Blood on the walls. . .

Literally. I just checked Janna's blog, and it reminded me that I forgot a kind of key component of last night's experience at Mama Buzz Cafe. There were paintings on the wall that had been created using, among other things, human blood.



Hence all the red and pink tones, I suppose. Now I've heard of artists using wine as paint. And tea. But blood? That's a little creepy, and it leads me to wonder exactly how much blood it takes to paint these paintings (they were rather large) and how one goes about getting that much blood.

World Tour of Bathrooms

So besides making funny faces in Europe, my mom and I also took a lot of pictures of bathrooms. I guess it's one of the places where travel in Europe seems the most different from traveling in the states, and we wanted to capture some of that uniqueness.

Unfortunately, my mom was responsible for taking the bathroom photos, and her digital camera ate most of them. This is the only one that escaped.



My mom actually took this photo squashed inside the world's smallest shower in our hotel room in Vienna, to try to demonstrate just how ridiculously small this bathroom was. If I'd been sitting on the toilet with my feet on the ground, my knees would have been squashed against the underneath of the sink, and when I bent over to wash my face or brush my teeth at the sink, my butt pushed the door open.

This is what happens when demanding American tourists expect a bathroom in every hotel room--you get a full bathroom. . . . for midgets.

Punk Rock. . . in 3/4 Oompa time

On a whim, I met up with my friend Janna tonight at Mama Buzz Cafe, the place where all the grungy hipsters hang out. She was doing work there and noticed on the schedule of events that tonight was the bi-monthly Punk Rock Accordion Workshop, and asked if I wanted to check it out.

How on earth could I pass that up?

In short order, Henri--the teacher--and 4 students showed up, with accordions in hand. And me and Janna, the two accordion "interlopers" and "voyeurs," as we were introduced to the rest of the group.

Henri procededed to teach them the basic tune of a song, which, when played on an accordion, didn't sound the least bit punk rock to me. I will admit to being a bit skeptical about the punk rock-iness of this accordion lesson. But then Henri busted out some teaching points about the composition of punk rock songs and the music theory behind them, and he broke down a Ramones song as an example. That made me feel it was a bit more legit. And then we listened to the CD, and it was indeed angry, angsty--if a little bit instrumental--punk rock.

All in all, it was pretty awesome. We watched as the 5 accordion players gradually drove all of the paying customers out, and Henri even took a moment to refresh my memory on some basic music theory stuff about chord structure, which I appreciated. They had a pretty rockin' harmony going by the time the lesson finished, and I'm starting to seriously think about trying to find myself an accordion, so next time I could join in!

Janna--always prepared, it seems, for absurdity and wonder--had her camera, so pictures are to come!

Magical Thinking

So I've been on a bit of an Augusten Burroughs kick lately. As someone who desperately hopes to wake up one day and be funny, I really enjoy reading other writers that I think already are funny (the hope is that if I read enough of them, it will wear off on me). In the humor writing class I took a few months back, everyone chose David Sedaris and Anne LaMotte as the writers they thought were funny, (I personally think this is because that's who the teacher liked. Suck ups.) but I'm sticking with Augusten.

He's warped, twisted, completely self-centered and horrible. And he totally knows it. And that's what makes him funny--he does and says all the things semi-nice, semi-appropriate people would never do but want to. And while the hip thing to do right now is read Running With Scissors--since the movie's about to come out and all--I actually preferred Magical Thinking, his collection of short memoir pieces about being an adult, working and falling in love. There's something about the fact that he is such a mess, and so flawed, and so human, that makes me really want to root for him.

And then there's the central idea of the book: the magical thinking. It seems that Mr. Burroughs believes he has the power to will things to happen. A horrible boss that he wished would get hit by a bus drops dead. The guy he loves who's had a pattern of dating only big black men suddenly makes an exception for him, a skinny white guy. He becomes a New York Times bestselling author just by deciding that it will happen.

I like this idea of magical thinking. Who hasn't at some point wished for the ability to will things to happen? I've been feeling this desire a lot lately: the ability to will relationships to work out. To will the perfect job for me into existence. (Or perhaps it's to will myself to be perfect for a certain job?) To will people I miss into calling me.

But alas, the ability to exercise magical thinking seems to be limited to Augusten Burroughs and, strangely, his editor. The rest of us are left to work with whatever the Fates see fit to deal out.

If it ain't Baroque. . .

I'm sorry. That title was the lead in to a terrible joke that I just don't have the heart to finish. I'm just not that cheesy.

I am, however, cheesy enough that after discovering the work of Franz Xaver Messershmidt--a Viennese Baroque sculptor who was really into faces of ugly-looking people--I felt the need to try to imitate the faces on my own, with my mom helping out. Here are our best efforts:





























While I couldn't find the translated names of these specific scultpures (which, if you're interested are "Ein Erhangtee" and "Der Schaafkapf"), from the English translations of other works, I'm gonna say that our Mr. Messerschmidt was quite a character, and probably would have embraced the awkward with the best of them. Examples of English names for his work include "Constipated Man" and "Laughing, Goofy Man." That's awesome. Where have you been hiding these 26 years, Franz Xaver Messershmidt?

Juxtaposition

I really like the word 'juxtaposition.' It makes me feel smart. And I found a perfect example of an ironic juxtaposition of cultures in Prague that I wanted to share, in a conscious effort to lighten up the tone of this here blog.

Here goes.

What kind of museum, you ask?

The Museum of Communism, located immediately above the McDonald's, and right next door to a casino. God I hope they did that on purpose.

Better than Coffee

I inadvertantly discovered something even better than Diet Coke--or even coffee--for keeping you wide awake and alert: Non-drowsy cold medication.

It's just too bad that the reason I know this is because I was awake until almost 3 am this morning (despite getting virtually no sleep the night before), after having popped some in a desperate attempt to stop being so stuffed up.

Interestingly, the cold medication did pretty much nothing to keep me from being stuffed up, so I found myself roaming my apartment at 3 in the morning, looking for things to do while breathing out of my mouth. Good times.

Beautiful details

I don't really have a story to go with these pictures: they're a combination of photos from Vienna, Salzburg and Prague. I guess the theme here is that I really love craftsmanship, and I love finding the details that make cities unique.

I saw a bunch of doors like this in old parts of Salzburg.

Salzburg was famous for its hand wrought, ornate over-the-door signs indicating what kind of business resided there.

St. Vitus Cathedral in Prague.

Nearly all of the sidewalks in the older parts of Prague are patterned; this was just one of many different designs I noticed while I was there.

The formal gardens at the Belvedere in Vienna.

The wrought iron over this door in Vienna was beautiful.

If Beverly Hills, 90210 had taken place in Prague. . .

This one is dedicated to Miranda Hansen

So I'm finally ready to start blogging about the adventures my mom and I had in Europe. Sorry for the delay, but work got crazy and I had other stuff that was a bit more pressing.

While in Vienna, my mom and I took the opportunity to visit some Heurigen, Viennese wine gardens. Now, I'd like to start off by saying there is definitely a reason that Viennese wine has not made a big splash on the international wine market: it's not particularly good. It seems to be mostly really sour white wine, and apparently has been likened to the experience of drinking straight vinegar. I didn't personally think it was that bad, but I could see why you would.

(Note: I should make a distinction between Viennese wine and Austrian wine. As a country, I'd say the Austrians have a pretty good handle on wine making, particularly their dry white, Vetliner. That's a really good wine. The knowledge just didn't make the trip into the big city, apparently.)

Anyway, we went to the Heurigen, ate some unidentifiable meat products from the buffet and drank some vinegar wine, where I happily served myself a good solid "two fingers" of wine with dinner.

Argentina: variations on a theme

So here's the difference between Sejal's work friends and my work friends when it comes to planning vacations.

Sejal's work friends are suggesting that we go to the wine country of Argentina and check out some vineyards.

My work friends are suggesting I go to Bolivia (because there are more people organized into unions than anywhere else in the world) and check out one of the factories that's been taken over by workers and made into a collective.

And on a different note, Brianne bought her ticket for Buenos Aires this morning. Anyone else interested?

I'm officially bouncing off walls. . . .

because I'm going to ARGENTINA in November!!! And better yet, I'm going with my very good friend from school, Sejal, who embraces the awkward better than anyone I know, even me. And, on a whim, I jokingly told our friend Brianne (who is currently working on a political campaign and will thus be unemployed come November 7th) that she should come, too. And I think she's going to! Woohoo!

And now that I've used up my 2006 supply of exclamation points, I'll get back to work.

Axtlan Taqueria: where everybody knows your name. . . .

Or in this case, your meat preference.

So I don't eat out that often, certainly much less than most of my co-workers. And I would say of the times that I do go out to eat, I go to the taqueria down the street--Axtlan Taqueria--maybe once every 3 or 4 weeks.

Apparently, however, in the year that I've been working at EBASE, I've gone there enough that I've become a familiar face, and a familiar order.

This became clear yesterday when I walked in and began contemplating my order.

I said, "Hi, I'd like the--"

"Axtlan plate with Carnitas, right?" the guy behind the counter finished for me. He had already begun chopping up the meat as he spoke.

I have to admit: I was a little taken aback. That was, in fact, what I was going to order. I had briefly flirted with ordering something else. Maybe chili verde in a burrito. But their carnitas is just so good, and the Axtlan plate is perfect when you're hungry.

I can't decide if I'm horrified at my own predictability, or happy to have become enough of a rgeular that they know what I want. It's probably a little bit of both.

Priceless

Finally back from vacation in Vienna/Prague/Salzburg, etc--with lots of stories and pictures to share. I am, however, running on more than 24 hours without sleep, and must overcome nasty nasty jetlag before the catch-up blogging can begin. But in the meantime, here's a little something to laugh about:

Traditional Czech dinner in a restaurant on the Old Town Square in Prague: 350 Czech crowns.

Famously strong Turkish coffee after dinner: 30 Czech crowns.

Watching a random tourist suddenly decide to strip down and interpretive dance in the square until the police arrested her: priceless.

(I really tried to take pictures of this, but unfortunately the crowd around her got too thick, and it was way too dark for the pictures to turn out well. So you'll just have to take my word for it--or the word of the hundreds of other locals and tourists who witnessed it as well!)

Yummy

In keeping with the grand old tradition that says that Labor people never actually get Labor Day off, most of my coworkers and I worked yesterday. Part of the day's work involved manning a table at the Central Labor Council's annual Labor Day barbecue. The cooking at the Labor Day barbecue is always done by the Local Firefighter's union, and I have to say: the collective hotness of the firemen was definitely the highlight of my day. This should not come as a surprise to anyone who knew me in college.

Here is a picture of some of the firemen (although it totally does not do their hotness justice). And as a funny side note: the reason the firemen were posing like this is because they were having their picture taken with Phil Angelides, Democratic candidate for governor. Brooke--who took this picture and clearly has her priorities straight--cropped Phil out of the picture so we could just focus on the firemen. Thank you Brooke!

Adventures in Hiking

This post is actually from last weekend, but I couldn't find the cord to download the photos onto my computer and thus it had to wait until now to be posted. Last Saturday, Josh and I, in desperate need of some nature, went for a hike in Tilden Regional Park. I had found a hike I wanted to do and wrote out the directions. However, within 3 minutes of starting out (and that's actually not an exaggeration) we had messed up the directions and got lost.

The upside of getting lost is that we stumbled upon San Pablo Reservoir (after scrambling down a really steep hill that may or may not have been private property. Ooops.), where we had ourselves a fabulous little picnic and rented a kayak for some afternoon paddling. The only downside is that we then had to scramble back up the really steep hill before we treated ourselves with much needed slurpies from the nearest 7-11. Overall, a damn good Saturday in the East Bay. (The rhyming, by the way, is totally intentional.)

Josh and Claire (Disclaimer: Josh wants to point out that everytime he has been photographically represented on my blog, it has been misleading. He does not generally sport the mountain man facial hair seen here. Nor does he usually sport the too-tight purple tank top we saw him in at the beginning of the summer.)

Oh, que mess!

So I mentioned in my blog post from yesterday that I am sad, tired, confused, overwhelmed and furstrated. All of those things are still true. Except for tired. 11 hours of sleep and at least I'm no longer tired. I just wish I could scratch those other adjectives off the list as easily.

My life is a royal mess at the moment. And I don't really know what to do about it. I have so many decisions that I have to make, and I have absolutely no idea where or how to start.

I'm leaving my job on October 20th. That much is certain. But other than that? I need to decide what I'm doing and where I'm doing it after that. Do I want to keep organizing? I love organizing. Should I go back to working at my old job with the union? Should I take them up on this short-term job in Hawaii? I also hate organizing. I love and hate organizing. So that's helpful.

Am I serious about this going to law school business? Where? When? What happens if I don't take the LSAT until December and I fuck it up? Can I even register for the December LSAT since I don't know where the hell I'm going to be? If I'm serious about law school does it really make sense to move now--with the all the expenses of moving and the fact that I'd be giving up my California state residency? And if I am serious about law school then what the hell am I going to do between now and then?

And what if it's not law school and it's not organizing? What do I want to do? And where? I do not do not DO NOT want to be in California any longer. I have no friends here anymore, no relationship, no prospects, no job. I'm tired of the lefter than thous. I'm tired of everything being so expensive. Apparently, I am still tired after all.

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."