coconuts.

Oh, and to be on an island that feels like an island and not just because I am in Alameda, at the small dog park (the dogs are small, not the park, except the park is also small), with a floral print shirt on trying to force the issue. I can only imagine what it will be like, but I know I will have a gdamn flower in my hair. That is for sure.

TMDTTE

2007-09-06T17:32:00.000-07:00

(things my dog tried to eat)

Toothbrush, while it was still in my mouth

Beloved silver, sequined votive holder

My aunt's cosmopolitan (drink, not magazine), I don't know how many sips it takes to get a chihuahua drunk, but she was sipping for a little while before we realized it. Of course it was hard to tell if she was running around in circles and nipping at the other dogs because she was drunk or because she is just plain crazy.

Long overdue library book, mmm the sweet taste of the new Murakami novel.

Too Much is Never Enough

2007-09-04T09:28:00.000-07:00

Ever see the movie 'Heathers'? It is exactly like that with me and my friends except we are all named Rachel. Or Rachael. But, mainly Rachel. Right now there are two Rach(a)els in my core friend group, and 3-4 more by association. Plus my hair dresser is named Rachel. And my physical therapist. Rach(a)els like to support their own. And we are all really nice. Plus we can all accessorize. I guess that means it's nothing like 'Heathers'.

A few weeks back, Rachael was sick. And Rachel was out of town. What to do? Sometimes during this time I would go to a dinner party and half the people there would not have my name. I was very confused. I was worried about the Rach(a)el to non-Rach(a)el ratio. I was worried the balance of the very universe would be jeopardized, that the fabric of our very lives would be torn in unrepairable ways. I needed to get us more Rach(a)els.

So I did what the kids do. I got on My Space. I created a profile, complete with a chihuahua picture and got to work. I searched for my high school best friend, Rachel. And I found her. And this weekend we met up for coffee. She's great. She looks good, she is Buddhist, she has fantastic tattoos everywhere, she is doing something with her life. All these things are wonderful on their own. Even better all together. And down right miraculous if you went to our high school. I'm just saying: ghetto. So, I have a new Rachel. A new, old Rachel. My scarcity issues are in check once more. The life fabric is untorn or maybe just torn in repairable ways. The universe is saved.

Schadenfreude

2007-08-30T19:08:00.000-07:00

Schadenfreude: pleasure taken from someone else's misfortune

Let's give it up for the Germans y'all. I experienced Schadenfreude and then learned the word all within 15 minutes. Where does one go to learn such wonderous, worldly, words? One goes to Avenue Q. I went to the play on Tuesday with Leslie and we had a blast. The puppets were great, the songs were great, it was applicable to our lives and cutting edge (well, cutting edge if I was in New York and it was five years ago and I was 23). The best part was the 'Bad Idea Bears' these two cuddly, pastel colored faux Care Bears that give you the worst advice ever.

"What are you doing Princeton?"
"Don't look for a job, go get some beer"
"Yay! Beer!"
"Better get a case instead of a six-pack, it's a better value and you don't want to waste money"

Yes, yes. The Bad Idea Bears are brilliant. They say what I say, but in higher, cuter voices. The bears' greatness was followed closely by schadenfreude and best of all, the song about schadenfreude. Maybe I'm just a sucker for high-brow culture, but I can't stop singing it.

Now, minutes before the puppets explained schadenfreude, I experienced it. The universe, she knows what she is doing. Here is how it went down. Funny song, funny puppets, funny song, funny puppets, intermission. Y'all know it gets rough at intermission. You have 15 minutes to grab your five pre-ordered gin and tonics, go the bathroom, and eat an overpriced bag of m&ms. So, I don't fuck around. When the lights go on, I am off and knocking people over to get to the drink shelf. I am all business.

So, I'm at the Orpheum. I have my drinks in hand. I head to the bathroom. From the top of the stairs, I look down and see this long line of men. Shit. If there are men waiting in a bathroom line, that means the women's restroom is going to be at least 20 times worse. Shit. Shit. Shit. But wait.

Wait. I make it all the way down the stairs and see that there is no women's restroom line. Let me break this down for you:

1) really long line for the men's restroom
2) no line at all for the women's restroom
3) ??
4) really

First I looked around for Rod Serling. Then I was overtaken by happiness. Happiness that comes from a bad, bitter place. Happiness that comes from watching boys fidgetting in the bathroom line. Schadenfreude.