FABULOUS!

I just had a drunk coversation with my Dutch friend, Sophie. By which I mean that she was drunk and I was . . . .tired? Sad? Confused and overwhelmed and frustrated? Yes to all of those, but more on that later. Mostly I was just entertained, because it is not often that I get to talk to Sophie when she is drunk (or really at all, given the time difference).

Sophie pointed out that she doesn't feel she has gotten equal representation on my blog. This is mostly because she doesn't have a blog I can link to, and because she's not here to do crazy stuff with (but I know there would be no end to the crazy stuff if she were here), but it's a fair point, nonetheless.

So I decided that I would dedicate the blog entry to talking about why Sophie is fabulous. Here are 5 reasons that Sophie is fabulous and fantastic and many other good things, too:

5) Give her a bottle of windex and she can kill ants with the best of them.
4) She's better at rallying the troops for big, social fun than anyone else I know
3) She's a fantastic wingwoman. But she really should tone down the match-making. :-)
2) She has this great "leg-humping" dance she does when she's excited and trying to embarass me that I find very endearing (and yes, embarassing, too).
1) Her relentless insistence that I move to Holland, get a job as a union organizer, marry a tall Dutch man (because she tells me they're all tall) and eat a lot of bread and cheese. Because even though it's not going to happen, I appreciate that she continues to push for it.

Oh, and one last reason Sophie is fabulous: her opinions on gender roles in professional soccer.

Only at Berkeley

I was out at UC Berkeley's club sign-up day yesterday, trying to recruit potential activtists for a union organizing campaign we're supporting at work. Here's the thing that makes UC Berkeley's club sign-up day different from anywhere else I've ever been or heard of:

There were protesters.

Yup. People with picket signs, protesting club sign-up day. Or more specifically, protesting the amount of paper being wasted by all the flyers clubs were giving out at club sign-up day. And these protesters were serious--they were screaming at people not to take the flyers, and demanding that people recycle them when they were done reading them.

I'm all for recycling, reducing waste, and protests, but seriously kids? If you are concerned about the environment, seems like you could have thought a little harder and dug a little deeper to find an environmental campaign with a bit more impact than what's going to be accomplished by heckling a bunch of freshman out of accepting a flyer about joining the newspaper staff.

I'm just saying.

Overheard in the office

You can thank my Dutch friend Sophie for finding "Overheard in the Office," a great site where people submit stupid or funny things they've overheard.

My favorite so far (just from the first page, anyway)?

Lawyer: Put your John Hancock on these documents, please.
Daughter: You sure this is legal? I mean, with me being your kid and all?
Lawyer: It is very legal. Far more legal than any of the drugs you have experimented with on my credit card.

Nicknames

I've always been a proponent of using nicknames for the people I date/am interested in. (As, apparently, are many of my friends. Check out Becky and Miranda's blogs for proof.) When I was younger, it was a way to disguise who my friends and I were talking about, so that crushes wouldn't find out you liked them. Yes, I know. Very mature. The nicknames Father Z Man (cute boy turned priest), Croutons (his last name was Bacon, but we thought calling him Bacon Bits would be too obvious) and Cheeto (I have no idea why--but somehow it stuck) were among the highlights of this nickname phase.

Then there was the period where I only seemed to be into people named Steve. We call it the Steve Period (or, more aptly, the Dark Age). Those guys were referred to as Steves 1-7. I kid you not. There really were 7 Steves. And it really was way too much trouble to come up with creative, individualized nicknames for all of them. Thus, a numbering system.

As I got older and more mature (and in a self-imposed Steve-free zone), my reasons for nicknaming changed. As Becky says, the nicknames became a way to distance myself so I wouldn't get hurt. After all, it is hard to get emotionally attached to someone you refer to as the Downsizer.

More often anymore, the nicknames are how I ID people--crushes, new acquaintances, and people I'm dating--to my friends: they might be confused on the real names, but they remember who the Friendster Friend, the Quoter, the Tall Texan, and the Online Dater/Dumper/UnDumper are. (Sorry, A--I'll either come up with a new nickname or just start calling you by your real name now.)

And while I do think of coming up with a catchy and appropriate nickname as a fun challenge, I'm looking forward to the day when all the nicknaming falls away: there are no longer secret crushes, dates I have to distinguish from a pile of other prospects, or relationships I'm trying to keep at arm's length. I'm looking forward to the day when all the fronts and barriers fall away and what's left is me, him, and what's being built between us. I look at Becky, whose list of "homeboys" and "mainmen" has been culled down to one, and I think that looks pretty good, too.

A good blog to check out

Taking the skills he learned at Media Bootcamp, my tall Texan friend Ash has recently launched a blog for his organization, Texas Rio Grande Legal Aid. Believing my blog to be highly trafficked (because he doesn't realize that at least half the time, it's my parents and a couple of friends who get really bored at work checking my blog repeatedly), he has asked that I put a link from my blog to TRLA's. I'm going to do him one better and actually say that I think people should check out the work that TRLA is doing in Southwestern Texas to provide education and defend the legal rights of low-income people, particularly Latino immigrants. (You can link to the main website here.)

Seriously, I know the folks at TRLA are good people (and by good people, I mean the best kind of trouble-makers) when they have the following quote on their main page:

"I think [TRLA] is to blame because they're supplying these people with the information and they're telling them all about the Federal laws and everything." Deaf Smith County Sheriff Travis McPherson, quoted in Howard Gaull Co. vs. Texas Rio Grande Legal Aid, 615 F Supp. 916 at 925 (N.D. Tex-Amarillo Div. 1985)

Giving people information and telling them about laws? How dare they?

David and Goliath, Animal-Style

My co-worker Brooke is pet-sitting a friend's Gecko, Tyrone. The problem with pet-sitting a gecko is that you have to take care of an entire eco-system: the gecko as well as the crickets the gecko eats (which Brooke has to shake in vitamin powder before she can feed them to Tyrone). This is especially problematic for Brooke since she's a vegan and generally doesn't support eating anything that's alive. I guess she tried to convert the gecko (and the crickets) to veggie burgers, but that didn't go over so well.

Anyway, as we were sharing pet-sitting/pet feeding stories, my co-worker Sarah chimed in with what has to be the best (and craziest) feeding story I've ever heard.

Sarah explained how she used to go to a camp where they kept a pet rattle-snake in a cage. Every day the snake had to be fed mice, but it liked to hunt for them--not just be fed them. So they would stick the mouse in the cage at night, and in the morning: no more mouse. Maybe some mouse parts, but definitely no mouse.

Until the morning where the came to check and found a mouse sitting calmly, next to the decaptitated snake. Apparently the cold-blooded snake had already gone into its nightly deep freeze when they dropped this particular mouse in the cage. And the mouse, instead of just hanging around, waiting to be snake bait the next morning, had taken the opportunity to chew the snake's head off.

Thus endeth the snake feeding.

We only hope nothing like that happens with Tyrone, the crickets and Brooke's dog, Paisley. There'd be a lot of explaining to do.

The Challenges of Moving

I talked to my parents last night, who just completed the move into a house that's 110 years old. (From their former house, which was only 100 or so years old.) It seems like a pretty cool house: big yard, balconies, a guest house over a 3.5 car garage. This last thing is very important, seeing as how between my mom and dad, they have three cars. And a lot of tools and other garage-y stuff.

But when I asked how the move-in was going, my dad informed me that they had run into a few problems. Even though they had someone come and set up internet in the house, it wasn't working. Neither was the cable. The washing machine overflowed on its first load, and the dryer doesn't have the right number of prongs to fit into the outlet. And despite the fact that nearly every room in the house has a phone jack, only the one in their bedroom is actually working.

So basically, my parents have no access to the outside world and they're needing to use a washboard and a clothes lines for their clothes. It's almost like living in the 19th century. Given my parents' long-time fascination with old houses and the show "The 1900 House"--some PBS reality show where a family is forced to dress, eat and live as if it were 1900--I find this to be very appropriate. And quite funny.

God Hates Shrimp

You can thank Dan Savage (of the sex advice column Savage Love) for finding this treat:

God Hates Shrimp.

Is this site serious? Is it a parody? You'll have to check it out to find out. . . .

Blog Fans

In the past few months on my blog, something very exciting has happened: I've gained new readers. This, I believe, is every blogger's dream. It's certainly my dream, anyway.

For those of you who didn't already know this, I have a site meter, which lets me see how many people are reading my blog and where they're reading it from (and other, not so helpful stuff like whether it was from a Mac or a PC and who their Internet Service Provider is).

I don't normally bother to check the site meter, but out of curiosity today, I looked. And there are all these new readers in fun locations! Some of the locations I recognize: The Netherlands, London, Boise, Austin--I know who you are. But other locations have me intrigued: who's reading me in Denver; McAllen, TX; Little Rock, AR; and Long Beach, Mississippi? (Actually, given that apparently Long Beach is just outside of New Orleans, maybe I do know who's reading. In which case, I'm sorry--I know I owe you a phone call!)

For a long time, I had "sneaky fans" in Raleigh-Durham and Laurel, NJ. I never had any idea who they were. And as fun as the speculation on their possible identities was, I always wished I'd just known.

So if you're reading my blog, and you're not sure that I already know that, you should tell me. It's always nice to be reminded that you're not writing into a big, black void of nothingness.

The Tally So Far:

So since my announcement that I think I'm ready to leave the Bay Area, I've gotten a fair amount of feedback from (admittedly self-interested) friends and co-workers. The results so far are as follows:

Boise--1 Loud Vote
Boston--Nothing
Seattle: 2 Votes
Portland: 3 Votes
Austin: 1 Vote
Chicago: 1 Vote
Denver: No votes (come on people, Denver is great, even if I'm not ready to live there yet.)
Buenos Aires: Nada

There was also a suggestion that I should consider other places in the South. That's not going to happen, I can tell you right now. Dry heat's bad enough, but humidity makes me feel like I'm suffocating. I can't even handle 5 minutes of the wet steam room at the gym.

What I really need is a panel of people to show me pictures and defend what's great about these cities. But since that's not going to happen, I might be stuck road-tripping to find out for myself, or just pinning up a map and throwing darts at it to determine my next location.

Here's some spin for ya

We spent a bunch of time at Media Bootcamp this past weekend talking about framing and messaging. The short definition of "framing" is getting the pieces of an issue that you want to highlight (and nothing else) in the picture. "Messaging" is just what you say about the issue--within your frame. There's a specific order in which you should say things: first articulate a problem, them give a vision or solution to the problem and then put out an action, or an ask, of your audience.

As it happens, I have been given a golden opportunity to practice this whole framing/messaging thing. And as is often the case in real life, I get to practice positively framing something that I do not feel positive about at all. (At least not yet.) This, by the way, is often called "spin:" the euphemisms you use and the way you give things a happy tint, even when you're not feeling that positive about them.

So here's the issue: my last two long-term friends both told me today that they are definitely leaving the Bay Area to be with their significant others.

The frame: This presents a great opportunity to go somewhere new and experience new things.

Message: In the last 3 months, many (you could even say most) of my friends have left the Bay Area--some for grad school, some for love, and some for family. This has left a void in my social circle that I've been slow to fill. Plus, after 4 years in the Bay Area, I'm honestly getting a little bored. The same scene, the same people: maybe it's time for something new? I'll be leaving my job in two months, I don't have as many people to cut ties with, and there's a whole big world that needs exploring, while I'm still young enough and obligation-free enough to do it. I'm ready to find a new place to fall in love with, a new place to build community, a new place to call home. Do you have thoughts on where I should go? Please let me know them.

So like I said, this is a bunch of spin. Am I really ready to cut my ties with the Bay Area? i don't know, but I think I could be, if given another suggestion that sounded appealing enough. And I am open to suggestions--Portland, Seattle, Boise, Denver, Austin, Chicago, Boston, and Buenos Aires have all already been thrown into the ring. It just can't be humid and I'd really prefer a place that had good public transit and was close to nature (mountains get more points than the ocean).

Jesuit Values

So I generally choose not to read the alumni magazine from my school, Boston College, when it comes in the mail. (Ditto--times two--the special alumni newsletter for former Boston College Presidential Scholars.) This is because I always end up with a crazily intense inferiority complex about all the prestigious awards and high-powered jobs my classmates have won since graduation. Given that I will never make any money and will probably never do anything that Boston College--the institution, anyway--would deem worthy of highlighting, I figure I'm never going to end up in the alumni magazine and don't really want to compare myself to those who have.

But this time, the alumni magazine kind of sneaked up on me. Bored and needing something to read, I started to flip through it, and I came across an article about this year's commencement ceremony. The commencement ceremony where Condoleeza Rice had been invited to speak and would be receiving an honorary degree from the university, as it happens.

What the article was really about was the faculty-led protest of Rice as the choice for commencement speaker. Now here's where I get really proud of my Jesuit education:

• Nearly a quarter of tenured staff at BC signed onto a petition saying they were against having Rice speak at commencement
• The petition was authored and moved by Fathers Himes and Hollenbach. Father Hollenbach taught my Human Rights class, which dramatically shaped my politics and the direction my life since college has taken. Father Himes taught the religion class that first opened me up to the concept of radical spirituality and Christianity. He also said the noon Wednesday Mass at St. Mary's that was always so profound and so perfectly germane to what I was dealing with that I literally shaped my school and work schedule around it.
• The decision to move the petition was defended on the O'Reilly factor by Charles Derber, a sociology professor who taught me about globalization and solidified all of the social/economic justice leanings that had started with Father Hollenbach.

Many other professors and students took a stand against Rice (and more specifically, the administration she represents and the insidious war they continue to wage in Iraq), invoking the Jesuit-honored traditions of peace and justice.

I am proud to have gone to a school that not only says it is committed to the Jesuit values of social justice, but whose faculty is unafraid to stand up for them and act upon them. I am proud to call these people my teachers, and I hope that the work I do always upholds the values they have taught me.

An addition to the lexicon

One of my new Spin Academy friends has coined what I think is a really fabulous phrase to describe self-righteous and judgmental "progressive" people:

Lefter than thou.

I love this phrase. It's perfect. It really sums up my feelings about the Bay Area at times. I think it also nails on the head the whole problem with the left: you can't really sway people's politics and opinions if they feel judged and belittled.

Media Bootcamp: the good, the better and the best

Anyone who has talked to me in the last week or so has probably heard some grumbling about having to attend "Media Bootcamp" (i.e., the Spin Academy) for work. Despite all of my certainty that it wouldn't be fun and I wouldn't make any friends, I had a really good time.

Bootcamp was held at Walker Creek Ranch outside of Petaluma--far, far away from the land of cell phone service. We stayed in dorms, ate (and ate and ate--they were trying to feed us every two hours. No exaggeration.) in a cafeteria, and kept it all pretty low key. It's been a long time since I've been any place quite this rural; the main activties for free time were hiking and swimming in the pond, and everywhere you looked there was wildlife: rabbits, foxes, deer, turkeys (lots of turkeys) and crickets almost as big as my fist.

And I did learn a lot about communications and media. Some of it I already knew (and it was just nice to have it reiterated that I was doing it right) and a lot of it I didn't. Maybe the best thing I got out of all the training is that it is completely stupid for an organization as large as ours (and doing so much program work) not to have at least one full-time, dedicated communication staff person. 50% of my time (and by 50%, I really mean 15% on a good week) isn't going to cut it when it comes down to what I think we as an organization want to achieve, communications wise. And going "Quick! We have an action next week--go get some media" is not actually a viable or reasonable communications plan. I guess what the Spin Academy really did for me is verified that I am not, in fact, a fuck-up as a communications person. I might end up being one, but there hasn't really been a fair and thorough opportunity to find out yet, because what's been functioning as "communications" in our office is so far (and so much narrower) than what it should be.

I was also reminded that activists and organizers are great people. It's really inspiring and energizing to be around people who are passionate about what they do, and more specifically, are passionate about trying to make the world a better place. And if they also happen to be cute, funny and from Texas, well that's just icing on the activist cake.

Anyway, overall it was a good week/weekend: Beautiful scenery, new skills, movement people and a lot of beer thrown in for good measure and I really have no complaints.

Except that I'm tired as hell and have to go to work tomorrow.

New hobbies

I was going to write a blog entry detailing my weekend. After all, it was a pretty good weekend: went to the "brewery" with Matt and Abby, attended a "Golf Pros and Tennis Hos" party with Josh, accidentally went for an 8.5 mile hike in Redwood Regional Park the next day (while hungover--yikes!) and saw Little Miss Sunshine (which was really funny). But I haven't been in a very funny, light-hearted mood lately. What with Miranda (and Carrie and Becky and John) all gone, there's been a lack of people to embrace the awkward with, and my head's been going in a more pensive, thoughtful direction than a funny one.

Miranda told me today that she's decided to take up golf. When I stopped laughing at how ridiculous that statement was, she explained. Games of golf, she says, are prime time for business deals, and she doesn't want to be left out of that. Also, she figures that playing golf would be a great way to meet new people now that she's back in Boise and a little lonely. She figures it would especially be a good way to meet men.

She might have a point.

If I weren't completely devoid of coordination, I might consider taking up golf. Or tennis. (Afterall, I already have the skirt.) I could probably stand to get a new hobby that would allow me to meet new people. And men. But only if they're emotionally available. Because wouldn't that be a pleasant change of pace?

Lessons learned

This weekend had been full of lessons that I thought I should share:

1) When it seems like way too much salt is being called for in a recipe, you're probably right. And if you don't go with your gut, then you deserve to eat a dinner of salty shrimp with a side of salt. And approximately a liter of water.

2) There's no such thing as a fool-proof plan. You should never underestimate the wily creativity and determination of a really committed fool.

3) It's not always a bad thing to risk being a jackass. Sometimes it's the best thing you could have done.

4) It's also not a bad thing to admit that you're a mess and that maybe--just maybe--you need other people sometimes.

5) Sometimes you get a second opportunity to say things you should have said. But not always. So don't count on it.

6) Tom Cruise has been creepy for a long time--check out Magnolia (ca. 1999) if you don't believe me. A lesson for Ms. Homes: Katie, it's important to watch more than just Top Gun before you decide you want to marry the guy.

Word.

And another friend bites the dust

This has been a pretty shit week. Let's start out with that part where "IhatemyjobIhatemyjobIhatemyjob." That problem's not going away anytime soon, or at least not for the next two months.

On top of that, I got dumped yesterday. If you're saying to youself "But Claire is fabulous; who'd be stupid enough to dump her?" you get a gold star and a thumbs up for that correct assessment. The answer would be people not over their ex-girlfriends, which I suppose I have to accept as an excuse, even though I don't really understand it. You get with new people so as to get over your ex-girlfriends. But whatever. Since this was the nicest and most respectful break-up I've ever had to endure, I'm going to try really hard not to talk too much shit. But if other people want to talk shit, they should by all means feel free.

In worse news, I'm down to one full-time friend in the Bay Area: Josh. I said my goodbyes to Miranda tonight, as she makes her way (via Santa Cruz and Merced and Scramento and Portland and Spokane) to Boise--at least for grad school, but hopefully not for good? For someone who claims to not do goodbyes, it was a pretty sad one, complete with watery eyes and name-calling. I'm going to miss her a lot. Who on earth am I going to fry stuff with, and who's going to be my co-reviewer of all the dive bars in the Bay Area? Dive bars are only really fun with a friend who knows how to bring out the shady--by yourself, you're just a sad sack in a sketchy bar.

But in classic fashion, we ended her Bay Area residency on a good note: we met a crazy, militant union pipe fitter at the brewery. And, in good T.O.O. fashion, she's going to keep me from behaving like a jackass with regards to the most recent Dumper--she is now the keeper of his phone number. He's been deleted from my phone.

So no, Dumper--if you're reading this (or I should really say when you read this, because I know that you will)--I won't be calling you. Or text messaging you. Not unless Miranda says it's OK. And currently, she doesn't think it's OK.

Even though I'm wishing that I had fought with you about this--I'm an organizer for Christ's sake and I should have done some more probing and pushing about this decision, if for no other reason than to understand it--that won't be happening. I'm going to just have to take a cue from Josh and do my best to get back out there and, as Josh puts it: "own this town." And I will own this town.

Oh bravado, how I love thee.

On the up side of all of this, I'll have plenty of time to go to the gym. Thank god for silver linings.

Berkeley Kite Festival

Miranda and I went to the Berkeley Kite Festival and West Coast Kite Championships today. There were people with kites everywhere, and we saw some really amazing and fun ones.

Among the more impressive and interesting things we saw were the Rokkaku kite battles, where people's kite strings are lined with tar and broken glass (The Kite Runner, anyone?) and then you fight to try to cut other people's kite lines and be the last kite standing. Or I guess, in this case, flying.



We also watched Ray Bethell, a 78 year old deaf guy who puts on choreographed kite performances with three kites--one kite string in his right hand, one in his left hand and one tied to his waist. It was pretty impressive. Besides being known as the "three kite guy," Ray is apparently also known for never wearing a shirt, which means he's pretty tan. This fact led the kite festival broadcasters to announce "Well, it seems Ray is wearing a nice brown leather jacket today. Oh wait, that's not a jacket at all. That's just Ray."

Meltdown (and no, I'm not talking about the heatwave.)

I just had a minor meltdown at work. This has been a really shit week, so this should not have come as a big surprise. When your major projects for the week involve figuring out how to make absolutely no work look like $17,500 worth of work, and taking 11 people's conflicting feedback on a buzillion minute details of a potential website design and trying to create one cohesive position to tell the web designer (knowing full well that everyone is just going to keep complaining about the feedback of theirs you didn't take when they see the next round of website designs anyway) and you're not doing anything you feel even remotely good at, and you're definitely not doing anything you even remotely enjoy, meltdowns should probably be expected.

Mine went something like this:

"IhatethisjobIhatethisjobIhatethisjobIhatethisjobIhatethisjob." (This popped out completely involuntarily in the middle of a conversation with two of my co-workers about the aforementioned website. Pretty much apropos of nothing to them, but it's all very clearly connected for me.)

This prompted one co-worker to ask me what I'd rather be doing, and, chiming in, the other co-worker asked, "yeah Claire, what color is your parachute?" which I personally thought was pretty funny.

So yeah, I spent the rest of the afternoon fluctuating between annoyance and frustration.

And while I'm discussing things that annoy/frustrate/trigger meltdown-type drama in me, here's one I'd add to the list:

--The world of celebrity news. Celebrity gossip is bad enough, but when things like "Lindsay Lohan suffers from heat stroke" and "New Miss Universe faints at pageant" make the news, I want to scream. How is this newsworthy? Who cares? Seriously: WHO CARES? I can at least understand the entertainment value in covering the latest Lohan/Hilton cat fight or boyfriend swap, but I cannot even believe there is a whole world of journalists out there who are making their living on reporting that Jessica Simpson brushes her teeth every morning. Get some self-respect and get a real job reporting real news.

Whew. I think that's it for right now. No more melting. Unless I'm talking about heatwaves.

Post-traumatic pet disorder

As a favor to my friend Abby, I am pet-sitting her Beta fish, Alpha. When she initially asked me to watch the fish, I thought this sounded like a pretty easy gig--a pinch of food every other day. Even easier than watering plants and having to worry about them getting too much water or too little, or too much sun, or not enough. (I am not good with plants. She knows this. I suspect that's why she didn't ask me to take care of them.) But a pinch of food? Surely I could handle that without killing anything.

But when I went to pick up my water-loving roommate of the next week and half, I started to remember. Traumatic, horrible memories of dead fish--fish I had killed--as a child. (And I'm not talking your standard "cheapo fish from the carnival goes belly-up in the bowl a week later" kind of stories.) I started to worry that Abby would return to find that I had failed her in the one simple task she had charged me with: to keep her fish from croaking. I started to worry that I was unfit to watch this fish. History has pretty much already proven that.

How bad could it be, you ask? Let me tell you. When I was 9, I had a small tank of neon tetra fish on the nightstand in my bedroom. Now as a child, I was a fitful sleeper. One night, I woke in the wee hours of the morning to discover that the floor next to my bed was wet and my fish tank was missing. Upon turning on the light, I discovered that my flailing, sleeping arms had knocked the tank off the nightstand. To my horror, there, flopping on the floor--amidst the broken, jagged shards of my former fish tank--were my 8 neon tetras, their little mouths opening and closing in waterless gasps as their eyes started to bulge. One by one, they died on the floor. I screamed and screamed, horrified by the sight. (What can I say? I was a highly strung child.)

After that, my parents passed a rule that I could no longer keep fish in my room. As a consolation, however, my dad did superglue the tank back together, printed out some fish on neon paper and stuck them--on toothpicks--back into my tank. He said they would have to do until I learned how to lie still and sleep like a normal person.

Time passed. Eventually, my parents bought me a new fish, a goldfish named Fred. Now I know it's silly to become attached to fish, but I was attached to Fred. I'd had him for almost a year when Christmas rolled around, and I felt like he deserved a stocking and presents, just like our other pets had. (What can I say? We're a weird family.) For presents, I had bought him some new plants and tiny plastic castle to put in his bowl.

"Aren't you excited, Fred?" I asked, as I scooped him out of his bowl and put him in a cup so I could wash out his bowl and put in his new accessories. He wagged his little fish tail at me; I like to think that he was, in fact, excited about the plants and castle.

In my haste to get him back into his bowl, however, I didn't think to check the temperature of the water. I poured him back into the bowl, and watched, horrified, as he died on the spot--boiled alive in hot water. His little limp body drifted in and out of the strands of his new plants and finally collided with the side of his new castle.

I was a certified fish killer.

I feel like fish usually die in a sort of vague, "no one's really to blame" kind of way. But this was clearly my fault. And I took it pretty hard. I immediately started crying and proceeded to lock myself in the bathroom for more than a hour. Needless to say, it kind of put a damper on that year's Christmas festivities.

There were no more fish after that. It was too hard, too painful.

Until now.

Now, I live in fear that I will come home and find Alpha dead and floating in his bowl. I am terrified that I will trip and accidentally knock his bowl off my dining room table, where he is currently stationed. I worry that my neighbor's cat, who likes to come visit, will think Alpha could make a good after-dinner snack. I fret that sunlight streaming through my windows will bounce off a particularly reflective surface and create some sort of heat-seaking laser beam that kills him dead, like ants under a magnifying glass. I am sure I couldn't handle the trauma of killing off yet another fish.

I am counting the days until Abby comes back.

I just hope I still have a fish to give her when she gets here.

Flight Karma

I have bad flight karma. I always have. I don't know what I did to piss off a flight attendant or a pilot in a past life, but it must have been really bad, because there seems to be no end to my airline punishment. In fact, it's only gotten worse as I've gotten older.

It used to be that anytime I got on a plane, it was pretty much a guarantee that the screaming baby would be immediately next to me. Or if not that, then the snotty three year old who's just learning how to kick would be right behind me.

But in recent years it's gotten worse. Lost luggage, delayed flights, re-routing, cancellations. You name it, it's happened (frequently).

And because I am a former theatre major (and by definition, somewhat dramatic about everything) I always complain when these things happen. I complain so much, in fact, that I think people have stopped believing that my flight karma is as bad as I say it is.

Today, on my way back from a work trip to Los Angeles, I had the opportunity (three hours, in fact, but more on that in a moment) to reflect on my karma and count up exactly how often airline misfortune has befallen me in the past year. Here is my list:

--September 2005: On my way to my cousin's funeral. Delayed in Washington Dulles (the most boring airport EVER) for two hours. Completely missed the visitation and arrived at the funeral home in time to see the janitors cleaning up and locking up. (On the return trip there was another 2+ hour delay in Dulles--but this time I was stuck in what I'm very sure was a converted airplane hanger, complete with concrete floor and grease stains.)
--November 2005: The ever-harrowing trip home to Colorado, this time for Thanksgiving. Made it to Denver, only to be delayed by an hour and a half for the 15 minute flight to Colorado Springs. On Thanksgiving Day. (A side note: Colorado Springs is only about 55 minutes away from Denver. Another side note: being stuck in Denver International Airport--aka the airport from hell--will be an ongoing theme.)
--December 2005: Going to Chicago to visit friends. This trip was a doozy. My flight was actually canceled. They put me on another flight, which was an hour late getting to Oakland, and two hours late leaving. They were in such a rush to make up time because of the lateness that they didn't actually put our baggage on the plane, but put it on a later flight. This meant that we got to Chicago late, and then had to sit in the baggage claim area for another hour (because no one told us what had happened) while we waited for our luggage to appear. Oh, and I was flying into Midway the day after that plane had actually skidded off the runway and into the street. And of course, I was also an hour and a half delayed coming home.
--December 2005: Home for the holidays. Delayed in Denver going to Colorado Springs.
--December 2005: On my way to Boston for New Years. Delayed in Denver (at least two hours).
--January 2006: Coming home from Boston. New Year's Day. My flight was delayed by (and I kid you not) 6 hours. Maybe more. The only upside of this was that if my flight had left when it was supposed to I would have still been hungover (and maybe even drunk) from the previous night's debauchery. As it happened, I caught the delay before I left for the airport, and so was able to spend a few more hours watching the Project Runway marathon on Bravo. And then I went to the airport, and hung out there for a few more hours, while my flight continued to be delayed. And it's always fun figuring out how you're gonna get home from SFO in the wee hours of the morning after BART has stopped running. Good times all around.
--February 2006: L.A. for work. Absolutely nothing bad happened. (This is really just the gods playing with me, because. . . .)
--June 2006: San Diego for the marathon. Am trapped on a plane with a horrible group of marathon running wanna-be cheerleaders called Team Awesome. There is chanting and singing "We Are the Champions" involved.
--June 2006. Washington D.C. for a wedding. (See above note about how boring Dulles airport is.) There is torrential rain this weekend, causing most of D.C. and the surrounding areas to flood, stranding hundreds of people in the airport over night, and causing my flight to be more than 3 hours delayed. (But I will say I am grateful it took off at all.) This also got me back into Oakland at approximately 3 in the morning, forcing a very lovely and--I'm sure--tired boy to pick me up when he should have been sleeping. It also meant I was an incoherent zombie at work the next day. (Usually, I'm just incoherent.)

That brings us up to today. I had to go to Los Angeles again for work. I'd managed to get myself on an earlier flight home and I was feeling pretty good. We got on the plane, listened to the seat belt/safety speech, pulled away from the gate. And then we stopped. Why, you ask?

Wait for it. . . .

Wait for it. . . .

Because all the power went out at LAX and they had no radar or any other way to direct incoming and outgoing flights. Two and a half hours of sitting on a plane on the tarmac later, and they finally figured out how to turn the power back on. Here is an article in the LA Times that explains what happened.

My dad used to say: "If we can't get there by flying, then we're not going." Well sorry dad, but my new motto is: "If getting there involves flying, then count me out."

Note: This tally of bad flight experiences in the past year leaves out some of my best bad flight experiences, including but not limited to Heathrow airport losing my luggage (and 10,000 other people's) because their luggage sorting system broke down; the trip to Boston where bad weather forced us to circle until we nearly ran out of gas and were forced to land in Providence and take a bus back to Boston, and my 25th birthday, where I spent more than 5 hours getting drunk by myself in a bar at Denver International Airport, because of--you guessed it--a delayed flight.

Good times at the airport. Good times.

Yosemite--first the funny . . .

I went to Yosemite this past weekend. I've been putting off writing about it for my blog, because I was torn by quite the dilemma: should I highlight the funny and interesting bits, or talk about the profound and thoughtful moments?

But here's the beauty of the blog: I can do both. So here is version #1 of my weekend in Yosemite--with all that was funny and random and action-packed. Stay tuned for version #2. . .

My reasons for going to Yosemite were two: 1) get away from work and people and have a little time to sort some stuff out; and 2) climb Half-Dome. (More on this later.)

I spent Friday in Tuolumne Meadows (for those of you who are looking at that word and wondering how to pronounce it, I'm pretty sure it's something like Two-AH-loh-meh. I wasn't sure at first either). Tuolumne Meadows is the High Country of Yosemite, which means it looks a lot like home for me. In fact, it was probably a little too much like home, because it also came complete with tons of mosquitos in the woods and really intense sunlight. Meaning of course, that I spent the whole weekend covered in mosquito bites and completely sunburned. So now I have this awesome farmer tan that cuts right across my biceps (I'm secretly hoping it makes them look really jacked. Somehow I doubt it.) and these huge pink welts from where I couldn't stop scratching at the bites. Good times. But the meadows are beautiful, and have way less people than the valley.

Tuolumne Meadows

The valley. This leads me to day number 2, where my goal was to climb Half-Dome. Climbing Half-Dome, for those of you who don't know, involves a 17 mile round-trip hike, climbing some 4,000+ feet in elevation. And oh yeah, the last 900 feet or so aren't really hiking so much as they're pulling yourself up a nearly vertical granite rock face using some loosely anchored cables and an occasional plank of wood. You could call it a ladder of sorts, but I wouldn't. I'd call it scary.

Now you might be asking, what would possess someone to do this? Well, there's the bragging rights of being able to say you climbed Half-Dome. But for me, it was more about proving to myself that I could--I didn't really need to prove it to anyone else. You see, three years ago, my JVC roommates and I went to Yosemite, and several of them climbed Half-Dome. I did not. There was absolutely no way my out-of-shape ass was going to make it up that. I barely made it up Yosemite falls, which is equally steep and not nearly as long (or as scary). So I wanted to mark that I am much healthier than I was three years ago, and in much better shape.

And guess what? I am.

So here, quick style, are the highlights of Half-Dome:

--The loud Fresno hikers who apparently make the trek to the top of Half-Dome every year. This year they had Brie cheese, fried chicken and red wine (in little plastic wine glasses) to celebrate their ascent.

--The 10 Mennonite women (all wearing really ugly long-sleeved, ankle-length flowered dresses and white bonnets) who I ran into as they were hauling their way up the last bit to the top of Half-Dome.

--The San Jose girls who befriended me and got me up (and back down) the dome itself. Especially helpful was the girl who, when I stopped mid-way up and told her I thought I was going to throw up, informed me that that wasn't an option, because there were guys watching, and did I want them to think I was some little wussy girl?

--The two guys I hiked down with. I'll call them Big Talk and No Talk, because one wouldn't stop talking about how awesome he was, and the other--who had apparently pulled a groin muscle but didn't want to stop because of some guy-ego-competitive thing--never said a word. They were at least entertaining, and they made the end of the trip go faster.

--The twelve people who very helpfully informed that I was sunburned ("Yes, I know.") and then asked if I needed some sunscreen ("No, thanks, I've got some. But where were you yesterday when I could have used it?")

--And oh yeah, the view from the top: You could see all of Yosemite Valley and up and out the other side, as well the lush, green sprawl of the back country. It's convinced me that the next time I go to Yosemite, it'll be to get out of the valley, away from the tourists and back into the mountains.

View of Nevada Falls from the John Muir Trail

View of Half-Dome from Little Yosemite Valley


The next-to-last part of the Half-Dome ascent. This, ironically, is the not-so-steep part

The final ascent. Those little specks, by the way, are people. When I saw this, my inner mother screamed out that climbing this would rank as the stupidest thing I'd ever done. Of course, I did it anyway, but I at least thought twice about it.

Me and the view from the top.

The Occupational Hazards of Ironing

I am slowly coming to terms with the fact that I am not, and will never be, a domestic goddess. The three weeks where dinner consisted of microwave popcorn 5 times and peanut butter and crackers 3 times was the first clue.

Then there's the fact where I have managed to kill nearly every plant I have owned in the last 4 years. Even with regular watering and trying to figure out the right amount of sun exposure, they all still died.

But here's the kicker:

When I went to iron clothes tonight--the first time I had attempted to iron in at least 4 months, I am sure--I managed to give myself what might be a first degree burn from scalding hot water dripping out of the bottom of the iron. While I really blame this more on a crappy iron than anything inherently deficient about my ironing skills, I do still think I should take it as a sign that Martha Stewart will not be calling to recruit me as her second-in-command anytime soon.

Yeah. I'm off to find some ice. And some microwave popcorn.

An Ode to T.O.O.

My good friends Carrie and Miranda believe in the concept of "The One," (aka TO) and have long held that they are TO (In a strictly platonic, good girl friend kind of way) for each other. In their infinite wisdom, they decided it was also important to have a back up to TO, someone they call "The Other One" (aka T.O.O). I am Miranda's T.O.O., and I suppose she is mine (although I'm also currently accepting applications for the TO slot, if you know anyone who's looking).

Here is why Miranda is my T.O.O:

The last two weeks have been really exhausting. There's been cross-country travel, delayed plane flights, late nights at work, a LOT of drinking, and having to say goodbye to two very good friends. Now don't get me wrong, it's been a lot of fun, but I'm a natural introvert and too much people time makes me a little bit dysfunctional. With so many good friends on their way out of town at least semi-permanently, however, I felt that I should put the introvert nature aside, and soldier on, trying to cram as much extroverted fun as possible into the months of June and July.

This past weekend, those plans included an Ethiopian dive bar on Saturday night and a day at Stern Grove (to listen to a New Orleans jazz band) on Sunday on top of playing tour guide for a good friend who was in town. While all of this sounded really fun when we planned it, after my stint as San Francisco tour guide on Saturday afternoon, the last thing I wanted to do was schlep back into the city, spend too much on food and beer and be sociable and entertaining. (And then do it again on Sunday afternoon.) I took a nap Saturday afternoon, hoping that would make me more inclined to be fun Saturday night. When I woke up feeling groggy and even less fun, I called Miranda, and prepared myself to tell her that my inner-old woman had surfaced and she was not up for going out. As it turned out, I had woken her up from a nap of her own, and she didn't really want to go out that night either. We made plans to skip the Ethiopian dive bar and just do Stern Grove the following afternoon.

The following morning rolls around. I am awakened by a phone call. Miranda. In my head, I'm hoping that she's calling to cancel on Stern Grove, because I really don't want to spend all day at a concert, and I don't want to deal with being cold, or having to do all the work of getting in and out of the city. I listen to the message: "Hey, so I was just wandering if maybe you'd be OK with not going to Stern Grove, and maybe we could just stay and get breakfast in the East Bay instead?"

This is why she is T.O.O. A friend gives you shit when you decide you're too tired to go out. T.O.O. doesn't give you shit, because she feels the same way too.

Oh, and one more reason Miranda's my T.O.O: We had planned on going out and grabbing food and beer to celebrate the 4th of July. What we did not plan on, however, was the number of bars and restaurants that felt like it was acceptable to close for the holiday. I mean, come on people! It's a HOLIDAY. That means that everyone's off, everyone's probably hungry and everyone can drink because they don't have to work. Wouldn't that seem like a good reason for bars and restaurants to be OPEN on the 4th of July?

Apparently not in Oakland.

So after 40 minutes of driving aimlessly from bar to bar, looking for one that was open, we found ourselves cruising down Grand Avenue. Our criteria: a bar with food. Even a restaurant that served beer would be OK. I was just about to give up on the mission as hopeless and head for the nearest Safeway to grab a 6 pack and some chicken wings, when Miranda screamed out: "Oh my gosh! Food! Beer! Food! Beer! Go there!"

Now, it's not just her joy at having accomplished our mission that makes her T.O.O. She hadn't just found the one restaurant in Oakland that was open on the freaking 4th of July. She had found the one that was serving 99 cent draft beers! Good work, T.O.O.

Boy, did I ever call that

Exactly one week after witnessing the first wedding of a good friend, one more friend has made the leap into (soon-to-be-married) life. Congratulations to Meaghz on her engagement!

I can't help but be a little in awe of all the mature life decisions happening around me: engagements, marriages, babies, grad school, new jobs, new cities. Very impressive examples--all of them--of people who know what they want and are going after it.

A sad day in the Bay Area

Had to say goodbye to two good friends last night. For those who don't already know this, some of my very favorite people are leaving the state to go to grad school and/or pursue long distance relationships up close and in the same place. I'm happy for all of them, and I think they're making great choices for their futures, but I still get to be sad.

Last night involved saying goodbye to Carrie, who's going to grad school in Boise, and Becky, who's going to grad school (take two!) in London.

As would only be proper for Carrie, her final send-off took place at the "Brewery," where we drank beer and ate pretzels with her mom and dad, before they drove off into the sunset in a big U-Haul truck. At least Carrie is leaving with a few little pieces of the Bay Area: 4 boxes of Drake's Beer (compliments of Bob Parrish) and a shirt that says "I Hella <3 Oakland." (That's my best attempt at drawing a heart on my blog by the way. Sorry if you suddenly got really confused.)

After a brief stop at my friend Orli's semi-regular Shabat dinner (AKA Awkward dinner--I have a bad tendency of dating people I meet at Orli's house and then have to regularly put up with the awkwardness of running into them after it invariably fizzles out) we went to Becky's going away party, held by her friend (and most fabulous boss ever) Helen.

If only all boss/supervisee relationships could be this good. . . .

Helen, doing her best impression of a Jewish mother (or my grandma) put out quite the spread (which she forced us to take home at the end of the night in little tupperware containers). And Helen, Josh and I were all officially adopted as each other's surrogate Beckys, so that we won't be lonely now that she's gone. Overall it was fun, but bittersweet. But I'm counting the days until I get to see both Becky and Carrie again. (Camping trip post-job in Idaho, baby! London--and Holland--here I come!)

Abby, Josh (with a mountain man Alaska beard to replace the purple tank top), Becky and Claire


Becky's trademark pose. If you were to go back through my blog, I guarantee you could find this post at least two, maybe three more times!

It Begins. . . .

I went to my very dear friend and former JVC roommate Adam's wedding outside of Washington D.C. this weekend. Although weddings seem to be a pretty common occurrence for most of my friends (and all of my other old JVC roommates), this was actually the first wedding of a friend that I'd been to, and the first of anyone that I was at all close to. I am grateful for that.

I find it interesting that I have (I think unconsciously) surrounded myself with people who are totally not on the marriage fast-track; I can't help but suspect, however, that this is going to start to change. Am I about to find myself in a high stakes game of "Last (Single) Person Standing?" If that's the case, I think I have what it takes to go really far!

Despite rain that drove Adam and his fiance Kristi inside his parents' house for the actual ceremony, the wedding was beautiful, I think Adam and Kristi are going to be really happy, it was fabulous to see all my JVC roommates again (and laugh over all the ridiculous things that happened that year), and--in a classically Adam attempt to keep things real--we had barbecue pork ribs to go along with the china, crystal and white linen tablecloths.

Claire, Sara, Erin, Sarah, Jen and Adam--Casa Dorothy Day 2002-2003--at Adam's wedding


Adam and Kristi saying their vows.
Oakland's unofficial "husband school"--now taking applicants!

Weekend updates

Had a really fabulous, laid-back weekend. Here are some of the lessons I learned:

1) Don't order french fries at an ice cream parlor. Unless, that is, you're prepared to gnaw your arm off while you wait for them, while simultaneously silently cursing your friends who are plowing into their ice cream sundaes.

2) Root beer floats are really two receptacle projects. And if you don't have two glasses/bowls, you'd better have a glass and a tub. Otherwise, you're gonna wish you had an umbrella, some goggles, a raincoat and a lot of handiwipes.

3) Soccer is addicting.

4) There is such a thing as embracing the awkward too much. If you're talking about beer bottles and the cap/no cap discussion comes up, you've gone too far.

5) If you're not going to come prepared to do the gourmet picnic at Stern Grove, then you'd better end up sitting next to a guy named Nico who has french bread, cheese, truffles, vegan cookies and a lot of wine to share.

6) Bonus points if he immediately points out that he's straight and single and then picks up your friend.

7) When matching opening bands with headliners, it is important to put the mellower act first and build up to exciting dance music. Otherwise people use up all their energy and fall asleep during the main act.

8) The trick to making the girls' bathroom line go faster than the men's is apparently to have 8 women's stalls for every one men's stall.

9) Club waziema is closed on Sundays. But fortunately, Fly Bar was doing a $10 "all you can drink from the Full Sail keg" special so it all worked out OK.

10) $10 All you can drink does not, in fact, mean that you should try to drink a whole keg by yourself.

11) If you ignore lesson 10, you should make sure you don't let drunk guys you don't actually know make crank calls with your phone. For all you know, he might be telling people that he's your parole officer.

12) Drinking on a Sunday afternoon is only a good idea if you stop before Monday morning.

Short and Sweet

Just two words: Dirty McFlirty.

Chicano Park

On the suggestion of a friend, when I was in San Diego last weekend I visited Chicano Park. The park is located in Barrio Logan, a predominately Latino neighborhood in San Diego.



In the 1960's, I-5 was built straight through the heart of the neighborhood, and many residents were displaced. While many simply accepted the destruction of their neighborhood, some were willing to fight back. Over the course of a number of years, residents organized and fought to take back the land from the control of the Highway Patrol.



In 1970, after hundreds of residents occupied the area and used civil disobedience to stop bulldozers from tearing down even more of the nieghborhood, the land under the freeway was transformed into a park.



Chicano Park is now a symbol for how communities can save their cultures and their neighborhoods by standing together and fighting. If you want to know more about this awesome and inspirational story, go here.

Shenanigans at the "brewery"

The "brewery"

I think I may have met my match--someone who is as willing to push the envelope of awkward as I am. He might even be a little more willing, frankly. Let's recap what happens when three funny people--one of whom loves mediocrity and two who embrace awkwardness--get together and get drunk.

So Miranda's friend Darren came down from Sacramento to hang out with us on Friday afternoon. Now I've met Darren once before and my general impression was that he was a funny, fun guy. (He claims that I trash talked him during a game of Phase Ten, but I think that is highly unlikely--although not improbable--because I know for a fact that I wasn't actually playing Phase Ten that night.) But I had no idea how funny Darren was until Friday.

But here's the deal. I'm way too lazy--and it's now too far removed--to bother with an entire write up of the craziness that was two Friday's ago experience of the "brewery." If you want the long (and I do mean LONG) version of the night, check out Darren's blog account of it. (But take it with a grain of salt--I was not anywhere near as much the instigator, and he was not anywhere near as much the helpless victim who played along as he makes it seem. I promise. Oh. And I'm definitely not quirky.)

Here are the quick and dirty highlights of my night with Darren and Miranda:
--George (as always). As soon as he saw me, he made a beeline, pulled out his best (and by best I mean ridiculous) "smooth" manner, and when I commented on how I could see two of myself in his aviator glasses, he replied "you must be enjoying that very much."

(On a side note, when I recounted that moment to a friend the next day while waiting at a stop light, some middle-aged guy with his toddler turned around and said "wow. That's a dumb line. I would have said 'well I wish I could see two of you right now.'")

This is Darren's best impersonation of George's smoothness

--George asking me to invite my friends to his party because "they were hella cool." Get your own hella cool friends.

--George calling me "quirky." That's like the pot calling the kettle black, son. Actually it's not like that at all, because I'm not "quirky." And if I hadn't been holding a really good Belgian beer in my hand at that moment, I might have started a street fight with George right there to prove it.

--Darren lying to a homeless guy about how he and I were married and then causing a big fake scene while we waited for a table at some restaurant.

Good times at the "brewery." Good times.

Top 10 Marathon Moments

10) The guy wearing nothing but a speedo and a REALLY large sombrero while running the marathon.

9) Listening to this band of Marines' pretty good rendition of Beyonce's "Crazy in Love."

8) Having no qualms about drinking 4 margaritas and eating my body weight in Mexican food later in the day.

7) Getting to run on a freeway. (They had blocked it off especially for the race.)

6) Overhearing the guy next to me ask his friends: "When have you ever gotten to run on a freeway? At least, you know, when you were sober?"

5) Discovering that all the Team in Training people who went to San Diego raised more than $12 million dollars for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.

4) The group of running Elvises.

3) Josh in a purple tank top.

2) Never having to consume Powerade, Powerbars or Gu ever again. (I will be especially happy to never eat another Strawberry Cliffshot as long as I live--runny strawberry jam with salt in it is NASTY.)

1) Crossing the finish line with a smile on my face.

Would the Real Team Awesome Please Stand Up?

It was questionable whether I was going to make it off that plane without going postal on some hyped-up happy marathon runner. But I made it safely--and without further incident--to my hotel room, where I promptly barricaded the door to ward off any further interaction with Team Awesome.

Shortly thereafter, Becky arrived, looking traumatized. She had survived her flight from San Francisco with the Team as well. (*A word about Becky's team: while I've been putting up with Team Awesome, Becky's been dealing with the San Francisco equivalent, Team Sucks a Lot. They really do. It's mostly rich-bitch Marina girls who've cornered the market on being unfriendly. And at least one of them--we're pretty sure--has really botched-up butt implants. So while they're not quite as peppy, they're still pretty awful. Becky was grateful to have survived.) So we hugged and swore never to leave the other person alone with the Team again.

And then we devised a plan. We weren't going to let the Team drag us down. We weren't going to drown in a sea of pep without a fight. We would fight cheesy with . . .irony. We would reclaim Team Awesome.

And so we did. We took our Barney-purple Team in Training jerseys and we wrote TEAM AWESOME on the back. And then we wrote it on our arms. And then we made a pact: anytime a Team in Training person yelled "Go Team" at us during the race, we would respond with "TEAM AWESOME!!!" (Pronounced TEAM AWE-SOME!)


And then, as our coup d'etat, we convinced (and by convinced I really mean insisted) our friend Josh to wear my extra Team in Training jersey (which was too small on me, and thus WAY too small for him) while cheering us on. Not only did he wear it, but he ran the last four miles with Becky in it. Now that's a good friend, and a deserving member of the real Team Awesome. And so, Becky and Claire managed to avoid the pep, bring the irony, and overall have an awesome marathon experience. (What kind of awesome, you ask? Team Awesome!)

Team Awesome members Claire and Josh post-race. He carries off the jersey with aplomb, don't you think? I've been told he has quite the thing for purple!

Team Awesome Goes Bad-Ass.

Team Awesome does San Diego

So I ran this marathon on Sunday. But before I really get into it, here's a little back story on how this came to pass:

My friend Becky and I decided back in February that we would raise money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society and train for this marathon with their program, Team in Training. At the time it seemed like a brilliant plan: raise money for a good cause and have a structured group setting to make sure you're doing all the training to get you ready to run 26.2 miles. There was, however, one thing that we could not have expected about Team in Training that made it kind of scary (and in my book akin to Chinese Water Torture):

The pep factor.

I've never met so many happy, peppy people in my life. Like abnormally happy and peppy. "Should-have-been-hired-to-work-at-Disneyland" kind of happy. "Got-kicked-off-the-cheerleading-squad-for-being-over-the-top" kind of peppy.

And let me just be clear. I do not do peppy. I was a cheerleader in high school, and I am very sure I used up an entire lifetime's worth of peppy cheer in those three and a half years. There is literally none left. I CANNOT handle peppy. Or cheesy. Or any type of "too sincere for its own good" sacharine sweetness. This is why I hate musicals, and a cappela groups and movement songs. And it is also why I HATE Team In Training.

So we show up for Team in Training and it's all chanting and cheering and clapping and "GOOOOOO TEAM!" all over the place. This is bad enough for me. But then they tell us that we're going to have to come up with a team name. I can feel myself starting to cringe as I look desperately for an exit from this cornball filled hell. After a brief flirtation with the name Team Outstanding (and I hope you don't think I'm kidding) we finally settle on Team Balance. I quietly retch in the corner. Privately, to Becky and to my other friends, I decide to refer to the crazies as Team Awesome. (This is, of course, ironic.)

Becky and I start going to the team workouts. I don't last long with this. Every time I go, I can feel the "Go Team" and "East Bay ROCKS" chanting, the Team Balance name, the super-excited, happy and energized people who just can't wait to bust out some jazz hands eating away at the core of my very cynical soul. This is not acceptable. I decide to train on my own. Because really, when given a choice between revolting peppiness and running 20 miles by myself--hell, given the choice between peppy and just about anything else--peppy is going to lose.

I stayed aloof and removed up to the day that we all flew down to San Diego. And then something terrible happened. I got trapped on a plane with Team Awesome. And they were in prime form. Most of them were wearing their Team gear, and as soon as the flight attendant had finished the flight safety speech, the chanting began. And then singing: "We are the Champions." "We Will Rock You." God knows what else because by then I was curled in the fetal position in my seat, rocking and covering my ears while screaming "I can't hear you, I can't hear you."

Ok that's a lie.

But the chanting and the singing is not.

So much adbsurdity, so little time

Ok, so I have about 4 things I need to blog about, but as a warm up to those, I thought I'd throw out this little gem of weirdness from my day:

I've been reikied.

I ran a marathon on Sunday. As could probably be expected, I am rather sore. In fact, it would not be an exaggeration to say that I have been walking like a Zombie for the last two days. (By which I mean that I can't bend my legs and so I have to kind of rock back and forth from leg to leg to propel myself forward.) And that whole no bending the leg thing has made stairs, hills and sitting not really so fun. I pretty much just groan and wince and grumble my way through it. That is, until this afternoon.

I was volunteering for a political campaign, and one of the other volunteers noticed my stiff gait and pained expression. He asked what was wrong, I explained and he asked me to show him where exactly my legs hurt.

I pointed to a spot on my hamstring where the pain seemed to be strongest. Suddenly he leaned behind me and placed his hands near--but not on--the spot I was pointing to. For a very long moment we stood like this--me bent backwards, pointing, him scrunched over, waving his hands over my leg. Everyone in the office turned to stare. One woman asked if everything was OK and seemed concerned that he was trying to accost me. I told her it was OK, although I'm sure I looked pretty freaked out.

Finally he stood up, smiled and told me to try walking now.

I did.

All the pain and stiffness was gone. My Bride of Frankenstein gait was no more.

I turned to him, incredulous and more than a little suspicious. "What did you do?" I demanded. "Wait--did you just reiki me?"

*Note: For those of you not new age-y enough to know what reiki is, it's the art of healing people by using and changing the energy field around their bodies. I have basically always assumed it was a load of hooey.

"Let's not worry about what it's called," my New Age hippy friend said. "I don't like to pigeon-hole my healing with labels.

"But if you're interested in learning how to do that yourself, I strongly suggest you take classes at the Berkeley Psychic Institute. It will help you get more in tune with your body's inherent healing power."

"OK, nutjob," I thought to myself. But then again, I guess you shouldn't knock it if it works. And here you have my first experience with being reikied.

When Electoral Politics Goes Bad

A friend of mine who is currently living abroad in what I have always considered to be a sane, rational and relatively progressive country called me today with some big news.

"Guess what?" she said. "We have a new political party."

Thinking this was the big news, I replied "Oh, hey that's great."

"Yeah, we get a new political party at least once a year."

So what then was the big news?

Her reply:"This political party is all about pedophilia."

Me: "WHAT??!?"

"Yeah, they want to drop the age of consent down from 16 to 12, they want to make it legal to have sex with animals, and they want to allow child porn with kids 12 and older as long as it's 'tasteful' and the kid consents to participate."

Me again: "WHAT?!!!?"

"Oh, and they also want to make train travel free for everyone in the country."

Bits 'n Pieces

1) Saw the following written in chalk in the stairwell leading to the 19th Street BART station on Friday: "Even our brotha Jesus got killed by the Po-pos." God I love Oakland.

2) If I ever have a band (unlikely, since I don't sing and can't play any instrument other than the piano and even then I only play classical music. And only for my mother) I've come up with the best band name ever. "Amy's Lamey Friends." That's gonna be my band's name. Actually, it's the underground secret name. It'll have some other name that most people know it by, but the really cool kids will know what it's really called. For everyone reading this who just went "what the hell is she talking about?" I apologize. It's an inside joke, and I hope to hell that the three people who get it will think it's really hillarious.

3) Went to the brewery on Friday afternoon. One friend accidentally peed on himself, one friend lost half of her beer because it was so windy (it literally blew out of the glass!), and I had a near run-in with George, which would have been awkward, and not in the fun way.

4) Tractor Pulls and Apricot Fiestas? Must be hanging out in the valley.

Perhaps justice isn't dead after all. Oh wait. Yes. Yes it is.

My faith in the criminal justice system, which was rapidly withering on the vine, has just had a small infusion of hope: a jury found Ken Lay and Jeffrey Skilling guilty of lying about the finances of Enron, thus leading to financial devastation for thousands of Enron employees when the company collapsed.

Admittedly, their attorney is going to appeal the ruling, and the odds are pretty good that even if they do go to prison, it won't be for long enough and it will probably be one of those white-collar prisons with tennis courts and yoga classes (a la Martha Stewart), despite the fact that they probably did more damage and wreaked more havoc than many people locked up in real prisons.

And since they are such good friends of the current administration, there's still the possibility that GW will step in and push for some crazy act of Congress (Terri Schiavo, anyone?) to get them off the hook. Or maybe, as is his usual strategy, he'll just bypass Congress and, you know, lawfullness, altogether to get them out of trouble. Maybe the CIA and the NSA can help out with that. Or maybe there's still time for them to figure out how to blame the Enron employees for this whole mess. When in doubt, blame it on the poor people. That always works. And heck, if in the process of helping out some old drinking buddies, we can all figure out how to undermine just a little bit more of the Constitution, then so much the better, right?

Is it still considered cynicism if it's founded in reality?

Bay to Breakers

Despite the fact that this is my 4th May in the Bay Area, this was the first year that I'd participated in--or even seen-the spectacle that is the Bay to Breakers.

For those of you who are un-initiated, the Bay to Breakers technically is a 12K race that goes from the East Side of San Francisco (the bay) to the West Side (the ocean, or breakers. )Considering that 50,000 people registered for it, I'd say that probably a good 100,000 people participated. Of that number, maybe 20,000 actually attempted to run a fast time. The rest, realizing that it's San Francisco and thus a) it's hilly, b) it's kind of cold and c) there are about 5 million free-spirited anarchists all looking to dance in the streets and just generally get in the way, decided to to dress up and walked/drank it. This is the spirit which which I approached the Bay to Breakers (dressed as a scared-of-water snorkeler complete with pool floaties), as well as my friends Helen and Becky (who dressed like 80's aerobics instructors).

Here are some pictures, but seriously, they don't even begin to do justice to the zany drunkness that is the Bay to Breakers. Naked men who shouldn't have been naked, one naked woman painted red and one belly dancing, people wearing nothing but plastic wrap, approximately 200 people all wearing orange, a super old snow white with her seven dwarfs, gold aliens with anal probes (that's how they explained it to me in line buying 40's at the convenience store, anyway), about 5 sets of Noah's arc (complete with animals), the cast of Gilligan's island, about a million pirates: yeah--they were all there.



The $2 Miller High Life 40--"For on the go," as it said on the label. Quite the deal.



Snow white and her 7 dwarves


Claire tries to drink beer out of her snorkel. It leaks all over her shoulder and her pool floatie and she realizes it won't work. Then 20 minutes later, she tries again.



A trojan horse and a lot of, um, Trojans.



Becky signs the naked guy



My favorite Bay to Breakers costumes of the day: the protesters. And what were they protesting? Yeah that's right. Running.


Becky, Claire and Helen post-race and pre-food

Soul Cleaning?

I know, I know. It's been almost a month since I wrote in my blog. Is it possible that nothing bizarre or funny has happened to me in almost a month?

Proabably not.

The real issue is laziness, crossed with busy-ness. But that's a cop-out: when there's awkwardness to embrace, I'd better damn well be embracing it. And then writing about it later.

So while I get on that task, here's a little tidbit to tide everyone over:

I've now seen this kind of strange van twice in the course of a week. What made it so strange, you ask? On the side of the van was a logo, advertising "Pro-One Janitorial Services."

But on the back? On the back, it said "Ready or not, here we come. GOD. Let go, and let GOD."

Um, what?

Fun Guns: The New "It" Accessory

Miranda's 27th birthday was Saturday, and in honor of her officially beginning her "late 20's," we decided to stalk her favorite author--Anne LaMott--throughout the North Bay.

Okay, maybe "stalk" is a strong word, but we did try to visit as many of the places Anne hangs out and talks about in her books as we could. This took us to some random places (e.g. the beach adjacent to San Quentin) and some very posh places (e.g. Tiburon and Sausalito) where we amused ourselves by drinking too many Bloody Marys, eating too much salt water taffy and making fun of a lot of yuppies. ("Jennifer? Robert? Is that YOU?")

Although the day was officially coined "The Anne LaMott Tour of the Bay Area" I prefer to call it "Fun Guns Around the Bay." See for yourself.

Yuppie Fun Guns

(complete with Bloody Mary and the open shirt collar with copious chest hair.)

Happy Fun GunsCharlie's Angels Fun Guns

Tired Fun Guns

Rally Fun Guns! (Notice how Matt is aiming for the bear)

Writers Who Can't Punctuate

This is a picture of the schedule at the Make-Out Room. Writer's With Drinks? Shameful, guys. Just shameful.

An addendum. . . .

Here's the text of the Craigslist "Missed Connection" I posted last night in an effort to find Zooty, the guy who got stuck in the doors of a BART train while trying to give me his number. I actully don't have any inclination to call him, but I thought it would make for a funny "Missed Connection" anyway. The big goal is to land on the Craigslist "Best of. . . " list. (Oh, and to give credit where credit is due: the text of this craigslist post was written by my friend Erin, who enjoys ridiculousness even more than I do.)

Did you get stuck in the door of a BART train last night? - w4m - 25

---

Reply to: pers-153081605@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-04-20, 7:16PM PDT


You: tall, lanky and bruised, answers to the name of Zooty. Me: sassy crossword lover on the Richmond BART line, coming from the A's game. We shared a magical ride, but the cruel forces of the BART doors kept your number from me. Please respond, and we can make beautiful crosswords together once more.

BART

I am a magnet for off-balanced, wacky people. I am also the person that the strange, random stuff always happens to. A case in point:

I'm coming home from the A's game last night. I get on the train, plop down into a seat, and immediately zone out as I wait for the train to pull away from the station. I barely glance up as a big, tall guy sits down next to me and pulls out the newspaper crossword puzzle. After several minutes of sitting and minding my own business, this guy--with no warning, and no introduction at all--shoves the crossword puzzle at me, sticks his pen in my hand and says: "Here. You work on it." And then, almost as an afterthought, he says: "Are you any good at crossword puzzles?"

Um, yes I am good at crossword puzzles, so I started working on the puzzle. After a few moments he leans over my shoulder and begins to comment on the clues that I've answered: "Epees! I totally should have known that one!" "Oh, a knit is a stretchy fabric--I wouldn't have guessed that." Next thing I know we're working on it together, and I'm giving him shit about his dumb suggestions for answers.

Then suddenly, he says: "So, in about a minute I'm going to give you my phone number." I don't know how to respond to this, so I just start laughing. But he continues. "I won't take your number though."

When I ask him why not, he says that hasn't really been working out for him lately, so he's decided not to ask for it anymore. When I tell him I'm used to being the one who asks for numbers, he asks if I had been planning on asking for his, and I tell him I hadn't really thought about it.

"Do you have a name?" I ask him.

"Yes," he says.

"And the name is . . . . ?"

He tells me his name is Zooty, just as we get to my stop (where he is transfering to the train on the other side of the platform). As he gets onto his train, he asks "So, can I give you my number?"

I tell him sure, and he starts to write it down on the newspaper, but the pen won't work. The BART bell rings, and the automated voice announces the train is departing. Suddenly the BART train doors close. ON HIM. After a moment they re-open, and then close again. Still, ON HIM. He is still trying to scribble out a number, caught as he is with only one arm and half his body atcually on the train.

People on the train are groaning and glaring and yelling at him to get on, already. People in the station are laughing and pointing. I am hiding my face in my hands in embarassment.

The train doors open one more time, and he darts out and hands me the paper, then jumps back on BART before the doors slide closed and the train starts moving. As I move to leave the station, the women in front of me ask: "Did he just give you his phone number?" Yes. "Did you just meet him?" Oh yes. "Wow that's quite a catch!" they say. A catch? I'm not so sure, but it sure made for a damn good story. Now it's just too bad I can't actually read the phone number.

"Sweetie. . . . "

So this guy that I've been e-mailing on Match.com (but who I've never met or even spoken to on the phone) calls me tonight and leaves a message in which he calls me "sweetie" not once but TWICE.

Now, I feel like I have spent my whole life honing a public persona that discourages the use of terms of endearment. I have worked hard at crafting a slightly prickly exterior that brokers no such inclination towards monikers like "honey" or "sweetie" or "darling." I have tried to make it clear with my public facade of cynicism and crabbiness that in choosing to venture into affectionate name-calling like this, you risk being skinned alive by me. How is it possible that this very critical aspect of my persona has not made it into my online profile and into my e-banter with this guy?

What on earth would have given him the impression that I was the kind of girl who would appreciate being called "sweetie?" All I can say is: he'd better not be planning on holding my hand or doing any cuddling, because that will be the final straw. I WILL smack down on it.

Dating as the fifth circle of hell?

A friend just sent me the link to a new dating site--IPod Dater. Apparently the deal is that if you join (for free), you can download videos of people explaining why you should want to date them, and then you can contact them. I'm sort of hoping it's a joke, but I don't think it is.

So after the demise of my last relationship attempt, I find myself (unwillingly) back on Match.com. I thought I canceled my stupid subscription, but I apparently didn't, so now I feel obligated to get something out of it until my subscription expires for real in May. My heart's not really in it, though.

The proof? I have gotten ridiculously picky about who I will contact on Match. This is the danger of anonymous online profiles--it's super easy to write people off based on little tiny details that annoy you. So with no further ado, my top 10 list of Match.com profile turn-offs--if you have any of these going on in your profile, you won't be hearing from me:

1) Bad grammar. Did you say nice instead of nicely? Good when you should have said well? You're off the list.
2) Bad spelling and punctuation. I understand that this is a relatively casual mode of communication we're talking about here, but bad spelling just makes you look dumb, and who wants to date someone who can't spell "schedule"?
3) Referencing how hard it is to meet people in your profile. It just makes you look sad and desperate. You're right: it is hard to meet people, but does anyone really want to be reminded of it? I didn't think so.
4) Inappropriate Match names. Examples: NiceBunsBaby and ShutTheFuckUpandKissMe. Seriously? I'm sure those names are reeling in the dates.
5) Anyone with half naked pictures of themselves in their profile, particularly if they're obviously flexing. You're probably a cocky bastard and everyone knows that really hot guys are always more trouble than they're worth.
6) Anyone old enough to be my dad. Or uncle. This, by the way, is the vast majority of men who contact me.
7) Anyone who has to say they are funny, smart or sarcastic in order to prove it. It's the primary rule of writing, people: Show, don't tell. If I can't tell you're funny, smart or sarcastic from the rest of your profile, you're probably not as funny, smart or sarcastic as you think.
8) Anyone who calls himself a "nice guy." This means you're either a jerk who's trying to front like you're a good guy, or you're really a nice guy, and women (at least this woman) generally assume that means you're a big, wimpy pushover.
9) Men who claim to be really, really busy with work. When you tell me that you work 100 hours a week, I wonder when, exactly, you were thinking you'd have time for a relationship or even a date. Perhaps the 100 hour work week is a sign that you're not really in a place in your life where you should be dating?
10) People who start their "About Me" section with the word well. As in, "Well. . . .I'm really funny, blah blah blah." There's no real reason for me to be annoyed by this. I just am.

So with all the guys that those pet peeves eliminate, I have managed to narrow down the Match.com world to approximately. . . . two people. And both of them live too far away for me to really consider dating anyway. Oh well. At least I still have Ipod Dater.

Oh yeah! Oh yeah! I'm gonna get your Grandma!

Last night, some friends and I ventured into the Starry Plough, a bar in Berkeley known for its Tuesday night open mic. We were going to support Miranda, who besides being awesome is also a singer/songwriter. Here were some of the highlights:

--"George," a snarly, radical feminist (and I suspect a lifelong chain smoker, judging by her voice) singing covers of bad 70's rock songs. George's voice has this. . . . scratchy, tone deaf quality that literally drives people from the room when she sings. When George gets on stage, everyone knows it's time for a bathroom/smoke/any other reason to leave the room that you could possibly come up with break.

--Andre the closet Russian. I had a whole conversation with this man. He seemed nice and friendly. Not even the slightest hint of an accent. And then he gets on stage, and suddenly he's dark and moody and oozing Dostoyevskian angst out of every word he utters (which suddenly is coated with this Russian accent) and then he's swaying and singing in Russian. I've heard of people adopting stage personas before, but this was kind of ridiculous.

--But the best moment of the night? Jerry. The only person over the age of 30 who performed in the open mic all night. It was the shadiest, creepiest, yuckiest and yet damn funniest performance I've seen in a long time. His best song was all about seducing old women in nursing homes. The chorus? "Oh yeah! Oh yeah! I'm gonna get your grandma!" I won't go into too much detail about the lyrics--you can check out Miranda and Carrie's blogs for more--but let's just say it was disturbing enough that when the MC got up after Jerry was done to announce the next performer, her first comment was "I never thought I'd say this, but now I'm kind of glad my grandma's dead."

Oh, and one more important thing. Don't forget that Father's Day is the day when Americans eat the most steak. It just might win you a free beer!

Miranda and Claire's Excellent Adventure

So this weekend my friend Miranda and I had ourselves quite an adventure. If you want all the details, you should really go to her blog (http://mediocrityisnotsobad.blogspot.com ) but the short version goes like this: somewhere between the struggle to save Miranda from homelessness, the field trip to check out Golden Gate Park's buffalo, some seriously inappropriate behavior at the DeYoung museum and my run-in with the rudest (and boldest) cab driver in the city, I found time to meet the man of my dreams. He is pictured below. I think we'll be very happy together, as long as I can get beyond that whole "he's encased in glass and is thousands of years older than me" thing. But true love has conquered bigger obstacles than that, I'm sure.