Jemima

Where you been hiding?

2007-08-07T19:29:00.000-07:00

Right here!

trauma

2007-06-17T16:11:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I've been trying to post for a week now, but I'm babysitting my nieces (4 yrs and 9-months) at my sister's house in BF, South Carolina, and every time I sit down to write, somebody poops.

I'm unbelievably tired, inhumanly tired, catastrophically tired. I haven't brushed my hair in days, I had, er, effluvia, from several sources on my pajamas the other day and didn't even realize it until nearly 12:00 (and I was still wearing them), and I may have cracked a Miller Lite this morning by 8 am. But the good news is that both of them are still alive!

However, I may not be. It just isn't possible to look this bad and not be dead.

Let me tell you, my ovaries are withering, people. WITHERING! My parents came up to visit me today for a Father's Day Picnic, which really meant, "Help me! I can't concentrate on other people's needs for this many hours per day without losing my shit! Oh, and bring food." And like kind and giving parents, they came. I told them that I hope they enjoyed playing with the only grandchildren they are likely to have, so there.

It really has been fun apart from the exhaustion bit. I've gotten to go on a slip-n-slide, which was a whole new experience now that I have hit 30 and have flying squirrel arms to give me a little added lift. Beanie and I made the World's Messiest Cupcakes and a King Granddaddy crown for her Granddaddy. And we've played with glue and dinosaurs and play dough and had a tea party with Real Tea (decaf, do you think I'm insane?). And oh sweet blissful cracker sandwich, I've gotten to watch The Sound of Music, which I not so secretly love...like when Mother Superior sings Climb Every Mountain, I get all goosebumpy and want to go climb an Alp and spin around with cute gamine hair and make out with the hot Captain like a banshee. Ahhh...that Maria is a minx.

But I confess I find the nightly "How many more bites do I have to eat?" mindnumbingly tedious, partially because it used to irritate me so much to hear my parents nag me to sit up and use a fork and eat your spinach, dammitohell! And saying it myself is like scratching my own nails down the chalkboard. And the whining...oh my god, I just can't stand that tone. She could be begging me for another spoonful of spinach and offering me a million dollars and I would still give her a time out. And the baby, as scrumptiously cute as she is, and named after me besides...she is going to give me the vapors. Every time I turn my back, she has jammed something down her throat to choke on. I vaccuum the playroom every day, yet her sister, who can sack a room more efficiently than any Hun or Visigoth, is immediately in there tossing beads and leaves and sequins and feathers and those goddamned Dora stickers (curse you, Dora! I hope Shackleton cuts your head off!) and play dough and everything else on the floor. It's like the husband in that Julia Roberts movie that drags her around the house beating her for not lining up the tinned fruit properly. That's me, with Baby, the cleaning nazi.

Oh, and let's not forget the Code Brown last night. Any of you with children...you know what I'm talking about. Don't you. Mmmhmmm...you're laughing.

A Code Brown is when the cute little pink monkey you've been allowing to crawl around noodie patootie after her bath suddenly poops all over the place and then crawls about it in it. I was so tempted to take her outside and hose her off...I mean, hell, she ain't mine. I didn't incubate her. But I didn't. So see, I really should be up for the Best Aunt of the Year Award. It's mine and I demand a trophy. And maybe a fabulous new car, because that was a LOT of poop.

God, I love puppies.

Overheard on a backroad in Appalachia

2007-06-05T19:26:00.001-07:00

Kelly: Oh my God, my emergency break is on. Where are we going? Where’s the B&B?

Erin: This way feels right. Go straight. I feel like we should go straight.

Jemima (piping up from the back seat): Feel? FEEL? THAT WAY GOES TO TENNESSEE! Sweet fancy Jesus. TURN LEFT! LEFT!

Kelly: You are the idiot savant of navigation

Jemima: I don’t know what that means. What’s an idiot savant?

Erin: It’s like in Rainman, the guy who was all good with cards.

Kelly: You know, Dustin Hoffman's character?

Jemima: Wait, are you saying I'm autistic with weird underwear issues and shop at KMart?

****

This weekend goes down in history as the longest I’ve ever been without water. I’ve subsisted entirely on a “diet” of beer, wine, champagne and Lick-m-Aid.

Erin, Kelly and I spent the weekend in an adorable little B&B cottage in Asheville as part of Aleigh’s destination wedding. I must say, it’s a good thing Kelly doesn’t drink, because the rehearsal dinner and ceremony both required a compass and a clear view of the North Star. There was a lot of pointing and shouting and wild gesticulation. And I think if Simons ever dies, I will move to Massachusetts and marry Erin.

She almost got me kicked out of the rehearsal dinner, because during the early speeches, Aleigh gave Kelly this lovely little perfume atomizer that looked a lot like a vibrator, which Erin noted...unfortunately, right during one of those quiet lulls in conversation when everyone hears you. So I got the snorts, which gave her the snorts, which sent us off into helpless peals of laughter, the kind where you don't make any noise, but shake and cry and snort and have this hideous rictus grin for about 15 minutes and you can't breathe. And it was during the goddamn blessing, and I was trying so hard not to snort, but then I'd hear Erin hissing away next to me and then that would set me off again. God, it was terrible.

Kelly kept threatening to separate us. And then we all went outside for a smoke (no, I haven’t really started again), and the old bag named Tex on my left thought we were on drugs, and said all snotty when we got back to the table, "You were gone a long time. I hope that was just a cigarette break and nothing else," and Erin rounded on her like a rattlesnake and said, "No, we were shooting heroin! That okay with you?" And that just set me off again. Yea gods.

Erin maintains that Tex was inappropriate first, but then I said “Hi, Pot, this is Kettle calling, just to say ‘vibrator’ and then ‘Amen.’” Sinner.

At the wedding, which was on a farm with goats and ponies and bunnies and llamas (I do love a llama), Aleigh looked beautiful and totally herself in a gorgeous short dress with a blue obi. And considering she went through about 12 trial dresses, this one was all the more lovely for being hard to find.
Her shoes were fab too.
I mean, look how cute Aleigh and Ian are.
Excellent food, great wine. And Kelly got to sharpen her fingernails on the groom’s uptight brother, who kept popping out from behind the outhouse with a video camera to demand an interview, which was not appreciated. (I mean, who can be expected to come up with the meaning of love and marriage all impromptu like that? I guess he has to creep up on people, because otherwise everyone would see him coming and scamper off, like a slow motion game of chase. But maybe that mentality should be a clue that making a video like that is a BAD IDEA?) Anyway, he lunged at Kelly, who does not like the paparazzi, and asked her for some words of advice for the married couple, and without missing a beat she said, “I know a great divorce lawyer, and I’ve got him in speed dial, Aleigh, so call me anytime, day or night.” I think I yipped a little and my eyes bugged…like a Pekinese. So did the uptight brothers’.

And then Aleigh came mincing over in her adorable shoes and Kelly said, "Did you come over here for a cigarette?" And Aleigh said, "Of course not." And then we all went behind the outhouse and smoked, even the bridesmaids.
After the band started playing Old MacDonald for the children, Kelly and Erin and I went back to our beautiful little cottage and stayed up till about 3 a.m. drinking Miller Lite and smoking and dishing about rabbits and boys and the illegitimate offspring of various relations. God, it was totally fab.

Bitch and Bitch Some More

2007-05-30T14:40:00.000-07:00

So Simons was sick all last week and during the holiday (lifts his hand feebly from the couch to take his soup. And his medicine. And his gingerale. And his fizzy tablets. And his heated neck pillow. And his special popsicles.) and this week has a friend in town who is hunting for jobs...although I personally would be skeptical about giving a job to someone who is too stupid to wash his own dishes.

And I tell you, I have about had it with cooking and cleaning and caring about other people's needs. Fortunately, drum roll please, I am staying with two other girls (women?) at a B&B cottage in Asheville this weekend, yes, for a Aloysius' fabulous wedding, and it's going to be AWESOME! Three whole days of girlish squealing and wine drinking and frolicking and dishing about work and men and other things that suck. And crying over how beautiful and sweet Aleigh looks in her tenth wedding dress. I can't get on a plane fast enough.

LALALALALALALALA!!!!! (I'm bouncing up and down on my yoga ball)

Now, I know full well that I have a lovely husband, and that probably half of the coddling was my own doing, but REALLY, I need just a small break.

I'm goin

2007-05-29T19:47:00.000-07:00

TO BLOGHER 2007!

WHOOOO HOOOO!
Chicago, here I come!!!

Just roll over and die already

2007-05-29T12:31:00.000-07:00

Has anyone ever had the unfortunate situation of telling a client to push off and then having them refuse to push? Seriously, I’m at a loss.
I told these people April 17 that I was giving them my notice, citing several instances of being grossly taken advantage of. For instance, they asked me to work over Christmas with no warning. They ask me edit their entire magazine the Friday before it goes to print, which means that regardless of whether I have guests in town or a kidney transplant, etc, I have to drop everything to get it done. And the evil NY whore calls me at ungodly hours to explain Outlook to her when I own A MAC! I do not lie... she phones at 6 am to accuse me of sending my emails to her junk folder DELIBERATELY! Gah!

Anyway, this is just a partial list, but anyone who has been over in the mornings can attest to the fact that this job is a real pill.

So, after the April 17 debacle (in which evil NY whore was so incredibly late, my poor temporarily immobile mother had to take a cab from the airport after I promised to come fetch her), the publisher called and apologized and tried to smooth things over, but I told him I’d stay on only until they found a replacement, whom I would be happy to train.

It is now May 29. I’m beginning to perceive that the advantage taking continues. I begin to doubt that they are really looking. The publisher called me yesterday to make sure I was going to work this week, and when I reminded him that I’m leaving town for Al’s wedding (which I told him about in March), he had the nerve to inquire whether I was sure I couldn’t do it while I was gone. And THEN he asked me, "Well, are you actually in the wedding?" KILL!

This is a freelance position, so where do they get off with this constant crappy behavior? The loss of the regular paycheck is going to be tough, but I’m more than ready to quit the daily harangue and lateness and Christ-bitten hours of six am to noon. Oh, you think that sounds easy, do you? You try getting up in the cold and fog and being interested in the pharmaceutical business day in and day out for an embittered evil old hag whose very existence is a thorn in your side.

Anyway, I feel like this crappy freelance job is keeping me from needing to do smarter work. I don’t HAVE to go out and pitch good writing, because I can make do with boring writing and pay the rent. I’m sick of making do. I’m thirty and I’ve DONE NOTHING WITH MY LIFE!

Post whereby I admit something shameful

2007-05-23T18:25:00.000-07:00

So my ex got married this past weekend.

Now I don’t mind this in theory. I dumped him, remember? He’s a nice guy, and I wish him well and all that, but I wouldn’t want him back. I’ve married the perfect husband, love our life, and we are always out doing fun and exciting things together…laughing toothily and tossing our fabulous hair.

So, in this brilliant concept called "theory," magnanimity is easy. But in practice, my rosy graciousness pales a shade or two when I think that The Ex is somewhere fancy on his honeymoon with someone who ultimately ranked higher than me on his personal awesomeness scale. And that chafes just a little.

I confess, when his cousin sent me an email with the ex’s new wife’s name, I did indeed look up the engagement announcement (which creepily enough looks almost exactly like a picture of me and the ex at a ballet gala about six years ago, only she’s blonde), and she looks…nice. I would probably like her (shyah, as IF!). She has a cool name. And he looks happy, which somehow bothers me not at all. So that's not what is needling me, although I confess I liked it better when he was rebounding with the tattooed ne’er-do-well his whole family christened, “Trasha.”

I’m not crying and wringing my hands or anything. It’s just a vague grumpiness and a masochistic desire to google their names to see if any wedding photos have been posted yet. So the question is: to stalk or not to stalk?

WHY, you ask? Why in the hell would I want to see their first dance and cake feeding and moony wedding glowiness, etc? Maybe it’s just because I know my wedding was better.

Well, no. I mean, mine probably was better, but I’m not that pompous. That’s not the reason.

Maybe the issue that's feeding my masochism is realizing that it doesn’t matter one bit whether I wish him well or not. My opinion no longer matters to him. My graciousness has no affect. I could just as well be rending my hair and frothing at the mouth for all the universe cares. Hmmm...no, actually that feels a little hollow too.

I bet I know. It’s a small and stupid touch of buyer’s remorse. I do it all the time at restaurants—order the filet and wish I’d gotten the fish. Not that Simons is a filet. And if he were, he’d be a Kobe beefcake branded with my name on it: "Destined to be Jemima's. Hands off, bitches!" But if I bought a ticket to Paris, I’d suddenly start whining about Venice. You know? It’s just the thought of something that is never going to happen now because you made a choice. It’s better that it doesn’t (picture here bombs going off in Venice, during a cholera epidemic with those flying monkeys from Oz), but I like to wallow in the odd spot of melancholy, and here is an excellent opportunity.

I think maybe I shouldn’t look at the wedding photos. What do you guys think?

Bare to Breakers

2007-05-22T13:23:00.001-07:00

WARNING: Mentions and images of nudity to follow...

There are so many, many reasons why I am glad I live in San Francisco. The first one is that this fellow is not my dad.
Look closely at the man with the backpack and the yellow hat.

That’s right. He has no pants.

He is not an attractive man. He is not a fit man. It wasn’t even that chilly a morning, but I saw him from the front, and he was not even a well-endowed man. But, by God, he is proud to be a Naked American.

This weekend was the annual Bay to Breakers race here in Freak City, USA, where some people race, some people suit up as Superman and other people man out in their birthday suits. We saw people dressed as storm troopers, centurians, hookers (at least I think they were in costume), the little crazy fellow from Twelve Galaxies, superheros, and the crazy people dressed as salmon who run upstream against the current, spawning, so to speak.
But there were a lot of folks getting sunburn on their wobbly bits. Oooh! Painful!
I was discussing this phenomena with my sister and she brought up some interesting...er, points. First, if you were a man, wouldn’t you be embarrassed if the day was cold and rainy, and things were…small? Or WORSE, what if you took a fancy to the naked female jogger bobbing along beside you, and things started to “happen?”
Well, Dear Sister, I can assure you now, since I have seen and taken note. There is nothing attractive about these people. Sweaty naked people in athletic socks…NOT HOT!

You’ve gotta love The Crazy.

Thank you notes

2007-05-14T00:10:00.000-07:00

Thirty today and 68 more to go. World's lamest bride. Under the gun.

Irony

2007-04-11T10:20:00.000-07:00

Last night, Simons and I shelled out $220 for a parking place about 6 blocks away. This is because we have paid about $1000 in parking tickets since we moved here, so any parking place, no matter the price, is going to be cheaper. They shell out $80 parking tickets like Hershey at Halloween here. A bird craps on the street and you get a parking ticket. I got two $275 parking tickets for being within seven feet of a handicap ramp the other day. That's $550 for eight hours of parking. $550 between 11pm in the rain and darkness and 7 am when I moved it in the morning. $550 after driving in circles for an hour and a half trying to find a space and finally giving up in despair.

So this morning, while working on invoicing, I got a loud hammering at the door, which somehow I heard over the loud hammering of the workmen gutting the apartment next door. And it's a workman. And it's a meter maid (are they maids if they are men? I think they are. They deserve the emasculation.). And they say that even though the construction crew already has their allotted 40 feet of space on the block, they also demand the 10 feet of space I am taking in our legally parked car which has been in the same place for three days without complaint, and if I don't go move it, they will tow me. So I go to move the car to our newly paid for parking space, and there is another goddamn ticket for $40 on it.

It's a good thing meter maids are fast, because I'd have dearly loved to have told him what a

cheap, lying, no-good, rotten,

four-flushing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating,

inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking,

dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless,

heartless, fat-ass, bug-eyed, stiff-legged,

spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkey shit he is!

I need to go eat some cheese.

Pittsburgh

2007-04-10T21:38:00.000-07:00

Okay, don't tell anyone (Simons), but this morning, I downloaded the whole second season of Weeds and watched every single episode and now I'm DYING. Is the second season over? Is it still ongoing? Because I don't think I can wait however many months for them to give me more Mary Louise Parker.

I. Love. Her.

Anyway, Simons and i just watched the first three episodes (there only 27 minutes long, people, stop looking at me like that! AND I knit while I'm watching, so it's not totally unproductive.) and it was all I could do not to say, "Oh you think THAT'S crazy, wait and see what Uncle Andy does with a microwaved banana peel in a minute."

[Spoiler Alert] For those of you who don't know about Weeds, it's about a suburban widow whose husband leaves her penniless with two sons, and she ends up selling pot to make a living. And at the end of last season, she found out her new boyfriend is actually the DEA.

I'm telling you, downloading TV from iTunes is the BOMB!

Maximum Efficiency

2007-04-09T18:29:00.000-07:00

So today I was a model of efficiency, accomplishing the following:

Paid my $550 parking tickets
Finally posted on my blog
Updated a client's webpage on behalf of some very pushy architects
Filled in my schedule
Bought cedar balls for the winter clothes, which we have exchanged and picked through
Found a dermatologist
Booked a hotel for the non-blogging Aloysius' wedding
Invoiced my clients
Outlined two articles and one essay

I'm telling you, it's Spring. Time of renewed inspiration and aspiration!

But apparently not nutrition (she says while typing with one hand and spooning caramel sauce into her piehole with the other). Back when I first started this blog, I tried an ayurvedic cleanse in a failed attempt to wean myself off of sugar and processed wheat gluten and all other things George Bush is using to destroy our health and nation. I say "failed" because on the very day the cleanse was over with, I polluted my new detoxified cells with two bottles of Pinot Noir, kicked my big toenail off in a famous author's hot tub and then barfed in my front yard.

I'm not proud.

Every so often, usually before planning a big trip, I get into the My Body Is A Temple routine and run and stretch and drink herbal water and consider my chakras. I'll be going home for weddings in June, which I guess count as trips, not that I have to shape up for them (normally my trips involve hiking or rock climbing or looking attractive for high school reunions). But since I work alone and some days only see the dog and Simons, I'm not getting as much feedback on trip planning and fitness. I miss the days when I would wake up and meet friends for a morning run. Maybe I need more verbal rewards. Maybe I require a sense of competition. I think it's a little sad that I require someone to pat me on the head in order to acquire the appropriate My Body Is A Temple sensibility. In itself, MBIAT ought to come from within. Clearly I am a new age failure who is drowning her self loathing in caramel sauce.

With my recent cancer scare and treatment, it ought to have sunk in that "it can happen to me." It ought to be abundantly clear that I cannot avoid cancer, diabetes and heart disease because I simply pretend they won't happen. And judging by my reaction to the contractors working on the apt below mine, my blood pressure is in immediate risk. So how do you find the willpower not to eat crap? To face the future pragmatically and take your health planning as seriously as you do your financial planning?

Happy Easter!

2007-04-09T09:44:00.000-07:00

Did we go to church?
No.

Did I go running?
No.

Did I actually leave the house beyond the morning foray for Peet’s and Paas?
No.

It sounds like my day sucked, but it was actually dee-lightful. I spent the better part of the day either cooking or knitting = utter bliss. Holly and Sean came for dinner, and one of the best things about them is they don’t ask if there is any butter in the food. Because they know there is. Butter is the base of my food pyramid. I’m Southern. All my recipes start with “First, take a stick of butter…” One of the other best things about them is that I don’t have to stress whether the dinner sucks, because if it does, we can order Chinese and they’ll still love me.

Although I considered doing a traditional Easter feast with lamb and Peeps and whatever, I instead opted for comfort food and richness. We had Chicken Suzanne, which I didn’t bother photographing, because I don’t think mushroom sauce translates well to visual representation. And Holly made brussel sprouts with rosemary and shallots, and they were totally delish. And then came the caramel apple tarte tatine,

Isn’t it pretty?

Don’t you want to lick it? No? Look CLOSER…

The caramel sauce is pretty amazing. You kind of moan involuntarily, and no, I’m not bragging, because I didn’t invent the recipe. Maybe I should call it Porn Pie. Holly and I can open a bakery and just sell Porn Cake and Porn Pie. We shall call it simply, "Porn," and our mothers will be so proud.

Simons and I did dye Easter eggs, and we came up with some pretty purple tulips for décor. And, you know, some Reese’s peanut butter eggs, because it isn’t Easter without mealing a few of those.

The rest of the weekend was pretty much spent wringing my hands, because our new landlords, they want us out. No, no Simons hasn’t been streaking the courtyard and playing loud deathmetal again...much. They’re renovating all the apartments so they can up the rent to $2500 or so, and therefore are offering $8K to most tenants to move. We were tempted, and even went so far as to go apartment hunting on Saturday. It was just as horrible as before, full of nervous optimism at the beginning and then crushing despondency at the end. You think a place will be grand, because the photos have such shiny wood floors and lots and lots of cabinets, and then there are crackwhores on the front stoop and the paint is peeling and it occurs to you that your lovely corner store that you walk to every afternoon to decide on dinner will now be a 30-minute drive across town. You will have to find a whole new corner store. And while once that seemed an exciting prospect, you just had to go through all that six months ago, and the idea of packing and unpacking and orienteering a new neighborhood just seem so hard. So. Hard. And we came back home and realized the issue was that our little squalorous 700-square feet with no parking and no closets is our home.

So unless they up the ante to $12K, we aren’t moving.

Andy and Harriott’s wedding blanket is now 5.5’ x 7’ and I only have three balls of yarn left. Hallelujah. Also, here is a nice picture of the sweater I made Simons. I love that he wears it.

Reno

2007-04-03T10:59:00.000-07:00

Sim and I got back from Reno at about 9:30 last night, after spending the weekend with Julia and Robert Payne in their ultra cool house (it has closets…and this whole separate area for eating). They’re the badasses who took us on the awesome hike in Lake Tahoe earlier in March.

Lucky Simons got to go backcountry skiing (check out the video) with Robert on Saturday, while I worked all morning (gross). Fortunately, I got loads done and then went for a snowshoe with Julia in the mountains overlooking Lake Tahoe. Snowshoeing! In the snow! In Reno! Snow!

We spent the evening marinating and cooking some wild duck with apricot jam and bourbon, and then had some lovely steaks for dinner instead, and laughed our asses off until 2 am, only it was really 11 and we’re just very old.

[This is what ignorance looks like]

Then yesterday we all went to Mount Rose, where they dumped me in the beginner ski school and took off for the black diamonds. After I'd dribbled down the bunny slopes a few times, they came back all pink-cheeked and sparkly and barely winded, fortified me with beer and then whisked me off up the roller coaster ski lift to a blue slope, a clifflike precipice that had my teeth chattering from the instant I set ski to snow. All three tempted me up there with falsehoods about “cat tracks” and easy
shooshing, and then even the LIFT went faster than the bunny slopes. I was so busy gawping over my left shoulder at the initial slope that I fell off the lift when we landed.

[Do you see anything on the other side of this peak? No? Really?
THAT'S BECAUSE THERE WASN'T ANYTHING BUT MILES OF WHISTLING AIR AND DEATH AND PAIN!]

Then I stood up there over this cliff with my knees knocking together and all the blood draining from my head, while Simons giggled and said, “Oh, you’ll be fine.” I think he was high from the altitude. God know I must have been, because after 30 seconds of panicked gibbering about it, I said, “FINE! I’M GOING! I’M GOING! FUCK!” And then shrieked, “God DAMMIT!” as I reached 85 miles per hour point five seconds later.

Amidst the screaming and falling and bloodletting, I did get to see Sim doing his telemark deal, which is very cool and fancy looking. I think he was pretending not to know the moronic beginner hurtling past him, strapped to the cheapo rental two-by-fours. He maintains that every time he looked at me, I shrieked at him, so he was only acting like he was ignoring me, all while keeping a very close eye on my wellbeing. God, my husband is such a LIAR.

Robert gave me some coaching on how not to hold my poles like they were anchors (but…aren’t they?) and body turning and other such stuff that made me scream lots more professionally on the way down. And I only fell once.

Well, excepting the lift.

Girl Parts (Not for Boys)

2007-03-30T09:59:00.000-07:00

So, um....Cancer Free!

This past Wednesday, after many delays and rescheduling mishaps, I underwent The Procedure, as we like to call it, and I am officially healthy once more. After months and months of agonizing and stressing and eating Haagen Daazs out the yin yang, it ended up being very much ado about nothing actually. Although I feel some sense of obligation in case some other girl has to go through the same thing and wants the honest truth, I won't go into the nitty gritty since my dad reads this. Here's the glossed over version and you can have your friends email me if they want some extra comforting:

They did ask if a male resident could come observe, and I said absolutely not. I KNOW they have to learn somehow, but I just wasn't in the mood to be gawped at by some weirdo man. I mean, seriously, I can't figure out why a man would go into gynecology. I get the obstetrics part, although all male OBs should look just like Cliff Huxtable and do that moony smiley face as soon as your baby pops out. But male gynecologists just seem kind of...wrong. (Plus I secretly feared that Alex Karev would suddenly come smirking into the room while I was sitting there.)

They stuck a big grounding strip on my leg, which cracked me up for some reason, and the medicine they administered gave me the shakes. But the nice nurse let me knit, which also struck me as being funny (um, ladies, you can picture this...guys, you probably don't want to), and she actually held the yarn ball for me so it wouldn't roll on the floor. Knitting is very therapeutic, and there I was shaking and knitting, knitting and shaking. It was all quick and painless and afterwards Simons got me an orange dreamcicle jamba juice and drove me home so I wouldn't have to park the car. He is a most excellent husband.

So, Holly, thanks for the Hob-Nobs and US Weekly. Melissa, thanks for the lavender plant. Mom and Daddy, thank you for the flowers. Sonia, the Godiva was/is delish. I have such marvelous support.

2007-03-29T16:57:00.000-07:00

Okay, first, I didn't knit that bag. Mine is still in progress. Rachel, I'll have to copy it and mail it, because the magazine issue the pattern was in is very hard to find now. Apparently that bag was extremely popular. It's hard though, because it's INTARSIA. Doesn't that sound like a disease? "Oh, I can't come in to work today. I have...intarsia."

Sadly, I have no one to have intarsia with anymore, because damned Sonia has abandoned me for Australia. It's totally unfair, and it made me feel very small deleting her number from my cellphone. Stupid Damion. Actually, I curse Damion twice because whenever he visits, he brings three tubs of ice cream, all of which I eat singlehandedly in front of the computer. If my ski pants don't fit this weekend, I'm totally mailing him Krispy Kreme until his suspension gives out. Oh, and that ginger sesame brittle from haagen dazs...I'm divorcing Simons for it. God, so delish.

Speaking of Simons, does anyone else ever have problems with their spouses' method of "helping?" On Sunday morning, I asked him to please help with the pre-dinner-party cook and clean, and then he went surfing for three hours. When he got back, I requested that he take out the trash and make room in the kitchen while I went to the Whole Foods, a miserable 18-block walk (round trip). When I returned, like a laden pack mule, he was outside cutting wood for the new kitchen shelf he'd designed in my absence. So I cleaned the kitchen, vacuumed, cleaned out the fridge, took out the trash and recycling my own damned self. After this, I denied him goat cheese and things got ugly.

We're off to Reno this weekend, hurrah! I don't know that I'll be up for much skiing, but it will be so lovely to watch Beuls romping around in the snow...in her super lame booties. I'm mean like that.

Just doing my part...

2007-03-21T12:28:00.000-07:00

I've just come from a meeting with my biggest freelance client yet, and oh my God, I have so much work to do I may perish. At least it's an awesome project, and the people I'm working for are incredibly brilliant, so i leave these meeting overwhelmed but so inspired. Still. So much work. I have to have their entire website completed by April 1st, which is a LOT of copy. Bye bye knitting.

While hiking on Sunday afternoon (saturday was pretty much shot thanks to raging all day hangover), Simons and I were talking about ways we could do more to stop global warming. We sign petitions and make sure our votes go to candidates to are environmentally active. We recycle and have the special light bulbs. We eat pretty strictly organic. I buy environmentally friendly cleaning products, bath and beauty products (plant extracts, not tested on animals, phosphate free, etc). We already walk or take public transportation 95% of the time. But surely there is something else we can be doing. I've looked into buying back our carbon emissions, but I'm not really sure that it makes a lot of sense. The idea is that you pay a company X amount to pay for your car's emissions. That company turns your money around and buys carbon credits from the federal government, that in turn a big power plant or some other manufacturer cannot buy to offset their own, harmful pollution, and must therefore actually make improvements to their plants. But doesn't it just make more sense to make industry cut back emissions anyway? And shouldn't we just get an alternative fuel car...as soon as we can afford it? What do you think, oh wise and splendid internet? What more could we do? What do you do? Any good websites on meaningful changes?

In other news, Simons and I have been running together every night this week, which I now consider a Regime. I like regimes. I even like the word: "Reh-geeeeeeem." It feels very final and respectable. And hardcore. Trust me, with the hills around my neighborhood, even walking Beulah around the block is hardcore. Oh, speaking of Dog, we took her with us on Monday and halfway through, I looked at her and her eyeballs had sunken into her head and were almond shaped. What the HELL? We brought her home immediately and she didn't seem overheated or wobbly, and (thank God) her eyes went back to normal within 5 minutes, BUT WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? And if you think we are taking Beuls to the vet because her eyeballs fell out, think again. I've only got one kidney left people... Remember "The $3300 Duck Debacle" and the "$350 Pooping Catastrophe?" Well they're still awfully fresh in our memories.

The wedding blanket I am knitting for some friends of ours is one-third done and very beautiful. Simons' sweater is back from the finisher's, and is heavenly. He wore it three days in a row (it's really more of a jacket), which was extremely satisfying. I'd post a photo, but my DAMNED CAMERA IS STILL BEING REPAIRED. I also found some gorgeous pink and blue yarn to make this bag. And you can't tell from the picture, but it's really big. Sonia and I went to a few knit shops in Noe Valley yesterday afternoon, which will be our last real knitting jaunt, since she's moving back to bloody Australia. Damion, how could you do this to me?

Also, I've decided that I'm spending entirely too much time by myself in my pajamas (granted, I'm working, but still...I feel a little schlubby). In order to have more social interaction and feel more professional, I've been looking into writers' colonies and there are a few in the city. That way I can take Eudora the Laptop someplace with real, live human beings, and work there instead. Also, I'm planning to take a photography class and maybe some piano lessons. After all, Simons and I do actually own a piano now. It's not here or anything, but we do own one. And maybe one day (YEARS AND YEARS AND YEARS from now...ahem) we will have children (or maybe just more dogs) that we will want to sing Christmas carols to, and it ought to have musical accompa...accompanim...music playing with it (God, it's just like Oh Brother Where Art Thou). I can't sing, but maybe I can play along while Simons sings.

Also, just because it made me happy, here is my recipe for a tasty snack:
1 banana
2 Tbs low fat peanut butter
2 Tbs Giardelli cocoa powder (I didn't actually measure, so might have only been 1 Tbs)
1/2 c. plain yogurt
1 c- one and one half cups skim milk

Put in blender and blend, and it comes out all tasty. And except for what's in the peanut butter, it doesn't have a lot of sugar. I'm trying to watch it, thanks to California's ceaseless messages about diabetes and the American obesity epidemic. Just doing my part.

How to charm me

2007-03-19T22:10:00.000-07:00

"I'm back from the store. I picked up two New York strippers."

"Oh, really? What are their names?"

"Tammi and Cyndi, both with i's."

Inspiration is dead

2007-03-14T00:13:00.000-07:00

My God. It's 12:19 a.m. and I've been working since 6 a.m.

Yesterday.

The Girl Scout cookies are lonely.

Rant wherein many of life's questions are answered

2007-03-10T09:57:00.000-08:00

WHY AM I SO FAT?

WHY IS MY SKIN SO BAD? WHY DIDN'T I WEAR SUNSCREEN?

WHY IS THIS LAB SO GODDAMNED HAIRY?

WHY ARE MY ALLERGIES SO BAD?

(one mystery solved)

WHY DO I CLEAN AND CLEAN AND EVERYTHING IS STILL AWFUL?

WHY CAN'T I CONCENTRATE?

WHY DO ALL MY SOUPS TASTE BORING?

WHY DOES BEULAH LICK HER PAWS SO MUCH?

WHY ARE HILLS SO HARD TO RUN ON?

WHY DOES EVERYTHING TASTE BETTER WITH BUTTER?

(fat mystery solved)

WHY IS MY HAIR SO HIDEOUS?

WHY CAN'T I FINISH THIS FREAKING CAPITAL CAMPAIGN SITE SO I CAN GO OUT AND PLAY?

WHY WON'T THE DOCTOR CALL?

(distraction problem answered)

People Meeting People

2007-03-08T10:21:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, after a very hard day’s work, I realized at about 5:00 that Simons had invited some new people over for drinks, and the house was covered in hair and full of trash. In the scramble to decrapify the apartment, I managed to get an enormous chunk of wood jammed under my thumbnail while dusting, dropped a book on my foot searching for the peroxide, then knocked over the effing jade plant (hateful dying thing) all over the newly vacuumed living room floor, and finally bashed my head on the corner of the DVD player while vacuuming up the mess. I kind of hated these people already.

When Simons came home, I gave him the stink eye and announced I was going to knitting for an hour and he’d better have wine AND CHEESE by the time I came home. He’s so used to my shrieks of pain now, he doesn’t even respond quickly. My legs are bruised, my big toe is black, my thumbnail is a horror…lovely.

This general gracelessness is not is helped by the fact that the doctor’s office last week reported that I’d shrunk an inch and put on ten pounds in the past three months. Lovely. Apparently my enormous ass is dragging me down and pushing me off balance.

Why, God, WHY?

Best. Weekend. Ever.

2007-03-05T10:11:00.000-08:00

Evaluation: knees, ankles, back, hips, shoulders, neck, thumbs

These are things that hurt.

Holly and Sean and Simons and I piled everything into the car, including two dogs, Mirren the large and smelly black lab, whom we unexpectedly are dogsitting for two weeks, and Beulah, who has an entire suitcase of dietary needs, seeing as how she has GIARDIA, and drove up to Tahoe on Friday night. I hadn't seen snow since boarding school (read "shivering on sleeping porches") and hadn't skied since our sixth grade French class field trip to Quebec...with Simons, come to think of it.

Perhaps Tahoe is really an industrial town filled with corrugated shanties and dirty winos, but I doubt it. It wouldn't have mattered though, since under three feet of silvery-white snow, every house looked like a Swiss cottage with six-foot glistening icicles and the warm glow of firelight. Our B&B was adorable, although obscenely fish obessed. There was even a three-foot trout on our bed, with which I promptly attacked Holly, and antique painted lures hanging over the potty, including one called, "Wiggly Willie," which amused the boys. (Couldn't be better than the Electric Chicken or the Disco Grub)

Day One
The next morning, while Holly and Sean flung themselves down steep precipices at Squaw Valley, I discovered that the trick to cross country skiing is to pretend to be a roller skating gay man. It works, I promise, and my thanks go out to roller skating gay men everywhere for their inspiration. My God, that is hard work. To our delight, we found that cross country skis are A) half as expensive to rent as downhill skis, so Simons rented instead of using his telemark rig (Sims is a really good skier, but a patient husband), and B) the national parks have perfect trails that allow dogs and are free. We went down some fantastic trails at Blackwood Canyon with fresh powder and views of the mountains and snow covered firs and only saw about 10 other people the whole time. Granted, there was no lodge for mid-day hot chocolates, but there were also no lines, and the joyous dog frolicking more than made up for the lack of humiliation/maiming on the ski lift. Here's me, giving Simons the finger for having snapped a photo of me lying on my back contemplating the tree canopy, the cold snow down my shorts and the blue sky overhead.

We had a snow picnic overlooking a completely unblemished meadow, with cheese, crackers, sausage and trail mix.
Beulah, thanks to her grinch-like feet, had to be outfitted with fancy dog booties, which she felt were deeply infra dig...or infra dog.
What is this white stuff, and why is my nub so cold?

Day Two

While Holly and Sean were off to Squaw Valley again for a second day of intense downhill skiing, Sim and I met some friends from Charleston, Julia and Robert, who now live in Reno and are awesomely cool x's 5million. The nice thing about having friends who are more hardcore than you, is that they push you to do new and exciting things that you would not ordinarily think to do...or necessarily want to. We met for a day of snowshoeing/mountain climbing at Maggie's Peak, which overlooks Emerald Bay. I'd never snowshoed before, but Julia set a kind pace, and up we went. Their 10-year old lab, Goose, also demonstrated the proper snow climbing dog technique for Beulah and Mirren, who thought he was a total stud. This dog apparently goes back country skiing with Robert, and roots in the snow like a blissed out pig, dizzy with pleasure.
Every time we'd get to a lookout point, I'd be relieved and think we were done, but we kept going up and up, for about two and a half hours and over 8,600 feet. And that last 100 almost killed me. Breathing like an obscene phone caller, kick stepping up the steep incline, only pride kept me from saying, "Far enough." It was worth it. I mean...just look at it.
To the east, we could see over the entire lake, with tiny seaplanes that looked like dragonflies, and to the west, the Desolation Wilderness. Robert met some friends of his who had snowshoed up with telemark skis, and was able to advise them on how best not to go down the cliff side of the peak.
We tried a few times for a good picture, but usually ended up with dog hinies or the blur of Headless Simons.

Going down was the most fun, since you can lean back on your shoes and slide down almost like skiing. The boys took these flying troilistic leaps off of boulders, landing in a puffy heap at the bottom, which sounded for all the world like pillow fighting...WHUMP!
As soon as I can move my arms, I want to do it again.

I Heart My Dog

2007-03-02T09:13:00.000-08:00

Here’s how the discussion with the vet went yesterday:

Um, yeah, so the dog has some massive diarrhea, right? Really bad.
...
Since Valentine’s Day.
...
Oh, no, not the whole time. Off and on. I’d make an appointment to bring her in, and then it would go away, so I’d cancel it.
...
Actually, there could be a lot of reasons for the “episodes.”
...
Well, let's see. On Valentine’s she stole some lamb from off the table. She might have swallowed some bones, but I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure it was the Bordeaux reduction that made her so sick. But that passed…so to speak. All over the living room. Oh, and the hallway too.
...
No, no, that’s not all. She’s also been in the mountains and drank some streamwater and got two ticks. That was on President’s Day.
...
No, still more. She broke into the bathroom and ate everything…toilet paper, soap, cough drops, a bunch of vitamins, but we made her drink hydrogen peroxide and puke all that up. When? Oh that was….last Wednesday.
...
No, no, she puked up everything she’s eaten for an entire lifetime, so we’re pretty sure she didn’t digest any vitamins. And she didn’t have any diarrhea then anyway.
...
No, no, still not all…she also climbed onto the kitchen table and stole a really nice loaf of Italian bread from the top of the refrigerator…that was on Friday. Yeah, she crapped up the house pretty good that night. She also ate some butter, I guess to go with the bread.
...
She’s on Prednisone for her persistent paw licking, and no, we can’t take her off of it. But she was this bad before the Prednisone.
...
Yes, our dog IS the devil. How did you know?
...
$202? For this dog, I consider that a steal. Cured!

wintry

2007-02-26T15:18:00.000-08:00

Everyone here keeps saying how droughtish we are and how much we need this constant sog, but I can’t stand it. I’m wringing my hands and wandering around the house picking up objects and putting them down again, and I need more sun. In Charleston, we have great big crashing thunderstorms and drama and torrential downpours, but then, it’s over. There isn’t this lingering drizzly pall for days on end, where the dog won’t go outside unless propelled by a booted foot, and all my coats are damp, and its so depressing. What is with this rain?

I guess, on the other hand, that it means snow, and YES, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, this is essential because I now have SKIS! Cross country ones. And ski boots and ski poles and ski gloves and a brand new spanking pair of somewhat flattering ski pants. I say somewhat flattering, because I’ll be damned if women’s ski products have changed since George Mallory. If they aren’t jammed up your hiney in ways that make it impossible to sit, then they force un-hardcore types like moi to reenact Hammertime in the foyer of the Marmot store. I know that the important thing is their wicking function and sub-zero wind sheer, but who skis in parachute pants? Simons, who used to work at Marmot after college and was talking with all of his outdoor buddies and using ridiculous phrases like “agro” and “jammin’ uphill” and “totally sweet solo ascent on Whitney,” tried to pretend like we were not together. The truth is he’s just jealous that he and MC Hammer aren’t tight.

And guess what else I bought this weekend! Guess! Guess! You’ll never guess. (And you won’t care when I tell you.) Here’s a hint: it involves sheep. No, it wasn’t an early anniversary gift for Simons. It’s wool!

Sonia and I attended Stitches West on Saturday, which is a knitting conference . There, we rolled around in vats of cashmere and alpaca and fended off other buyers with pointy sticks…because we’re cool like that. Seriously, there was fancy yak wool that cost $65 per 20 grams or so, and handcarved rosewood needles and trendy knitting bags and every kind of yarn and knitted lingerie and books and koigu galore. Every pattern and fiber and spinning wheel and loom under the sun was in one building, and Sonia and I scurried around like the yarn harlots we are, and I spent at least five hours worth of writing on enough wool for a new fancy finger weight scarf and an alpaca sweater in cream. And I bought needle bags and patterns and a new Kenya market basket to hold everything in…although I refuse to feel any remorse for that, since the woman was there representing a basket weaving co-op in Kenya and Tanzania. And if you’ve ever been there, you know if anything is going to get better in rural Africa, it’s the women who are going to do it.

So soon the yarn for Andy and Harriott’s wedding present will be here, which will take me months, and I also have enough yarn for two scarves, four or five hats, one more baby sweater, five pairs of baby booties, two sweaters, four pairs of socks and a shawl. I’d take pictures but my camera is broken. And no one cares except me anyway, especially not Simons who cackles every time a moth flies through the window and I have a panic attack. He is bored rigid by wool.

For instance, I nearly brought the alpaca to Holly’s dinner party on Friday, but Simons said, “Why? Is the sweater for her? No? Well, then why would she care?” And he has a point. So I went with wine and chocolate bread pudding and Provencal napkins instead, and we drank FAR, FAR too much wine, and ate almost enough cheese to satisfy even me. Holly is an excellent cook, and her quiche and gratin potatoes with gruyere and lashings (I love that word) of crème were fabulous. I wanted to take some home but felt tacky asking. Their apartment has rewarded their many hours of suffering and trips across the bay to Ikea and Target by being positively adorable and monochromatic except for these glorious splashes of color from Sean’s photographs of their Asian adventures. Hopefully Sean will recuperate enough so that they can accompany us on our Tahoe trip next weekend, so Holly, GO BUY SKIS!

And one last thing, did anyone else feel sorry for Peter O’Toole last night? I didn’t even see Venus, and I wanted him to win. Poor old guy.

Want to hear a lot of whining, come sit by me...

2007-02-21T12:31:00.000-08:00

Oh, Internet, you're so nice to me. You compliment my wedding dress and agree that my husband has adorable dimples and give me pat-pats for my scary girl problems. It was such a relief just to write about it, I really feel much better now. Only one more week until I get this all taken care of, and if I’ve lasted three weeks, one more won’t kill me. Unless, of course, it does…(cough, cough, lolls weakly on the couch)

In case you’ve been wondering how I’ve been spending my time, let me report that Simons’ sweater, the one I’ve been knitting since Christmas, is at the finisher's getting its zipper put in. After all that work, I wasn’t about to screw it up by sewing it. All in all, this sweater will have taken two and a half months (three and a half counting the wait for the yarn to come from Uruguay) and about $200. I could have purchased him the same sweater made from the chin hairs of infant Ibex goats for the same price and he would have had it immediately. He wouldn’t have had to see me rip it out and reknit it at least four times and curse and cry and screech and rip, rip, rip, redo. God, I hope the damned thing fits.

We also took a trip down to Big Sur for the President’s Day weekend.
It was awesome. And I mean that in the Victorian sense of the word, because every time we turned a corner, our jaws dropped and Simons nearly swerved off the highway. There were so many tiny coves, smashed with spectacular blue waves and foam and insane rock formations, all very violent and dramatic.
I was terrified that Sim would try to surf something just on the principle of being there, but he did not. Instead, we found a bakery with croissants the size of your head, and we hiked in Los Padres National Forest, which allows dogs. So Beulah charged about on the trail and greeted everyone and swam underwater in extremely cold mountain streams with just her little wagging bottom poking out, because she is a crazy dog. We are determined to go back and spend three or four days backpacking there, so we can make it to the Sykes hot springs. At a ten mile hike, it was far too long to do in one day, and we’ve been looking for a place where we can bring Dog and spend a few days in the backcountry. The redwoods are unbelievable, and what better way to end a hard day of hiking with a soak in a secluded hot spring?

It’s a good thing the weekend was so lovely, because yesterday was a craptacular waste of time. I finished my work, wrangled with clients WHO DON’T READ THE WORK I SEND IN AND THEN ASK ME 45 QUESTIONS ABOUT IT THAT WOULD BE SELF EXPLANATORY HAD THEY BOTHERED. Said clients might also go back in their email messages and see where I requested photo specs WEEKS AGO, so how could it possibly be an emergency NOW?

Ahem, excuse me…

And then I stocked the house with food, baked muffins, cooked, stirred and chopped AND did eight loads of laundry. Eight, people. And when my husband came home from work, did he remark in the nicely folded mountain of boxers on the bed? No. Did he dance around at the scent of banana peanut butter muffins permeating our sparkly clean apartment? No he did not. Did he exclaim over the food I’d made him for him to take for lunch today, or over the penne with chicken, mushrooms and asparagus in lemon cream sauce I made for dinner? The answer is NO. NO! NO! and NO!

In other unpleasant news, I am growing horns. On my face. In the manner of an unattractive adolescent rhinoceros. Or maybe it is a second- third- and fourth-head sprouting, since I am so smart that my primary brain cannot contain my brilliance and requires backup for mundane matters…such as PARKING. Have any of you people ever gotten a $500 parking ticket? Does that seem somewhat unconscionable to you? Does anyone have any experience with persuading the California DMV to at least halve the fine? Who do I sign the firstborn child over to?

And for anyone who is already calling the SPCA on my landlord, go ahead and call it on me. Beulah has been spanked and tied to the back door this morning for stealing banana peanut butter muffins FROM THE KITCHEN TABLE, and later scolded and threatened about a jillion times with eternal bucketdom for feasting on her tasty ear medicine. God, I swear that stuff must taste like cream cheese frosting to her, because the second I put it in, she’s got half her hind leg rammed down there. Grooooooss! Anyway, this table thievery has to stop, since it’s giving her rotten indigestion. After she stole a bunch of lamb from the table during the 8th Annual I Hate Valentine’s Day Dinner Party Extravaganza, she had ED for three days. Now that is not cool.

I really need to get out more.

Antebellum

2007-02-19T14:47:00.000-08:00

Okay, yes, I’ve been in hiding lately. I’ve had good reasons and bad reasons. The first is that I couldn't figure out what I wanted to say about the ball. I know that some people would prefer that I say nothing, and some would prefer a scathing reproach for the whole social convention. I don't really feel like either is appropriate, so I'll just tell you what it was like.

Simons and I had a lovely time and danced until two something and then stayed up till three admiring me in my wedding dress (or maybe it was just me admiring me). It fit like a glove, by the way, even slightly better than at the wedding, when perhaps I had been doing too much comfort eating. (Doubtless that was the last time I shall ever wear it, and the trauma of taking it off necessitated about fourteen cell phone pictures, some of which got sent to Holly in a fit of drunk text messaging.)

The ball was preceded by a beautiful cocktail party, and it felt like walking into another time, what with Charleston’s carriage blocks out front and the chandeliers and the ball gowns in every hue and cut imaginable. I was forced to stand in a corner, since my dress is not, shall we say, maneuverable, and was stood upon numerous times, most particularly by my husband, who was extremely handsome in his tails. Extremely handsome. Did I mention that he was handsome? So, so, so handsome? He really was.

[cold shower]

Simons and his sweet father, who was positively on a TEAR with excited bossiness, fetched me water and hors d’oeuvres, so the trapped-in-the-corner thing worked out nicely. People came by and chatted and stood on my dress and brought snacks and I did not pour anything down my front, which was a miracle of genetic resistance. Several people took pictures that turned out too white, thanks to my enormous expanse of white satin -- I said to put it in "snow" mode, but would anyone listen? Finally, Simons' dad insisted on driving us the three block trip to the Hibernian. I really wanted to walk, since, although chilly, I had my black opera cloak (yessss, finally an opportunity to wear it) and being tossed into a car with your petticoats flung up around your ears is most undignified, but I was overpowered and stuffed with absolutely no ceremony into a small sedan and sat grumpily wishing I’d never agreed to any of it. That soon passed, fortunately.

The hall was resplendent with flowers, and gentlemen in tails waiting to escort the ladies to the powder room, to repair bustles and sashes, powder noses, tape bosoms and various such feminine activities. The funny part was being “corralled” afterwards while waiting for one’s escort to come fetch you, since ladies must not walk anywhere alone…I daresay we might take over the world otherwise. I did wonder, what happens if a husband and wife get in a fight on the way there? Can he just leave her in the powder room all night? Would she sit there, impotently gnashing her teeth, plotting revenge and pacing the corral like a rabid mustang? Simons and I didn't fight, so I never had to find out.

The dancing was lovely, despite all of the…ahem, dancers. They really should dispense with the foxtrotting. No one foxtrots anymore. The box step is hard enough for most men without adding a toe touch in there to muddle them even worse. The waltzing went much better. Since this was the first year they allowed divorcees to attend, it was quite a crush (don’t I sound like Danielle Steele?) and the Grand Cotillions a work of multiple logisticians, with curlicues and waves and much rustling of skirts and imperious sweeping about. One went on so long, the maestro played every single marching song he knew, from America the Beautiful to Yankee Doodle.

Mr. X and I lead the march into supper, which was superb. He and his bride had the whole table collapsing with laughter, with stories of her French pug’s day in court. I wish I had a recording. The champagne was excellent, and I trust I did not drink so much that I discredited myself. Sim and I returned to the dance floor, where I danced with the most charming young marine, who was one of those people who really listens when you speak, which means you can’t just prattle on with absurd small talk. After speaking to him, Simons looked completely embarrassed and said he realized the same thing halfway through and had to stop talking out of his ass and really say something meaningful. He thought he’d convinced the guy to become an architect, he was so genuinely interested in Simons’ conversation. We both felt a little humble that this nice, gentlemanly kid had already been to Falujah three times.

Anyway, that was the ball, and now you know as much about the whole affair as I do. Lots of people said stuff to me about my blog, none of it bad, although it made me fairly twitchy. But that’s not the reason I haven’t been blogging.

The reason I haven’t been blogging is that my doctor told me I might have cervical cancer. This sucks in more ways than I know how to count. First, the way she told me was rather unfortunate. Her nurse called at ten till seven, forgetting the time difference, and said, “Hi, it’s Ann, Dr. Baker’s nurse. Did you get her message about your precancerous test results?

And I said, “No.”

And she went on about biopsies and other scary words that equal death and pain and not being around to admire my husband’s dimples every morning, until it suddenly occurred to her that I had said No and that I meant No and that she was scaring the crap out of me. So she transferred me to the doctor who talked me off the ledge and said I was “precancerous” which is not the same thing as “cancerous” at all.

The other thing that stinks is that it is very hard to find a doctor one feels comfortable with, and now I have to find a second one out here. And this new doctor can’t even see me until March 1. I heartily disapprove of anyone who gives you shitty news and then won’t let you fix whatever is wrong for thirty days. It’s just unfair.

I’m feeling enormously defective and stupid and nervous and tense, and all of this must continue for another few weeks, which just sucks, sucks, sucks.

So it may be something bad. It may be fixable. It may be nothing at all. But I didn’t want to tell all of you people until I had told my mom. Because my mom loves nothing more than a crisis, and can become unbearably managing in the event of one. On occasion, she will invent a crisis where there is none, just so she can manage it with the utmost of efficiency. For those of us who are not nearly so efficient, but who are thirty years old and occasionally like to feel in control of our lives, her normally endearing disaster management talents can become, shall we say, eye-bleedingly annoying?

So…I had nothing to think or write about beyond this one issue, and was positively exploding with the need to talk about it, but couldn’t tell my mother, because she would read about it and then the managing would happen and then the tears and remorse and finally the multiple phone calls with “helpful” information from various doctors and researchers and strangers she had found to take care of the problem. I had just a scrap of rational brain matter to get on with work and breathing and trying not to feel defective without all that. So, I’m sorry you had to wait, but there it is. Mom knows, and Mom has gritted her teeth and pulled up her socks and is going to let me handle this, all the while being there, gently and silently panicking, which I am grateful for….the being there part, not the panicking. Because although I said she loves nothing more than a crisis, I reckon she does. She loves me more.

Anyway, I'm sorry you had to wait, but I had good reason.

oh My GOD!!!!!!

2007-01-30T18:05:00.000-08:00

I hate our landlord. My desk faces out into the courtyard towards the street, and I just watched his very large Rhodesian Ridgeback attack my downstairs neighbor's aging pug. After he'd dragged his dog off the pug, he asked my neighbor if her dog was okay, had a whole conversation with her, and THEN kicked the hell out of his dog. I'm not really cool with kicking a dog to begin with, but his damned dog probably had no idea what it was being punished for at that point. He never has him on a leash, and is constantly scolding and shouting and directing him to do things that the dog does not understand...such as, "What do you think you're doing? Get over here!" What, does he think the dog is going to answer him?

It really pays to have a little dog psychology sometimes. Such as, walk your enormous lion-hunting breed of dog, because it wasn't designed to sit inside your apartment all day. Keep the dog on a leash so you can praise it instead of yell at it and beat it. Punish the dog the instant you catch it, not after it's just obeyed you by returning to your side. If you beat it AFTER it comes to you, it just learns not to come to you.

I really hate that man.

In other news, here is what I have done today: Knit a pair of gloves. Make dinner.

No really. That's it. I have about 10 articles to write by Friday, as well as, 15 entry pages to write for a marketing company's new client. The museum people are going to be assigning me the details of the project any day now. And all I can think about is starting this blanket for some friends of ours who are getting married and how much freaking wool I'll need.

WHAT IS MY DAMNED PROBLEM? WHY AM I SO LAZY????? WHY? WHY? WHY? THIS IS WHAT I'VE BECOME? This person who reads knitting websites and lazes about all day twiddling pointy sticks?

deadline shmeadline

2007-01-24T18:31:00.000-08:00

I've been staring at a blank screen for about three hours now, interspersed with caramel eating, tea making, sleeve knitting, desperate eyebrow tweezing, Vanity Fair reading, and now, caramel sicking. The meeting with this brand new editor is in 13.5 hours, and if I don't get it together between now and 10:30 tomorrow morning, things are going to get ugly.

And so is my figure if I don't drop the Werther's caramels.

The nasty thing about writer's block/distraction is that I can think of about 15 brilliant writing projects for OTHER magazines and projects. I feel like a goddamn genius, only NOT FOR THIS. GAH!

Are you ever...

2007-01-16T16:57:00.000-08:00

...just glowing with the satisfaction of a career, that while perhaps not raking in the Gs, is actually paying the bills and rent and possible skiing weekends? Yes, ladies and gentlemen, freelancing is actually working out. Today I had an emergency (read, $$$) assignment from my regular publisher. Also got an invoice request from a potential monthly magazine, which confuses me a tad since I wasn't aware I was supposed to have any finished products done yet. Yesterday I sent a major pitch to a contact of Miss Nobody's. And a friend of ours here just got a contract for the new SF museum at the old Mint and wants me to write all the copy for the website and capital campaign.

God, that feels really good.

Yesterday was considerably less feminist, spent conquering the Matterhorn of laundry we have accumulated since CHRISTMAS. Yes, I have not done laundry since December 17th. (Well, not HERE anyway.) The pile, when combined with bedroom, bathroom and kitchen, blocked off the entire hallway and reached my neck. Very impressive, even for me. It reminded me of a school cheer my dad used to sing when he was being an especial pain:

We are the Haut Gap girls
We are them flying squirrel
We wear most everything from blue jeans on down
One day, I'll be a wife
Wash clothes the rest my life
Yessir, I'm a Haut Gap girl.

I also made about sixteen batches of peanut butter pecan chocolate chip oatmeal cookies. Got dam, they were delish. I trotted a box of them down to my favorite knitting shop (Hello, June Cleaver?) and bought white merino wool to make baby booties for my niece's christening this weekend, and fingerless gloves for moi...the most HEAVENLY blue wool and silk yarn you've ever seen. I've been walking around freezing while everyone else wears my hats and gloves and mittens, and it's high time I made something for ME.

So tomorrow we fly off to Charleston again for the ball and to play with all the babies. Beulah is staying with her Uncle Charles here, and will doubtless ruin his life and apartment by the time we return to rescue him. He has this lovely minimalist apartment that was not made for galumphing devil dogs who hoist their stumpy bottoms up onto couch, regardless of whether you were sitting there first. Perhaps he will learn to love her bossiness and incessant paw chewing. Maybe he will even want to keep her.

I've been reviewing my adherence to the new years resolutions: So far I:
*Suck about giving Simons unwanted advice in the kitchen. It did save us from having to eat his nasty broiled steaks (flares nostrils with contempt). He did this on our first date, and I gnawed my way through that hockey puck as politely as I could. Who BROILS New York Strip?
*I did remember one birthday but forgot to send a card and had to call instead.
*I will have dinner with my godmother on her birthday, so I am making an effort not to be such an abysmal godchild.
*As far as keeping up the aunt and godmother relations, I will be seeing all of them in a few short days and come bearing knitted gifts (booties, leg warmers) and Chinese pj's from Chinatown and parasols.
*I have made several recipes from cookbooks, including the aforementioned cookies of delicious fatness, the coq au vin of doom, and my sister's crockpot mac and cheese of moo cow heaven. Also, this delicious pizza, pictured here.

*During these cooking adventures, I mastered the braiser and the slow cooker.
*So far I have run twice, gone to yoga not at all, and my new mat and weights sit shining in their unblemished newness on my TV table. They may sit there all year and become part of the colorful scenery of our home. South Beach has failed unless you're counting cookies, rice and pasta as vegetables.
*Simons and I did another three hour hike this weekend, and then tortured the dog's limp and broken frame while she languished on the couch. This is always good for some laughs, because she's too tired to bite us. If you tweak her toe hair, it makes her extra special mad.
*I have researched about three writing competitions, but haven't written anything yet
*And I did buy two extremely flattering pairs of jeans: Joe's and Sevens with the Sak's gift card from my mother-in-law. Isn't it amazing what an A-pocket can do for one's posterior?

Walking

2007-01-11T09:53:00.000-08:00

Beulah and I had a glorious walk yesterday, after spending far too long indoors invoicing and doing difficult sums and coming up with wrong numbers. Also dealing with evil hags from New York who are making me FAIL IN MY NEW YEARS RESOLUTIONS! HATE HER! HATE HER!

Anyhoo, it was extremely bright and cold and unbelievably windy, which made Beulah Dog awfully prancy. She almost dragged me right into the enormous grumper she left in front of the fancy nail salon on Polk Street. We walked down Union and then to Fort Mason, where the bay was a mass of whitecaps and screaming sailboats going about 100 miles an hour. We found a ball right next to this very tall gentleman.

Alcatraz has this weird effect, where some days it will seem miles away. And then you look at it from Nob Hill or the streetcar and it seems like you could jump across to it, it's so close.

I saw this at the Aquatic Park and I'll be damned if I can tell what it's for. It's two storeys tall, has no stairs, and there's a second one facing it about a block away. I want answers.

I ought to have come home and done a spot of exercise (as if climbing Russian Hill from the Aquatic Park isn't enough). I have bought weights and a yoga mat (check, check), but haven't used them (boo). This week has been great for fruit and vegetables (check!), although Simons was very resistant with my suggestion that we go vegetarian for a month to jump start our approach to health. His response was to glare at me and start defrosting some hamburgers. Little Miss Nobody has sent me a great new freelancing possibility (thanks, Al!), which will hopefully result in some steady assignments. With enough of this long term work, I may be able to afford to blow off the NY hag permanently. Please, God. Please, God.

I did cook breakfast for Simons yesterday - French Toast- and started the cappuccino so that Simons could get in a good surf before work. So that's a ton of resolutions already working out! See, 2007 is going to be awesome.

That Not So Fresh Feeling

2007-01-09T16:30:00.000-08:00

Remember that post where Simons said I ought to talk about douching and menstruation a lot and nobody would read my blog anymore. Here it is.

Yesterday was pretty uneventful, with work, a trip across town to the Haight, and a late afternoon of cooking coq au vin in my new braiser, compliments of Little Miss Nobody.

The roux smelled heavenly. The browned chicken thighs sent the dog into a whining spasm. I helped myself to a really delicious zinfandel while I cooked, plus used almost half of a bottle of good chianti that we’d accidentally left uncorked overnight and let spoil. The wine and pearl onions and mushrooms were delicious with our fat organic chicken (since old wizened rooster was unavailable). I steamed the rice with some of my rich chicken stock and delicately blanched some haricot verts and brussel sprouts to go with it.

Simons walked through the door and remarked how wonderful the apartment smelled, and poured himself a glass of wine for a relaxing dinner. And just as I was putting fork to mouth, I asked him how his day was and he dropped this bomb.

“I got a call from Mr. X at work today. Z emailed him your blog about the ball and Mr. X was really upset. I told X that I don’t read your blog, and he told me that I ought to and asked me to tell you not to write anything more about it.”

Indigestion accomplished.

Here’s the thing. I have known Mr. X for a long time and genuinely like him and think his wife hung the moon. So I’m pretty offended that 1) he ruined my coq au vin. I worked really hard at that dinner and didn’t get to taste a bite. 2) The fact that after Simons politely said he didn’t read my personal blog, because it would make him uncomfortable and make me censor myself, something my excellent husband doesn’t ever intend to do, Mr. X instructed him to do something that would come between a husband and a wife. (Um, hello?! What would Jesus do?) And 3) I haven’t even been to the damned ball yet and already this secret society is attempting to put this woman in her place.

Once I’m there, I understand that there are things I’m not allowed to do, and I’m not gauche enough to flout its conventions. I’m not that tacky. But attempting to silence me on my own blog is rude, wrong and chauvinist. If they don't like it, they can go to some other website and read something else. I was done writing about it, but now I’ve got my back up.

And I have to wonder why people are getting mad about the opinions of one little girl in San Francisco. Why are people so defensive if I’m writing about my own personal conflict with popular Southern traditions…lots of them, not just this one?

Clearly if they’re already telling me to shut up, and white males are already sending messages back and forth about my presumptuous online journal, I was right to be conflicted. Something stinks in Denmark, people.

My sister tells me that it’s important to maintain relationships so that our children will be able to join this particular society, and honestly, I am not sure I want that. I don’t know that it’s the best example of the kind of citizenship I want to encourage in my children. I’ve been considering adoption rather than natural childbirth, and supposing we adopted a child of another race or culture, I wonder how welcome he would be. I wonder she would fit in Charleston’s schools, its clubs, its businesses, its organizations.

I love Charleston, despite and even because of its turmoil. It’s home. My home, and I’m allowed to think and write whatever I like about it. My in-laws are so excited for us to be there, and I love them for being that way. Since last night’s brouhaha, I feel badly that I’m not as excited as I’m expected to be for this honor. It’s not that I don’t recognize that it is one. There are a lot of girls who would have given their eyeteeth to be in my position. I appreciate that fully. You have no idea.

But I was the one selected- ME. And they chose a bride who was a feminist, a liberal, a chef, a writer, a do gooder, a runner, a knitter, a smartass, an idealist. They chose me. That’s who they’re getting, and I’m not going to suddenly be someone else.

I’m going to go, and I’m going to dance and have fun, and I’m not going to talk about my blog with anyone, so I deeply hope that no one is gauche enough to ask about it or hint or do anything else that will make me uncomfortable and force me to say something quelling. I haven’t been rude, so it will be up to someone else to throw down the gauntlet of tackiness. I consider this matter closed.

Monday Post

2007-01-09T15:32:00.000-08:00

Don't you just hate it when you are carrying your 50-lb bag of Smoked Trout and Sweet Potato kibble, running for the bus, and the damned driver gives you a hassle for not having your Muni pass out and your dog's muzzle already on? I HAD them both in my purse, but it's hard to run and carry aforementioned human-sized kibble bag under one arm while rummaging through my knitting bag (like I'd be able to knit on the bus with the 600 people giving me stink eye for having a dog) for everything at the same time. Beulah went into a sulk for having to wear her muzzle, but was well behaved, even when people stepped perilously close to her nub.

So that was my big event for the day, which means I'm turning into one of those haus frau types who can only report their exciting errands. Maybe I should go have a martini. It is almost 3:00.

My only saving grace is that Simons and I had an awesome weekend, the kind that makes all your muscles ache, but you feel like you've filled yourself up with enough sunshine and fresh air to make it through the week, even if it rains. Apparently there was a north swell, which demanded that Simons drive up to Rodeo Beach for a new surf break. It was well worth the trip, since Beulah and I got to do a pretty good day hike on the Coastal, Wolf Ridge and Miwok trails, all of which had incredible views over the Bay and the Pacific. It was hot, thank heavens, and clear, the perfect reminder for why we moved out here in the first place.

Then we had to put ourselves in a foul temper by going to Target. It seems as though we have so much crap, we have to own crap to store our crap. We are craptacular. We are lousy with crap. The Target was very impressive and made us both want to scream and suck our thumbs and hide under the circle dress racks. Our cart was so full, I accidentally ran over a very mean person with no sense of humor at all. And then we went home and stored everything to the point that we're practically minimalist now.

We keep walking from room to room, saying, "Damn, it's clean in here." No dust. No stuff. No clutter. It's a good things Simons is so handy, an excellent trait in a husband.

Sunday was almost as fun, with another trip across the bridge to Bolinas, which is just past Stinson Beach. You go on this really nauseatingly curvy road through the redwoods and smellumy eucalyptus forests until suddenly you're absolutely blinded by the brilliance of the Pacific. It's breathtaking.

Bolinas itself is the most marvelously hippy beach, with happy families and romping dogs and little used book stores and VWs everywhere. Beulah got to swim, which is unusual, since the water is usually much too rough for small brown dogs. I got to throw her ball, pick up cool rocks, visit with all the nice hippies and check out all the awesome graffiti art on the seawall.

I got a great photo of this random longboarder, who caught an awesome wave just at sunset. It was almost enough to make me wish I'd brought my board. Anyway, I thought he was Simons which is why i snapped the picture, and then felt embarrassed and disloyal. But since the guy was walking up the beach, I showed him the picture and offered to email it to him. I'm sure he thought I was some nerdy surf groupy/stalker.

We drove home back through the redwoods and caught this final glimpse of the sunset over the water, with the first star overhead.

Weekend Preview

2007-01-08T13:05:00.000-08:00

Sims and I had a killer weekend, with hikes, surfing, shopping gauntlets and beach excursions. More later, as I have to walk to the Haight to buy dog food...from Nob Hill. I'm so health-conscious, I may die.

Gentlest Baby in the World

2007-01-05T10:15:00.000-08:00

Sarah Elizabeth Devours Sophie the Giraffe

So cute my ovaries hurt

Children of the Resolution

2007-01-05T09:46:00.000-08:00

So far, have run twice, hiked once, signed up for a yoga class, penciled in a Fair Isle course, failed utterly at South Beach (damned Holly and her chocolates), begun Simons' raglan sweater (five inches so far), worn an apron once, and have folded my clothes instead of leaving them in a heap on the floor for four days running. My God, my chi is PUMPED!

This morning, after months of frustration and somewhat alarming self discipline, Simons submitted his entry for an international architectural design competition in Peru...a little project I like to call The Vagina. (Was that my dad's head hitting the floor?) While reading the synopsis, the aerial view of this ancient mesa and Mayan grain "processing" facility was described as "resembling an enormous stone vagina," and I swear I'm not making this up.

Simons should never have told me. He has learned to dread the question, "Honey, what are you doing?"

Juvenile cackling always ensues, kind of like my snorting every time I mention roasting something in our Le Creuset Dutch Oven. (snort) Heh heh. Dutch oven.

Most of the time large firms enter a whole team of architects for these competitions, but Simons decided to design the museum and research facility all by himself, which I think is really quite ambitious. If he wins, we would get an all expenses paid trip to Peru and such fun activities, and although that's probably unlikely, his idea is really amazing, and I've been bowled over once again by my husband's unfathomable creativity. Seriously, where does he come up with this stuff? How sweet would it be if he won? What a resume builder for him! What an excellent opportunity to eat new food for me!

I'm off this morning to the Wok Shop, my favorite shop in Chinatown. Must avoid Moon Cakes at all costs...

Happy New Year

2007-01-02T14:11:00.000-08:00

You know how there are some houseguests who use up all the hot water, hog the couch and eat the last piece of cheesecake when you wanted it? Holly and Sean are not them.

Holly is sitting in my living room doing a phone interview right now, saying, “mmmm….right…right…hahaha, yes, London, right” in that particular high pitched British way that kills me. She made me soft boiled eggs last night, which are DIVINE! And bought me Cadbury’s and red fishing trousers! From Vietnam! As far as I’m concerned, she can stay forever. Although, I have to be honest...someone was snoring last night, and it wasn’t Fat Charles. Poor Sean, a piddler AND a snorer?

The cats, however, are driving Beulah insane. I think she’s scared of Sadie, who just marched into the kitchen and commenced eating Beulah’s special trout chow, and hissed every time the dog twitched with damaged ego. The dog also spent the whole night with her snout mashed against the crack under the bedroom door, snorting and sneezing with impotent rage as the cats cavorted up and down the hallway in fits of midnight cat madness. She is totally demoralized and may need therapy.

I’m hoping to take Holly and Sean to my favorite Chinatown restaurant today, since I think I’ve been a rotten hostess, having been hungover, jetlagged (it seems wrong complaining about my 3-hour jetlag vs Holly’s 300-hour Singapore lag) and messy. Must clean. Must cook proper meals rather than standing in front of the fridge for 30 minutes, sighing and frowning.

Speaking of, I’ve finally finished up my list of 2007 New Years Resolutions. A few years ago, I jumped on the K. Lo bandwagon and began making hundreds of resolutions, thereby assuring myself a better than average chance of fulfilling them. For those of you who say that my list more than a little resembles my “To Do” list for last month, I say Mind Your Own Business.

This morning, I started South Beach so that MAYBE I can fit into my wedding dress again in two weeks for this goddamn horror of a ball. How embarrassing it will be when I burst forth from my satin froth and all my jiggly bits are out there for all the world to see? I hope someone takes a picture, because doubtless I’ll find it terribly amusing when I’m 85 and my jiggly bits have turned to dangly bits. So far today, I grade myself an 75% on strict adherence to The Plan, since I caved in and wolfed the rest of Holly’s Cadbury’s gift (it was going stale, I had to). But I DID safely avoid the potatoes and carrots in my delicious salade nicoise at lunch. I’m practically virtuous. Only 16 more days to go.

NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS 2007

FAMILY and FRIENDS
1. Be more grateful for the friends and family that I have

2. Learn how to stop giving advice all the time
3. Be a better listener
4. Don't say mean things about people even if I am thinking them
5. Stop being so sarcastic
6. Remember birthdays
7. Give presents/cards on time
8. Be a good godmother- visits, presents, cards, letters, handknits
9. Be a good aunt- more visits, babysit, cards, letters, handknits
10. Sometimes go to social engagements I’d rather not attend
11. Be better about remembering names
12. Try to meet interesting people- go to more events of an educational nature
13. Learn how to mingle better
14. Invite someone interesting over for wine at least once a month
15. Make a good California CD for friends
16. Write three letters to friends each week
17. Send a care package to Mayfield

COOKING
18. Use a cookbook at least once a week
19. Bake something once every other week

20. Make my own stocks (first use the freezer full I have)
21. Learn to make demiglace
22. Keep tabs of what we eat at restaurants and make a personal Best Of list
23. Find a good dim sum place
24. Keep track of good recipes
25. Write down wines that we like
26. Keep entertaining journal (very good last six months, continue)
27. HELP Simons cook less
28. Invite someone over for dinner at least once a month
29. Go wine tasting once every other month
30. Wear an apron while cooking
31. Plan meals
32. Use my kitchen implements more: braiser, paella pan, mixers, etc
33. Figure out how to use the GD slow cooker even though is moot object
34. Go to work with S.M. once to see what it’s like to be a personal chef
35. Take a cooking class
36. Learn to can, pickle, preserve
37. Take a cheese class
38. Go to the farmer’s market at least once a month and get new ingredient
39. Cook more with heirloom vegetables
40. Have tea at the Ritz
41. Go to Japanese tea garden

HABITS
42. Use SF travel guide Christmas present and try to go see something in it once a week
43. Spend more time doing hair so I look less trailer
44. Volunteer for at least one organization this year
45. Go to church once a month
46. Pray more even when I don’t need something
47. Have better time management
48. Keep abreast of news (read NYT headlines every day)
49. Memorize one poem a month
50. Eat more slowly
51. Stop being so open with people on streets here as they all seem to be perverts
52. Go see a movie and go out to eat a nice dinner by myself at least once
53. Swear less
54. Pack lighter
55. Wear hair down more
56. Knit all Christmas gifts before Thanksgiving
57. Send all holiday cards before Thanksgiving
58. Finish the @#$% thank you notes
59. Figure out gauge
60. Understand blocking
61. Knit two sweaters this year (at least)
62. Learn how to read patterns better
63. When purchasing patterns and yarn, actually start and COMPLETE the project (have been v. good about this so far)

64. Take one knitting class every other month
65. Go to one knitting group a week
66. Knit afghans for engaged friends
67. Give more to homeless people (keep spare change)
68. Understand public transit

HEALTH AND WELLNESS
69. Lose 10 lbs. by birthday
70. Do South Beach vigilantly so can fit back into torturously fitted wedding dress by Jan 17th, damn, damn, damn, will never happen
71. Do core fitness DVD once a week
72. Buy some weights
73. Use the weights
74. Floss
75. Figure out Invisiline and get back on track
76. Fix bike
77. Run at least 9 miles per week or three times per week
78. Try to run in at least two short races and one half or full marathon this year
79. Find a running podcast
80. Find a yoga podcast
81. Go to yoga at least once a week
82. Drink at least 2 L of water per day
83. Eat at least two vegetables per day
84. Be very vigilant about not getting sinus infections
85. Take better care of my skin
86. Use sunscreen every day
87. Take temperature in mornings (don’t get excited. Just a precursor.)
88. Learn to do a handstand
89. Learn Sanskrit yoga terms
90. Do a backbend
91. Go hiking at least twice a month (very good start with hellish new year's day hangover hike)

92. Surf again- stop being a wimp

HOME
93. Throw old magazines away as soon as I read them
94. Frame Black and White photos of family
95. Paint new apartment so is less institutional
96. Throw out old clothes
97. Keeps closets and pantry neater
98. Put clothes away instead of throwing them on the floor
99. Buy more plants and remember to water them
100. Organize scrapbook stuff and letters- put all in one box
101. Learn how to make photo books with iPhoto- for anniversary, present Our First Year of Marriage book to Simons.
102. Make corkboard finally
103. Paint shelves
104. Figure out what to do with junk that I find (sea glass, shells, rocks, etc)

MIND
105. Keep a dream journal by bed
106. Read 52 books, that's one a week. No "chick lit"
107. Keep a reading journal. Write down a bit about each in a notebook, maybe summarize the plot or quote bits from the text
108. See more indie films
109. Improve Italian, French, Spanish (use tapes, read foreign magazines and books)
110. Learn how to order food in Chinese

WORK
111. Try to be kinder to evil satanic assistant publisher whore that I work for even though she is evil and satanic
112. Write one pitch letter a week
113. Look at grad school opportunities
114. Attend a MB class at least once every other month
115. Set up own website
116. Get rid of Blogger
117. Take a photography class
118. Learn about podcasting
119. Get Skype
120. Pitch personal essay every month
121. Write favorite authors
122. Get favorite book back from SK, evil book poacher
123. Write more fiction and have personal story published
124. Enter at least four writing competitions
125. Learn all current computer programs
126. Keep better track of clips
127. Be better about deadlines
128. Be less defensive with criticism
129. Join at least one work organization
130. Make better contacts
131. Learn how to put video on blog

RETAIL
132. Recreate wardrobe with better choices and colors
133. Buy a long winter coat
134. Get a needle bag
135. Buy non-embarrassing jeans
136. Purchase either downhill or cross country skiing paraphenalia

MONEY
137. Pay off bank loan
138. Start saving 10%
139. Figure out self employment tax
140. Do something with 401k
141. Figure out insurance from last year
142. Pay bills on time and figure out a good system
143. Start an HSA
144. Plan to get rid of debt
145. Learn about investing
146. Have more money in savings than I do in checking
147. Learn how I spend the most money and try to cut costs in those areas
148. Make a budget and come up with some goals
149. Plan a really good trip and start saving

LOVE
150. Make sweater for Simons
151. Try to cook nice breakfast for him twice a week
152. Ask him to do less stuff I can do myself
153. Listen more and think of responses less
154. Plan one romantic thing each week
155. Think before I speak when I’m mad
156. Try to honor him as I promised
157. Remember his small kindnesses
158. Forget my small grievances
159. Take more picnics
160. Try to keep my stuff more organized so it doesn’t fill up the house and stress him out.

HOORAY!

2006-12-29T09:53:00.000-08:00

Holly from Nothing But Bonfires arrives today (checks clock...okay, I got an hour) from Singapore, so I've been frantically denuding Walter the Christmas Tree, vacuuming, washing dishes and trying to hide my yarn magazine and stash so she doesn't know what a nerd I am. My cleaning efforts are probably useless, but hopefully she'll be too jetlagged to noticed my dirty bathmat.

So I've got to make a proper English comfort feast for when she gets here, because she's bound to be missing her family and a little berserk about finding an apartment and a job and PARKING. Sean gets here sometime soon, but no one has any idea where he is (SEAN, WHERE ARE YOU?), with the two cats. Things are about to get very exciting in our little 600-square foot apartment. I envision Fat Charles and Sadie playing body roulette around the living room, while Beulah dashes joyously around on the perimeter, jaws deliciously agape, hurricane lanterns and monkey skulls ricocheting off the floor, with hissing and clawing and boxing of brown spaniel ears and a great bowing up and delirious bloodletting over all the land. My money's on Fat Charles.

I'll take video if it happens.

Any ideas for British comfort food? Toast, eggs, beans, stuffed tom-ah-toes? Something vile involving peas?

Oh hell, I've just spotted a whole nother pile of pine needles. I loved that tree, but DAMN! Did it have to die so MESSILY?

Gah! My phone is dead! Must call Cingular and kill someone.

There's just something about extreme dehydration...

2006-12-28T11:29:00.000-08:00

...that makes my skin clear up.

Really, I spent all day yesterday vomiting on an airplane and I've never looked better.

Christmas was wonderful, albeit fattening and a little exhausting. I'm sure my family feels the same way, since they did all the work while I played with babies. But Friday, my dad had a great oyster roast for most of our childhood friends in Charleston, with awesome venison chili and homemade oatmeal cookies and my favorite white trash dip (yum). I probably ate a whole box of oysters by myself.

And we ate at his parents and my parents and his brother-in-law's and had drinks with everyone under the sun, so I reckon I spent the whole week drunk and bloated. Nice. So that's why I just figured yesterday I had a hangover from too much rum punch in the country at oyster roast #2, when in actuality, a hangover does not generally cause fever and chills and throbbing kidneys and aching joints and vomiting 14 hours later.

I must say that I pride myself for being a tidy vomiter, always useful for college parties when younger (just kidding, Mom and Daddy). But that trait came in very handy while descending into Dulles airport yesterday afternoon at 4:30, when the urge I had been fighting all damned morning became too great. Fortunately we were at the dead rear of the plane, with no one seated next to us, and since the engines and flaps were so loud, no one heard me, and I found a bag in the nick of time. Simons was asleep next to me and he didn't even notice until he woke to my sobbing and pleading for gum.

So the six-hour flight from DC to San Francisco almost killed me, and I found out this morning that my poor mom, who worked like a slave to make a great holiday for everyone, has been hurling all night and is mewling in the bed too. Happy freaking Christmas!

So, in short, BLECH! And I hope everyone had fun and got lots of loot!

In the event of an emergency, oxygen masks will drop from the ceiling...

2006-12-19T20:48:00.000-08:00

...in which case I want them to save my dog first.

Simons and I are heading home to Charleston tomorrow morning for the holidays, and naturally, because we have no children aside from one smallish, mulish, goatish, brownish farting cur, we shall be bring the dog home with us. Christmas Eve is, after all, her birthday. I saw her gigantic brown head enter this world, with much confused screeching on the part of her mother, poor sweet gentle lambdog that she is, and I can't bring myself to kennel Beulah Buckethead for the first time at Christmas AND her birthday. Or, you know, EVER.

The past two months have been spent making her luuuuuurve her crate. Nowadays if one of us says, "go get in your house," she goes skidding down the hallway, thrusts her nose in the door and pries her way into it. So, our work is done. Tomorrow is the final exam though. 10 a.m. PT through 11:30 EST in the crate. That's a long time and I don't like it, not one little bit.

So early tomorrow I'm going to take her to romp her ass off for the third day in a row, in hopes that she will be properly, um, emptied, and worn out for her journey.

But it still feels mean.

Anyway, probably no posting tomorrow, because I'm shutting Eudora down now and putting her in her hard case and piling clothes around her. God, I hope she makes it through too. I'll be knitting furiously on the plane tomorrow, obsessing over the state of things below. Everyone say a little prayer tomorrow, because we can't afford more vet care OR a new computer. So there.

Twenty-four more

2006-12-19T13:32:00.000-08:00

Yea gods, I am pure.

Of course, I've had to put my own special touch (read "stupid") on these oh so lovely Christmas card thank you notes. Yesterday I spent two hours walking all over Russian Hill trying to find a place that sells envelopes. We thought ourselves so clever making our own cards this year...Special! Meaningful! Cheap! That was until it turned out that not one frigging store in this whole damned city sells envelopes. And don't even get me started about the mouth breathing moron I spoke to at the Walgreens.

Jemima: Hello, do you sell envelopes?
Moron: Yes, they're right there on Aisle Two.
Jemima: [waves card in his face] Yes, well, I need envelopes for holiday cards, not business or manila envelopes. Do you have those?
Moron: No we don't have any of those.
Jemima: [deflated] Do you know if any other stores do? I need to mail our Christmas cards today.
Moron: We sell holiday cards. Aisle Three.
Jemima: [waves card again] No, no, I don't need cards, just envelopes.
Moron: We have business envelopes. Go to Aisle Two.
Jemima: [bursts with impotent rage]

Finally, ten stores later, I staggered into the UPS store, where they pilfered all the envelopes from their birthday/graduation/Halloween/Get Well Soon cards racks. Which means that our Christmas cards...they are being sent in hot pink, orange, lime and flourescent yellow envelopes. They did give me some white ones, but those had to go to grown ups. So if you get a hideous orange envelope in the mail, know that I love you enough to know you won't care.

Thank You Notes

2006-12-18T00:32:00.000-08:00

59 down. Only 300 or so more to go.

Kill me.

I'm living in terror that I will see people over Christmas who will ask me whether I've received their gifts, and then I will wither and perish of humiliation. Heaven forfend. So here I am at 12:33 a.m., writing feverishly when I would have much better have written a few a day for oh, the last six months.

I am a bad, bad bride.

Chocklit

2006-12-17T21:29:00.000-08:00

Simons and I just finished making chocolate caramels. They're so good, we're considering not gifting them. Mmmmm...pretty too.

The Agony

2006-12-17T20:32:00.000-08:00

I'm writing thank you notes (FINALLY) and I haaaaaaaaaaate it. I really am grateful, and would happily throw dinner parties for each person or make them individual chocolate caramels with sea salt imprinted in their name. But I HATE writing thank you notes. HATE IT! HATE IT! I'm combining some with Christmas cards, and some have the humiliating combination of Christmas card, thank you note for gift AND a thank you note for a party. See, I suck. And Mom, you're not allowed to comment here or in any other forum.

I actually am trying on one write it as a Christmas card/condolence letter/thank you, but I don't think it's working. Damn.

Chinatown

2006-12-17T15:57:00.000-08:00

How much do I love Chinatown. I go at least once a week, for lunch or just to snoot around the different stores. There's a place that makes Peking duck, and hangs their strangely shiny and rubbery basted bits in the window. Did you know they use a bicycle pump to blow them up? There are towels embroidered with Madame Wu's face (I thought of you, WSS) and strange cartoon animals and custom coats and wedding dress shops. I love that the streets are hung with lanterns and banners, and even the street signs are on green copper poles with red pagodas. I'm like a crow for shiny objects, and go darting into shops to buy purses for $4 and parasols for my nieces and croon over all the delicious boxes.

My favorite store is the Wok Shop, which was just featured in Saveur Magazine, but I happened on it by accident when Amanda was out here for Thanksgiving. It's the tiniest shop imaginable and has more cooking implements than an entire Williams Sonoma warehouse all jammed in. There are things hung from the ceiling and on every beam and pole and shelf. The owner's name is Tane, and a more nervous and abrupt and completely helpful person I've never met. She's apt to tell customers to come back after Christmas when she's not so busy, and because everything is so packed and muddled, none of her salespeople are of any use. Tane's the only one who knows where anything is.

Since I first went, I've been back once a week for kitchen stuff, American and Chinese. I've bought a tea kettle, which Tane demonstrated by blowing through the spout to show me its whistle (I needed a loud one since I keep burning the butt off of mine), a wok, two wedding presents, a claypot and a dumpling press. I can get there by cablecar if I want to, but mostly just walk down the hill to Grant Street. I love, love, love it there.

I've also discovered the most amazing Vietnamese place right nearby, Golden Star, which is perfect for all of these spectacularly crappy San Francisco winter days. Well, Simons found it, but I claim it as mine because I order better than he does. They're known for their soups, which come out absolutely billowing steam and fragrantly exotic smells. I know for a fact you can order goat eyeballs, but not because I ordered it (shudder). I'm usually the only Caucasian in there, which I figure is likely a mark of its authenticity. Plus, it's always packed. Amanda pronounced it better than Slanted Door, although you wouldn't go there for presentation. Everything I've ever ordered has been so good, I've fallen on it like a starving man.

So I'm seasoning my new wok now, which stinks to high heaven. Tane decreed that i needed a traditional cast iron wok, with no wooden handles (hmph). So does anyone know any good wok recipes? I do have some catfish in the fridge now...

hysteria

2006-12-15T12:01:00.000-08:00

Okay, here are the few things that have sent me into foam fit rages in the past few days:

* My Cuisinart safety features/design flaws
* The dog biting me
* Blogger switching between google and its old system and posting comments under my real name. What in the HELL is up with that?
* Blogger not posting my comments at all, equivalent of a blank stare and ignoring me
* The evil woman in New York whom I have to speak to fifty times a day. In retaliation, I have attached a photo of Satan to her name, so that it pops up whenever she calls. My other options were photos of a gigantic inflamed anus, Medusa, and an electron microscope photo of syphilis. I. Hate. Her.
* Expedia refusing all credit cards thanks to my frustrating name change debacle.
* This goddamn hat I'm knitting for my father-in-law. Ahhh, made with love.

So I think I may be losing control of my temper. I have given into the urge to stamp my foot and scream about six times a day, usually followed by tears of frustration. Maybe I need to get out more?

Pyschic

2006-12-14T13:48:00.000-08:00

Crazy stuff. Little Miss Nobody sort of memed me with her iPod fortune teller post. You have to set your iPod to shuffle and ask it these questions. I did it twice:

How does the world see me?
First Round: Folsom Prison Blues (nice. thanks very much iPod. I've never shot anyone just to watch them die.)
Second Round: Store Bought Bones from the Raconteurs (grim and depressing. Must work on cheerful disposition)

Will I have a happy life?
First Round: Henry Parsons Died by Widespread (guess not.)
Second Round: I Do, And it’s All Because of You by Edie Brickell (much nicer sentiment.)

What do my friends think of me?
First Round: California by Joni Mitchell
Second Round: Everywhere I Go by Willie Nelson
(evidently my friends just think I'm gone. Harumph!)

How can I make myself happy?
First Round: This one was a track from a book on tape. Is my iPod suggesting I read a book? The next one was Cool for Cats by Squeeze, but I don’t think I’ll get a cat.
Second Round: When you Sleep by Cake ( I could nap)

What should I do with my life?
First Round: OOH! This one was a track from a learn to speak Italian!!! Hmmm…opening it up. Ooh! How to ask for directions. Surely I need to go to Italy.
Second Round: (I'm sticking with the Italy plan)

Will I ever have children?
First Round: Give Me Children by Will Oldham. (Actually, this was further down. The Guords song that was in this place was clearly a mistake. Because what do "Ants on a Melon" have to do with chirren?)
Second Round: Beat on the Brat from the Ramones (mwahaha)

What is some good advice for me?
First Round: Mambo Guajiro (So I should dance more?)
Second Round: Radio Cure by Wilco (more music? Ooh, I should have more parties. That's what my iPod is telling me)

How will I be remembered?
First Round: Take It to the Limit (Cool…I think….wait)
Second Round: Octopus’ Garden by the Beatles

What’s my current theme song?
First Round: Girl from the Greenbriar Shore by Ralph Stanley
Second Round: Tiny Idyll/Lil’ Missy by Jolie Holland (HOLY CRAP! Praying for someone who's gone to California??? PYSCHIC!)

What do others think my current theme song is?
First Round: Dear Prudence by the Beatles (wtf?)
Second Round: No One Else On Earth by Wynonna Judd (WTF?!)

What shall they play at my funeral?
First Round: Crazy from Gnarls Barkley
Second Round: Hold me and Tell Me from Norah Jones

Where should I look for inspiration next?
First Round: Summertime by Miles Davis
Second Round: I Want A Little Sugar In My Bowl- Nina Simons
(Sex and warm climates??? HELL YES!)

@#$% BLOGGER

2006-12-14T13:03:00.000-08:00

Blogger hasn't let me log in all day, and now only let me because I agreed to try their Beta version. Sneaky, aren't they? They "offer" to let me try it, but somehow I can only use my account if I do?

Bastards.

And now back to our regularly scheduled programming...

2006-12-13T13:18:00.000-08:00

Sorry about that. Eudora, my little white (well, used to be white anyway) iBook decided to die. Naturally, this while I was in the middle of two deadlines, and there was doom and rending of hair and a great wailing over all the land. Fortunately, I now live in a city that boasts of Apple stores, the kind you can walk into and lick all of the shiny glossy packaging and sniff the screens of new Mac Book Pros. Oh, the longing. However, I resisted the temptation of chucking poor Eudora's steaming corpse out into the street and purchasing a new one, and instead handed her over to someone I like to call Jesus, but his name is really Ben. He works at the Apple Genius Bar and can raise the dead...iBook. Lo, Ben spake, and the iBook rose, and Jemima genuflected, yea verily.

Anyhoo, I have her back now and shall post and post some more.

I guess I could do a whole Thanksgiving recap, but that would be boring, wouldn't it? I'll just do photos later. Suffice it to say I have 26 bags of turkey stock in my freezer, and i've been using the damned stuff as fast as I can. It's like there's no end to it!

Monday was sweet Simons' birthday, and tonight we are having friends over for a crab crack, seafood curry and cake. Three Cs. Unfortunately, I've already scoured the gross house and chopped the vegetables and bought the beer...so now what? Gah! I did the same thing on Thanksgiving! We all prepped so damned early, that I spent the rest of the day wringing my hands and wandering about touching things on the stove. This preparation is for the birds. I'll take a good panic any day! Simons must be rubbing off on me.

Hmph, how can I get even?

Lately, it's been seriously nasty here in San Francisco. Last week I told Simons it was going to start raining on Friday and he said, "and it won't stop till April." WHAT THE HELL? WHY DID NO ONE WARN ME ABOUT THIS! I haven't left the house in days. There is rain and chill and fog and mouldy homeless people lying in every doorway. I don't like it. I thought the Beach Boys were always singing about the "California Sun!" I never heard any Top 40 hits about the "California Pissing with Rain." I want answers!

Anyway, I bide my time by knitting. I'm up to about a hat or two a day now, and have done six of them since Saturday, plus two scarves, a baby sweater and some fingerless gloves. Soon I'll be all clawed and cobwebbed and people will call me Miss Haversham. I even went on a Knit Crawl on Saturday with Sonia and Erin...five knitting stores in one day, with a much needed detour to China Town for lunch to soothe my raging hangover with lemongrass beef. And (shame, SHAME) I even bought a knitting magazine the other day.

BUT IT WAS ONLY FOR ONE PATTERN! It's not like I took out a subscription or anything.

The dog is eyeing me desperately, so i must venture out into the bog. Bleh.

Italian Wedding Soup

2006-11-21T12:54:00.000-08:00

Here's a good recipe for dealing with that leftover turkey carcass. Make some stock (you do know how to make stock, don't you?) and some delicious soup.

For Meatballs:
1 small yellow onion
1/3 cup parsley
1 large egg
1 tsp. garlic (I tripled this)
1 tsp salt
1/4 baguette
1/2 cup grated Parmesan
16-oz of beef (I used 12 and there was plenty. You could probably do this with ground turkey too)
pepper

You can chop everything very finely, OR, you can go the easier route, which is to do everything in a Cuisinart. First, process the baguette until very fine. Set crumbs aside. Cut onion into four pieces, discarding skin, and pulse in Cuisinart until a pulp. Add parsley, salt and pepper, parmesan and garlic and pulse until a paste. Add beef and egg and breadcrumbs and pulse until just mixed.

Using a teaspoon, form meatballs the size of a dime (they’ll start this small and end up quarter sized, but it happens to everyone). Put formed meatballs on a cookie sheet or plate.

For soup:
10- 12 cups chicken stock or broth
1 lb. spinach or escarole
1 can cannelloni beans
1/4 lb Acini de Pepe (pasta that looks like cous cous, but you can use whatever kind you like)
2 eggs
2 Tbs parmesan
salt and pepper

Bring stock to boil and add meatballs and spinach. Allow to cook through, about 10 minutes.

While waiting for meatballs to cook, boil pasta in separate pot. Drain and set aside.

Whisk parmesan and eggs together very thoroughly. Stirring whole pot in a gentle, continuous circular motion, drizzle egg slowly into briskly boiling broth, just like with egg drop soup. This will make the soup really rich. Now add your drained beans and pasta.

Sprinkle with more parmesan if you have it and season with salt and pepper to taste. Eat!

Footnote of Horror

2006-11-21T12:25:00.000-08:00

Our turkey cost $64. SIXTY-FOUR, PEOPLE! That'll teach me to order without checking the price first. Christ. It must be free range, massaged by 4-H children, snuffed by Buddhists, plucked by fairy seamstresses...

Is everything more expensive in California, or is it just me?

Synopses

2006-11-21T11:40:00.000-08:00

I have: a very annoying cough that makes me wake up 6000 times a night feeling like I am choking. Great.

I forgot: that Sunday was my parents' FORTIETH anniversary! Apparently it was quite a knock down drag out affair, since Mom sounded extremely bilious following the nine course meal and six bottles of wine + port. Ugh, port always sneaks up while I'm lying moaning in the gutter, smirks at me and then kicks me in the head. That's just the kind of guy he is. Anyway, M&D, thanks for making me legitimate lo those many years ago!

This weekend: was the best one yet in our new city. Simons had a friend from NY staying with us this weekend, and Sunday we took him with some other fun happy people to Marin to Joe's Taco Lounge for beer and tacos and more beer. And when we were swollen, we went on a "hike" that ended in this valley at an adorable beer garden called the German Tourist Club, which is kind of secret and hard to find. It is surrounded by porches and redwoods and mountains and has a wood burning stove inside and German-type stuff everywhere. We drank beer. Lots of beer. Good beer. Pitchers of the stuff. It was frothy and delicious and had names with lots of Zs and came in cold glasses. And we sat outside and looked up at Mt Tam and played dominoes in a golden hazy stupor drinking lots until it got very suddenly dark and we had to hike back UP the mountain the way we came. That was harder and less golden.

And because the haze was starting to grow stark edges, we went to a bar to see a friend's friend's band play and drank more beer. And then we went back to the city for very large famous cheeseburgers and drank more beer. Only that beer, I couldn't drink. No one else wanted it either. I tried.

I am: excited, because Amanda, the lacto ovo pescetarian arrives to play and frolic and galavant! Huzzah! She's given me permission to leave off the tofurkey, which is great. Faux turkey thighs are disturbing. But I have a whole four days of grand adventure planned. After dinner on thursday, we're going to the Tonga Room (does Polynesian desk dance), where they serve mai tais and the band plays on a boat in the middle of a lake inside the bar. And it rains every 30 minutes. And we're going wine tasting (cheap fun), chocolate touring (Scharfenberger...say it with me), to a bluegrass concert, to lick everything in the Apple store, to the de Young museum, and to eat in many fabulous locales. God, I can't wait.

I never: thought I'd see the day that it's warmer in San Francisco than in Charleston. My dad wrote to tell me that it's snowing, which put the dog in a bad mood. I'm surprised she even noticed with her giant grinchy feet.

Nob Hill sucks...

2006-11-17T13:00:00.000-08:00

...for running.

After sitting in front of my computer all day yesterday, I finally grew disgusted enough with myself to put on my running shoes and leave the house. I mean, REALLY, how many days can I chastise myself for not being healthier before doing something about it? Apparently a lot. But my GOD, THE HILLS! I made it up about six of them before I had to walk at this park at Larkin and Lombard streets. So many stairs... I think I scared an old Asian lady running up behind her with all of my heavy breathing.

Anyway, I trotted down Polk Street and around on Hyde, and discovered that the tiny bistro right around the corner was celebrating the Beaujolais Nouveau with live music and French decor and heavenly smells. So after going home and torturing myself with a full ten minutes of my core fitness DVD (no worries about it getting scratched in the move, since it had NEVER BEEN OPENED), Dog and I went to meet Simons at the cablecar and demanded some wine and bistro food.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I actually took a shower, put on makeup and nice shoes! No sweatpants, I swear! And there was the cutest old geezer with his beret and accordion, and straw on the floor, a funny waiter, and the wine wasn't too bad either. I had the caramelized onion tart with a tiny bitter green salad and then the duck confit with tiny potatoes and shittake mushrooms. We haven't really been out in so long, and it was definitely worth it. Plus, we've discovered they have serious specials before seven.

So it's almost thanksgiving, which means a) my friend the lacto pescetarian is coming to visit, so I need to get a tofurkey, and b) I am running out of time for my wedding thank you notes. God, I'm the worst bride ever. It's been six months and I've barely started. So today and this weekend, I plan to write so many, my hand claws up. Do you think people will forgive me?

I love

2006-11-16T10:55:00.000-08:00

Simons, burnt orange, making lists, red shoes, boarding school, Grace Kelly dresses, finishing an essay, sweet potatoes, my surfboard, bookstores, cast nets, my dad’s stories, pie, feather beds, bonfires, books on tape, direct deposit, bluegrass, cheese, invitations to parties, my iPod, R-4 jackets, Mac LipGlass in Love Child, finishing a race, the word “jams,” British humor, black licorice, Phyto, brainstorming, Apple, more cowbell, David Sedaris, funny cards, hot dogs, The New York Times Travel section, Moïse Island, Beck, libraries, buying plane tickets, leather couches, long-sleeve T-shirts, my mom's creativity, babies, ruins, thunderstorms, old dogs, pretty boys with ink, my Portastatic shirt, John Turturro, banjoes, camping, sweet architecture, baseball games, when people explain things without making me feel stupid, Earl Grey tea, unlined journals, lavender, Anne Taintor, my fig tree (Newton), a big rock with a lot of holds, Wickles, my old pair of Asics racing shoes, having coffee made for me, Aveda products, winter marshes, zombie cheerleaders, Literary Addict’s voice, sunbleached hair, tissues with lotion, tired dogs, deserted beaches, fine stationery, Basque Coast, the woods in early morning, making fun of people, mustard, when Simons speaks French to the dog, making soup, my dentist, reading in the same room as someone else who is also reading, Christmas cards, theatres, Ella Fitzgerald, having my hair pulled, roses that smell, Sap Moss shampoo, Deerfields, driving in the mountains, Cote du Rhone reds, my Nikon-F, Xanax, fireworks, Liz Phair, Simons’ laugh, letters from old friends, Café Verona, fat horses, tweed, bodice rippers with a bubble bath, Kieslowski’s Red-White-Blue, silver cuff bracelets, puppy breath, sleeveless turtleneck sweaters, linen pajamas, the Clinton administration, my mom’s grilled cheese sandwiches, Mexican omelets, planning parties, making ravioli.

I Hate

2006-11-16T10:51:00.000-08:00

Aw Puddin, speaker phone, blue flashing lights, unexpected car maintenance, Sunday nights, achy knees, barfing, cat allergies, the inability to barter, hotel art, typos, group work, cucumbers, sinus infections, January, halitosis, work travel, getting caught singing, culottes, “You Are Overdrawn,” writer’s block, long voicemail messages, jello salad, people with no thigh friction, feeling needy, writing thank you notes, confrontation, drivers who lean when turning, pantyhose, Change, parking tickets, losing bets, spiders, parking, inertia.

stuff

2006-11-14T16:26:00.000-08:00

This is not going to be a very intelligent post. I'm tired. The damned dog had her pain medication patch removed yesterday and was very uncomfortable all night and kept bashing her bucket into the side of the bed. I finally got up, dragged her out of the bedroom and up on the couch with me and we slept from about 2:30 til 5, when I had to get up to work. Oy. I need a nap. But poor damned dog, I think she just wanted some comforting.

So last night I was feeling pretty pent up from being inside all day, and by the time Simons got home, I'd worked myself into a claustrophobic headache. Normally I really love to cook, so I could tell it was my bad mood talking when Simons asked what was for dinner and I fed him his liver raw.

Actually, I just gave him the flounder eye and instructed him in the fine art of "doing it your own damned self" before hying myself off to knitting. Boy was I glad that I did. First of all, unbeknownst to me, it must have been cupcake night, because there were about 15 different kind, four varieties with cream cheese frosting. Heaven!

Then it was also yarn swap night. See what a nerd I am. Still, yarn is expensive stuff, and I got enough to make two sweaters for free. Who wants a hot pink mohair sweater? No? I have apple green too. No one? Hmph.

And I met a new friend, who has the same last name as me, knits also, obviously, and is from Australia. We're going for lunch this week. I feel like a new kid in the cafeteria, but I figured that since I've forgotten any sort of finesse in the art of making friends, I'm just going to have to take the direct approach. "You wanna?"

I wish I could say that I came home and Simons had a hot dinner waiting, because after AN HOUR of driving in circles in the driving rain looking for parking, I was tired and starving. Instead, I came home to find a smug Simons who had ventured to the corner store to find a TASTING on olives and cheese. God, I could have killed him. He should have called me back from cupcakeland for that! Mmmm...cheese. But he had bought some fine wine and all the ingredients I asked him to for Italian Wedding Soup, which we will have tonight (hmmm, I should start making the meatballs). Since it was so late, we ate salmon melts and tomato soup and watched The Life Aquatic. That Bill Murray. He's fabulous.

Anyway, today was sunny again and lovely. And I had a job interview this afternoon for this enormously successful and famous entrepreneur. In a way, it was probably good that I didn't research him until this morning, because I would have worked myself into a complete lather. So it was an interesting interview, and the man is a complete kook. We sat on the floor and talked about swimming with dolphins and movies and business, etc. I think it went okay, and I'm imminently qualified to do what he needs. But I'm a little reluctant to take on full time work, even if it is writing. I like the idea of true freelancing, when your schedule is your own and you have to be self disciplined. Still, it would be a fascinating job.

Mph, maybe I just won't get it and the decision will be made for me.

Tomorrow, I'm taking the ferry to Sausalito!

Hot Pants and a Bra

2006-11-12T21:50:00.000-08:00

Today was spent in recovery, thanks to a few too many Stolis at a friend’s birthday party. Mmmm…Stoli. So delicious.

This particular party was held at Swig. The last one she had was at a bar called Sip.

More like Guzzle if you ask me.

I was having an interesting conversation with a lawyer freshly transplanted from Manhattan. Evidently she had met a few friends at her new dance class. Impressed, since I tend to hurt myself doing choreographed dance routines, I asked what kind. She said that normally she does ballet, but this particular class is pole dancing.

(!!!)

This was the basis for a fascinating discussion on what one wears to a pole dancing class (see title), how many bored housewives are taking it, and whether she gets a lot of dates with her newfound talent. The latter proved not to be true, although she had high hopes from placing her pole dancing credentials on Match.com.

God, I’m so glad I’m not dating in this town. Can you imagine? I’d be like the old maid profile, gathering dust in the uber lame section of the Internet.

“Single white female. Rather large bottom. Likes to knit. Has dog with a bucket.”

Meeeow!

***
So in other news, directly related to future ruminations about such things as pole dancing, I evidently have some new readers.

Momma, Daddy, welcome to my blog.

Now, I’ve of a couple of minds about this. These might be better explained by relating the conversation I had with my dad where he announced his membership to the Jemima Fanclub.

[wavy glow of flashback, scene cuts to Simons driving the Subaru out to Half Moon Bay. Jemima speaks on the phone with her dad]

Jemima: “blah, blah, blah…oysters across state lines…blah blah”

Daddy: “Oh by the way, I was at the white anglo saxon male watering hole/the Yacht Club last night, and someone told me that you had a blog.”

(male shriek of alarm as the sudden vacuum created inside the car makes Simons drive off the road and run over an old homeless lady)

Jemima: [weakly] Oh?

Daddy: “Yes! And they explained what that was, and so Momma and I have been reading it and we just love it.”

Jemima: [taking mental tally of number of F-bombs, merdes, ungrateful daughter postings, blatant lies, partial untruths, crazed hormonal posts, totally fabricated insinuations of carnal knowledge of aforementioned husband] “Oh...God.”

Daddy: “I was reading all of the comments. Does your sister read your blog? Someone posted under ‘WSS’ and it sounded just like her.”

Jemima: “Erk.” [pounds the gloating Simons with fists of impotent rage] “Yes, WSS is Wicked Step Sister.”

Daddy: “Well have fun at the beach. Tata.”

(Simons just begged me to erase the carnal part of that last bit)

So now I’ve been deliberating whether or not I ought to self censor a bit. Most of my friends who blog know that their families read their posts, and have made an effort to curb the swearing. And I don’t suppose it would hurt to do that. I’m not used to having to think about it. Simons knows what my blog is but won’t read it on principle. I keep telling him I mostly post NICE things about him…

Anyway, I worry more about hurting someone’s feelings by publishing my private and often transitory feelings about certain things in a public forum. Oh well, Dooce has been dealing with that for six years now. If it happens, it happens.

What else concerns me about this is that usually when someone blogs under a different name, it generally means that he or she would prefer that readers not blow their cover at public events. It’s just good manners not to. So who exactly spilled the beans? And why did he think it was a good idea? And who else is bandying my name about?

I was deliberating over this ad nauseum with Simons tonight and he said, “Just talk about douching and brassieres and everyone will quit reading it.”

And I said, “Yeah, including me. I could talk about sex with you once and my parents would definitely quit.”

Then he yelled “NO!” so loud, his head blew off and made a mess and I had to go fetch paper towels and a soothing morphine drip.

So, now that the initial shock and mortification and panic have exhausted themselves, and the beer has kicked in, I can’t say I’m all that upset about it. I shall continue as I started, and will trust to everyone’s sense of humor to get by.

And if all else fails, there’s always the douching.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety Jig

2006-11-08T14:44:00.000-08:00

Posted later from Nook

I’m sitting here in my kitchen, regrettably with no internet access, as the connection I’ve been poaching since we moved decided to shut down TODAY, today being the first day of the longterm freelance writing gig. I had to race urgently around to the uber cool coffee shop/wine bar around the corner at 6:45 this morning in order to get my work done, which necessitated the purchase of three large lattes in order to keep my table. Not only expensive, but also I’m beyond jittery.

And THEN, after emailing the NY woman all the newsletter items, plus fulfilling about six extra tasks today, I called to see if there was anything else I could do before leaving the shop…AND THE WOMAN YELLED AT ME!

Here is how this conversation went:

Her: “WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

Me: “Oh, um, sorry to bother you. I just wanted to see if you received my emails.”

Her: “I DON’T HAVE TIME TO READ YOUR EMAILS. I’M DOING THE MEDIA MONITORING.”

Me: (after this opener, wishing I could just let her check her email after duplicating all of my work, ie wasting her time) “Actually, I’ve finished all that and emailed it to you but I wasn’t sure of the formatting.”

Her: “Oh, well, did you do the items I assigned you?” [said in a really really exasperated voice.]

Me: “Yes, I’ve emailed that to you as well.”

Her: “I’ve gotta go.”

So, is she pleased that I’ve done all her work for her? Is she at all appreciative? What the hell is her problem? I was so embarrassed by this belittlement, I was actually blushing all the way across the country. So now I’m all paranoid that she’s developed an aversion to the sound of my voice and will fire me. Great.

Still, today is a fabulous day, because…

MISS BEULAH HAS COME HOME!

She’s lying beside me with a new and quite feminine looking bucket on her head, waiting for her chicken and rice to finish cooking. Her whole belly is shaved, which must be quite chilly, and her surgical scar is about 8 inches long and quite gruesome. But it’s so nice to hear her jingly collar and to be able to look down at her pretty golden eyes when I’m working.

They never did find the veritable toy chest they removed from her belly and set aside for me, which is sad. I’m dying of curiosity to see what they looked like. Apparently the ball was actually a doll head stuck in there. Man, that would have been the best bell jar mantelpiece display EVER.

It’s going to be a rough two weeks for her, since she can’t move around much and can only have a tiny bit of food at a time, and that not very often. But she’s on the mend, and I really appreciate all your kind words, prayers, thoughts, karma, etc.

The vet bill did end up being quite a lot, although not the full $5000, thanks to her speedy recovery after the surgery (Good Dog!). She’s actually home two days earlier than expected. But all in all, it’s more than we can afford--$3297.50, and I couldn’t believe our credit card didn’t go up in smoke when the vet swiped it. If anyone still is interested in contributing to the Beulah’s Toychest fund (it was going to be the Save Beulah Fund, but she’s already made it, so that didn’t make any sense), I’ve set up a PayPal account here.

I really struggled with doing this, since I feel like we adopted her, so we should take full responsibility. But to be honest, I really don’t have the luxury of protesting.

Instead, I’ll just be really and truly grateful for any help my blog friends and readers can offer. I’m completely overwhelmed with all of the kind comments and emails.

So…thank you. From the bottom of my heart, and from the depths of my dog’s bucket, thank you.

-J

BEULAH LIVES

2006-11-07T15:34:00.000-08:00

Dear Mom,

Why did you leave me here with the vet? I am sad. Yesterday they stole my ball and duck. To get even, I puked on the vet. I am crafty.

But today you visited me and washed my face and scratched my nose, which was nice. And you fed me chicken and rice (but not enough). That was nice too.

But then you left.

I am sad.

Promise you'll bring me home tomorrow? I'll be a good dog.

No more puking.

Love Beulah

PS: Please thank all the very nice people who crossed their paws for me. I'm sure it was their prayers that got me through.

Tale of Woe and Ducks

2006-11-06T15:23:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I finally found a vet who would see Beulah today, as an emergency (read "expensive") patient. The vet said she was critically dehydrated and was very concerned about her constant vomiting. The previous owner just told us she had a sensitive stomach, so we have never thought all that much of it. Anyway, this vet gave me a list of necessary procedures for DIAGNOSING Beulah's illness, which came to a grand total of $1600 for x-rays, blood tests, intravenous fluids, and an overnight stay. That didn't even include whatever it took to cure her.

After having a stroke, I agreed and said I would stay for the x-ray results.

I must say that even I, who do not have a vet degree, looked at the x-ray and said, "Is that a freaking bouncy ball?"

Yes. A bouncy ball.

We do not give our dog bouncy balls to play with. This ball has been in her stomach for at least a year, and was the child's toy of the family where she lived before. Also, the stomach appeared to have grown in a weird manner to accommodate this little lump of plastic, filled with sparkly foil, all of which showed up in the films, which will probably necessitate reconstructive surgery in that location. But worse than the bouncy ball was a brightly lit loop of intestine that was in the wrong place. The vet had no explanation for that. Beulah also has jaundice, pneumonia and increased liver enzymes, all from puking.

We scheduled her to go to the surgical specialist across town, and I sat in the room and cried and tracked down Simons and dragged him out of a meeting, and called our vet at home and cried to him too. Then the doctor came back looking perplexed.

"Have you been missing a duck?"

A what?

Apparently the bizarre and mystical loop of intestine...it was a duck. A little rubber one she was playing with at our friends' house in Nashville when we passed through on our cross country move.

The goddamned dog ate the duck.

So she has TWO foreign objects in her stomach, and no wonder the poor animal is sick all the time. This could be a whole new lease on life for the wretched vomitorium.

The scary part is that the surgery will cost $5000. Yes, $5000 for Beulah Buckethead Devil Dog. We don't actually HAVE $5000, which is worrisome, but we'll have to figure that out later. Because she may be a pain in the ass, but she's OUR pain in the ass and we love her.

So here's my question. Should I make them return the ball and the duck?

Sick Baby- Warning, tales of barf to follow

2006-11-05T22:08:00.000-08:00

As much as I curse this dog we adopted, we really do love her. And it never shows as much as when she is really and truly sick. Poor Dog woke me up very early this morning with a serious anxious pacing that could only mean that she needed to go OUT. Bad.

So out we went, and the poor beast decorated the sidewalks around two city blocks, chucking up everything she's ever eaten. Now the dog generally barfs after she eats, but this desperate, continuous sort of puking was something new entirely.

She seemed much better afterwards (aren't we all), and by this afternoon, we thought she seemed well enough for a trip to the beach. After a jolly romp and some swimming and digging and ball throwing, she suddenly freaked and dashed up the beach and barfed up her entire breakfast. And we took her home and made much over her and even offered her chicken soup (which she is not normally allowed to eat, but they always say chicken broth is easy on the stomach). We knew when she refused my 12-hour chicken stock that she was probably on death's door. After a safe amount of time and piteous glances, we let her out of the safe kitchen zone with its easy to sterilize hardwood floors and she climbed up on the couch for cuddling. Thirty minutes later, she projectile vomited all the water she'd drunk since the beach. Simons has been holding her ears for her, and I keep wiping her mouth with fresh paper towels, but we're both really at a loss.

Her general disposition, plus her syptoms, have lead my online research to suggest she has some foreign body in her stomach. It could have been there for years and only now have caused problems. Or it could be one of 15 toothbrushes she's eaten since February.

We just signed up for pet insurance, and the policy doesn't cover illness for thirty days, but does cover accidents. So does eating a foreign body count as accident or as illness? I guess accident means injury rather than projectile barfing. What if we maybe say that a homeless person fed her a toothbrush. Then is it an accident?

Christ, I want our dog well, but considering how much equipment and procedures and diagnosis and medication last month's UTI cost, I'm really wondering how we can afford potential stomach surgery. Because judging by the vet's insistence on an ultrasound for some urinary crystal buildup, she's going to insist on about 65 pieces of machinery for this.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

What do parents of children do? Same thing...know you have to take them but dread the emergency room visits?

Camping Photographs

2006-11-03T12:10:00.000-08:00

I finally added a Flickr link, which I'm not too sure about. Let me know if you think it's irritating, and I'll switch it to a stationary link.

Here are some pictures from our camping trip to Rock Lake near Tahoe/Graeagle. The lake was so smooth and calm, and apparently full of trout. We're determined to bring some fly rods with us next time. This is the morning after a very rocky (pun fully intended) night, with the dogs hogging the tent and me freezing my butt off, and my old old old bones creaking. Fortunately, Simons makes great coffee, even if it's in a rock kitchen. Here's me letting Beulah finish off my oatmeal and savoring my morning beverage.

As I mentioned, we got a late start and it was nearly dark by the time we found a good tent site. We realized the next morning that the tree over our tent was covered in bear claw marks and was dripping with sap.

Sunday we took a great hike to the top of the far ridge and looked down on our campsite and Rock Lake. Beulah was having a fine time, gambolling in the shrubbery and making a lot of noise with her bear bell. God, I hate that bell.

Here is the amazing bear hang Simons made in the tallest tree he could find. This is him scanning for bears.

Note: I just got off the phone with the woman in NY again, the one I totally unimpressed with my interviewing capabilities...well, I did it AGAIN. This is going to be a strained relationship, I can feel it. Her scorning me. Me trying too hard to show her that I am not mentally deficient. Me failing. Her scorning me more and more...

Fo shizzle

2006-11-02T18:06:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I got the job.

NICE! Can you say "steady paycheck" anyone? The cool thing about this job, beyond its being easy peasy, is that I'm done with it by 10 am, and have the rest of the day to explore Sweet Juniper's Top Nine Things to Do in San Francisco, pitch articles, contemplate my first
novel, cook sumptuous meals for Simons, hang out with all the friends who will visit...

It's awesome.

So this is not something that is going to shine on my resume, by any stretch, but I'm still awfully psyched about it.

Also, I promised camping photos. I'll get on that tomorrow.

Alright...Alright...Just trying to get a little change in my pocket...

2006-11-01T16:42:00.000-08:00

(ahhh, don't you just love Matthew McCona-hey-hey? Meow, and I don't care if he is wierd.)

Once again, my sister has given the best advice ever. Remember that interview I blew on Monday morning? The one where the dog puked and my head ached and it was Daylight Savings Time and I was sore and cranky from camping, and the fates were stacked against me?

Yeah, that one. Well, after I got the "Thanks, but No Way in Hell" email from the editor, I called my sister boo-hooing, because that's what big sisters are for, especially responsible, kind and sensitive big sisters with a major diplomatic bent. And that is my sister exactly. She rocks. Anyway, she told me to write an email to the editor acknowledging that the interview didn't exactly put my best foot forward (I'll say), and to actually try writing the newsletter she wants and send it to her as a sample. So I did, and the woman was "very impressed" and wants me to meet the publisher TOMORROW! (please, please giant Everest pimple, go AWAY already!)

I'm not counting my freelancing dollars before they hatch, but still, this is RENT, folks. Simons will be so pleased! Oh man, I'm so tempted not to even tell him until I have the assignment.

Also, sent another kickass pitch, this time to Parents magazine, which I know is bizarre since I don't actually have any little critters. But I like them, have read every parenting book in the universe, and realized today that I have FOUR NIECES, ONE NEPHEW AND TWO GODDAUGHTERS. Man, it's going to be an expensive Christmas this year. Anyone have any ideas for cheap but nice children's presents? I had thought to knit them all hats or sweaters, but that is going to end up being more expensive than just getting them a pony. I keep threatening to do that, and for some reason, none of these mothers think that's funny.

So tomorrow, it's Dwell magazine, and maybe one of these days, someone will accept something I pitch. Now wouldn't that be a surprise.

Take a stick of butter

2006-10-31T10:04:00.000-08:00

Thanks for all of the pat-pats. I definitely needed them. Fortunately Simons came home last night, took one look at my face, which had crumpled off in despair and was lying on the floor moaning, and hied himself off to the grocery to purchase a rather large block of manchego (mmmm....cheese) and a reasonably priced bottle of cabernet. He even watched Steel Magnolias with me, although the generosity of his gesture was somewhat marred by his heartless remarks about, "Behold, the magnolias are gathering around the grave. They are made of steel." Sadly, smacking him isn't as effective as smacking the dog.

Today is an improvement, even though the first thing I did was pour the pot of coffee into the sugar bowl. I can tell that I feel better, since I didn't cry, but sort of gave a muffled giggle, before giving up on pouring and instead applying the coffee pot directly to my lips.

I did send a mockup newsletter to the oncology people, so maybe they will hire me after all. If not, I can always claim mental retardation and say that they are not an equal opportunity employer and sue. Believe me, they totally think I am disabled. I'm surprised the woman could even hear me over the wind whistling between my ears. I may even have used the word, "thingy," since proper diction was just not happening for me. And if she happened to hear the dog vomiting in the background, she will have marked "Gross" as well as "Stupid" on my resume and set the whole thing on fire.

In better news, Simons and I are heading down to the Castro tonight for some Halloween action. Simons is a little nervous that Hot Gay Steve is putting the "weenie" in Halloween, after he told a droll little story about going out on Saturday in naught but a pair of lacy girl's panties. Simons doesn't care so much on principle what Steve wears, but he seems a tad uneasy with that image of his friend being burned into his brain forever and ever amen. But a Castro Halloween will probably be quite dramatic, and I'm certainly looking forward to getting THE HELL OUT OF THIS APARTMENT! Somehow i have forgotten to arrange for a costume, so I'm going to see if the old debutante dress will fit over my enormous arse (doubtful) and will slap on the old tiara and go as a deb. Everyone else will be much sluttier than I, since all costumes these days look like Paris Hilton going to church, but it can't be helped. I'm too old to be slutty anymore. Where are my teeth?

Anyway, I have redeemed myself after the chicken pie debacle, and have wrought the most beautiful little sweet potato biscuits (with hame) ever and am eating one (several) right now with butter dripping off one knuckle. So delicious. So filled with yummy calories. Nothing like butter to cheer one's soul.

awful

2006-10-30T14:41:00.000-08:00

I'm having an awful day.

Blew a telephone interview for what would have been the easiest damned freelance job EVER. The dog was vomiting in the background. My landlord was outside mashing door buzzers because he forgot his keys. I was sore and tired and out of it and made not a lick of sense. And before anyone says, "There, there, I'm sure it wasn't THAT bad, Jemima," let me just say that I've ALREADY gotten the "Thanks but no thanks" email from the woman.

Gah!

The dog won't quit hurling, under the desk, in the kitchen, all over the living room rug. So she probably has giardia and is dying and we can't afford to take her to the vet here, who probably needs a Rolls Royce payment or another case of Dom Perignon.

I want to cry, but I'm too tired and my head already hurts.

So I'm going to write a mock up newsletter for the interview that I blew, and maybe see if they'll give me another shot.

And I did send a cover letter for another freelance job, this one regarding food editing and writing (please, God, are you there?). So if you have some intelligent vibes or just good thoughts, send them my way...

Trust me. I need them.

Jemima...NOW WITH EXTRA CRUNCH!!!

2006-10-30T10:39:00.000-08:00

I hope that all of you had a weekend full of chocolate and Tivo, to make up for mine of dirt and pain.

Oh God, I'm so tired I may perish. Simons and I went camping on Saturday in the Sierras near Tahoe, and it is HUMILIATING how out of shape I am. But it was so beautiful and so amazing to me that we live close enough to such things to make a weekend trip out of it. No bears, thank God, although we dropped packs and pitched the tent so late on Saturday that neither of us noticed we were sleeping underneath a bear scratching post, raked with claw marks and dripping with sap. Heh.

Do you remember how excited you'd be to go camping when you were little, or hell, even in college? It's a little different now. First, Simons might as well have driven to Tahoe by himself, since I was nose-deep in a book the whole way up there, and practically eviscerated him when he politely asked if I'd like to pull over to go to the bathroom. (Thankfully I finished it before we started hiking, or there might have been bloodshed.) I burned the butt out of the dinner, see previous post about dissatisfying chicken pies, which were not improved overmuch by tasting of shit, carbon and stove fuel. Also, because it had been so long since we'd truly camped, we forgot all of the essentials, namely bourbon, cigarettes and cards. So after sitting there wondering at the billions and billions of stars, freezing our fannies off on a rotten log for oh, ten minutes, we gave up and went to bed. It must have been 8:30.

This getting old business is highly overrated, and I want my money back. The goddamned dog took up the whole tent, sleeping HORIZONTALLY between us, and I shivered and shook and writhed around claustrophobically ALL NIGHT and must have been sleeping with my head on a downhill slope and my back on a a pile of bowling balls, because DAMMIT it was uncomfortable. I woke up glaring crossly at Dog's wet nose, who was yawning smugly in my face, stretching and jabbing her pointy toes into my bruised and tired ribs.

Anyway, the morning was a considerable improvement, thanks to the fancy camping coffee filter I gave to Simons for Valentine's last year, which brought to mind the time I made my friend Suzy (Floozy) shoot hot grits out of her nose at a Waffle House when we were in high school. She remarked snidely on the amount of sugar I was pouring into my coffee, and without looking up I responded, "Ah laks mah coffee like I laks mah men...hawt, black and sweet." It was even funnier considering I'd only ever even frenched one person at that point, but that's a different story.

Leaving our tent behind, and good riddance, we climbed this enormous granite ridge, up above the treeline, and from there could see miles of lakes and spruce trees (i guess that's what they were, must get plant book) and no one else in sight. There were no planes, no sounds of cars or backhoes or even human voices. Just the wind and the sound of rushing water.

The last two books I've read have been a pioneer woman's journal on a wagon train to Santa Fe and into Mexico, and the other, a work of historical fiction, and no, I won't say which, because it's deliciously smutty. It was most bizarre to suddenly feel as though I'd left behind all the trappings of modern life and should suddenly take up chopping wood and hunting bear. It brought out all kind of quaint speech patterns, and Simons and I almost started calling each other "Mr." and "Mrs." He ruined my illusions though, by bringing along a GPS...plus, he just looks like an architect and not a bear trapper/hunter/Revolutionary soldier. Oh well. He has many other fine qualities.

Dog had a fine time on her first ever camping trip, gambolling about on the lake shores and freezing her skinny hiney off going swimming in 40-degree water. She kept plunging down the slopes, leaping around like a jackass trying to see above the shrubs, which meant she had no brakes and would just blithely careen off of various dropoffs and cliffs. She so exhausted herself that she was immune to all of the torments we inflicted on her during the ride back. She didn't even mind that we stopped for the best cheeseburgers EVER on the way home and didn't bring her ANY.

We are back in our fairly squalid apartment now, which is a little sad. Simons is at work, and I am here, looking for work as usual. Everything is dirty; clothes, dishes, tables, stove. And I'm too cold and sore to feel like cleaning. But I can't work unless my house is clean. So I'm in quite a pickle.

I have photos, but the camera is in the car, which is parked 10 blocks away. So more camping later.

Disappointment

2006-10-26T15:41:00.000-07:00

Here are the fruits of two days' labor.

Ten chicken pies for Simons to take to work.

Rather than have him spend a lot of money on lunches, I went and spent even more money so I could spend two days making these.

And why are there only ten instead of the promised twelve.

Because I ate two of them. Not because I was hungry. But because they were there. And the worst part about it is that they weren't even any good.

SIGH

Nostalgia

2006-10-25T10:38:00.000-07:00

I'm getting as bad as the malls, talking about Christmas when it's not even Halloween yet. But what with the writing and the plane ticket searches for the trip home, I guess I've just got it on the brain.

First, yes, Charleston has had White Christmases...at least one that I can recall. Sometimes it's 70 degrees, which is a little unsettling, but somehow it's always sunny and crisp and lovely. My parents have lived in the same pink three-storey house since I was three years old, so every Christmas that I can remember (save one) was in that house. When we were little, after setting out the cookies and bourbon for Santa, my sister would let me sleep in the bed with her and read me The Night Before Christmas. The book was my grandmother's, so the pictures were very old fashioned and Dickensonian, with ruffly nightcaps and funny hairdo's. And we'd lay our stockings at the foot of the bed, one with Snoopy and the other my mom made out of felt, that looked like a high heeled boot complete with sequins and rickrack (Mom must think Santa likes burlesque). And waking up in the morning, those stockings looked like someone with a case of the dropsy was wearing them, they were so full of little goodies. Those were mainly fancy soaps and toiletries, with a clementine in the toe.

Then we'd creep downstairs...it was always very cold, because the third floor had no heat and was remarkably drafty (gusty even). And we could never see what was at the bottom, because Daddy always cut a 25-foot marsh cedar tree and stuck it straight up the middle of the spiral staircase. You'd have to go to the landing between the second and third floor to put on the star. After Hurricane Hugo, there weren't anymore cedar trees that tall, so now they have a 9-ft tree in the living room, but it's just as beautiful. Still, those tall trees were the envy of all our classmates, and my mom is the queen of tree decoration. We have about 20 boxes of ornaments, some ancient and decrepit, some with working parts and ships in bottles and ones that my sister and I made. And she puts on garlands with ARTISTRY, so they loop and arch just so. And when everything is on, we cover the entire thing in antique tinsel, which is the devil to pick off afterwards, but looks just like ice when the white lights are on. It always looked like a fairy tree. So we'd creep around the tree at the bottom and see the veritable sea of wrapping paper and presents, sometimes a bicycle, once a pair of stilts, and I think one year there was a puppy, but that was for my sister, so I don't remember.

The one year we weren't at home for Christmas was after Hugo, because the house wasn't liveable. And rather than put up a tree in our dinky little temporary home in a friend's carriage house (far too small for a family that needed sulking room), we went to Boone, NC to learn to ski (ha) and build snowmen (Daddy and my Uncle Ricky made an anatomically correct snow-woman with cranberry nipples and a bottle of Jack Daniels...the mothers were not impressed) and go sledding. The main thing I remember about that one is all of us waiting downstairs for my grandmother to finish fixing her hair...and when you're 12 and 17 (me and my sister) and 8 and 5 (my cousins), this seems like a damnable waste of time. And when she finally did come down, in a foul and martyred temper, she said, "You didn't need to wait for me. I'll be dead soon." The silence was palpable, as all of us, grownups and children alike, tried to figure out what in the name of God she was talking about. It's a family joke now that when one of us is feeling ill used, we say, "Don't worry about me. I'll just go eat at Shoney's for Thanksgiving. Two pies for 49 cents." Sometimes we just shorten to it, "Two pies for 49," and roll our eyes.

We always pull out the stops for Christmas dinner too, with stuffed goose and forty sides and mom makes a dacquoise, which is chocolate hazelnut ganache with layers of almond meringue and almond buttercream. It takes Mom hours, but everyone really loves it. She also conveniently forgets what a pain it is every year when she's agreeing to it. And the whole extended family comes, and drinks Rum Punch and gets very jolly. Who knows where we'll be, since we have several families to please this year. How in the world do you organize that without hurting anyone's feelings?

Igottagitouttahere

2006-10-24T13:05:00.000-07:00

I hate fake Christmas trees. I hate researching their statistics. I hate learning about their synthetic makeup. I hate that some Chinese mother is withering her ovaries sniffing their cheap PVC chemicals. I hate their buying trends. Hate. Hate. Hate.

MOST OF ALL, I HATE THAT I HAVEN'T FINISHED THIS DAMNED PRESS RELEASE YET! I WANT THESE FAKE PLASTIC TREES OUT OF MY LIFE SO I CAN GO LISTEN TO RADIOHEAD AND CRY FOR MY JADED SPIRIT!!!

Update:
I'm finished. Finally. Now I have to go shower now, and cleanse the grinchiness of faux Christmas items from my skin...lest Santa decide to give me fake jewelry or fake hmmm-gasms or fake cheese to get even. (shiver)

Also, Kelly Love, your faux Christmas tree is excused from my earlier tirade. Because, it's pink. It's not trying to pretend to be burly lumberjack tree or quaint Swedish clog under the balsams tree or anything else. It is a shiny shiny pink tree, and is perfect as it is.

Claus-trophobia

2006-10-23T16:21:00.000-07:00

Another freelance job came rolling in today from the media company, and on top of the whole linking of gastric bypass to dementia and Alzheimer's (furious eye rolling and tsks of disbelief), now I have to promote ARTIFICIAL CHRISTMAS TREES. And is it about how artificial Christmas trees are the devil's playthings and inhabited by gremlins who lick all of your advent calendar chocolate while you're sleeping?

Negatory. I have to say nice things about the crappy faux trees.

Who buys pre-lighted plastic trees? Tell me it's old people with no family to speak of, because do people REALLY buy that for their children? In which case, HOW DO THEIR CHILDREN KNOW WHAT CHRISTMAS SMELLS LIKE? Are these faux Christmas (buyers) obsessive compulsive cleaners or afraid of bugs or allergic to pine? And speaking of, do buyers of these appalling trees hang those pine tree scented air fresheners in their living rooms to add that fresh piney smell?

My own auntie actually hires someone to decorate her tree, which gives me the absolute vapors, but at least her tree is real. You're SUPPOSED to have Brandy Alexanders or cocoa or AT LEAST tea or something, and maybe some ginger cookies and you decorate the tree with friends (gay Navy merman ornaments, anyone?) or with family (tiny broken wooden toys from when we were tots). It's TRADITION. How traditional can you be when you go into the closet, drag out your Trapper Keeper-smelling tree and unfold it like a damned umbrella ALREADY lighted?

Man, I am hot about this. Fake trees are just plain wrong. Who's with me?

Saving the World...

2006-10-21T08:01:00.000-07:00

...one runner at a time.

I'm off this morning to volunteer for Team In Training, at the Nike Women's Marathon. If you've ever wanted to run a marathon (it was on my list of things to do before I die), TNT will train you, coach you, map out your goals, show you how to eat, lift weights, stretch, which shoes to buy, etc. In return, you raise between $1500 and $4000 or so for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. It's a pretty awesome program, and when I did my marathon last year, you wouldn't have believed how many runners were wearing a purple TNT shirt OR how many people on the sidelines were waving purple TNT signs and ringing bells and cheering us on. So many people affected by these cancers. So many people doing something about it. If you want to do something about it too, come on by the tent! Or see if there's a LLS office in your town.

Tonight's Menu

2006-10-20T16:06:00.000-07:00

Simons has invited some fun but definitely snoo snoo arty types for dinner tonight. Therefore I am mucking out the house, beating the dog, and trying to sell my car, all at the same time.

Here is what we're having:

Butternut squash and apple soup with saffron

Baked spiced sweet potatoes with garlic and olive oil
Goat's milk yogurt with rosemary

Chicken breasts with roasted lemons, olives and capers
whole wheat pasta
spinach

Pumpkin honey cupcakes with cream cheese icing.

Don't you wish you were eating this right now? I just did.

Pissed

2006-10-19T23:11:00.000-07:00

A Little Pissed

Simons has lost his wedding ring. Okay, well, maybe not totally lost, but it's at work and he's home without it on his finger. Am I right to be slightly pissed about that? It bothers me that he just takes it off while he's doing AutoCad because it hurts his finger. Um, TOUGH SH*T! Marriage is always shiny and sparkly and comfy. Sometimes it gouges your freaking eye out when you're washing your face, but you deal.

A Lot Pissed

I was supposed to run the Chicago Marathon this weekend. But what with getting married, moving across the country, and a nasty and persistent case of Plantars Fascitis (like a stone bruise but has to do with your tendon), that didn't happen. But my running partners wanted to stay in the room I was getting, seeing as how the nearby hotels are hard to book, and I got a good discount as part of Team In Training. I said they could, if they paid me in advance. Well, they did not, despite repeated urging. And yesterday, a week after the deadline, they finally deposited two thirds of the total $816 in my account. And when I called, one of the girls, oh, let's call her Jill, said she thought I was still coming and was all shocked that she and the other girl, um, Theresa, had to pay the whole thing. Um, Jill and Theresa have known since June that I wasn't going to run it.

Well, as tempting as it was to just write them a check back and tell them good luck sleeping in the park and GEE, HOPE IT DOESN'T SNOW, I would actually be screwing a charity, since TNT had already booked the room. So I had to go ahead and pay for it out of my credit card. Keep in mind the moving and the unemployment and whatnot.

Let it go. Let it go. Let it go. Oh my God, I'm so broke. Let it go. Let it go....

Making a Stand...a Really Weak Stand...Maybe...Ok, Probably Not

2006-10-19T22:19:00.000-07:00

Well, let's not get too carried away. My ancestors were Jewish right up through my grandfather, but I'm Episcopalian. So I'm a little honky Protestant myself. But I almost feel like that makes me more responsible for not carrying on the archaic, bigoted tradition.

But a little part of me really wants to go.

YOU SEE? THIS is how the Germans got away with persecution. Everyone wanted to go to their little SS parties and rallies and book burnings and such and no one put their foot down and said, "NO! I'LL BE DAMNED IF I WILL!

Now you see I'm going to hell for sort of making humor out of something that is not at all funny, for wanting to go to the goddamned ball AND for putting on airs about being able to change the world.

But my wedding dress is so pretty.

And my nieces, my nieces are so cute. Really. If you think you can stand it, behold, THE CUTENESS! Gird yourself.

Moral Dilemma

2006-10-19T12:25:00.000-07:00

I'm having a dilemma right now, and I've got to make a decision before Simons comes home. His parents are members of this group, which is this really old fashioned society type thing that has a gigantic shmancy ball every January. However, it only allows members if they are white, protestant, probably rich, and date their geneology back to Charleston in Noah or something. So I'm fundamentally opposed to it, since my family was in Charleston in 1792, but were all Jewish and weren't allowed. Now that I'm married into it, they want me to be the freaking belle of the ball, where I get to wear my wedding dress and eat dinner or waltz with the president. So do I tell them to fuck off or do I leap at the chance to wear my wedding dress one last time? See, I'm very shallow. Actually, Simons' dad offered to fly us home for it, and I am DYING to see my two nieces again. Dying, I tell you. Are nieces worth dropping my principles? And maybe it would be fun, albeit elitist? Or would my soul wither and blacken (like my heritage)?

Sigh.

Not exactly nine to five...

2006-10-17T13:14:00.000-07:00

But I'm working.

Hear that, Internet? I'M WORKING.

Yours truly just finished a press release for a media optimization company and sent it off. It was pretty good, if I do say so myself, even if I do know nothing about bariatric surgery. Yeah, just so you know, don't believe everything you read in press releases, because some schlub like me wrote it. Oooh, maybe they'll give me free bariatric surgery so I can look like Kate Moss! I'm already envisioning my sleek thighs and rippling biceps.

Vogue Editor: "Jemima Kate Moss, do you feel guilty about the influence your sleek thighs have on thousands of impressionable teenagers?"

Jemima: [Giggles vacuously and takes puff of Marlboro Red] "Can you repeat the question?" [Stretches aforementioned thigh, which seemingly disappears like an optical illusion]

Maybe I should just go running instead. It's cheaper than hospitalization, and since AmEx just called to pre-order my firstborn child, I should go for the cheaper option. I know one person who's had a gastric bypass, but I haven't seen her since it was done, and I always thought she was totally gorgeous and didn't need it anyway. It seems so drastic. Internet, do you know anyone who has resorted to it? Did it work? Was it worth it?

So...that was two hours of billable work. Excellent! Now I just need to create a professional webpage, pitch a story to Dwell, get some watches repaired, write 300 thank you notes, call Cingular, send a cover letter and resume about a job, and go to the bookstore. Oh, and walk Devil who is glaring at me from the depths of her bucket. Who knows, maybe I'll see The Flasher again and THIS TIME, he better watch out!

Nautical

2006-10-16T13:42:00.000-07:00

Simons and I went sailing in the Bay this Saturday with a friend of ours from Charleston. His ex-wife, who owns an excellent art gallery in Charleston, had an affair with the owner of a giant pharmaceutical conglomerate after HIS wife, who is best friends with Simons' mom, had an affair with her tennis pro. Simons housesat at her amazing four storey house on Legare Street while she was off in Maine gallivanting with said tennis pro, and I always wanted to throw a croquet party in her luxe backyard. Well the art gallery owner’s now ex husband is an awfully nice man, and he came out here presumably to avoid witnessing the illicit love affair between his wife and another man and to complete a psychology degree in marital and family counseling...God, he could write a book. Anyhoo, he has a GORGEOUS sailboat which is practically a work of art with shiny wood and glistening metal and a gigantic red spinnaker that is too preppy for words.

Our new home

Wind Direction

Patriotic

Spaces

Probiscus

Red

Preppy

My husband is my caliente

Sadly our sailboat owning friend is a teetotaler, which is only sad because there’s nothing that goes down better on a yacht than a mimosa, or a bloody mary, or a julep or really anything with rum, or hell, alcohol for that matter. But, it was still a nice way to spend a Saturday. We spotted sea lions swimming in the middle of the bay, which is a little freaky since it’s 150-feet deep in some places. That’s just so much deep darkness…

And we crept up on Alcatraz, which I must admit, I’ve never had much desire to visit. I’ve spent so much of my life trying to avoid going to prison, so why in the hell would I want to pay money to GO? Anyway, it looked so damned haunted and COLD up there, surrounded by all that deep and dark and chilly hard stone, now I want to go read the Count of Monte Cristo all over again. I haven’t read it since sixth grade when we had to read it in French, and something tells me it’s time to pick it up again.

Then my favorite auntie, (Ant) Scott, was in town for a legal conference, and we went to Stinson Beach to try to feed Beulah to the sharks. Sadly, even the sharks know she will give them indigestion. That damned dog got a UTI on Friday, and so I found a vet that would accept us on the same day, walked in and said, “She has a UTI. She needs some Baytril.” Well, the swiving vet insisted on doing an ULTRASOUND and a needle extraction urine sample and charging us freaking $280 (she wanted to do a bacteria culture that would have cost $170 more) to say, “She has a UTI. She needs some Baytril.”

TWO HUNDRED EIGHTY DOLLARS!

I should have just given them the dog, since we pay that much in replacement toothbrushes every month. The good news is that Devil seems to be feeling much better and we have had no more desperate pottying adventures in the park. However, the vet called on Saturday night to recommend we bring her back in a week for an additional ultrasound and needle urine extraction so that she can make sure the UTI is indeed gone. I wanted to say, "Well if she ain't pissing 65 times, isn't that a good indicator that it's gone? Oh wait, if it doesn't cost anything, then it can't be true..."

Oh, back to my aunt and uncle. We visited some shops, and Scott bought me a lovely knitting book called Last Minute Knitted Gifts. 90% of the projects in it are so lovely, I want to hug the pages. I’m determined to make all knitted gifts for Christmas, although I may be a bit late. I hear sweaters take an awfully long time. I’m working on a baby sweater for Sarah Elizabeth (who discovered her hands this weekend!) and after that, maybe I’ll make a gorgeous raglan sweater for Simons. With a zipper…Mmmmm, hot zippered sweater....Mmmm, removing hot zippered sweater from husband...mmmm

We all ate at Nob Hill Café last night for dinner, Scott’s favorite place. Divine. So divine. Carbonara with vats of butter and garlic and parmesan and pancetta. When I die, I want to come back as carbonara.

Dirty

2006-10-12T10:52:00.000-07:00

GAH!

Must wash out brain with lye soap and stab eyeballs with hot forks of displeasure.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I've been flashed.

And I'm SO PISSED about it. There I was walking my dog back from the park, enjoying the sunshine and outdoors. And I may have smiled pleasantly at this "nice young man" because i'm from the South and that's what we do. Then I noticed that he has his penis out of his pants and is woggling it at me in a disgusting fashion and hissing something menacing at me. "You like that?" I think it was.

Sick.

Anyway, I called him a pig and kept walking, but the whole way home I felt alternately furious and helpless and a little like crying. And I made up all these other scenarios where I'd followed him screaming until he ran away in shame. Or that I'd laughed at him and mocked him. Or that I had a cell phone on me and called the police. It was awful that this hideous fucker had created this power over me, my mood, my day, and sadly my memory.

STAY AWAY FROM THE LIGHT

2006-10-12T08:51:00.000-07:00

Now I know nobody cares about hearing my dream from last night, because you're probably not in it. HOWEVER, I'm now convinced I'm probably going to die, so I'm writing about it anyway.

First, and this is not the death part, I was fixing Thanksgiving dinner in this strange house, which presumably was mine. But I was wearing roller skates and the kitchen was steep. Like Nob Hill steep. My father in law was giving himself vapors watching me skate to the top and back.

Maybe that was a sign that I will overcome challenges (and hills) and San Francisco will become comfortable for me? Dammit, I hope so.

THEN, Simons and I were driving this beautiful old timey silver truck through the woods on a perfect fall day. All the leaves were changing and the light was incredible. You know those days when it just Smells like autumn, all crisp and tingly like something's about to happen? And then we came to this bridge that although small, was famous for being the only way people could at one time get to some certain island. I thought it was Wadmalaw (marsh island in Charleston) in my dream, but maybe I made that up. Simons wanted to take all these pictures of the little white bridge to sketch, and the great part was that Woo (Jack Russell I got for my tenth birthday who passed away last year) and my sister's deceased gigantic black lab, Bushman, were there too, romping around gaily and getting in the way. And we couldn't take too long because this older couple in a car were waiting to get across the bridge too.

Old people. Dead dogs. A BRIDGE!

Hello! I'm so dreaming about The Passage.

Oh well, at least Woo and Simons were there too, and it seemed quite lovely and cozy. Notice Beulah Devil Dog wasn't there. That's because she's going to the hot place where refrigerator-opening, perpetually scratching, toilet paper eating, carsick dogs burn for all eternity. HELL, I SAY! HELL!

Fear of Failure

2006-10-11T15:56:00.000-07:00

"They" say procrastination is nothing more than a fear of failure.

Okay, I'll buy that. But how do you overcome it?

Is it luck or self discipline or just a matter of closing your eyes and leaping? Is it a fear of regretting the things you never did or didn't try your hardest? Or maybe overcoming this fear of failure means accepting failure as a friend and doing it anyway.

This freelancing thing is tough. The lack of money is ridiculous. Moving to a new city where I don't know anyone or have any writing contacts or even anything concrete to write ABOUT yet is kind of...um, challenging. I'm trying to be positive here, and although "depressing" and "exhausting" and "dark and hopeless and full of woe" all come to mind as adequate descriptions, I'll just go with "challenging" instead.

I've been working on some ideas, and have called a few people, which has lead to more potential food writing ideas and contacts and so forth. Anyway, yesterday, my husband's friend put me in touch with this other writer and said we had to get together and would just love one another. Well, as it turns out in the course of awkward conversation, this "writer" used to work for W, Women's Wear Daily, Time, Harper's, etc. and is THE fashion writer in the US. And although she was nice, it was that kind of nice where you come away sad and shellshocked and overwhelmed. No one will ever want to read my stories. I'm too old to start this. No one will ever pay me to write. And I'll be a terrible waitress.

Today is the day I had set aside for compiling all these ideas and writing pitch letters. Only I can't do it. I feel tired and sad and weepy. Not exactly a day for inspiration. I've sat in front of this laptop all day, and accomplished nothing and all I want to do is go home and hold my nieces and go sit under a tree I don't have to walk 20 minutes to find. But I can't give up. I'm out here and I've GOT to find a job, and writing is the only thing I've ever been any good at, and if I don't do it now, I never will.

So, how do I shake this fear? How do I break into the circle?

Sigh.

Missing Them So Much It Hurts

2006-10-10T13:31:00.000-07:00

Burrito

2006-10-08T19:42:00.000-07:00

Simons' friend Steve has this saying that he made up when he moved to San Francisco from Manhattan. People move here for the sunshine and the cool music and the sweet rock climbing and the healthy living and the drag queens. They move here because the restaurants are paradise, because the money is good, because they like the fucking avocadoes, right? Well, on a fine weekend like the one we just had, everyone is buying into it. As Steve says, "They're buying the burrito."

I am buying the burrito. I am paying extra for the avocado.

Let's review.

Saturday:
Ocean Beach for surfing and dog walking.
Free bluegrass concert (Hardly Strictly Bluegrass) in Golden Gate Park, where I sat on my blanket with my dog, eating funny cookies and knitting WHILE WATCHING EARL SCRUGGS, GILLIAN WELCH, EMMY LOU HARRIS AND DAVID RAWLINGS.

Sunday:
Grace Cathedral to pray for Bush's impeachment
Bouldering at Tiberon where my husband went all crazy showing this rock who's boss. Um, meow?
Lunch in Alamo Square while watching the Blue Angels do aerial tricks overhead

Damn, I love burrito.

Famous

2006-10-07T10:46:00.000-07:00

"Please observe..."

Last Monday's Chicks With Sticks meeting/extravaganza/party down. I drove myself to Bliss Bar in the Mission, only getting lost, um, four times. Bought myself a contraband glass of wine (the expense!) and sat down with all of the fabulous knitters. See Gabbi with her red sweater project and Meaghan with her sweater and oh, just everyone!

The second picture down. That's me on the right! Me! With new friends!

Jobs Shmobs

2006-10-06T15:03:00.000-07:00

Does anyone else just find job searching to be totally debilitating? It’s a little like wearing your heart on your sleeve and having people tell you that you either are or aren’t good enough. And when they don’t bother to contact you at all…well, that’s just mean.

So I had my first interview today, with (and don’t even SAY it) a big PR firm out here. And no, I do not, under any circumstances, want a PR job. If I were to take one, no matter how fancy, I would be selling out. I came out here to WRITE, goddammitohell, and that’s what I want to do. But in the next day or two, I’m going to have to ask my husband for money, and no matter how great our partnership, some small part of me will wither and die when I do it. It’s so…so…June Cleaverish.

Anyway, the interview went okay, I guess. I met with their senior vice president, who I must say, is a complete douchebag, one of those people who has to negate every single thing you say no matter what. If you say the sky is blue, he’ll tell you it’s pink and here’s why. The other three people I met with while I was there were pretty nice and seemed fun, and my writing test went fine (I mean, really). So because I don’t want it, they’ll probably make some hideously great offer on Monday that will be so hard to refuse, because think of all the fun shoes I could buy and get ourselves out of the disgusting amount of debt we are in. Simons says I shouldn’t even consider taking it, which is kind of awesome man he is. But remember… “wither and die.”

Lots of other fun stuff has been happening. I went to my first Castro Street Fair last weekend. There were gay cheerleaders, who were incredibly mediocre, but damn I love a good sweater monkey. And lots of very large buff men with teeny weeny dogs. And drag queens…lots and lots of veeeeerry ugly drag queens. AND (!!!) I saw one of the twins from America’s Next Top Model. Actually, my friend Steve had to point her out, because I haven’t watched any of this season’s episodes. I’m too busy catching up on Grey’s Anatomy. Lust, Lust.

And Simons has been surfing, while Mistress of Evil Who Has Learned How To Open The Fridge And Must Be Stopped For The Love Of God and I have gone for lots of beach romps. I should hire her out to the military for trench digging or landmine rooting. This hole was bigger than she was.

And look how proud…

It’s new for me to walk on the beach barefoot while wearing a down parka. But there is tons of interesting stuff to poke at. The sea kelp looks like something from outer space.

Here is my kitchen and the view from my back stairs.

I love my apartment so much I want to lick it.
Which is good, because I can't afford to leave it.

GAH!

2006-09-29T13:45:00.000-07:00

Just devoured a half tub of Dulce de Leche. The fatness! THE FATNESS! Get it away! A pox on the Haagen Dazs! Must get out of this apartment! The walls! The walls are closing in on me! GAH!

Alms?

2006-09-29T13:11:00.000-07:00

I was plugging away at the emailing clips and and job searching yesterday when I got a desperate phone call from Simons at Ocean Beach, calling from someone else's cell, and immediately I assumed he was bleeding since I'd been berating him before he left about surfing buddyless. And no, I wouldn't go with him even if he asked (well, maybe then) because I NEED SOME TIME ALONE. Even when you are with the person you love, emailing/begging for jobs should really be done alone in a dark room surrounded by trickling water and bats. I'm just not used to this sudden shortage of personal space.

Someone had stolen his car key while he was surfing, and some other surfer said it had happened to him and because the car and wallet were still there, he had assumed everything was okay until a week later when all his credit cards were hosed. Nice. So I RODE THE BUS for an hour to get there--ME, who has never taken public transportation in the United States ever. ME! And I didn't get lost. There was a fair amount of galloping across streets and begging bus drivers for directional information, but I at least picked the correct bus lines and stuff. Hooray! And I found my husband and everything is golden. We are home now, with no credit cards, no money, no jobs (for me) and no way of paying for anything. Tralallaa.

This is it

2006-09-28T18:15:00.000-07:00

Total miles covered: 3000
Days on the road: six
Number of states traversed: nine
Surfboards lost en route: three (fuck you, Oklahoma City)
Number of times the dog barfed: seven
Number of times the dog pooped on the Taos Pueblo Indian reservation: one, but it was big
Blatant misuses of Rush’s “Tom Sawyer” by Midwestern radio stations: about 10 million
Number of trucks that began making bad noises in the middle of New Mexico: one
Number of trucks that snuffed out at a Super 8 Motel in Grants, New Mexico, while psychotic vagrants sparred brutally with nearby trees and threw bottles at hapless motorists: one
Number of U-Haul employees who assisted in unpacking and reloading belongings alongside of gross highway in Grants, New Mexico: technically two, but one was faking.
Number of times we will ever U-Haul anything again: zero times infinity

Here is my synopsis of the trip out west: Santa Fe was awesome! We got to see some friends in Nashville! Arkansas roads are shitty! Indian pueblos are neato! Ditto chilies rellenos! U-Haul is the spawn of Satan!

Here is Beulah demonstrating how to look cool on the road. She definitely had the full blown model act going on, what with the constant vomiting, expensive shades, refusal to eat anything, nonstop smoking and complaining and general witheredness. Perhaps I am callous. So be it.

After sitting in Atlanta traffic for three hours (I was driving), we visited the first night with some friends in Nashville, Suzy and David Howerton (Howie) and their young son, Evatt. We had a sublime evening of fine wine and homegrown tomato tarts and lettuces, seated on the porch under the stars. My friend Kimberly, whom I love dearly, had decided a few weeks before, to join the newlywed caravan as a new divorcee, and met up with us after berating the bellman at the Lowes Plaza for taking too long with her luggage. I feared she was going to dislike the fleabag motel I’d chosen in Oklahoma City. I’m afraid none of us did.

The best I can say for it was that we were only there for about seven hours. Then we plowed through a gale (I was driving) until we hit Texas and realized that all the surfboards were gone. Kimberly was behind us and hadn’t seen them, so we assume someone stole them during a gas stop or had picked them up quickly off the side of the road. May Simons’ “Blue Shark” deal them as bad a blow as it did me last year.

Anyhoo, we hit Santa Fe before dark, in time to head to hills of Tesuque for dinner and sunset at George and Donna’s country cabin. Their house is absolutely inspiring. George found old redwood rafters and western saddle trees for footrests and a “hog scraper” to use for the sink. The whole effect was gorgeous and very cozy.

Early next morning, Kimberly drove us to a place called Tent Rocks, a canyon made up of white teepee-like rock formations. All of the ones with little boulder hats stay pointed, while the ones that lose them just melt away. We found lots of Apache Tears, tiny pieces of black obsidian washed out of the softer ash, and climbed around on the rocks and were generally amazed. It made me wish I’d paid more attention in geology class. I guess I wouldn’t have been in geology class if I were big on paying attention in general.

Wednesday we decided to spend an extra day in Santa Fe, and Kimberly took us up to the Taos Pueblo, to take a tour and see the Indians and maybe buy some turquoise. Although the tour was a little rehearsed, Simons and I loved meeting this old man who was replacing the adobe on his house before the snows. Apparently the underlying bricks are over 300 years old, and the outer mud just gets a new coat rubbed on the exterior every fall. They have festivals and dances every season, and I’m dying to go back and see one for myself. One man collecting willow bows flirted with us by the river, and we “rescued” a dog with porcupine quills imbedded in her nose. We could hear the sacred flute playing from inside one house, and the smell of burning pinon was everywhere. This nice Indian man, Steve, sold me some turquoise…here’s me wearing it.

Check out these great ovens. The women wake up at 4 a.m. to make their bread before the heat of the day. Can’t you just imagine the laughter going on between these two ovens in the pre-dawn hours?

Later Kimberly took us ALL OVER New Mexico. This is the mountain that God gave Georgia O’Keeffe, the Pedernal. She said that if she painted it enough, God would give it to her when she died. Isn’t that a romantic word? It sounds like "PAH Dur-nal." It looks so different in all kinds of light. She loved painting this mountain right across from it, with lines of chalk between the striations, which they think resulted from The Meteor.
And then Kimberly took us to The White Place, another GOK haunt, and looky what I found.

That night we went to Pasquale’s, a James Beard dining experience. God, I love the food here. So spicy. So many colors. So many things to dab about, like art for your mouth. And so much cheese.

After that, we had to leave, to get out of the limbo of not traveling and not really staying. It’s hard to really enjoy a place, knowing that you have so many days of driving and moving ahead of you. So away we went, ignoring the growing rumble under the hood, determined to make San Francisco by Thursday morning in time to meet the police officer who was saving us a parking spot. And then all hell broke lose.

“Simons, it sounds really serious. Like it’s the engine dying.”

“No, no, Sarah [stupid female], it’s just a pipe that’s come lose under the cab that’s rattling around.”

“Well it sounds like it’s rattling the truck to pieces. If you can see it, why don’t you strap it down or duct tape it.”

“It’s fine.”

Five miles later, we sat motionless in a Super-8 parking lot, while a scary homeless man beat the living shit out of a tree, screaming all the while. Unbelievably, a U-Haul place was less than a mile away, and they had a BIGGER truck that we could use. Apparently our brand new truck “threw a rod.” I would equate “throwing a rod” with “busting a nut.” It ain’t good. At any rate, it was dead. Very dead. Totally dead. And that meant we had to take everything out of our 14’ truck and put it in the new/old 17’ truck, complete with stale cigarette smoke and lingering body odor.

We finished loading right before a dust and lightning and wind storm, and amazingly, it was my turn to drive again. The wind was so strong, it blew my door backwards and dented the side panel of the truck. How droll.

So after that five hour delay, we had to drive all night through Flagstaff and Needles and Bakersfield (the meth capital of California). We switched off every four hours, but neither of us got much rest. I can still remember the owls flying over I-40, all white and ghostly, and wondering if I was dreaming or driving.

But after all that, here we are in our new home. Nob Hill with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge from the back door, and the sound of the sea lions barking. There is a cable car that rumbles its way up our street…there it is now, and a gourmet shop right around the corner. This is it.

Random

2006-09-14T09:36:00.000-07:00

The truck is packed, and by packed, I mean that we are a bunch of ridiculously materialistic needy Eurocentric bastards. I can't believe how much crap we have and are unwilling to part with. We finally quit loading yesterday after we started hurting ourselves, dropping stuff on our feet and running into things. That happens to me all the time, but it's kind of unusual for Simons.

I've just finished packing the random assortment of crap leftover in the dumping ground formely known as The Kitchen. Let's see, one box has:

Dryer sheets
baboon skull
one random piece of wood
a suitcase strap
one can crushed pineapple
one can cocoa lopez (all we need is rum)
bathing suit cleaner
one subwoofer
one tweeter (I had to ask Simons what these were)
glass star on chain
Boys Are Stupid coffee mug
chair cushion
pecans
conch shell
jar peanut butter

What the hell?

Things I have left to do:
Buy Doggles for Beulah, the dog who is in a permanent decline now, from all this packing.
I'm also stopping by Whole Foods to get her some calming drops.
Then I have to go to the pharmacy
The jewelry store to repair some stuff and buy a wedding present
The post office to send the wedding present
The effing Comcast store that is in BF North Charleston, to return the modem
And some other places I can't remember right now.

Gah! We're never getting out of here!

Despair

2006-09-12T19:30:00.000-07:00

I hate packing
I hate moving
I hate being married
I hate not being financially independent
I hate having to deal with someone else's moody bullshit when at least he has a goddamn job and has laid eyes on the apartment where we're moving and knows how to navigate the goddamn public transportation system, whereas I have no idea and no job and no fucking clue what I'm doing
I hate feeling like I'm going to cry
I hate saying goodbye to my sister
I hate compromising on packing space
I hate selling my car
I hate that I haven't sold my car
I hate not having enough time
I hate this crappy iBook since i had to give back my G4
I hate eating off of plastic plates
I hate not being able to find anything
I hate that I have gained 10 lbs and the aforementioned moody bastard probably thinks I'm hideous and that none of my clothes fit
I hate feeling separated from my friends
I hate feeling so goddamn hateful

I really really hate packing

A whole box of sweet cracker sandwiches

2006-09-02T15:39:00.000-07:00

We have an apartment.

Oh.
My.
God.

Simons called at the end of the baby shower today to tell me he'd signed a lease for $1770 (not too bad all things considered. Hope I get a fucking JOB soon!) for a one bedroom apt on Russian Hill right near Lafayette Park on the corner of Washington and Hyde. It has a view of the Golden Gate Bridge, and trolleys out the front. It has a gas stove pour moi, and lots of room for all our stuff, even a storage room! The owner was happy with Dog, probably more so than I, and didn't add a pet deposit, and didn't even ask us for first and last month's rent in advance. Just a security deposit and the rent. HOLY CRAP!

So I'm unbelievably excited, but Crikey, i have 12 days to move. TWELVE! Oh my God, I have to go lie down. And smoke. And I need a drink. Maybe more than one.

PS: May I just say how APPALLED I was that people showed up EARLY for the baby shower. My sister was sitting there breast feeding Sarah for Pete's Sake (fourth Protestant exclamation in one post) when this woman shows up twenty minutes early. What, does she think we have time to sit around and entertain her when we're still cooking? HOW RUDE!

Babies, Babies Everywhere

2006-09-02T06:12:00.000-07:00

I can totally relate to Aleigh's post from earlier this week. There ARE babies everywhere. I think I've already mentioned that four of my seven bridesmaids were all sitting on les petits croissants. I've been knitting blankies since April, and am desperate for a new project. Today is the last baby shower though, for the Wench and her little bun, who will be Amelia Reed, I think. She will go by Reed and have horrible issue since her mother picked out brown and khaki as baby colors. Um, I'm not saying she needs everything in pink, but why khaki? Just because something doesn't show vomit doesn't mean it's a good color for a nursery.

Okay, to be fair, the nursery is pretty cute. So is my friend. This is the Wench.

Bad Dog

2006-09-02T05:52:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was not one of Beulah’s finest. Before leaving my sister’s house, I had cut myself a nice piece of fresh blueberry scone, wrapped it tenderly in paper towel, and put it in my raincoat pocket. After loading the car, I told Beulah to hop in, and off we went. My mouth already watering, I reached for my pocket, only to discover someone’s snout already in it, busily finishing off the last delicious morsels of paper towel. After a sever scolding, I insisted she ride in the back, where she sulked the whole 90-minute drive home.

Then last night, I went over to the old homestead at Rutledge Place, drank frozen mojitos with mint from the garden and watched a riveting game of ping pong. Vince had made mashed potatoes with truffled salt (Oh my GOD, so divine. Every time I opened the jar, I had an...um, special moment. I may have to go buy my own jar until Simons gets back.) and salmon burgers. Yum! All of a sudden Vince yells up from the backyard grill, “Beulah just ate two salmon burgers that were cooking. Do you think she’s okay?”

Beulah was better than okay... until I got to her.

So that was breakfast and supper. I dragged her away from her feast and went home, very hungry, embarrassed, furious. I thought a nice hot shower might soothe my temper. It did, but I had a nasty premonition while I was drying off, and sure enough, when I got out, I went immediately in search of my Invisiline trays, only to find them mauled into a thousand pieces next to the couch. The scream alerted Beulah to my wrath so I had to root her out from under the bed with the mop, howling with fury and hatred. I promptly flung her outside for the night.

Today, I have emailed our dog trainer, Susan Merritt, of Purely Positive Dog Training. “Why, Susan? WHY IS MY DOG SO BAD?” She eats stuff that can’t even TASTE good! She eats sponges and toilet paper and dental floss.

Last week, Beulah climbed up on top of the kitchen table and drank two shots of espresso I had blearily forgotten to take to work. Beulah was shrieking and hurling her body against the sliding glass door and walking around on her hind legs when I got home. Well, that was actually pretty funny, but I DON’T CARE! MAKE IT STOP!

Hopefully Susan will have some good advice. Or a taser. Or a shovel.

This just in:
"Who is your veterinarian? It might be a good idea to speak with him/her about these issues. She sounds a little anxious and obsessive to me. You might want to speak to them about medication (antidepressants). I would expect Beulah, as on older dog, not to engage in these behaviors so much. However, she has been successful at it, and that's enough reason for any animal (human included) to keep engaging in it.

I would crate or confine her more for about two weeks -- she needs more management. I would also keep everything out of her reach; take absolutely no chances and assume that she will steal everything. Also, do increase her exercise if you can do so safely in this heat. If you have any other questions, we should probably set up a private session. Let me know about your vet.

Best, Susan"

Susan is the goddess of dog training, so I think it's time to have a special lesson with her and figure out how to show Beulah that things out of her bowl do not belong to her. I'm not so keen to have her on antidepressants though, but I'll definitely talk to my vet. Perhaps switching families is still bothering her...although come to think of it, she did all this stuff with them too. She gets tons of exercise already, at least four walks a day, plus tons of ball throwing at the park, beach and marina, but maybe when we move I can start taking her running again. She hates that (grin).

I will admit that I am loathe to throw a lot of money at this problem, buying Scat Mats and Dog Alarms and such, which ultimately inconviences us as much as the dog. You have to plug these things in when you leave, move them when you want to put something on the counters, put them away when company comes over so your house doesn't look like an altar to your dog's bad behavior. Maybe I can just hogtie her when I leave in the morning. Now, THERE'S a good idea.

I have only myself to blame

2006-08-30T05:13:00.000-07:00

God, I'm hangy. It's only criminal to waste GOOD champagne, not the cheap stuff. Oof.

Here's what I made for dinner last night for two former bridesmaids and a groomsman:

Lima bean, garlic and lemon puree with crackers
Assortment of very good cheese (brought by friends)
Artichoke leaves with butter

Lemon risotto with asparagus and artichoke hearts
Broiled salmon with thyme

Vanilla ice cream with fresh blackberry compote

....soooo much butter...so much...pleasure...brain overload...can’t stand it...(shiver, shiver)...POW! (sounds of head exploding and coworkers screaming)

One of the hazards of drinking and cooking occurred after I'd walked Beulah and Amanda home. After malingering on the couch talking to Simons in San Francisco and flipping through midnight TV shows, I got up and decided that MAYBE I'd do a spot of cleaning before bed. And the very last thing I put away was the blackberry compote, which I was amazed to find was still hot. Perhaps that was because it had been COOKING for well over an hour. God bless All Clad, because the blackened, wizened, crusty berries all came out after an overnight soak. I'm lucky I didn't burn the whole house down.

Anyway, it's another party to add to my entertaining journal, which makes me happy in a 1940s socialite kind of way.

Tired blogging

2006-08-28T20:58:00.000-07:00

My that last post was bad. My apologies. Rescuing rodents really took it out of me.

I was just commenting on Barbie2Be's blog, who just finished what i assume was a blind date or an internet date. Either way, she's way braver than I am. Sadly, she said there was no chemistry but wouldn't discount him as a friend. I said, "I wouldn't know. Almost every guy I ever dated started out as a friend with no chemistry and eventually grew on me...much like mold. But you know, mold can be good. Take penicillin, for instance. The date could also have been 'meh' because it was a breakfast meeting. I NEVER feel sexy at breakfast."

And that's pretty true. No matter how awesome the date, how romantic the scenery, no matter how thick the concealer, it's never enough to disguise the fact that morning is a blight on the human psyche. Even yesterday, as I made Simons his farewell breakfast in a cute nightie (you know, something to remember me by), all I could think about was that the goddamn bacon was spattering on my silk teddy. And you know, bacon grease just ain't sexy.

Who's with me?

I spy with my little eye

2006-08-27T20:32:00.000-07:00

Saturday morning I woke up early, thinking of thank you notes and packing lists and classified ads that I had hadn't done. The dog seemed restless too, so off we walked into the sunrise. Only it wasn't much of a sunrise, because 20 minutes into our walk, the heavens opened (again) and it began to pour. While hurrying through the park, I saw Beulah stop to sniff at what looked like small carcass, and after shrieking at her to "leave it," I had a thought. I don't normally investigate things like that. I am not a roadkill afficianado or anything, but boy am I glad I did, because look what I found.

The poor little guy was in the tiniest ball you can imagine and barely breathing. When I scooped him up, he fit right into the palm of my hand, with his long tail wrapped tight around him. Beulah and I rushed home, and while she scootched her back on the dustcover (no sleep for Simons), I warmed Baby Squirrel on the toaster and called people in the know at an ungodly hour to find some wildlife service who would know what to do.
Thank God for Keepers of the Wild, because they knew just what to do. Baby Squirrel got a hot water bottle and a trip to Pet Vets in Mt Pleasant, who are awesome and take in stranded wild creatures as well as family housepets. They weren't optimistic, since poor Baby Squirrel had pretty bad hypothermia and was awfully small, so let's all say a prayer for the poor little guy.

Who knows, maybe Baby Squirrel would have grown up into the leader of all Squirreldom, and when the evil little rodents of the world take over the world, he would remember and spare me. And Dog.

Back in Realityland, I am cooking for one. It is awfully sad to go grocery shopping for small meals when you're used to making enough for two. Dog is mystified. We went to the beach and I didn't even get to swim, because there was nobody to hold her while I took a turn. Beulah gets very clawey in the water when she's hopped up on tennis balls.

I had the whole couch to myself and it was dreadfully comfortable. I hated it. So much of my life has been spent really enjoying my solitude and now I've forgotten how. The whole day was spent doing unproductive things and wandering from room to room wondering at the cleanliness of it all. It just seemed wrong. Sigh. Simons is just gone for a week, and I'm like an old widow, addled and neurotic. I hope I die first someday, because there will be no tolerating me.

Right now Simons is flying over Colorado, I think, on his way to find a fabulous new job and an apartment. With a gas stove and a dog park. We hope.

swooning

2006-08-23T18:01:00.000-07:00

Thanks for all the nice comments. I was clearly having trouble breathing in the last post.

So Simons and I are officially moving to San Francisco. It’s something we’ve talked about doing for nearly three years now, and we’ve finally bit (bitten?) the bullet. Christ, I’m so scared and excited I could faint. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m getting an ulcer.

So here’s the status of things.

We have to sell my car (2004 Mini Cooper, still under warranty...any takers? Anyone? Who wants cream? Anyone?). It’s so cute and happy, and it’s kiiiiilling me to sell it. But the damned thing won’t hold more than the dog and a shoebox, so camping trips and skiing would require bathing suits only. Plus parking is too expensive in San Francisco for two cars. Sooo...goodbye Mini. (does someone hear weeping?) I’m going to try eBay, as my friend Billy is excellent at selling cars online.

We have to have a yard sale, because there is no way we can afford to move all of our crap. Most of our furniture will have to go, and we’ll make up for it at Ikea when we get there. Hopefully we’ll have a decent sized kitchen, so all my implements of tastiness will fit. Is a gas stove too much to ask? Simons is flying out there on Sunday to interview with architecture firms and find a place for us to live, and if the boy comes back with a lease with an electric stove, I will dissolve. Call me a princess, but if he wants to actually enjoy my cooking, he has to deliver the goods.

I have to find a job. Ideally, I would like to start freelancing full time, which would definitely motivate me to hustle up magazines and pitches. However, I’m moving to a city where I have no contacts and won’t even know where the nearest grocery store is. So it might be better if I work at a newspaper or magazine for a while to get my feet wet. Of course, it would be easier to start sending clips if the #@$% publication I freelance for currently would send me my requested stories. Curse them! A pox on their office!

Breathe, 2, 3, 4...

We need to paint the porch of the little house, and tidy the yard. It’s my dad’s rental property and since he’s rented it to us for the bare minimum, we want to leave it better than we found it. We also want to find a renter before we leave, so Daddy won’t be left with no rent. I guess I could put it on Craigslist as well as the graduate school sites. He has a loathing of college renters, as they tend to suck and be destructive.

Then we have to pack and put the stuff we want to keep, but can’t take, into storage. Moving! Bah! By all accounts, movers rip you off. And steal from you. And break everything. And charge you weird and unexpected fees. So should we put everything in a U-Haul and do it ourselves, or drive across the country in his Subaru and let someone else suffer with parking and slow driving and all that?

And my nieces! My delicious and silly, scrumptious little nieces! What do I do about them? Bean will remember me, I know, but I really like being able to visit my sister and fix her tricycle and watch Cinderella and eat her toes and watch her ballet classes. And the new baby, my namesake with her sweet smelling, wooly little head...Oh! How I’m going to cry at leaving her. Bean and I will always be close, but Sarah won’t have any idea who I am. And that KILLS me!

At what point do we have to say, “Yes, it hurts, but that is someone else’s life and I have to go live mine”? The Leo part of me is absolutely longing for adventure, and logically, this is the best time to go before my parents get too old, and we have (maybe) children of our own. We aren’t truly settled in jobs, although mine was definitely set to lead somewhere good...only I didn’t like it that much. We’re the most flexible we will ever be...God, we’re getting old. But the little crabby Cancer part of me is already under the bed weeping and clutching at the door frame and is prostrate with regret and sadness and bad scenarios.

Moving is hard on the heart.

In other news

2006-08-21T20:33:00.000-07:00

I resigned from my job.

Just resigned. This very minute. Have an ulcer. Freaked. So official. Boss was nice. Tenth is last day. Oh my God. Poverty. I’m going to die under a bridge in the coolest city ever. Fuck.

Movers. Again. Broken dishes. Stolen silver. Smashed wine glasses. More poverty.

Need a home. Need shelves and storage. No brown carpeting. Bay window. A view. Hardwood floors. Gas stove. Pet friendly. Nearby park.

Goodbye nieces. Goodbye boat. Goodbye Mini. Goodbye friends and family.

Hello job search and writing career and figuring it out finally. Hello being on our own.

Hello San Francisco.

Hello hyperventilation.

Maine

2006-08-21T20:11:00.000-07:00

Am back from maine and wish I weren't. Mmmm...lobstah, blueberries, mountains, sleeeeeping. Charleston...get up early, running, work, no lobstah...waaaaah!

Pemetic Mountain

Jemima can find food anywhere.

Sitting on our friends' dock, watching the sun go down.

Waiting for Simons to push me in

Making friends with the locals

Learning new things

The Most Amazing Thing Ever

2006-08-10T21:05:00.000-07:00

Introducing my newest niece, Sarah Elizabeth. Named after moi, practically delivered by moi, and definitely, definitely adored by moi.

My sister let me stay in the room, knitting a blue blanket for the baby I was sure was a boy. And they checked on her once to see how things were progressing, and she was at 5 cm. Then 30 minutes later, they checked again, and THERE was the baby. I instantly dropped several stitches, which I think adds a certain history to that particular knitting project. The nurses called the doctor and warned Melissa not to push, and the second the doctor walked in and got dressed in her "ball gown," they told her to start pushing. Four pushes and five minutes later, out slid the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, all six pounds of her.

I got to cut the cord, and hold her, and instantly this little person became such an important part of our lives. I was convinced I could never love anyone so much as Bean, but as it turns out, the heart is a very stretchy organ, and I can. Just as much...

Al and Jemima Go To (Paris) Market

2006-08-07T15:21:00.000-07:00

This weekend, Beulah Buckethead and I took a trip down to Savannah to see our long lost Aloysius. I was so excited to see her/get out of town/have some girl time, but I must say that around noon on Friday, I was already missing my sweet Simons.

“Dear Simons, Your crackhead wife is already missing you, and I’m only going to be gone two days and had coffee with you four hours ago. Clearly I am totally dependent and clingy and you are having an affair with your secretary.”

“Dear Jemima, I have a secretary? Sweet! Is she hot?”

“Dear Husband, NO! She’s fat and hairy with a wart!”

“Dear Wife. Bummer.”

I pulled into Al’s driveway, rang the bell 62 times per second and got her dogs completely out of control before she’d even finished her doorbell heart attack. Then we abandoned Ian to the pack of wild dogs before fleeing to eat crab legs on Tybee Island. I forgot to bring my camera out there, or else you’d have photographic evidence of the toothless wonders hitting on us at the crab shack. Um, Aloysius, that guy with the red T-shirt....HSTITY! Ian and Simons better WATCH OUT, because we are hot shit out there at Café Loco.

We had enormous fun dishing about work and fashion and boys and weddings and other things that suck. Al gave me tons of advice on freelancing and moving and I gave her pep talks about weddings and the fine line between drug dependency and necessary xanax usage. And we drank beer, that marvelous Cure-All to a rotten week of slaving and under-appreciation. After the music got too cool for us, we went home and showed our age by falling asleep mid-way through Letterman. I did get her to try on her new wedding dress (I have pictures, and no, you can’t see them), which was so beautiful and makes her look like a stick insect with a C-cup. Bitch.

And the next day! Oh my God, the next day was so fun. The shops there are so much cooler than here, and my favorite was @Home, this awesome vintage home store, and I am so in love with all of their paper stuff. If there are notepads, cards and stationery, it’s a sure bet I will buy something, despite the $30 a polka dot pricetag. This place had report cards for different kinds of people, such as the Hysteric (me) and Lover/Spouse (Simons got a D- for Fidelity after having an affair with his fat, hairy wart-ridden secretary) and old grocery lists pads you stick on the fridge, and even a Pro/Con list pad for people who have to fret and worry and second guess themselves and analyze every decision for a million years. I have to make split second decisions to avoid giving myself an ulcer deciding on lunch. This way, I can leave my decisions lying around the house for the dog to eat.

We got to visit the new Jepson Center, which had Simons committing acts of wild gesticulation and pulling out sketch pads to show me I-beams and light patterns and rolling his eyes and frothing. So I was prepared for it to be cool, but I SO did not totally grasp its full awesomeness until we got there. Here’s Al and me in front.

This is the inside.

I wasn’t supposed to take pictures outside of the lobby...but I did! Here is us with Polynesian tattoos and here is this fun webcam thingy.

Savannah, the land of a thousand Jemimas.

Al and I went to eat chocolate at a nearby café. Here is Al eating what looks like a tiny African American nipple.
NIPPLES!!!

No wonder she looks so frightened.

I stayed at my old friend Lisa’s house the next night, which is in one of those neighborhoods with the old brick houses and green parks and wrought iron gates. Beulah and I went for a 6 am run on Sunday down through Daffin Park. I loooooved the whole morning, pretending I lived in the houses and how I would plant differently and sit on my front porch and drink my beer and eat cupcakes every Saturday. Maybe I will move there after I move to San Francisco.

Once it got good and hot, Aleigh, Lisa and I sat at the Yacht Club by the pool, watching the large boats and applying 45 and adjusting our enormous sunhats. Notice there are no pictures of that. You can thank me later.

Home Again

Simons and I spent last night eating shrimp and grits with churrizo and lounging on the couch watching Grey’s Anatomy and being boring and snuggly. Then he drew the layout for his rental house yard project while I took pictures. Here’s us being boring and drawing.

Here’s me eating his brains.