San Francisco Project

I think we can safely say that the San Francisco project has been successful. For one thing, I didn't end up back on the east coast. But here's a look back at the highlights:

- Moved across country
- Got some good work experience under my belt
- Found a place to live
- Went to France for the first time
- Ran a Marathon
- Volunteered at the Exploratorium
- Made a some friends, met some crazy people
- Generally improved my life in an overall way

Suffice it to say, it's been an interesting year.

But I think at this time, I will need to stop writing this blog, in order to focus on starting two other endeavors. One will be beekeeping, which I am starting in the spring, and the other, as inspired by the success of my "toilet paper" posts in France and beyond, will be a new blog dedicated to toilets, bathrooms, and related stories from around the world. So send me your toilet-y inspiration! I want dirty toilets, gas station toilets, holes in the ground, camping issues, lack of toilet paper, "alternative" toilet paper, toilet customs, heated seats, potty-training issues, high-tech toilets and all things bathroom related. You know you what to do. And pictures are most helpful. Watch out for when I publish my book: "A comprehensive guide to the world's toilets." And share it with your friends!

Meanwhile, I want to thank everyone who's been there to support me, or helped along the way. In no particular order, thanks to:

Nina, Holly Jo, Annabel, Susel, Hans, Jan, Gregory, Surjeet ("the Surge"), Eric, Kate, Kate S., Anne, Steve, Emma, Logan, Nancy, Nancy O., Caroline, Rabbi M., Rabbi D., Stu, Andy, the Mission Minyan, Hans's roommates, Char & Rus, Paul & Melissa, Geoff, Joel, Katy, Benjamin, Tess, Lakey, Tim, Maura, Monica, Simon, DJ, Sean, Gadiel, Gretchen, Lara, Lisa, Tina, Linda, Leslie, Raphael, Dierdre, Mike, Abe, Ben, Aaron, Sophie, the Grace Cathedral, Will, the lady on the bus, my Grandparents, as well as my aunts and uncles; to all of you, for being awesome.

Thank you. And if I left you off this list, I will go back and add your name as soon as I remember. I owe you guys a debt of gratitude. So whenever you need me, just give me a call, and I'll do what I can. Because I couldn't have done this without you.

Happy Holidays.

Airport Security

The American Airport - 3 fl. oz., in a bag, no exceptions. Take off your shoes, belt, earrings, etc. Anybody could be a terrorist.

The London Airport* - No, I can't let you back in! You could be a terrorist. Didn't you see the signs that were ill-placed and obscured by the crowds that said "no return beyond this point"? How do I know you don't have a bomb? I could lose my job. You could be arrested. Do you want to be arrested? Now, follow this maze, pick up the red phone, and call the desk, then wait an hour and somebody will bring you your luggage. I don't care if you're jetlagged, ticked off, tired and hungry. Show me an attitude, and that will prove you are a terrorist.

The French Airport - "Is this water bottle too large?" (approximately one litre, almost completely full because I just bought it for about 8 euros). "Oui, Madame." She places it in the bin and sends it through the scanner. Nobody says a word.

* Stansted - not necessarily indicative of all London airports

The job of blogging

Ah, nine o'clock. Time to get to work. The nice thing about not having a job is that I have time to enjoy my mornings. Granted, I tend enjoy them anyway, because I am part of that weird sub-sector of people who actually enjoy mornings, known as "morning people." I always have been. Really, ever since I was a kid. In fact, my fondest memories of childhood are me, waking up early in the morning, and having the time all to myself, and just being in awe of nature. It's an inspiring thing.

So this morning I went outside at 8:30, after the rains had stopped, and was watching all the little birds gathering in the tree, as the sun was shining on the branches over the rooftop. The whole yard in in shadow, except for this one tall, dead tree, where all the little yellow birds were having their morning whatever, chirping at each other and flitting about the branches. It makes one happy. And then I remembered being in France, which is a nice thing to remember.

I happen to like France. And maybe it comes with being part French. Perhaps it is a prerequisite. Perhaps it is just in my blood. But while I am also part German, I can't really say the same for Germany. For one thing, it is almost impossible to get still water in Germany. They apparently only drink fizzy water, which I hate. You'll be stuck on a boat, going to some island, and all you want is a drink of normal water, and you can't find any. It doesn't exist. Sorry, all we've got is fizzy water - mit gas. Oh, fuck it, you say. I'll just go thirsty. So you get to the island and it's all very nice.

But I do like my German family. I have to say that. And they really know how to do hospitality. There is nothing you need when you go and stay with them. They'll give you the clothes off their back if they have to, and smile while they are doing it. In fact, if you have to do something for yourself while they are there, they are liable to be offended. But they are also very interested in everything that you are doing. It's not like visiting in America. In the States, going to someone's house is like an imposition. And everyone else gets this idea, too, so it's really hard to do anything. Yes, please, come visit! you say. No, I couldn't possibly. I'd be in the way. No, really, I mean it, I like to have guests. No, you don't. You're just saying that. Here, let me make several excuses for why I can't come visit. Oh, screw off. I wasn't really friends with you anyway. And that's how it goes. Charming, isn't it? Which is why I'd rather live in France.

But I don't want to live in Germany. For one thing, the weather is terrible. And I can't really stomach the food. Because even though I like meat, and I eat it, I really think of it as an adjunct to the other parts of the meal, whereas they are very much meat-obsessed. So much so that they will often put beef and pork into the same dish. It's not enough to have just one or the other. No. It's like they say to themselves, hey, beef is good. Pork is good. We've got a lot of both. Why don't we just cook them together? And so they do. But to me, that is just ridiculous. If you are going to have beef, have beef, and if you are going to eat pork, eat pork. But it makes it very hard to avoid one or the other if they are putting them together all the time. And then there's chicken, but that's not really meat there, is it? They might as well have beef in their chocolate cake.

But anyway. France. France is very good for sandwiches. They make wonderful tuna sandwiches. I was very impressed. Because, unlike San Francisco, where basic food products cost you an arm and a leg, you can still get a baguette for 50 euro-cents, and a sandwich for 3.50, which is quite reasonable, even with the exchange rate. Especially since your sandwich comes on a baguette, which makes it enormous, and yet somehow just the perfect size. But I figured out the reason the tuna sandwiches were so nice was that they put anchovies in them. At first I thought they just had salty tuna, and then I saw the anchovies. So they put anchovies in them, and also olives, which makes them slightly Mediterranean, as well as eggs, because they put eggs in everything. Because eggs are good.

And the other thing they have in France are escargots. I tried escargots at a French restaurant in San Francisco, which were quite nice. But the only escargots I experienced in France were the millions of little tiny white ones that were everywhere. And by "everywhere," I mean if you were to look at a field of grass, say, in southern France, in the middle of July, which is when I was there, you would say, oh, that's lovely, and then you would walk up closer, look at the grass, and realize that it was covered with lots of tiny white things, which were snails, not bigger than your thumbnail. And they would climb up posts and cluster there. Who knows what they were doing. Certainly not being raised for food. More of an invasive species, I'd say. I asked my French friend what they were called - qu'est-ce ci sont des petits escargots blancs? Des petits escargots blancs... he would tell me, rolling his lovely French eyes, with a knowingly perturbed, yet tolerant, even amused smile. I looked them up on the internet. Google "les petits escargots blancs," and you will find bewildered rants from gardeners in France who have no idea how to manage the little buggers. But that doesn't mean the French are angry about them. The French do not get angry easily. Or maybe they do. But overall, they have a high regard for life, and a fine and healthy sense of the absurd that lets them not take things all too heavily. This I find refreshing compared to our overly-emotional, heavily-weighted American culture. In France, if you are depressed, it's not such a big deal. Someone will come along to cheer you up. Offer you a cigarette, or a chat, or have some wine. In America, it's go to the therapist, and get medication, because your brain is hopelessly out of whack, and the medication of course means that you can't drink wine. Consequently the likelihood that you will get more depressed is, I would say, approximately 100%. That is my experience, and the general trend, as I observe it, and then everyone else says, where is the country going? Why are we all depressed? Here, take more medication. There you go, now come back to therapy for years and years and years. I'll make you chemically dependent, you'll throw me all your money, I'll get rich, and your life will go down the tubes because you are essentially incurable. That's because they only disease you have is Humanity, and nobody can cure you of that. But keep coming to therapy anyway. I swear I can help you. There's a good girl. Now, we'll see you next week, right? I'll bill your insurance. What's that? You don't have insurance? Well, that's alright then. You can just pay me in advance. No matter if your family is starving. It's YOU that's important. Remember that. It's ALL about YOU. But try not to be too selfish. That's part of your problem, isn't it? Too much navel-gazing. Got to get out of your head. Just talk about yourself for an hour. That will fix the problem. Right. See you next week!

Meanwhile, your personal finances are going down the tubes. You keep throwing money into the black hole of your psyche. Why isn't anything changing! Haha, that's because it's a trap! You can't change! It's all an illusion. It's all a clever construct to make you think there is something wrong with you when there isn't, and the more the guilt takes over, the more your desire to change feeds into that process, and somebody's raking in the money. It's not you, of course. You are convinced you are worthless, and your experience confirms it. The minute you tell someone you've gone to therapy, that's it. Eyebrows are raised. We can't trust you, can we? Oh, no, better look out for her. Loose cannon, she is. But I was just taking care of my own mental health! Sure, you were. Well, better go back to therapy so we can not trust you some more. That's right, and while you're at it, throw me some money, then maybe I'll trust you. Whoops, no I won't! Just kidding! Haha. But pay me some more money - take your medication, that's right - talk about yourself for an hour - stop talking about yourself! It's wholesale abuse, I say. It's a wretched system, and it needs to be abolished.

Now, what's up with this whole economic disaster thing going on? I'd say a symptom of the same process. It's not obvious of course, just a by-product of the same flawed mentality of, "oops, I've got a problem, let me throw money at it." And when the money runs out, throw money you don't have, convinced you'll be able to pay it back, and when you can't, feel bad about it, because guilt is the only appropriate response, and let somebody else reap the benefits - or foot the bill. It's not my fault! And the drug companies. Where are they in this equation? They are not running to the government for a "bail-out." That's because they don't need one. They've been feeding off our collective psyches for so long, they are basically set for life. They essentially run this country, and we don't even realize it. Maybe you don't believe me, but when they can pay off tens of millions of dollars at the drop of a hat, just to keep a law suit quiet, and when they control the information that is published, as well as how to work the FDA approval system, well, I have to say I get a little suspicious. And then a lot of other people will tell you, but drugs have improved so many lives! Maybe they have. But that can only happen when you've convinced someone that their life is worthless without it. Where has our humanity gone? It's gone into a pill, that's where it's gone. It's gone into a laboratory. And when things get a little screwed up, you can blame it on the drugs. That way no one is really responsible. Good plan! I have a better idea. Why don't we quit working 70 hours a week, lower our expectations a little bit, and just visit each other more often. That's some therapy I could look forward to.

And now for some wine and cheese...

So Berkeley

The Daily Show With Jon StewartM - Th 11p / 10c

Marines in Berkeley

Barack Obama Interview
John McCain Interview

Sarah Palin Video
Funny Election Video

Buzz Buzz

Is it wrong to get an emotional high from a beekeeper's meeting? Is that totally off the charts for a desirable social situation?

First of all, on my way to the meeting, walking under the lights strung about Lake Merritt in Oakland, I thought, anyone would have to crazy to want to keep bees. I mean, you must need to have a requisite level of very slight insanity to want to actively stick your hands into a swarm of stinging insects.

But beekeepers have a sense of humor. In a nerdy kind of way. They'll say things like "bee" this and "bee" that. We met in a room filled with taxidermy. One man gave a presentation on swarm removal, and he had a box of natural comb that he had removed from a tree. The woman next to me knitted up a storm.

It seems to me the type of person who keeps bees probably has other tendencies as well. Among them, running and knitting. This woman did both. She also lives in Alameda.

The other highlight of my evening was that I scored a bucket. That's another thing that makes me inordinately excited. I go out, eat food at a meeting, and come home with a free bucket. But, as I explained to the woman, who drove me home (to whom I did not need to make any excuses), it's exciting to have something like a bucket when you don't have one and you normally take them for granted. Plus, I learned from art never to throw a jar away. You don't know how it might come in handy. Then again, maybe I learned that from my grandmother.

Little Shop of Orchid

This is what my orchid looks like right now. Do you see what I mean? Is this not the most ridiculous thing you've ever seen? And then, for some reason, something told me to look at the back. So I looked at the back. Are you kidding me? FOUR??? How is this possible? What's going on? Who's been secretly feeding my orchid Miracle Grow? Not Camilla. She just got here. But I'm not complaining. I am actually quite curious to see what this ends up looking like. I hope it blooms.

For the Bees

So, this is going to be me, after I get my bees:



Okay, except that I probably won't be Eddie Izzard.

(video courtesy of Benn)

For the Birds

My bird, San Francisco (otherwise known as Frankie), still lives in Boston with my parents, where he likes to eat the foam off my father's cappuccino. He reportedly got so enthusiastic one time that he actually fell in while trying to get the last bit of foam off the bottom! But he quickly recovered.

In other bird news, I found myself laughing to tears over this one:

Peregrine Falcons

And my father sent me this link:

Dancing Cockatoo

The bird is pretty good, I think. I always did enjoy the Backstreet Boys myself.

Soccer

So I emailed a contact for a recreational soccer league in San Francisco recently, which I'd heard about from a friend of mine at work who plays with them. In my initial email, I did not specify my gender. I only said I wanted to play on a co-ed team for the winter. The response was, great, we have a spot on a men's team, they play Wednesdays at such and such a time, and at this particular location.

So I wrote back and said, thank you, but I think I should tell you that I'm female. That got me a different response.

"oh...how old are you and what's your experience?"

Now, granted, it may be that there are no spots on any women's or co-ed teams at the moment. That may be indeed. But she didn't say that. She said how old was I and what was my experience - as if whether or not she decided to offer me anything depended on that. But only as a female. As a man, it was like a free ticket. No questions asked. Okay, here you go, you're male, you must be automatically equipped to play soccer.

To be honest, I think my soccer skills are probably pretty dismal at best right at present, but that's only because I haven't played since High School. But that's the whole point. I don't see how I am going to improve my game if I don't actually play.

So anyway, we'll see. It's a little late for the winter season anyway. Maybe I'll be able to sign up in the spring...

Orchids

I have been told it is very difficult to make an orchid do anything for you. That is, if you want to have it sprout again after it has flowered, you have to be patient. It may sit there for years, like an amaryllis, with only its leaves, and then, finally, it *might* decide to give you a shoot. It might. But there's no guarantee.

So what then, exactly, is going on with my orchid, I would like to know. Why is it that I am completely ignoring the thing, and it's growing all kinds of bulgey little new things all over the place?

It was a gift for a housewarming party in March. It was an unexpected pleasure, which did indeed make my house seem much more warm. And so it proceeded to bloom through the following months, including the entire time that I was away in France. Its last petal died possibly in September. The arcing stem is still there, clipped to its little support.

But look below, as I did, and you will see some amazing things. First, new leaves began to sprout. You never know when exactly they begin. One moment they are not there, the next, they are. And slowly one of the old leaves dies.

And under that, even more amazing, was the tiny green nub that poked its nose out from the base of the stem, back in September, and which has slowly but steadily reached its way out into the air, like an antenna that is looking for something: itself. And beside it, came another one. I thought, no, that's impossible. An orchid never goes on after its bloom, especially not twice. But go on it has. Until this morning, there was even a third.

Underneath the plant lie the tan and crisp remnants of former leaves and stems. I wonder how long this process has been going on? How long, before the flower shop sold it to my friend, had this plant been producing flowers and leaves? And was it raised from a nursery, or was it found in a swamp, and lifted out, just like that, all its former labors intact?

Who knows. But this is by far the most prolific orchid I have ever imagined, much less possessed. I did not think such a thing was possible. And, like luck, it flourishes unattended. I never even water it. I basically ignore it, and in return, it reaches out its tendrils, begging to be loved by being love itself. Perhaps the best secret of any relationship. If you think you should be doing more, probably it means you should be "doing" less. And just check on it, and love it, and know that it is there.

Email

Hey, it's not a new article, but it's still true. Sometimes, I wish I had never met email...

Thank You

To Obama for being elected.

Even though it was a group effort.

I think it makes us all Lucky.

Getting Lucky

I have been told I am a lucky person. I believe that's correct!

What can one do to be as lucky as I am? Nothing! That's right, there is absolutely nothing you can do, and if you do nothing, you, too, can be phenomenally lucky. And you can enjoy other perks. Like, for example, making other people jealous and baffled by your luck. Because what did you deserve such luck? Nothing! Exactly.

And the other good thing about it, too, is that you can make OTHER people lucky, too, just by standing around them. I guess the chimney sweeper was onto something.

The funny thing about it - vis-a-vis my last post (and/or the chimney sweep) - is that luck often comes in the guise of misfortune. So watch out! If you want to be lucky like me, you might have to just get unlucky first. But it will happen for you. Trust me.

Side Effects

Everything happens for a reason. Or maybe we could say that, for whatever reason things happen, if it's something you perceive as bad, chances are that it is going to lead you to something good.

If you can't figure that out, don't worry about it. It happens for a reason.

For example. A bad thing happens over here. So that means, maybe this situation is bad. But it provides an opportunity for something over in this other area of my life to improve.

This is why people say not to get too hung up on bad situations. Because if something is bad, and you don't like it, it's like, wait five minutes and the weather will change. You can put a bandage on it (the situation, not the weather), so you don't have to look at it, and wait for it to heal itself. That's really about the only thing you can do. And meanwhile, if you've hurt your arm, for example, you can be sad about not being able to use your arm, or you can concentrate on getting really good at using your other arms. Or arm. Or whatever.

What am I talking about? Well, this is really a collection of occurences, in my mind, and kind of a pattern I observe. It's even, to me, sort of like a rabbit trail, or a little game where I go and pick up the stones that are laid out in a line that will eventually lead me to somewhere, I don't know where, but hopefully it is a good place and not very evil. I like to think they were left by a benevolent source.

But even though they are stones, and they are hard, the point is, that they lead me somewhere good. Maybe somewhere solid.

And while I may mourn the passing of some things along the way, I realize that I really just have to keep going. I can't stop to get upset about any of these things, or I won't get to where it is I am supposed to be. Maybe one good thing turns out to be something bad on the other side, when I turn it over. And then I leave it and take the next one. And maybe I would like to bring some other people with me. But you can't unless they want to. If they are too stuck in the mud to move themselves, there is nothing you can do. Because pulling isn't going to help. Like the dog on a leash that wants to go sniff at something foul - you can't really make him stop by pulling on the leash. He's going to go anyway, even though you try. Or you can try to help him steer clear entirely. But once you get too close, your options are limited.

So maybe I let the reins go a little slack. Maybe I let the horse decide where it wants to go. And I can ride in the carriage, or I can walk in my own direction. But creating a lot of tension isn't going to help, and I can't blame horse for being a horse. Or for having reins, for that matter, if I'm the one who put them on.

Now I'm mixing metaphors a little. I sat down thinking I was going to write out all the details, but now I guess the particulars are not important. I could tell you, but I don't know that it would illustrate my point any better. This way, I leave it open for your interpretation. And we've all been there. We all know how stubborn and incorrigible people can really be, and how hard it can be to be the person who lets go.

But we all need to lead by example. We can't really keep anyone, or anything captive. We can't change who or what we are, or who or what anybody else is. In the end, we can only be responsible for ourselves.

Side Effects

And my new job titles are:

• Dream Interpreter
• Psychic
• Mind Reader
• Mystery Girl
• Direction Giver
• Therapist

And I don't read palms, but someone read mine today.

Either that, or my hands were just red. I think it's the weather.

Racist in San Francisco

I knew San Francisco was racist before I got here. Every white person I ever met who had been to SF said, hey, it's great, I love it, you should go there! The only black people I met who had been had not only had a horrible time, they had managed to get beaten in a fight over a trivial argument, and they all lobbied highly in favor of never going to the city again - or ever.

Being here, it is easy to see that most Black people, African Americans, or "People of Color" are in either service jobs, or subordinate positions of some kind. The people you see going to work in an office or some such are predominantly white. With all the social activism in this city, you expect a different standard, but apparently not.

The real shame of it, I think, isn't just the white-on-black (or other), it's the Black-on-other. Or even other-on-other, whatever kind that may be.

Maybe people are inherently racist. I like to think not. But I do think that we are primed to suspect people who look different from us. And I may even be subject to it at times, too, making generalizations - some of them based on repeated experience, but nonetheless.

I have a story about this, but more later...

Dress Shopping

It is astonishingly difficult to find a decent dress in San Francisco. My assumed reason for this is that Women in San Francisco don't generally wear dresses. For the most part. It's not like Boston, where people sort of somewhat dress up for work on a regular basis. Here, people pretty much show up in jeans no matter what, and if they are nice jeans (or at least not horribly ripped), and you wear them with a nice shirt, that would be considered dressing up. I am pretty sure the women I see walking around in heels and skirts on weekends are in town for a wedding, or for the opera, or something, and they don't actually live here. Because if they lived here, they wouldn't be dressing like that.

But maybe the problem is not so much the dearth of dresses per se, but in fact the lack of dresses that are wearble. Most of what I saw was either balloony, or boxy, or strapless, or too short, or all of the above. What does it take to find a normal, below-the-knee dress that has a waist? Apparently, a lot.

I am convinced the 80's are not merely returning, it's like a zombie episode. It's the undead of bad fashion disguised as "designer" stuff. But just because it has the labels and a silhouette not quite like some other dress does not mean it is going to look good when you wear it.

You are probably better off wearing jeans. But do not - I repeat, DO NOT - peg the legs. Please.

There was one store that had both an acceptable number of dresses, and a high percentage of them that were wearable and/or interesting, and that was Anthropologie. Not that I could have necessarily worn them all, but at least I could appreciate the consideration someone took to make them look nice, rather than just stick some rayon on a hanger and call it a dress. I mean, because if I am going to spend money on something, I would like it be more or less stitched together, thank you very much.

So anyway. I did not find my dress at Anthropologie. But I did manage to find a dress. And I liked it even more when I brought it home than I did when I was at the store. Mission successful! I guess sometimes good things are worth the effort.

New Job

All's well that ends well. The darkest hour comes before the dawn. Why do these platitudes have to apply to my life? Why I can't I just live normally, without all these ups and downs and ridiculous interruptions to what it is I am trying to get done?

Why the drama??

I guess I'm used to it. When you come from a family that can't go out to dinner without some kind of dramatic sequence, I suppose it becomes part of your life pattern. I might even go looking for drama where there isn't any, which is stupid, because I actually hate drama. I was always the one calming everyone else down. I was always above the fray. And now it's like people keep fraying my ends, and I've about had enough.

So I have to promise myself this year, NO DRAMA.

Right. Like that will happen. Because even if I'm not dramatic, it seems like everyone else is. Sigh. But what I find really ridiculous is how everyone hates drama in their own lives, but they regularly engage in it, and love watching it on TV. I guess that's not so surprising. We've all got morbid attraction.

As for me, well, my story is not over yet. But at least things are "looking up," as they say.

I have a new job. I have a place to live and a very sane landlord, and nice neighbors. August was pretty rough, but I figure it's worth it sometimes to go through a bad spot to find the good thing at the end that was worth waiting for.

View from the (almost) top

Here is the view from the balcony out the window of the ninth floor office of the James Bong building, where I work. Yes, it's called the James Bong building. I hate to think what we would do in an earthquake. Which is why I tend not to think about it too much. But we do have a nice view of Market Street.

Extreme Ironing

Well, I had been thinking of taking up a new sport.
Too bad I hate ironing with a passion.

My Game Plan

If I had a chick-rock band with five members - three women and two men, who would be the drummer and the bass guitarist - I would call it "Emergency Third Rail Power Trip." That is what the obscure yellow sign in the BART station I saw this morning read.

Slip 'n' Slide!

My friend and I were sitting in her kitchen, eating a snack and drinking coffee and admiring the flowers on the table, when the text came. Slip and slide party? Of course we wanted to go their house right now, despite my friend's needing to get to the lab. In ten minutes, we had our bathing suits on, and were driving up the street to where her friends had set up in their back yard a three-laned Slip-n-Slide that was about ten feet long, with little pools and bumpers at the end. It was barely longer than an adult person's body. But it was exactly what I think we all needed. Or at least I did.

It was like therapy, actually. Because I was traumatized by a slip-n-slide at a very young age. My mother had dropped me off at a daycare one day in perhaps early summer or late August. They had set up a slip-n-slide outside in the back yard, which was conveniently on a hill, so to facilitate the sliding motion for our slipping pleasure. It was one of those old slip-n-slides, back in the 80's, which was barely more than a strip of yellow tarp with a perforated tube along the side to keep it damp. I was probably about 6 at the time. The slip-n-slides they make these days are pretty high-tech. They've got bumpers, arches, multiple lanes. All kinds of things. Back then, we had our plastic, and we were happy. So we'd go down the thing, and get grass-burned at the end, since there was nothing to stop you from keeping going once the plastic ran out.

I probably had a few successful runs. But I don't remember much except giving myself a good running start, and then, as I prepared to glide gracefully down the hill, stepping on the yellow plastic, and instead of launching myself forward into an athletic and perfectly formed slide, my feet slipped out from under me, and I landed backward, right on my head. It was a bit surprising, and disappointing, mainly because I didn't get to go down the thing. I don't remember much until my mom came to get me. I wasn't too fond of slip-n-slides after that. I did go on them occasionally, but always with great caution, and never on a hill.

So here I was, facing a three-lane, tri-color slip-n-slide, where, for some reason, the owners of the slide had decided to place at the beginning of it, a big green tarp covered with soap and water. The theory was that it would help you slip and slide more. It did, but only if you wanted to slip in slide in place, as one guy found out. I knew better.

They were yelling at me as I moved the tarp aside, but I didn’t care. Thoughts of potential head injury haunted my brain, and as the ground underneath was basically dirt, I didn’t want to mess with it. I needed my approach to be clean and non-soapy. It was. And it was great. I got a couple steps of a running start, and I conquered all ten feet of that glorious plastic. And I conquered it backwards. And back again. I conquered my fears. I took back my pride. And I am no longer afraid of wet, slippery plastic. I just won’t set one up on a hill for my kids.

What I would like to know is, how did they know I needed a Slip-n-Slide party? Who knows? That’s the way things go in San Francisco, or so it seems.

Earthquake

We had our first earthquake! Okay, well, not San Francisco, naturally. But I did. It was a 4.0. It wasn't very strong. More like a low rumble that you feel in the floor in waves. And, much like people say, it sounds a lot like a passing truck. But more like a truck that comes from everywhere and goes into nothing. Like Large Marge. It's kind of freaky actually. And then I hear the neighbors talking about it out the window. "Did you feel that?" That's the only confirmation I have that it really happened, but I know what it was. It's pretty unmistakable. Because at a certain level, when you realize that everything is shaking, and that there is no possibility there is a truck that big passing anywhere, or for quite that long, it begins to feel out of control, and you wonder what you're going to do if it gets worse.

Running for President

I think I'll run for president. Why not? If Sarah Palin can get elected as VP, with five kids, one Down Syndrome baby, and a pregnant teenager, surely anything the pundits can dredge up against me can't be that bad - or, better yet, can be spun to my advantage. So she's got a pregnant teenager? She's got Family Values. McCain fought for our country! In the Vietnam War... I think I can do better. I can do Obama AND Palin, and use my lack of experience as my key defining feature and attribute, making me exceedingly qualified. And I'll be the youngest President ever. I'll fly in my private jet and go everywhere and not wage wars. TaylorM 2012!

The Berkeley Experiment

The San Francisco project doesn't like Berkeley. If this was a scientific study, it failed, miserably. So we're sleeping on the couch of a friend right now while we look for a place in the city. Hi-ho San Francisco!

Hummingbirds

In honor of all the hummingbirds in California.

Sustainable wood

So, there was a headline in the SF Chronicle today. It was about increased demand for sustainable wood. So I wondered, if there is so much demand, will it continue to be sustainable? At what point does it become impossible for the industry to meet the demand, and when do prices become so high that it is unaffordable?

I am all for ethical agriculture, but I always wonder about sustainability. How can anyone really guarantee that something is "sustainable"? But isn't that what we would all like, anyway? A sustainable business that will withstand the buffetings and variability of the external world. If it truly is sustainable, then it's a good model, whatever it is. But I think true sustainability has a degree of humility, and not trying to do too much.

The Bike Trail

I went for a long bike ride in Tilden Park today. In honor of Labor Day, I labored up ridiculous slopes, and managed not to skid off the track on the way back down. Now I am watching the Neverending Story. It's at the scary part with the wolf. Atreyu! Oops, got carried away there. Bike riding was good. Sun, trees, lakes. It was quite nice. A good four hours, and I was beat. I was also covered with dust, as was my friend's bike. In all, a good time. Here are the pictures!

The end of an Era

It's my last night on D Street. Ah, so sad. Wait, I'm not sad at all. Except I will miss this room. It really is quite a cute little space. And it's the perfect size, the perfect sunniness. The perfect writing place. But alas. It does not have a perfect landowner. Can I blame her? I am not a perfect person. I try, but it's not happening. So I'm working on other things.

Like packing. I think it's going pretty well. I'll do it tomorrow morning.

I just want to say that I actually appreciate Nancy a lot. I think she's done a lot for me, and I will always be grateful. I have never before had the opportunity to confront pure evil. Plus, she has provided me with endless sources of amusement. And if imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then she has paid some very enormous compliments. So for that, I am thankful.

And also for the fact that she is, or has been, out of spite, doing exactly the things I had politely requested her to do before, and which she didn't do, for whatever reason. Things like turning the TV down at night, and leaving her gross nasty food out of my side of the fridge, and staying out of my room. It's like she is just so completely angry at me that she'll do whatever I say. It's amazing. I feel almost powerful. But I'll try not to let it go to my head. I just hope she gives me my space when I'm moving out tomorrow.

Stray Cat

There is a stray cat that hangs around our back yard. I want to adopt it. It’s mostly white, with some black patches. It’s a little bit scraggly, but I think if it got cleaned up and put on some weight, it would be quite charming. I am not sure if it’s a male or a female.

But the wonderful thing about cats is, no matter where they are, no matter what their circumstances, they are always regal. They will always find the best place to sit, and they will sit there. And they will look around, and they will enjoy the sunshine.

For example, I looked out the back window one day to see the black and white kitty calmly resting, like a normal house cat, on the blue pillow of the white wicker chair in the back yard. The back yard itself is scraggly. The landlady hardly pays any attention to it. But there is a concrete sort of patio area, with one high-backed wicker chair, complete with armrests, and this mussed-up, mangy yard cat was sitting on it, like it expected someone to come home and read the newspaper. It was just so delightful.

And I began to wonder how I could possibly capture this kitty and maybe subject it to a cleaning process. I wondered if it would like it. I wondered if it would like people, or if it ever lived in a house before. I even wondered if my cat would get along with it. I would never love another kitty like I love my Camilla. But I do have a special place in my heart for the odd little furball that clearly belongs in a place in which it is not.

Motorcade of Mystery

I am also wondering how I got to be on a mailing list for a motorcycle ride in Biddford, Me. Something tells me my uncle had something to do with this...But maybe it's a sign that it's time for me to join a motorcycle gang.

Social Networking

So I just joined facebook last week. What's that? You're saying. Yes. Last week. I joined facebook. And already it has gotten surreal. People have messaged me out of the blue. (I've done the same.) I've come across the profiles of people I forgot I knew and learned things about them I probably never would have learned otherwise. And I've probably spent a total of 20 minutes on the site. Well, ok, more than that. But what's up with this wall-writing business? And applications? Ok, I haven't gone on to check it all out yet. I just have to say I am already quite amused. But I don't know how seriously to take it. However, I am looking forward to possibly reconnecting, and staying connected to people through there. It has its drawbacks, but I think it is a useful tool, when used healthily. But above all, it is stalker software. And to me, it begs the question: Why stalker software that both enables and encourages invasions of privacy in this era of otherwise stalker-phobic personal privacy protection hysteria? That's what I'm wondering.

Quote of the Day

If somebody sends me a mango plant on facebook, does that mean I should download the application, just to make sure they don't feel bad? - Margot

On Sickness and Health

Being sick is an amazing thing. It really cleans things out of your system like nothing else. And it’s like a forced vacation. You have to rest, because there is literally nothing else you can do. And afterwards, you not only feel better, but you can appreciate all the more the sort of general feeling of equilibrium that you normally have, but mostly take for granted.

I think everybody needs a good sickness once in a while. I’m not saying I like it. I’m not saying it’s enjoyable or in any way comfy to be puking and groaning at 4 in the morning. But I do think it’s a good idea. Me, I get a little wonky when I go for too long without being sick. The trouble is, my immune system is apparently pretty effective, and most of the time I go years without a cold. So this last weekend’s performance was quite a feat. And even though it sucked, I must say, I am quite pleased with the result. It’s all about opposition, juxtaposition, compare and contrast. You can’t know what healthy is, if you haven’t been sick.

And this is true for the planet, too. OK, you’re saying, I am making a huge mental leap here. I guess I am. But actually, this other thought came first, when I was reading Bill Bryson’s “A Short History of Nearly Everything” this summer. He was talking about ice ages, and how they actually carve out the earth and make it more fertile and ready for good times ahead. I’ll quote Bill Bryson quoting Tim Flannery: “There is only one question you need ask of a continent to determine the fate of its people: ‘did you have a good ice age?’” And the thought in my mind at the time was actually that what applies to the earth applies to people, too. That these “sicknesses” and sort of depressions that we go through, actually serve a purpose in that they make us more mentally and physically ready for what’s going to happen to us next, which is the good stuff.

Not so much on the Overalls

So here's my fashion comment for the day: Overalls - Not Sexy.

I don't care if they are teal-blue short-short coveralls. I don't care if they are skin-tight, low-slung in the back. Overalls are NOT SEXY. To me, they seem like about one step down from a cowl and a hassock. And everything about them screams non-sexy for a woman. It makes me cringe to see someone wearing them, at least with the intention of looking attractive. And I am talking mainly about women here. They are work-horse attire, which is really only sexy if you are on the job. They were not built at all with the female body in mind - they do horrible things to your hips. And think how much trouble you have to go through going to the bathroom? Why bother? And I don't know what guys think about them, but seriously, I wouldn't want to mess with that. Might as well wear a chastity belt. I imagine the CB would be less effective.

I did see one obviously style-informed woman wearing an overalls-like piece of clothing that actually was almost sexy - except for the fact that it was basically an overdone set of coveralls. And therefore, I said: No.

The only instances where overalls can be sexy are if you:

a) Actually ARE working a labor-intensive job (i.e. woodshop, etc.)

b) You just don't care

My advice would be, don't wear overalls if you actually even minutely THINK they might be sexy, because you will be wrong. Pure functionality? OK.

That's my advice for the day. Take it or leave it.

The Value of Speech

If there is one thing I learned in France, it is the value of non-verbal communication. Not having a massive vocabulary, I could get by, but only on the minimum of speaking. The rest I had to do nonverbally. And it was nice. It was nice not to have to follow up my "bonjour" with some kind of random inane comment. It was nicer, actually, to savor that moment of connection without dropping in extra stuff it didn't need. I felt like more a person, actually. I felt more solid, more polite.

But in America it seems there is almost always an expectation that you are going to say something clever. Or make conversation. Or maybe that's just me. Maybe it's just too easy when you know the language.

The true value of this was brought home for me last weekend, where I was hanging out with a guy who, in my opinion, talked way too much. I mean, I like a chatty guy. But he could not leave even one moment of free air space, and he would go off on tangents about things I really felt like I didn't need to know and had nothing to do with what we were talking about. It was all I could do to steer him back to the conversation.

And what it amounted to was a kind of verbal worrying. He was making me anxious with all of his talking. I thought he was a fairly nice guy. But I really thought if he sort of didn't say some of the things he was saying, I would have liked him a lot more. At some points I had to kind of tell him to stop talking. Most of the time, he didn't know he was doing it.

By the end of the night, it was practically unbearable.

So we said goodnight. And afterwards I had to wonder - do I do that? Do I talk so much sometimes that it amounts to a kind of worrying that I don't even know that I am doing? I hope not. But it's possible. I used to know this guy in High School who would sometimes just decide not to speak for an entire day. You could talk to him, but he wouldn't respond in words. It was interesting. Maybe I should try that. Or maybe I should try to pretend I am speaking French and I don't know the language. It might take some of the pressure off. Hm. We'll see. Or maybe I should just move to France.

Change of light

On my way to yoga class last night, I noticed the sunlight. Something about the angle said "fall." It was the timing, the color, the particular direction it was coming from. I looked at the trees and half expected the leaves to be changing color. They weren't. But it still felt like fall all of a sudden. Like every day up until that point felt like summer, but now the crucial point had switched. And we are in Fall mode. I wasn't the only one who noticed it, either. But I thought to myself, this is the first year where I am going to have to gauge the seasons entirely on the timing of the sunlight. I am going to have to be like a plant. Because I am not going to have drastic weather changes to cue me in. And I thought, this is interesting. San Francisco is a very interesting place.

Dream Interpretation

Okay, I have a new theory about the meaning of my dream. Maybe it wasn't a doomsday prophecy after all, hey? What if I was literally dreaming about how my body was being invaded by foreign particles, and maybe the "aliens" and the little "chips" were just this stupid bug that kept me up all night puking last night. Yeah, it was gross. And I never puke. I can't even make myself do it if I try. So for that to happen, there has to be something really very wrong.

But what's funny is that my yoga teacher was dead on. At the end of class, she warned me that, because of some of the movements we had done, I might experience "stuff" coming out of me. She indicated the abdominal area. Of course, she meant emotional "stuff." How could she have known I was sick? But on my way home, my stomach was feeling less and less good. I couldn't really eat dinner. I had a piece of cheese.

And I thought, maybe this sickness is just messing with my head. There are forms of the flu that can make people quasi-schizophrenic. So I decided that my doomsday prophecies were all a part of this whatever it was. Maybe the world wasn't going to be attacked, maybe it was just me. I put a bag beside my bed, just in case. And sure enough, eventually, a whole bunch of "stuff" came out of me.

In the morning, I couldn't even stand up with out feeling woozy. And so I had my first sick day in a long time. I don't remember the last time I was really physically ill. It doesn't happen that often. Like maybe once every few years. But I think I was due for an illness. Feels good to get it out of my system.

I pampered myself and slept all day. I took a bath with my "bring it on" bath salts. Although I don't really know how much I want to tempt fate. But I just had some chicken soup. It feels okay. I think I'll probably be fine tomorrow. Oh, but my head hurts. 8 p.m. It's bed time.

Looking for Pants

If dating is like shopping for pants, then I do it the European way. I know what I want, and if the store doesn't have it, I just keep looking.

Break it Down

I like to think that my breakdowns help me put myself together.

Alien Invasion

I had the weirdest dream last night that I think I have ever had. I dreamed that the world - or at least San Francisco - was being invaded by aliens. Literally. And I even had the music going on, just like in the movies and whatnot, and there was like this news announcer's voice going in my head that said things like, "...and 40 million people will have tiny chips implanted in their brains, and..." And, see it was weird, because it interrupted a totally normally weird dream. You know what I mean. You have weird dreams, and that's fine, because your brain is processing all kinds of information, so that's okay. But here I was in my dream, and my friends were dropping hints, like, okay, something weird is about to happen. And I didn't believe them (in my dream), because I thought they meant something normal weird, like I'm going to find my sock in this box, but it's going to have a purple heart pin, and that means my teddy bear is really my uncle. I'm just making that up. But in my dream, I really was looking for something in a box, something which belonged to a friend, and I went off to go do this alone on like Dolores Avenue, with the palm trees, and then there was the music. And the giant blue creature spaceships, popping out of nowhere - they were like the loading cranes at West Oakland port, and the giant walking robots from Star Wars, but ten times larger, and more sinister. And they were spewing these little tiny lights that were flying through the air. And you couldn't get away from them. I got one in my hand, and I felt a little twinge, so I knew they'd got me. And I was going to be one of "them." That's when I woke up. And my room at that point seemed really frighteningly normal. I have to say I was taken off guard. Because I don't usually think about alien invasion. Or if I do, I pretty much think it's a silly idea. I used to watch the X-files, but now I don't, because I find it basically creepy, and not in a good way. And I always just watched it for amusement, not because I "believed." If anything, I believe it's not going to happen. And I also don't go in much for horror flicks. So why the scary dream? I don't know. Maybe we are all about to be invaded by aliens and we're all just sitting around, blithely unaware while I have this prophetic dream. Maybe it has to do with soaring gas prices or the state of world politics in Israel. Maybe I shouldn't take Ibuprofen before going to sleep...

Life

I am really excited about life today. I don't know why. I just am.

Snow Day

If there is one thing I miss in San Francisco, it's the thunderstorms. And snow days. But this morning, waking up to dark fog outside of the window was like both. It was like a gathering thunderstorm that will never happen. And peeking out between the shade and the window-frame, seeing only white above the rooftops, it was like a warm, comforting snow day. It just had that sense of all-encompassing peace. And being all alone, I could just enjoy and revel in it. I like drinking my coffee on a day like this. I like having breakfast. It's a real weekend. I could get into this.

Camilla!

I miss my kitty today. So I am going to post a picture of her.

















She is:

a) The cutest cat in the world

b) Incredibly cute

c) You can't tell how fat she is in this picture, but she's fat. Which means - more of her to love!

And she reads the New York Times...

I miss you, 'milla!!

Hot Socks

My socks today were AMAZING. What's that, you say? My socks. They were fantastic. They were stripey, two-toned pink, white, and grey. What was amazing was the fact that the hot pink stripe on the toe section of the socks matched up PERFECTLY with the little cutouts on the toe section of my new flats. THAT was amazing. Problems? What problems? I've got impressive and highly put-together socks. That's what I'm talking about.

Fashion Forward

I have a fashion prediction to make. I think that soon, very soon, the toga is going to come back in style. You think I'm kidding. But look at the way things are going. All these drapey, loose-fitting tops and dresses with big belt cinches and hanging off the shoulders. Pregnancy tunics. It's all about the gathering of the fabric around the body. It's not the tailoring anymore. Designers are still making straight-jackets, and of course the corset made a recent resurrection. But that's not the trend. The trend is flowing, gathered swaths of fabric.

And just look at our gladiator sandals. Hello, they're called gladiator sandals. Anyone for a day at the Coliseum? It's like old-fashioned reality TV.

Just you watch. If I were a betting man, I'd say Dolce and Gabbana, Belenciaga, and Christian Dior are all going to have some version of the toga on this fall's runways. And everybody else will follow. But I'm going to keep my pants on.

Hitting it

I hit the Bong early this morning. As in the James Bong building, because that's where my new job is. That's Bong -- James Bong. I guess that would make me a Bong girl. I couldn't resist.

The Walls of the Universe

It's my 100th post!!

~*~

An Artist Once said, It's my job: Straightening the Paintings on the Walls of the Universe.

I said, That's very Deep.

Nuggets

My High School drama teacher used to talk about Nuggets. Mr. Shailor. He was a good drama coach. At least I thought so. He had a lot of good things to say. He'd always make us do weird stuff, but I learned a lot. Anyway, he would talk about nuggets of wisdom. Little things you could glean from everyday life. Tiny experiences, quotations. Just something somebody says on the street.

Finding them is like panning for gold. You're sifting through dirt and gravel, just to find that tiny speck of shimmer that makes it worth your while. And it the end, it's not the dirt that matters, it's that little piece.

And sometimes they just come to you. They are delivered to your door. Possibly in a dumptruck. A dumptruck filled with dirt. But every time life dumps a pile of dirt on me, I get a handful of solid gold nuggets.

Pulp Friction

I rented Pulp Fiction on Friday night, to make me feel better, which it did. I had this feeling like I should watch it again, since I hadn't seen it since 1996, at which point I didn't really get it, because I was a straight-edge High School student who was scared of pot. So I was even more taken aback by, oh, things like drugs, needles, bodies, thugs and gangsters. And I always wondered why everyone said it was such a good movie. Until Friday. And now I know. Because the writing is so amazing.

And maybe now, since, while I am no gangster, I have seen my fair share of shit go down, I can more fully appreciate the dramatic tensions and awkward situations in the story, as well as the intricacy of the plot and character relations and the real artistry with which it is all presented. It really is an excellent film, right from the opening line, the opening scene. And it holds itself together the whole way through, until the very end, where I found myself laughing out loud because, as the story clearly shows, gangsters are people, too.

The Doctor's Visit

Are you ready for some information? My right ear produces a lot of wax. This is usually not a problem. But last week it got really excited, or maybe there was something in the air, and suddenly it was completely stuck up and clogged, and there was nothing I could do. So today I had a fun adventure going around the various clinics of Berkeley, trying to find a doctor who could flush it out for me.

It's a silly thing, and it's always slightly embarrassing to go in to somebody and say, hey, can you clean out my ear for me? Because, let's face it, ear wax is Gross. And who really wants to deal with somebody else's ear wax when your own is bad enough? So I feel bad for these people. And you might say, well, can't you clean out your own ears? Well, sure I can. And I do, but when you have lovely ears like mine, well, the reality is that sometimes you just need a little help.

Help in the form of what turned out to be a kind of hose gun hooked up to the sink faucet. It was a lot cleaner, I'll say, than the big metal syringes I have been presented with in the past that kind of got water all over the place. This one had two tubes: one in, one out. I could even see my "wax off" going down the tubes. Isn't that exciting?

It probably took a good 12 minutes to do the procedure, and when it was done, I felt like a different person. It was amazing.

But while I was waiting, I noted the labels on the little box drawers they had in the office. Cotton swabs. Betadine. Cleansing wipes. Hemoccult testers. Hemoccult? Is that to test the blood of the Occult? A misspelling? No. But you never know. This is Berkeley. When I filled out my medical information form, my sex could have been male, female, or transgender.

And I'm not sure, but I think the doctor/nurse who was evaluating me might have been checking me out, in a more than medical sense. She seemed to glance down at my chest quite often, and when she complimented me on my necklace, as I was sitting on the table, her generous bosom grazing my arm, she touched the leather chain and said it looked especially soft. My doctor doesn't normally touch my necklace. I asked her name on the way out, and she told me and said I should take her card out front. It sounded almost like there was some innuendo in her voice. I couldn't be sure. But maybe I should call her for a drink.

No. On second thought, I think I'll stick with boys.

Trashy Music

This came up on my ipod yesterday (yes, I have this on my ipod).
So I thought I would share.

Synchronicity

So my friend, and former intern master/slave driver (just kidding!), the great and wonderful book artist and printmaker, Johnny Carrera, is showing his stuff this September at Synchronicity gallery in New York City. He does politically and culturally themed works of art using cut currency (as in US paper money). I worked with him on his Pictorial Webster's Dictionary back in 2002, doing typesetting, paper-cutting, and general help with the presses. Check out his website at www.quercuspress.com. His show will be in New York from September 9 to October 4.
I'm giving him a plug because he deserves it.

Quotation Marks the Spot

Wow. And I just found this amazing blog. Should be hours worth of fun. For those of you who like "grammar." As much as I do.

The "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks...

Bring it On

Bad Luck Month

I have heard that in Brazil, the entire month of August is considered bad luck. I have to say I might be getting on board with that.

If July was a month of exceedingly good luck, then August is just the opposite. What started off with a Marathon, and also what were, to me, great expectations, has quickly taken an unexpected turn for the not-too-pleasant. At least in some ways. Not that I believe what I get is what I "get," but in some ways it probably is.

Because I believe of course that we each make our own luck. Things just don't happen randomly, even when they seem to. Surely there is a lot that is out of your control, but I think a lot of the time, if you look closely you can see the connections. I realize I am being vague. That's because I don't feel like broadcasting all the dirty details.

But this has been a very challenging month, and it's only August 11th. That doesn't mean it is all bad, though. I had the Marathon. I came back from Europe. I'm looking for a job. I am planting the seeds right now for good things to come, but unfortunately, right now it sucks. Pardon my language.

I am lucky, however, because I have good friends to support me. And good friends, to me, mean everything. I don't think anybody can survive without friends. I know I can't. It's like the Beatles. I need my friends, and they make me want to try.

And, as always, even though "bad luck" seems to have arrived, it's not all bad. And maybe this bad situation is really an opportunity for a lot of good things to shine. I get to see my good friend from Boston. I find out I can call my ex-boyfriend from college at 4 a.m. if I need to, and he will respond, even if he is in Portland. And I am happy to discover, too, that I have a friend who supports me possibly more than my own family does. These are all great things. But that doesn't mean I like August.

Which is why, maybe in a few years, when I get a Visa, I'll be moving to Europe. Their government offices all shut down for the month of August, and 80% of the European Union takes a vacation. It's standard practice. Because they're onto it, too. They know. It's August. You don't mess with it. But that just means September gets better.

I cannot wait until Labor Day, let me tell you. I will be happy when this month is over.

Pure Evil

I never saw pure evil until it was staring me in the face. I didn't really think it was possible. But now I know that it is. Now I know that there are just some people who are so bitter and unstable that they will sink to unimaginable depths of depravity to try to prove a point, when the only thing they prove is that they are sinister people whose lives are worth not really quite as much as they think they are. They will frighten, attack, lie, cheat, and steal, to make the people around them miserable, just because they can. Just because they themselves are so miserable that they can't stand another person's happiness.

But you know the really sad part about it is, I look at this woman, and I say, there was a little girl there once. She played outside in the summer. She liked flowers and butterflies. She felt safe. She felt happy. Now she has nothing. Because her life isn't what she wanted it to be. She feels insecure. There is nobody to protect her. And she has no friends, because she is so rotten and mean.

So ultimately, I feel bad for her. I feel bad for a person who has to debase herself to a degree which I never really thought possible, just to gain a sense of power, which she doesn't really have, never will have, and never had to begin with. It's kind of pathetic. And she thinks she's got me. But I don't feel like I lose. I feel like I win.

*note on grammar: I have decided to use "which" where I would normally use "that" for artistic reasons. i.e. it sounds better. I claim poetic license.

Better Communication

The phone rings. You pick it up..."Can you hold on for a second? I'm on my hamburger phone. It's just like really awkward to talk on."

Race Day!

This is me with Tess, who was in town visiting her sister, and they came down to meet me after the race. Why? Because Tess is AWESOME.
Yeah, Tess!! (And her sister.)





















And this is me after the race (actually, about two hours after).

The other thing that hurt at the end of the Marathon? My FACE, from SMILING. Why? Because I SMILED THE WHOLE DAMN 26.2 MILES, that's why. I couldn't stop smiling. Even when I was running through broken ugly Potrero Hill area under the freeway and my legs were cramping and I thought my feet would end up just one big bruise or two. But I didn't care. Maybe I like being in pain? Let's not go there. Let's just say it was AWESOME. Because it was.

Aftermath

Wow. That's all I have to say about the Marathon right now. Actually, that's not quite right. Let me modify that by taking off the first "w." Ow. That's about what I was feeling after crossing the finish line. Also a few miles before that. Try ten. the last mile was kind of numb. And I sprinted the last 50 feet. Then, when I got to the end, I thought, is it really over? I felt like I should ask somebody, just to make sure. But sure enough, other people were crossing over and stopping, too. So I just kept walking. And I walked straight to an open place on the curb and sat down. And then I did what my body really wanted to do, which was lay down, right there on the cobblestones. Did I care about the dirt and sand? No I did not. Who has time to think about these things when you've been running 26.2 miles? I was surprised, actually, that there weren't more people like me, gratefully taking the weight off their poor, overworked feet. And man, it felt good. A couple of people asked me if I was okay. I couldn't have felt better. I grinned. I put on my plastic blanket thingy, downed a bottle of water and some other liquid they were handing out. It wasn't beer. A bunch of people actually were handing out beer on the course. Somewhere in Golden Gate Park. They placed themselves right after the water station, dressed in Devil costumes, with a sign that said "beer." "You know you've been thinking about it!" A blond he-devil looked at me. "Nice try!" I said. He was wrong. I hadn't been thinking about it at all. In fact, until they turned up, I had completely forgotten that beer existed. And once I got past them I promptly forgot about it again. But I still thought it was funny. Only in San Francisco, I guess. So, back to the finish line. I did eventually get up off the sidewalk. Then I walked about 50 paces and sat down again. After some good sitting, and a little bit of child's pose, I got up and slowly hauled myself past the tables of more snacks and freebies from various companies trying to promote their stuff. Funny thing, but even after running that far without really eating, I somehow couldn't think about putting a lot of food in my stomach. I guess I had had too much water with electolytes. Or else I had forgotten how to chew. I ate something. I forget what it was. Then I had two bites of granola with yogurt. When I heard the girl say "free massage," I said, "Where?" She pointed to the big white tent. And that's about as far as my feet could get me.

After that, I was better, but it still hurt. I have never felt that much pain. But it was awesome. I wouldn't trade it for anything. It was quite difficult getting myself around for the rest of the day, though. I did not want to move. I did not want to locomote using the lower portion of my body. I was jealous of people in wheelchairs. Today was better, but I would have been quite happy walking with a cane. Stairs are a bit slower than usual. I felt like I should have been wearing a sign. "I ran the Marathon yesterday. Deal with it." But it really wasn't that bad. As long as I'm on level ground, I'm fine. And it comes and goes. I have to say the coffee helped. Or at least I think so.

But experiencing this makes me really glad that I don't have to deal with this level of pain every day. Because I know there are people who do. And let me tell you, those people deserve a medal just for being ALIVE.

My medal is staring back from the wall at me.
It says "San Francisco 2008."

I ran a Marathon.

Marathon

So, while I was at the Louvre, I grabbed this shot of a statue of Marathon









Dying his last breath after traveling, presumably sprinting, 26.2 miles from Mount Olympus to Athens, I believe it was. Here he is, handing over the message, his precious cargo.

And this is what I am going to do tomorrow. What once was a deadly mission is now a cultural pastime. I find this amusing, yet somehow profound. More on this later. For now, I am going to feed myself, massage my feet, and put myself to bed.

Looking forward to the morning.

This is how Coordinated I Am

You might have thought I was disorganized. Embarking on a month-long trip to Europe with virtually no planning, save for the actual dates of travel to and from the US, but consider my choice of toiletry casing.

In a five-minute trip to Walgreens, pre-departure, I selected a rectangular zipper-case for my shampoo and face wash, and a matching little pouch for my jewelry in pink and orange multicolored stripes. Not only were they inexpensive, but they had cute little pink plastic toggles for the zipper pulls, so I figured it was a pretty good deal. I find them quite enjoyable. And they have served me well. And perhaps it makes me less organized than most backpackers, the fact that I waited until the last minute and was up at midnight before my flight to Paris, booking my hotel, because everything was so expensive, even on Hostelbookers.com. But I like the place I found.

The room is a bright, sunny orange, and there is a cool rectangular shower-head with excellent water pressure. The room is noisy, with windows right on the street, but for three days I don’t mind, especially since I have nifty French windows with miniature iron balconies and a good view of the Patisserie and roof gardens across the street. And what do I find in my bathroom in the morning? The little waste-paper basket in my bathroom has a pink-purple-orange stripe pattern almost EXACTLY like my toiletry kit. I am not even kidding. I checked it several times, just to be sure. Mine has black where they have purple, but from a distance of a few feet, they look almost exactly the same. It looks exceedingly coordinated.


So maybe it was random, my coming here, to this country, to this city, to this exact hotel, at this particular time, and being given a room at the end of the hall with a waste-basket that matches my belongings. But I couldn’t have planned it better if I had tried. I think it’s just another good sign that this was a trip that was meant to be.

The Sweetness of Sleep

I came home yesterday, Sunday, July 27, I think it was. Yes, it was. My week is confused already. Instead of coming straight to San Francisco, I stopped in Boston for a couple of days. I’m glad I did, because it took off some of the Jet lag. But I was still tired when I got home. I had about 4 ½ hours of sleep the night before, and had been on the plane all day. I didn’t sleep much. Maybe because of the coffee. But I did watch a lot of TV. I don’t own a TV, so I thought I might as well. I saw “Super Troopers” on the Comedy Network. I watched Scrubs, the X-Files, Law & Order, and the Tour de France. Also the Weather Channel. I didn’t do much reading. But I had a friendly seat-mate, so that made things interesting. He was out to SF for a business trip. I told him about the Exploratorium. When we landed, there was a back-up of planes, due to weather delays in New York City. So we waited on the tarmac for about an hour, or nearly, before docking into a terminal. I never really had lunch, but rather subsisted on Jet Blue snacks. I think I tried about everything. So then I got by baggage. I got on the BART, and 40 minutes later, I was in Berkeley.

It was kind of surreal coming home. There was the rose garden, the fountain. Just as usual. But I was different. I didn’t feel quite like the same person. But then again, I realized, I was delirious from lack of sleep and a 7-hour plane ride.

So I hauled my things upstairs and went to check out the different rooms of the house. It’s good to say hello. My housemate/landlady was not home, which was just as well. I wasn’t quite in the mental mood or condition for talking. I just wanted to go to sleep. Actually it was more than a want or a desire. It was more like a physical certainty that the next thing on my list was sleep and nothing else. Nothing, that is, except ice cream. I had a major craving for a bowl of vanilla bean ice cream. Luckily, I discovered in the freezer some Breyer’s vanilla, which I had meant to eat before the trip, but didn’t. It was just enough for one bowl. I considered that it was now over a month old, but I didn't care. It wasn’t even frosty. I poured maple syrup on it, and let it soothe my travel-wearied soul. After that, I was ready for sleep.

Just a little nap, I thought. Maybe two hours. Then I would wake up and do some grocery shopping. Maybe go for a run. That was at 4:11 p.m. The next time I opened my eyes, it was dark. I checked the clock. 9:30. My roommate was home. I didn’t feel like going downstairs. I went back to sleep. I woke up several times after that, but I made myself stay in bed until 8:30 the next day. It’s not like I was going to get anything done in that time. And anyway, I obviously needed the sleep. It was a taxing trip. In so many ways. After a while, I think I even ran out of dreams. Sixteen hours is a lot. But it was good. And in the morning, I did go grocery shopping. I ate my lunch, and here I am.

I have a backlog of things to post, but for now, let’s just say I am home, I am safe, I am happy. I did my traveling. I got my France. And I my Ikea bed was here to welcome me.

LuckyTown

I believe somebody mentioned that I was lucky. Well, as luck would have it, two days ago, I went to Lucky Town.

I didn't ask to go there. My family just said, okay, we are going to Glückstadt. It was grey and dismal. It didn't rain, but it was threatening. The wind off the water was chilly as we walked along the dykes, trying not to step in sheep dung. A black-faced sheep turned and chewed his grass at me.

Then, after a long and uneventful walk, we returned to where we parked the car and went into a nice little café for some Kaffee und Küchen. It's a German tradition. I got the Irish coffee.

My German family is very generous. They really know how to treat a guest. They are always taking me everywhere. And it's the only time when I am traveling that I don't mind if someone else makes my plans for me. That's because they live here, and they always come up with something more interesting than I think I would find on my own.

Like today, for example. I had some vague notion that I should go into Hamburg, since I haven't really seen the city since I've been here this week. But my German grandparents and one of their sons and his family were going to a see play, and they invited me to go along. It was out in the country, they said, about a two-hour drive. It's a very big deal. The play-wright is very famous. "Do you know Koll-Mai?" They asked me. "Kall who?" His name is Karl-May. Almost every child in Germany reads his books, apparently. And every year they do a play. It was to be an outdoor play about cowboys and Indians, written by a German playwright who had never in his life set foot on American soil. I thought, this can't possibly be good. And on top of that, I hate cowboys and Indians.

But when I thought about it, I decided I didn't really want to see Hamburg. I thought, why not? Why not just go and see what they Germans have to say about the wild, wild West? I did go West myself, after all. And I never see these little cousins. Maybe it will be fun. I imagined us sitting on grass, eating a picnic while watching some struggling actors try to make some lines on stage.

I was so wrong.

First of all, entering the place was like going to the Wild West section of Disney Land. With Bratwurst. And then the stage area was set in what looked like might have been an old quarry, with a huge chalk mountain on one side, a deep slope, with rows of wooden benches, and an elaborate multi-level stage area with lots of combed sand. I wondered why they had to comb the sand.

I found out when the play started, and horses galloped out from behind the building in center stage, and rode around the arena, just a few rows below us, the horse-riders dressed as Indians, but shooting guns and whooping it up. It launched right into a fight scene, and I was pleased. It was better than technicolor. Half the time I forgot it was in German.

And the two little girls with us were so excited, they were actually dressed as little squaws. They weren't the only ones. Within five minutes of us getting into the park, they had their faces painted. And at the end of the show, they went down, with all the other kids, to greet the cast, and one came back proudly with a little squiggle on a piece of paper. I think it came from the main character. The good guy.

And in the end, I was glad I took a chance and went to see the play. So I think to myself, maybe taking chances is what makes you lucky.

Wetter

You might have thought it funny if you saw me packing long pants and sweaters, going to the South of France. And to be sure, it has been heavy lugging those things around. They don't call it 'luggage' for nothing. But you can be sure I am glad I have them now that I am in Germany, where, for the last several weeks, it has been cold and rainy.

My German quasi-Uncle informs me today that we are having "Shit weather." Das Scheisse Wetter. But I am going out in a skirt and purple tights anyway, with heels. I feel like dressing up to go shopping in the city.

When I was showing them pictures from France, my German Aunt asked me, "And why do you want to come to Germany?" I come here for the people, I said. And it was true.

And luckily, I like to come prepared for any eventuality, even if it means I have to lug an enormous suitcase. I am like a Boy Scout, I guess. Always prepared. Next time, though, I will try to come prepared with fewer things.

Cow Paper

I had no idea I could really make this toilet paper theme continue, but on it goes.

My German "Aunt" (she's not really my aunt, but she's about the same age), had read an earlier post about toilet paper. She thought it was very funny, and was also a little bit confused. But I showed her the sample of my purple toilet paper that I brought with me. Then yesterday, as we arrived at my German grandfather's place (again, not really so related, but distantly. I will call him "Opa"), she pointed to these hay bails covered in white plastic. "Look. It is like toilet paper for the cows," She said.




And then, wonder of wonders, I saw something which I have never seen. At my German grandparent's house, they had, in their bathroom, not just colored toilet paper, but white paper printed in blue with little whales and shapely waves. I stared in awe. Two-toned paper. I did not think it was possible. But there it was. It didn't seem to be scented. I think it was plain. But I was still amazed.

Stansted

Okay, before I moved to San Francisco, I thought I wanted to live in London. But after spending about eight hours in Stansted and being completely baffled and stymied by airport security, and feeling like a right third-class citizen because of my American accent, I have decided I hate England, and I don't want to live there anymore. Besides, now that I've seen France... if I can ever get a visa. But that doesn't mean I'm leaving San Francisco just yet. I only just moved there! No, I am definitely going back to the Bay Area. I already kind of miss my new house, with my cute little room and the rose garden with the fountain. But it's there for me when I get back. I'm happy traveling. It's just good to go home.

More Pictures!

And now, I will show you all the place I have been. Watch out. For those faint of heart, some of these get gory. Yes, I gutted my own fish from the market. With a butter knife. So if you don't want to see it, cover your eyes when you start to get to the food. A bientôt!