it's miss fi to you

beauty basics

2009-04-01T20:38:00.000-07:00

I once found the boyfriend standing in my bathroom, perplexed, staring at the wall. Except he wasn't really staring at the wall, he was staring at the windowsill where all my assorted beauty products are lined up. I admit, I'm a bit of a junkie and am often swayed by promises of extra volume, softer skin and the reduction of fine lines. I buy them, I try them and then I line them up on the windowsill to collect dust and remind me to stay out of Sephora.

"What are you doing?"
"Sometimes I stand here and read all the bottles."
"Why?"
"To try and figure out what you use all this stuff for."

I rolled my eyes and he grabbed the first bottle in the row.

"Bed Head, Control Freak. What's this one for? Is that glitter?"
"It's to make my hair straight."
"Your hair is straight."
"Shut up."

"Summer hair. Beach Waves. It's orange."
"It's just the bottle that's orange. Dumbie. It gives you beach hair."
Blank stare.
"You know, wavy and messy, like I was running around on a beach all day."
"You mean curly?"
"Sort of."
"So the first one is to make your hair straight. (pause for dramatic effect, stupid theater major) Aaaand the second one is to make your hair curly."
"Get out of my bathroom!"

On the other hand, the boyfriend believes in the power of one product to serve all purposes. Have you ever seen that Big Fat Greek movie, where the old Greek papa follows everybody around with Windex because he thinks it fixes everything? I'm not kidding. The man dabs it on cuts, pimples and bug bites and then spoons it into his tea. Before I got a glimpse inside his beauty bag I had no idea that so many products existed in aloe vera flavor!!! I don't know where this aloe vera superstore is but he's got aloe vera toothpaste, aloe vera deodorant, aloe vera face gel, moisturizer, hair gunk. I thought that shit was for sunburns!

He swears by that stuff but I've caught him sneaking into my Bed Head. He's too vain to commit wholly to hippie.

hot box

2009-02-09T00:38:00.001-08:00

When I was about ten years old my grandmother took me to see Hello Dolly in one of the final performances starring theater legend Carol Channing. And after the show, as a special treat, we went backstage to meet her. At the time, Channing was in her seventies. She was still wearing the wedding dress from the final scene, full stage makeup and costume wig. She loomed over me like an enormous painted mummy and to this day I still reference it as one of the most terrifying moments of my life. That is until Friday night when the boyfriend and I were invited to a drag show in the tenderloin boasting, among other talents, the oldest performing drag queen in San Francisco. Right. That's the kind of headliner that attracts a real particular kind of enthusiast. What was I expecting exactly? I'm not sure. But whatever expectation I had would not have prepared me for a 74 year old (wo)man in a gold sequin bikini and a Carol Channing (!) wig performing enthusiastically to Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart." Jaw dropping, really.

Please see the link below for more information on the show and Miss Vicki Marlane herself, "the Lady with the Liquid Spine."

http://www.thehotboxxxgirls.com/

aaa

2009-02-01T20:09:00.000-08:00

I admit, sometimes I am such a dumb broad. And nothing throws me into a state of idiot girl helplessness like automobile anything. I only accept my car when it is functioning like it's supposed to...and getting me from location to location while also housing all of the shit I can't fit in my shoebox apartment. If it's not working, I'm not much interested in why, I just want it to be fixed with minimal explanation and minimal cost. Bonus points if it can be fixed without my having to clean the crap out of it first. Last Saturday night I was late. Late, late, late. And yes, I'm always late, but when I'm late, please know that I am rushing so as to be as close to on time as possible. So, Saturday night, Isa was set to pick me up at 8:45 for some ladies night out sort of fun. At 8:15 I was pulling out of another grocery store parking lot on the hunt for gooseberries of all things, apparently a key ingredient to some fancy cocktail the boyfriend had dreamed up in his little head. Although he was disappointed in his search, I appreciate that he immediately read the look on my face as, "Sir, I have 30 minutes to pick out shoes, put on some liner and do some shit with this out of control, I just spent 2 hours in bed with my man sex hair, so you better not be thinking we're going somewhere else looking for gooseberries."

7 minutes later, I'm flying (cautiously) up Larkin street towards the shoebox, praying to the parking gods and trying on outfits in my head. Ok, so not so cautiously, because I full on hit something in the middle of the road that I did not see and could not identify afterward. What I could identify, was the dreaded sound of coche malfunction. And oh, it was the flattest tire on earth, I can't even tell you. Flat with the rim touching cement and the rubber gone awry. I pulled over to the side of the road, stared pathetically at the injured tire and then immediately called the person obviously responsible for fixing it, the boyfriend. Because he is spectacular, he left the bar immediately to come rescue me. And he would have rescued me people, if the man had any idea how to change a tire. In his defense, he gave it a valiant effort. He got the tools out, jacked the car up, got down and dirty and even managed to get the damaged tire off...which is sort of where things went awry. I'm not sure what went wrong exactly because he sent me off to get him a beer...probably because the hovering was driving him insane, possibly so he could google "changing a tire" on his iphone. I don't really know, but when I came back the jack was lamely on it's side and the naked rim was chilling on the road, even I recognize that as a bad sign. It seemed like, "Um, do you actually know how to change a tire?" would have been in poor taste. So instead, I helpfully offered to hold the flashlight. And that's where we were for another 15 minutes: him on his back fiddling with the jack, me crouched behind him with the huge mag light my mom put in my car for equal parts light and protection against attack. Right up until I asked the most innocent and helpful of questions,

"Babe, do you think I should call triple A?"
Exorcist style turn of the head. "You have triple A??!!!"

Right. Oops. They do flat tires, don't they? Please don't strangle me.

A tow truck arrived in literally 10 minutes, and in less than 7 minutes, someone named Jose cleaned up my poor man's mess and gave him some helpful suggestions for his next tire change. Can I possibly put into words how stupid I felt? I like to think that I am not a moron. I like to think that I am not that girlfriend who requires constant assistance and rescuing. And yet, the facts are lined up against me. In nine months this poor suffering man has already weathered countless examples of my constant chaos. For God's sake, he keeps 2 sets of my keys because I've been locked out of my apartment 4 times. Plus I've had my car towed AND booted in front of his apartment because I never pay attention when I park and then I never pay the parking tickets I get for not paying attention. Who would willingly attach themselves to such an individual? But after all my apologies and after he cleaned the grease off his hands...and changed his shirt...and returned to work... He sent one text.

"I am very much in love with you."

And so I am inspired by the knowledge that there is someone who loves me for...or maybe in spite of my unending tumult.

sweet inspiration

2009-01-29T00:00:00.000-08:00

I'm the laziest person, I know. Well part of it is that I'm lazy and part of it is that since the end of my ridiculous dating days, I've had very little misfortune to entertain you all with. But, I keep telling myself that I'm going to find new inspiration in 2009 and come up with something or other to babble on about. I can't say that I've figured it all out just yet, but for my first post of 2009 I offer a little bit of inspiration of the heart.

A couple of weeks ago I went through some boxes of books recovered from my grandfather's belongings and gathered a small stack to keep for myself. A book on Sinatra, a couple of old cookbooks and a pretty illustrated book on gardening that I remember seeing often on my grandmother's desk. The stack has been sitting untouched on a shelf until the boyfriend went leafing through the pages the other night. Out of the gardening book fell an old bookmark, and in my grandfather's handwriting:

"To Mama, from Papa: Life's greatest tragedy is not to be loved, God has been good to us."

Holding the old bookmark in my hands and reading that simple sentiment from my grandfather to my grandmother, I felt almost as though I was eavesdropping. I suppose I did not think he ever said things like that, and so I was inspired by an unexpected glimpse into an old love story.

remember sinbad?

2008-11-11T19:52:00.000-08:00

http://www.tablehopper.com/2008/11/starlet-november-11-2008.html

I'm not sure what celebrity tier Sinbad actually falls into. But I think it's hysterical. He's actually super friendly, hooked his waitress up with tickets to his show at Cobb's and stayed after closing to chat with us all when he came back in the second time. He's crazy tall and awfully funny. I do wish he had been wearing those silly pants he used to rock in the 90's.

Speaking of 90's though, my favorite part of the convo was Sinbad saying, "My man, Bill Bellamy told me I had to check this place out!"

red tie 2008

2008-11-07T18:41:00.000-08:00

I go to these things so that I can dress up. And maybe I am forever trying to make up for a disappointing prom night? In fact, this time I even bought the boyfriend a boutonniere, total prom style! But I bought a pretty fuschia orchid instead of a dumb rose...so it was way cooler than prom. I expect it did feel like the 12th grade to him, because he had to pose for photos and chat with my parents. Pobrecito, I think he worked up a sweat in his tux.

But back to the dress. I decided to play up the Chanel look. Black tights, Stuart Weitzman platforms with enormous bows and a vintage brooch which I found at my absolute favorite neighborhood boutique, elle-même . I always find funky, unique pieces when I wander in and if you are ever in my hood you MUST check it out.

I look at this photo and think, "oh god my feet hurt, but those shoes were perfect".

Look how dramatic Debs looks!! She always scowls when being
photographed...like she's a celeb :)

Before the photo was taken: "Are those new shoes?"
"No Mother, be quiet and smile."

My Dad haaaaaates these things, oh, he was so miserable.
But he looks awfully handsome anyway.

Nun!

meet and greet

2008-11-05T09:45:00.000-08:00

I had to give in eventually of course. The beginning of the end came at a dinner I threw for Deb's birthday. I invited Isa, Alexandra...and their mothers. It was clear from the moment we all sat down that there would be trouble. I think we had barely finished the required birthday toast when Pia and Anna spun and locked into mom mode. I looked up from my menu and found myself surrounded by maternal disapproval.

Anna: Now Felicia, tell me why you won't let your poor mother meet your new boyfriend.
Debs: Thank you Anna.
Anna: What's his name? Doug?
Debs: No it's Doooog-
Here a chorus of variations on his actual name...meanwhile the daughters give me sympathetic looks and quietly drink their champagne.
Pia: Well, tell us about him? What does he do? Where is he from? How old is he? Is he single, divorced? (I half expected to see a clipboard with a checklist come out from under the table.)

I'm telling you I barely survived, it was an ambush and it never let up. Anytime he conversation threatened to stray, Debs reeled them back in. And so I knew, after that dinner, that my time was up and it was time for him to make an appearance.

For the record, my reluctance to introduce comes mainly from a desire to be cautious in a new relationship. It's completely against my nature. I am such an open heart at the core and I am easily carried away with the initial excitement. I have no problem opening up my life...obviously. However, I thought it might be wise to keep it all somewhat private until I began to solidly believe that this time I might not have to issue a retraction. So far, so good. Anyway, my reluctance does not come out of any fear that he is not parent friendly, he's actually quite charming. He is not of course, an investment banker or an attorney or anything stable that would initially warm Deb's heart. He is, wait for it...a tattooed bartender. Perfect.

I made him roll his sleeves down when he met the Debs, no need to lead with the tattoos. I did not let her pick the time or place, I did not allow for a sit down dinner, and I did not give her any warning. I walked in the back door at Mama's and presented him for inspection. It was short, they chatted briefly, she mispronounced his name. Phew.

SO now that he's met the Debs, I suppose I will tell you all a little about him. I met him at his bar...I'm such a little barfly. On our first "date" we wandered through dingy Chinatown bars, strolled through Fisherman's Wharf to laugh at tourists, and ate a burrito in the Mission. He has pretty blue eyes, ridiculous hair and a super cute butt. 34 years old. Aries. Oh, and he's wonderful.

does your mom google?

2008-11-02T19:48:00.000-08:00

My mother mispronounces the boyfriend's name on purpose. She says that she will continue to mispronounce it until she is allowed to meet him and hints that, even then, she may continue to call him by the wrong name as punishment for the initial insult.

She's actually lost her mind over it. Furious. And it's brought out a whole new side of her. She's like the Asian Nancy Drew all of a sudden. I walked into work the other morning and found her looking very smug, which of course, immediately worried me.

Debs: Well, I saw him.
me: Saw who?
Debs: insert mispronounced and exaggerated name of the boyfriend
me (alarmed): Saw him where?
Debs: I googled him.
me: You what?? How do you know how to google?
Debs (so proud): Your Dad and I looked him up on the computer!
me: You're ridiculous, and that's the creepiest thing ever.
Debs: Well, what do you expect me to do when you won't let me meet him?

Fantastic. Next thing you know, she'll have a Facebook page. So embarrassing! It's like a lousy sitcom on the WB for god's sake.

2008-10-31T23:42:00.000-07:00

I dressed up as a birthday cake for Halloween. Really. And if you think that's ridiculous...

Isa dressed up as a Blow Pop...with lip gloss...and Jess dressed up as a turkey.
We were quite a spectacle walking down the streets together. Me in my 3 tiered cake skirt, Isa with her face bursting out of the child sized lollipop costume and Jess hobbling along, constantly tugging up her turkey legs. Ridiculous? Oh yes. But certainly displaying more character than the sea of scantily clad sexy "fill in the blank" costumes around us.

When Dan told me he was going to buy an adult sized beaver costume, I assumed he was joking...clearly I should have known better.

The boyfriend was a hot dog. We got a few laughs later that night as he carried me (in full hot dog suit) through Union Square looking for a cab.

The ladies hit the dance floor but repeatedly found themselves in trouble with the dj for knocking his table with their cumbersome costumes. They tried not to let it cramp their style.

halloween treats

2008-10-29T23:27:00.000-07:00

Holidays are, of course, a good time to be a baker. Everybody and their mama wants cupcakes these days - oh they're just so cute and hip. I have nothing against cupcakes of course, except that the only thing worse than decorating one cake is decorating 48 individual little cakes.

Devil's Food with Orange Buttercream frosting. Spiderwebs (uh, messy ones)

the mini cupcake

Pumpkin Ginger (my kind of cupcake - no frosting, just a ginger garnish)
Also, note the pretty photo, taken by Daph and not my camera phone.

adventures in cake

2008-10-11T18:27:00.000-07:00

In my short experience with baking for money I have already learned that the most important thing in planning a dessert is to realize that something will inevitably go wrong. It seems that no matter how well I plan my plan and time my timeline...I am always delirious, covered in frosting and cursing an uncooperative piping bag in the middle of the night.

The night before my first cake was due, I arrived at the restaurant at 5pm, eager to get started, only to find that my cake flour had been thrown out during someone's overzealous cleaning effort. Annoying, but still only a small setback. With Safeway a couple of blocks away, I assumed I was only looking at a 20 minute delay. That is, until I was standing in the Safeway baking aisle staring at the blank shelf where the pretty pink box of cake flour has been every other time in my freaking LIFE that I needed it. Of course. Further inquiry into the situation only made it worse, yes, they were indeed out of cake flour, in fact, every Safeway was out of cake flour because at that moment there happened to be a cake flour shortage. Who ever heard of such a ridiculous thing?? What? The Softasilk people are on strike? You've got to be kidding.

Back in the car, I made a call over to Smart & Final and a slow but friendly gentlemen left me on hold for 13 minutes and 42 seconds before returning to assure me that yes, they did indeed have cake flour. So I drove across town, down Van Ness on Friday at 5:30 and I stood in the baking aisle. Sigh. I should have known.

me: Excuse me sir, I'm looking for cake flour. I called you about 20 minutes ago and someone said you had it.
man in red Smart & Final apron: Cake flour?
me: Yes.
man in red Smart & Final apron: CAKE flour? Never heard of cake flour before.
me: Sooo, you don't carry it?
man in red Smart & Final apron: Well, we've got the all purpose flour right here. I mean, can't you use that, I mean, it says all purpose. And I never heard of no special flour for baking cakes before.

I did not feel that I had to defend my flour preferences and so I simply thanked the man in a way that hopefully made it clear that he had not been any help at all. I did say a very genuine thank you to the Castro Safeway person who found me the last 4 boxes of cake flour in the store....and apparently in the entire city of San Francisco.

I made it back to North Beach at 7. I started the caked at 7:30, pulled it out of the oven at 9:04...and started over again at 9:35 after I cracked the first one in half taking it out of the pan too soon because I was trying to make up for lost time. Sigh.

channeling chanel

2008-10-10T19:27:00.000-07:00

In case there was any concern that I now spend all my days in clogs and checkered pants....please see the new addition to my fashion family. Uh, don't be put off by the fact that the model appears to be very ill and thus very miserable. Who could be so miserable in that dress?? With the twirly skirt? And the trim??? Jill Stuart is one of my favorites, her dresses are so feminine and so simple. I found it initially online (where most of my shopping happens) but it was sold out and so I sadly put it out of my head...until I wandered into a boutique on Fillmore street and saw it hanging, one size left...my size! And knew it was meant to be. I bought it on the spot and promised my mother that I would not buy shoes. I lied of course. I plan to wear it to the Red Tie charity thing at Neiman's, don't you love a party with nuns?

cake and such

2008-10-06T19:46:00.000-07:00

I do not like to decorate cakes. There. I said it. I like to bake cakes, I like to make frosting, I even sort of enjoy frosting cakes. But please, spare me the grief of piping and fondant and gum paste. I bake because I like to be elbow deep in dough and covered in powdered sugar, not so that I can spend 5 hours trying to pipe 500 identical flowers that spell out "Happy Birthday". It's soooooooooooo tedious. AND it requires the use of tiny little parts. Tiny little parchment paper piping bags, tiny little decorating tips and even if you try and cheat...TINY little stencils. So of course, when I sent out an email last week to beg people to let me make desserts for their upcoming events and celebrations and fiestas...I immediately got requests for 2 cakes.

This was the first...a Christening cake for Claire's nephew. I decided on a chiffon layer caked with lemon buttercream frosting. Now, what does one put on a Christening cake? A dove? A cross? A smiling baby Jesus? There are no photos of the finished product because I literally finished within minutes of the agreed upon pickup hour. Timing is a bitch. Also...I won't lie, it wasn't that cute. I made a cross and wrote "Simon" in yellow buttercream...and then I stuck a bunch of fresh flowers on top to make it prettier. I'm a HUGE fan of fresh flowers as decoration. However that tactic did not do me much good the following week when I had to do the Transformer's birthday cake for Dustin. Me. 2am. Cutting the Transformers symbol out of fondant. Ugh.

Sicilia part 1

2008-09-16T19:59:00.000-07:00

"This is not Lipari, this is Stromboli!"

And so began my Italian vaca... after three planes, two hours on a bus, a frantic cab ride to catch the last ferry leaving Sicily and an hour and a half on the water. There I stood, on the dock of what we had presumed to be the island of Lipari, as the captain of the approaching ferry stood on the top deck, hands in the air...yelling down at the dumb American. I, of course, knew already that I was on the wrong island because I was standing four feet from a sign that said, "Benvenuti a Stromboli!" Benvenuti indeed. I was sweaty, tired, hungry and I had to pee. I was especially tired of my enormous suitcase, which weighed, I think, 500 lbs. I'm not kidding people, I did not pack light. I brought 6 pairs of shoes (4 flats in assorted colors and 2 heels); 2 extra large hats (one wide brimmed and one floppy); 5 handbags (2 daytime, 3 clutches) and enough clothing to facilitate 2 costume changes per day (including accessories) for all 10 days. I don't fuck around. The boyfriend, on the other hand, had not one enormous suitcase, but four assorted carry on sized items including a garment bag whose broken strap had been replaced by a plaid scarf and a rolling suitcase with two broken wheels. Imagine my surprise when I learned, upon finally arriving at the hotel, that for 36 hours the man had been hauling around a gimpy suitcase containing nothing more than the hat box protecting his silly, but beloved Stetson. Yes, yes. This man and I understand eachother. And so, with all our assorted luggage in tow, we boarded our 7th form of transportation, and endured the mockery of the entire crew who made sure to warn us that we were still not at Lipari at each of the four following stops.

Lipari is beautiful. The small town itself is nestled in a nook in the island that otherwise is only scatteringly developed. Lovely old churches, cobblestone streets, climbing rhododendrons. During the day, the streets filled with overly tanned tourists, but mainly of the Italian variety and not the American. At night after pasta and vino and gelato, after a stroll through lively streets, we could sit on the quiet terrazza of our hotel and look out over the town.

During the day, I could often be found here:

A pool with a view. What more does a girl need? OK, a very pleasant young man to bring her breakfast to the pool with the view. Sold.

another round

2008-09-01T17:52:00.000-07:00

It has been observed by more than one person, that there have been no miserable dating stories of late for your reading pleasure. What gives? Perhaps you're thinking I've given up altogether. But that would be extreme, no? In reality it is nothing that bleak. First, I have been lazy with the blogging. I have no good excuse. Second, prepare for a shock now, all my recent dates have been good. And, because they have been good and because I am silly happy, I have decided that these happy dates are none of your business. No offense! However, for now I am keeping all details to myself. In case you are feeling offended, let me assure you that you are not the only ones. My own dear mother, who generally likes to be kept abreast of all details down to the shoes I wore to dinner on Friday night, was informed in the following way.

Sunday morning, high tide at Mama's, Debs at the register.
me: Have you seen my passport?
Debs: (interrupts a customer in the middle of her egg order) Passport? No. Where are you going?
me: (looking innocent) Italy.
Debs: Italy! What? With who?
me: The guy I've been seeing.

It is very difficult to leave Debs speechless, in fact, it almost never happens. She always has something to say, generally loudly and often the same thing several times in a row with different focal points. That morning I managed to procure sputtering, which might be as close to speechless as she gets. The victory was shortlived and in reality I paid dearly for the small satisfaction I got from her shock. In the weeks leading up to the trip I suffered through at least one thousand needling conversations.

Examples of needling:
Debs: What are you doing?
me: I'm going to dinner.
Debs: Oh with him. The mystery man. The guy I can't know anything about.
me: Uh, yes.

Debs: (chatting with a regular customer at Mama's) So, my daughter is going to Italy.
innocent customer: Oh how exciting!
Debs: Oh yes, it's very exciting. She's going with a man she won't even let me meet. Isn't that rude? Can you believe it?

Really Debs? Is that necessary? I tried to have a civilized conversation about how I was an adult, and she had to learn to trust my judgement blah blah blah. Then I tried to appeal to the side of her that was secretly concerned that I hadn't been dating. Like, come on Mom, it's hard enough to date without telling some poor guy that he has to meet my mother. But no, she would not accept the reasoning and instead insisted on continuing with the guilt and the needling and the occasional threatening phone call. But be impressed people, for I did not give in!

Papa

2008-08-29T12:04:00.000-07:00

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2008/09/11/BA6212OH1R.DTL&tsp=1

My grandfather was not the type who pulled you onto his lap for candy and storytime. Rather, he was the type who chased you around the living room and tickled you mercilessly until you peed your pants. He called this the "blue gonga" and was happy to use it on his own grandchildren, friends of his grandchildren, stranger's children on the street and his own employees. He did not discriminate.

It took me many years to understand him. As children, my brother and I often called him Grumpy instead of Grandpa, or if we were feeling charitable, Grumpy Grandpa. In contrast to Grandma's warmth and heart and joy, Grandpa was complex. He was often yelling, always lecturing and never patient. He teased me that I was too short and said he would have to put me on a stretcher. He offered me a clothespin for my flat little nose. When I got my first pimple, he asked me if I had the chicken pox over and over again until I burrowed my face into my grandmother's chest and cried. He told me I had to be thicker skinned. He taught me how to tend to roses, but yelled at me when I pricked my tiny finger. He taught me to love the old books in his office library, but he had better not catch me in there by myself. He loved me fiercely, but it took me a long time to know it.

In more recent years, as an adult, his voice finally stopped sounding like the drone of a tired church bell. Meaning, I suppose, that I finally started to listen. Lucky for me, because I was able to hear 1000 stories from a life that could hardly be called ordinary. From Saint Ignatius to the war; from meeting my grandmother in a club called Shanghai Lil's to being 23 with 4 kids; from opening an ice cream store with $20 in the till to taking Sinatra's reservation at Mama's. He talked of success in the same even tone as failure. He never talked regret.

And I still love old books, and I know how to trim the roses. I take leaps and risks without looking back, for better or worse I don't fear mistakes and I don't fear failure. He has been my example even when I didn't realize it. I was not ready for him to go, I suppose we never are.

juice box wine?

2008-08-07T10:16:00.000-07:00

uh...shameless self promotion

2008-07-26T12:52:00.000-07:00

I'm catching up as you can see... and I don't think I ever posted this link.

http://www.ploomy.com/2008/07/26/ploomy-girl-7-hot-mamas/

july 4

2008-07-04T17:44:00.000-07:00

I had a ridiculous 4th of July, I think that's the only way to describe it. I spent the afternoon in Golden Gate Park with absolutely no sun, at a barbecue with no barbecue, only Kentucky Fried Chicken and 18 bags of assorted potato chips. I brought a cherry galette because I feel a certain amount of pressure at social functions to show up with something that I took out of an oven and not something I took out of Safeway. I think it really complimented the KFC. I'm not complaining of course, Jan organized quite an event. She showed up at the park at 9 am to claim a spot; she brought outdoor activities (which I, of course, ignored) and she brought a boombox. What's a barbecue without jams? Leave it to Jan to turn anything into a dance party. She also brought an Obama cake, which I think was probably the crowning glory of the whole setup. An Obama sheet cake from Costco is certainly funny on it's own, but an Obama sheet cake that says "Chance we can believe in" instead of "Change we can believe in" because the people at Costco didn't quite get the message (or maybe they're McCain supporters?), is downright hilarious.

The only thing more ridiculous than the typo on the Obama cake was the fluffy little purse dog wearing shoes. Sure, you think I'm kidding, which is why I took photos. Dog shoes. Really?

We ended the afternoon, wrapped in blankets, huddled together for warmth and singing "Proud to be an American" ... followed by Mariah Carey's "Hero." I think it says a lot about the crew that everyone was way more familiar with the latter of the two.

black and white (and pink)

2008-06-05T21:08:00.000-07:00

The lovely thing about a friend like Bubba is that he makes a fantastic date, without any of the irritating pressure of an actual date. He looks good when he cleans up; he will hold your handbag in a pinch; he will save you from awkward gentlemen; and most importantly, he will quietly disappear should you encounter a not so awkward gentleman. An added bonus: for a straight man he talks mad shit about other people and especially other people's outfits. I had all of these things in mind when I coerced him into being my date to the Black and White ball. My interest in going was mainly based on a desire to buy a fluffy dress. I was dreaming in tulle. Beyond that, I thought, an evening of cocktails and dancing...it will be like prom for adults, why not? Bubba agreed and so we blew a month's worth of our weekly dinner budget on 2 tickets to the Black and White Ball...minus the Seal option, because who cares about Seal?? As I'm sure is no surprise, I spent weeks assembling the ensemble. First, the tulle and sequin dress, then the 50's style costume earrings and cuff. I envisioned hair like Veronica Lake. I found a beautiful pair of silver satin shoes with a rhinestone toe detail which I would have worn had I not fallen in love with a black, white and PINK tie that Bubba absolutely had to wear. Yes, I reserve the right to accessorize my date. So a pink tie for him and pink shoes for me...at which point I'm so excited about the outfits that I barely recall where it is we're going and I'm not sure it matters. Together, we are so vain that the cab could have dropped us at a liquor store and we would have brown bagged some champagne and sat on the corner looking pleased with ourselves.

Adult prom, 2008.

Fran: cocktail in hand and ready to shake it.

Why am I slipping my hand into Dan's tux?

Man enough to rock a pink pashmina...while Dan whispers into his ear.

Still newlyweds (insert eye roll).

Instruction to photographer (Dan)..."No! Lengthwise, you have to get the shoes too."

Aren't we pretty? Can you see the pink in his tie?

As is always true of prom, it was all downhill after the dress. The scene was a little bit chaotic. Bars running out of booze; crowded dance floors; typically freezing San Francisco weather. At one point, as people crowded around one of the few bars that still had vodka, a woman in a floor length ball gown handed the bartender an empty glass and said, "Just fill it with vodka and then give me something to chase it with." Classy indeed. Ali, not a vodka drinker, was outraged to find that by 10pm every bar was flat out of champagne. Ever determined, she set off with her hair poof and her Gucci clutch to assess how "out" they meant by "out." Fast forward 15 minutes and we're all ushered into the back door of the VIP tent by a man with dread locks who had pocketed an undisclosed amount of cash to assure that Ali would have an ample amount of champagne available to her for the rest of the evening. Fast forward 30 minutes and there she was, chock full of bubbly, teetering though the fondue line in her white dress drenching anything available in chocolate. Fast forward another 15 minutes to find Dan and I looking on in horror as a thoroughly amused server wipe chocolate from Ali's face while she acquiesced patiently like a child hoping her mother will let her go back and play once again clean and presentable.

Game over. Someone is carrying her home.

The elegant mess she made.

Yes Dan, you are carrying her home.

passing notes

2008-06-02T21:15:00.000-07:00

People seem to think that working in the restaurant is the ideal opportunity for meeting men. As though guys wander in for breakfast and are immediately struck by how stunning I look in my flour covered t-shirt and bandana. (Did I mention that I'm single handedly trying to bring back the do-rag?) Ooh, look at that girl, she's covered in food, perhaps I should invite her to dinner? I would not invite me anywhere. Apparently though, there is a small percentage of men out there who are indeed oddly attracted to a girl in clogs, flipping pancakes over a hot grill. What? Next month's cover of Maxim did you say? So, in the past month, I have been sort of hit on TWICE while cooking, both times with the note drop and bounce method, which I think dates back to roughly the 3rd grade. This method, in case you aren't familiar, basically breaks down like this:

1. Boy sees grill girl and likes her style.
2. Boy stares in borderline creepy manner over his breakfast, presumably planning an approach.
3. In a fit of inspiration, boy fumbles in his pocket for an old receipt or, last resort, tears a piece from his foodstained placemat and scribbles a declaration of his feelings.
4. Boy approaches grill girl, saying nothing, but offering his scrap of scribble.
5. Boy turns and runs like hell out the door, never to be seen again.

I think the 3rd grade method is actually slightly more forward, because the note is passed but there is nowhere to run, therefore the passer must sit at his desk waiting in agony for a response...like a man.

Example A

Example B

how's your japanese?

2008-05-21T20:10:00.000-07:00

We have no actual idea what this article says. But Japanese tourists with cameras and designer handbags keep coming in and pointing at that photo of the Monte Cristo, so I can only assume it says something positive. That's me in the orange headband and the apron. Yeah, I know, I never said this cooking stuff was glamorous.

b2b 2008

2008-05-18T21:04:00.000-07:00

Another year, another Bay to Breakers. I won't lie, things got off to a rocky start for B2B 2008. 2 weeks before the big day Aych hurt her foot participating in some sort of actual real life sporting event. Now, I'm not so good with sports analogies, but the Bay to Breakers without Aych is like the World Series without your MVP...or something. Is that right? Baseball? MVP? Whatever, you get it. I moped. I pleaded. I considered whether or not it would be feasible to push her in a wheelchair or shopping cart...you know, like along with the keg. Sigh.

THEN the week itself arrives and in response to enthusiastic rallying messages about costumes, I received nothing but naysaying from both Ali and D. All kinds of, "I might run it this year" and "I'm not really feeling the theme, I don't think I'm going to dress up." WTF people? Not on my favorite day of the year. Thank goodness, all they needed was a little pep talk with a stern reminder of what this day means to all of us. Fast forward to Ali at the top of her stairs in a bright red spandex sport set and a matching Everlast helmet. Oh, right, so the theme was American Gladiators. I don't know why the guys always get to pick, cause you know we never would have voted for anything that involved that much spandex.

Team Red

Team Blue (starring Kid Rock?)

Spandex. Clearly not for everyone.

Hank! Unofficial mascot.

Year after year, Ian insists on bringing the man thigh.

Boop and I went shopping together, can you tell? Our outfits come courtesy of the drag queen store on Haight street and the Bay to Breakers mecca otherwise known as American Apparel.

Fran - about to body slam me??

red, white and blue joining the race at Mile 2, 2 hours after it officially started - Go team!

Booty

More booty!

Happy birthday Dom! You chose this stupid theme, why are you not in spandex??

Jousting in the park. I think Ali kicked Dom's ass.

That's the last picture I have which was taken somewhere near the Hayes street hill. After that it was all a shit show. Drunk...lost...hungry. I think every year we start later and finish earlier, this year we didn't even make it into the park, partly due to the fact that it was damn cold and partly because someone said BBQ, and everyone turned to head to Memphis Minnie's. As usual, I lost everyone I was with. Bubba half kidnapped me and brought me to a party full of people I haven't seen since 1999...and then not only refused to lend me his sweatshirt to cover my scantily clad spandex ass, but allowed to to wander drunkenly off by myself in hopes of finding my teammates. It's a wonder I made it back to my apartment in one piece.

cakes

2008-05-10T12:30:00.000-07:00

Uh, wish you were there? I ate a tremendous amount of cake today. An unhealthy, ridiculous amount of cake...which is even more horrific because I actually know the amounts of butter and sugar and other unhealthy but delicious substances that went into the above table of delight.

claire nicole has her way with me

2008-04-29T22:27:00.000-07:00

I have amazing, crazy friends with varied talents. Miss Claire Nicole is definitely crazy and she is an absolute delight to have in your life because she will constantly surprise you with bizarre requests...usually via text message and spelled so badly that it takes a minute to decipher what it is she actually wants.

She is also talented and in art school and has been on me to do a photo project with her forever. She does these portraits of people, playing on whatever it is they do for a living. So a couple of weeks ago I received a random text asking me to help her with a project for school...something to do with textures...pastry angle...wear an apron. That was the just of it anyway. She's one of those people who writes such long texts that they come through in 3 or 4 different installments.

The day of the shoot I called her because it occurred to me that with Claire, it was not safe to assume...really anything at all.

"Hi, it's me. Uh, I'm wearing something underneath the apron...correct?"
"No. But don't worry, it covers pretty much everything."
"Pretty much?"
Exasperation. Click.

One hour later...I'm still waiting and she's 30 minutes late when my phone rings.

"Hey, change of plans. I don't have the apron, I think it's at my parent's house and we're estranged at the moment. (Wait, what?) But don't worry, it's no big deal. We'll just wrap you in saran wrap."
"Wait? WHAT? Saran wrap? No. Really, Claire, no."
Exasperation. Click.

Look people, nobody looks good in SARAN wrap. Just the thought of being wrapped in a non-breathing, clingy material used to preserve food makes me want to hide. Bottom line, I offended her artistic vision and refused so we rescheduled for another day when the apron would indeed be available. And because I love her, I allowed her to tie a sticky bun dripping with honey onto my head, tape my boobs into an apron and wrap a smelly coconut ball necklace around my neck.

Voila.

See more of her stuff here.

single and fabulous?

2008-04-22T00:47:00.000-07:00

I am 90% of the time thrilled to be single. I say that with honesty. After much time spent in relationships, I am absolutely loving these independent days...it's spectacular to be free to get into trouble and have some fun. That being said there are always days that start off a little rougher than others. Perhaps triggered by a lousy night out or the resurfacing of a well meaning but semi-retarded ex-boyfriend...ahem. And on such days, I find that the only thing to do is hole up in bed with good/bad tv and feel sorry for yourself for a minute. I had one of those days recently and I literally was ass glued to my bed, watching a marathon of Rock of Love...no I'm sorry, Rock of Love 2 starring Bret Michaels and the most ridiculous cast of female desperation and overt groupie disorder ever seen. And as I'm watching I keep seeing these commercials for this just add water Betty Crocker chocolate cake thing and for some reason it looks straight up delicious and I become convinced that this chocolate, microwavable magic will make my day instantly better. So I actually peel myself out of bed and drag myself to Safeway where I purchase like 100 of these cakes because, like everything at Safeway, they are "Buy 4 get 1 free" or something. Back in the apt, I stand in my little kitchen staring down at this sad little bowl of chocolate powder and momentarily think better of my impulse. Do I really want to eat this? And yes, the answer is yes, I microwave that shit up and eat it, IN bed, mind you, while watching the Bret Michaels bandana extravaganza.

Fast forward to later that evening. The cloud passes and I find myself in excellent company having drinks with some of my favorite boys. Drinks and dancing and more drinks and before you know it, it's the end of the night and I'm headed back to the apt and I have company. Oh, don't judge. Go with it. Cute boy and I are headed up to the stairs to my apartment and I'm opening the door and shooting flirty glances at my guest, when all of a sudden I am slammed with a flashback of my day marinating in my apartment and the visual of the remnants of the microwavable cake sitting on my nightstand...not to mention the Safeway bag of assorted cakes sitting in my kitchen. Without a word, I throw the door open, rush down the hallway and in a split second grab the cake bowl and fling it, fork included, into the nearest open receptacle...which happens to be my hamper. All in time to turn on my heels and make out. Seriously. How hot am I?

galette

2008-04-16T12:28:00.000-07:00

Pies are hard. Really. Galettes are like, free form pies. And they're delicious.

banana cream

2008-04-12T12:24:00.000-07:00

I didn't mean for it to look like a smiley face but it totally does, which results in it looking like it belongs in the Safeway baked goods aisle. Perhaps a soccer mom would purchase it for her child's birthday party. Plus, my crust crumbled on one side. Don't look.

8:02 am

2008-04-09T08:33:00.000-07:00

Morning, how are you?
What are all those people doing over there?
Tai chi.
Oh.
Yep. Every morning.
Oh. I thought maybe it had something to do with the whole torch thing, you know, with China.
Nope. They're just exercising.

Yes. I believe tourist season has officially begun.

little tarts

2008-04-07T00:12:00.000-07:00

Pretty aren't they? I actually sold a few of these at Mama's and I was super proud. The biggest pain in the ass in regards to tarts is the pastry cream. When making pastry cream you can be on the right path, stirring away, doing your thing and then get momentarily distracted by how ugly your pants are and you're looking at a curdled, grainy and inedible mass. Not that I did that of course.

pastry queen

2008-03-31T18:42:00.000-07:00

I started pastry school today.

How amazing does that sound? Pastry school? The syllabus is the most spectacular thing you've ever seen.

Week 1: Cream puffs, Eclairs, Cookies
Week 2: Custards, Bread Pudding, Creme Brulee
Week 3: Cakes

Now how did I end up in pastry school? Let me break it down. Basically, after a year spent taking pancake orders, it occurred to me that I'd pretty much mastered the art of correctly communicating choice of toast to the cooks and table number to the servers. I started to say, ok, what is my plan here? Where in this restaurant world do I fit? How can I avoid tourists and their stupid questions? That's a joke...sort of. At around the same time, we found ourselves short a line cook and as usual sitting around the dinner table...probably on Thanksgiving, arguing about what we were going to do about it.

Dad: Felicia could do it.
Mom: Felicia can't cook in the line.
Felicia: What do you mean I can't? Oh yes I can.

Which is how I found myself strapped into an apron, furiously flipping pancakes one day a week. And, oddly enough, totally loving it. Once in the kitchen, I knew I belonged in the kitchen...for a million different reasons. Because I like to work independently, have my little corner and do my thing without other people getting all up in my situation. Because from my corner I can say hello to the customers who look inoffensive enough and ignore the ones who clearly have stupid questions on the tips of their tongues. Because it's super satisfying to create something that other people enjoy. Baking was sort of a natural extension after being in the line. My dad started to show me things a little at a time and if I could have, I would have simply relied on him for my entire dessert education, but dad and daughter in this case are not meant to be teacher and student. He has a tendency to grab spoons out of my hand mid-mix and to screw up recipes because they are all up in his head and he can't quite communicate them right. He also enjoys answering the question "Why?" with "Because."

Tante Marie is a small cooking school in North Beach with a pastry program that Dad and I both agreed covered all the basics. It's part time so I can still flip pancakes and the only drawback right off the bat was the uniform of white chef coat and houndstooth cook pants. Really people? Don't worry though, after extensive internet research I managed to come across a woman's chef coat with a 3/4 sleeve and tie backs to give it a little more shape, and a pair of petite cook pants with a bootcut leg. I announced my successful discovery to Dad one morning and he looked at me like I couldn't possibly be serious.

Tonight I officially embark on a lifetime of people asking me to bring dessert to their cocktail parties.

22/27

2008-03-29T23:08:00.000-07:00

Another birthday, another bar. March 29th is both Mikey and Ali's birthday. Mikey turned 22, Ali turned 27...and the only person who got shitfaced drunk was me. Here's how it started. I arrived at the bar, super early, like pre-10pm with my brother and his friends. I took a seat, ordered a cocktail and started to flirt with the bartender. Oh man, I can hear the collective groan, another bartender Felicia? Right. I know. All was well but the evening took a turn quickly and I can actually identify the exact moment. The friends insisted on buying Mikey a birthday shot which he absolutely refused to drink...he wasn't feeling good. And so, being the big sister, I stepped up to the plate and took the birthday shot for him. It was all kinds of foul. Not sure if you're familiar with the 3 Wiseman, but I would certainly suggest you avoid it at all costs. I should have stopped there. I blame my new found friendship with cute bartender whose name, sadly, now escapes me. Over the next couple of hours I took 3 shots of Fernet with my new friend, on top of 4 vodka sodas. Oh yes. I was a sight to be seen. I believe I left my phone number on a COCKTAIL NAPKIN. Wow. Let me just say that the next day I was so horridly, painfully, college style hungover that I was embarrassed of myself. I was alone in my apartment, and I was embarrassed. I got out of bed once, at Jan's suggestion to walk 1 block to the store for Alka Seltzer. Not only did I almost throw up in the street halfway, but I instantly threw up the Alka Seltzer. Wait, did I just turn 22??

I'm on the wagon people. Club sodas and ice tea.

little brother, big boys

do we look alike? not really, I know.

Mikey and the ladies (look how tiny Betty Boop looks)

I will not lie. I do not remember this photo.

tie your babies up

2008-03-22T12:01:00.000-07:00

Here's a first.

At the restaurant I often disappoint people who want to bring their lame little purse dogs in to eat with them, and accommodate people who want to sit at the window to keep an eye on the dogs they left tied up on the sidewalk. I have also been faced with more than one loud little child who I wish had been left tied up outside on the sidewalk. However, I have not seen anyone actually leave their child on the sidewalk until today when a couple came in to eat breakfast and left their toddler sleeping in his stroller outside where they could see him through the window from their table. We all watched in mild disbelief, and the confused busboy kindly offered to make room so that they could wheel the stroller inside. But no, they declined and continued to leisurely eat their eggs. Perhaps they felt the baby needed fresh air? Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, the SFPD felt that the baby had had quite enough fresh air and approached the couple with more than a little disapproval, "Is that your baby outside in the stroller? Cause you can't leave him out there on the street." It sort of seems like a bad sign that somebody actually had to point that out.

miso soup

2008-03-17T15:18:00.001-07:00

My weekends start on Saturday night. I always have Sunday and Monday off which works out well because I have Saturday night to go out, Sunday to sleep and Monday to run errands while the rest of you are back at work. The only thing that is kind of a drag is that after I sleep all day Sunday I often want to go out on Sunday night...which presents a couple of problems. I have to find something to do and I have to coerce my standard 9-5, Monday through Friday friends that they want to venture out on a school night.

On this particular Sunday night, I coerced Jan into going out and she in turn coerced me into going to the Matrix which is a bar I don't like in a neighborhood I never ever go to. But we went, on a Sunday night, and we dragged Betty Boop who probably should have gone to bed because she had been drinking with me since 4pm and she's the tiniest little person on earth. Sidenote that is eventually central to this story: Jan, Betty and I are all Asian. Ok, continue.

So we're sitting in the Matrix, semi-bored, having cocktails when one of our Mama's regulars, Paul, walks in and recognizes Betty and I and gets super excited. I am super not excited because I think he is weird. He comes in almost every Friday and I always rush through his order because the longer he is standing in front of me, the longer I have to endure his awkward conversation. He loooooooves Mama's and he wants to talk about it so much that he and his friend sit down with us so we can all talk about omelettes and pancakes. He has all sorts of ideas and suggestions and questions. I am bored...we are all bored. Betty is bored, drunk and sitting by a fireplace so she is getting a little droopy eyed and sleepy. In the midst of his ode to breakfast, Paul notices Betty's droopiness and says, "Hey Yoko, what's going on? Are you falling asleep?" My head snaps up, Jan catches my eye and you know we're both thinking, "Whoa, did he just call her Yoko?" But he is off and running again without a pause. I am now thinking about how I can make this man go away. And he is telling me how he thinks Mama's, as a name, is sort of confusing because "it's Italian and the food isn't Italian." Brilliant. Betty is again dozing a little and all of a sudden Paul snaps his fingers and says, "Hey Betty, wake up, should I get you a drink? Do you need a miso soup?"

I am not kidding you, at this point his friend actually got up and walked away because he didn't know what else to do. Of course, Jan and I are both like, oh no, uh uh, line has been crossed, what is wrong with this man? So I interrupt him before he can go any further.

"Did you just offer her miso soup?"
"Whaaat? Is that bad?" Looking back and forth between our unfriendly faces. "What? I'm not racist."

For the record, it is always bad if you find yourself in a situation where you need to say, "I'm not racist."

"Uh, then why are you offering her miso soup?"
"Yeah, and earlier you called her Yoko." (I think Betty finally piped in here indignantly, "Yeah! You did call me Yoko!")
"Well, yeah, but I didn't say which Yoko, I didn't say Yoko Ono."

Oh sir, you need to hang it up. You have dug a hole out of which you will never climb.

I of course told this story to everybody I work with so when the man comes into the restaurant, my hilarious co-workers all yell out, "Miso soup is here!" And then we all give him the cold shoulder.

introducing sportcoat

2008-03-11T23:39:00.000-07:00

So I met Sportcoat at a cheesy party, in a cheesy bar full of smarmy people. I don't remember how it started, wait, I think he asked me to pass him a napkin. And isn't that how all great romances begin? Over a spilled cocktail. As a rule I try to avoid men wearing sportcoats in the pursuit of some sort of casual yet sophisticated style, or whatever the look is supposed to portray. I'm not saying you can't rock your sportcoat if that's what you're into, plenty of women I know enjoy the whole look. For me though, I usually take it as a sign that I'm really not going to like you. Yeah, yeah, I know. I said I was going to be less judgemental in 2008, but that's the kind of thinking that got me talking to Sportcoat in the first place...and not to give the final act away here, but judgemental is looking pretty good these days.

Key things you need to know about Sportcoat. He is from North Carolina. He is a Republican (a real one). He is a finance something, market hour working, investment guy who reads GQ and wears a headset for long phone calls. He does five to six loads of laundry a week. He plays golf. He is also the type of guy you will correct you if you incorrectly use golf as a verb. He will pat you on the knee and tell you that it is "I play golf" not "I golf."

On our first date or whatever you'd like to call it, we met for drinks at the tiny, but elegant Russian Hill establishment known as Shanghai Kelly's. He left the sport coat at home and instead opted for the casual and ever popular short sleeved polo, which, as I'm sure you can guess I don't like much more than a sportcoat. We did, however, manage to have a decent time over cocktails. To his credit, he has a good sense of humor and lovely southern boy manners. He pays for drinks, opens doors and is enough of a gentleman to walk a girl home even after she assures him that he will not be coming up.

For our second date, Sportcoat invited me over to his place for dinner...via text.

"Was thinking we could grab dinner on Polk street tonight, Asian? Or if you want, I could make you dinner at my place, was thinking enchiladas."
"I appreciate you offering me Asian or Mexican food, but just so you know, I do eat other things."

He picked me up that evening in a severe state of agitation because he was 35 minutes behind schedule because he couldn't find ground turkey at Cala Foods. I assured him that it was no big deal, I wasn't starving and I wasn't irritated that he was late. Turns out his agitation didn't really have much to do with me anyway, he just hates to be late. Hates to be off schedule.

Oh Sportcoat, we are not going to get along.

I love to see people's apartments. You learn so much about someone so quickly. Right off the bat I assess the level of neatness and I look for books. My soulmate (if I believed in that stuff) is a mild slob who reads a lot. I walked into Sportcoat's apartment and had two immediate thoughts.

1. Sociopath? Did you see that movie American Psycho?
2. If this man walked into my cramped, cluttered, clothing tornado of an apartment his head would surely explode.

It was like checking into a room at the W hotel. Beautifully furnished, spacious, immaculate...and completely devoid of any personality. No photos, no casually strewn shoes, no books, no plants, no dishes in the sink. I was so immediately uncomfortable I almost broke out into hives. I am completely aware that my own style of clutter and chaos is not to everybody's liking, but if I have one firm rule for a person's apartment and it's that it should at least look as though somebody LIVES there.

I am slightly torn about the "I'll cook you dinner thing." On one hand, it's sort of cute, I like to see a man in a kitchen. But on the other hand, I think it's better saved for later in the dating process. And in the case of Sportcoat, I have to say that cooking for a woman is best avoided if you can't in fact cook. I also live alone, and when you live alone, I understand that you often create random single people type meals that are easy to throw together. Look, sometimes I eat crackers and cheese and those pre-cut apple slices for dinner. But that's not what I would offer you if I invited you over, I would dust the cobwebs off my stovetop and cook you something that resembled a meal. Vegetarian refried beans and ground turkey wrapped in a flour tortilla and covered in sauce does not equal enchiladas. That's just a super dull burrito. And you're not going to win a Mexican's heart with a super dull burrito.

back in action

2008-03-04T14:48:00.000-08:00

I can't believe that the last time I posted anything was February 6th. That probably means that the 7 or 8 people who actually read this thing have moved on with their lives. I apologize and pledge to keep in touch more regularly. But don't be mad because I have STORIES.

Let's start somewhat where we left off. Please scroll down to the handbag smacking entry where I make brief mention of a date with a lawyer. Now, lawyer had several things going in his favor. He was after all, a lawyer. He was also good looking, intelligent, well educated, well traveled and well dressed. That's a lot of wells, I know. On our second date he did the merengue in his living room, which, I took as a good sign. I felt pretty confident that someone who had dance moves probably had other kinds of moves. Sounding pretty good so far isn't it? Don't worry, it gets bad and therefore funny in a minute. For the second date he took me to Foreign Cinema. On a side note, if one more guy takes me on a date to that restaurant the staff is sure to think I am some sort of escort. Seriously, this one was my fourth. Foreign Cinema must be the first thing that comes up on Yelp when you type in "date." On our first date, lawyer asked me what my "type" was. I'm not sure what my type is, or if I even have one, but I usually tell people that I am attracted to edgy guys. I like that word "edgy." What do I mean by that? I think I mean that I like people who are a little bit out there...a little bit funky...and tattooed bartenders. Lawyer is not edgy. This is how not edgy he is. When we arrived at Foreign Cinema and checked in with the hostess, she looked at the reservation, looked at my date in his Banana Republic sweater and overcoat and said, "You're looking very edgy tonight." Because he had typed it into the special request box on Open Table. I know that he did this, because after we were seated he couldn't help but chuckle to himself and let me in on his little secret. We'll call this Strike 1.

A couple of days after the Foreign Cinema date, lawyer called me up and asked me if I wanted to come over to his place to "watch a movie and cuddle." Now, I'm sorry, but there is nothing attractive about a 30 year old man asking me to cuddle. I don't care if I sound like a cynical bitch, it's true. "Cuddle" is not a word that makes me want to come over and go to bed with you which is clearly what you are hoping for if you ask me to come over to your place and watch a movie. Unfortunately for this man, I had just returned from the gym, which, as we all know puts me in foul mood. And so, with my usual amount of charm I responded, "Look, I'm tired and hungry and I don't really like to cuddle." To which he responded, "Okay, how about you just come over and we have sex and then I'll kick you out." Now, that I thought was funny, so funny in fact, that I actually went. I went and found out that I was probably wrong about the moves. Slow down now, don't jump to conclusions, I'm talking pre-game moves here. The thing is, I really don't like to cuddle and I realize that makes me kind of a dude. But seriously, it's one thing to curl up with my boyfriend because I'm comfortable and in love and all that shit, but I find third date on the couch cuddling with someone I barely know tortuous and awkward. I get fidgety and uncomfortable and have been known to move abruptly to the opposite end of the couch. Unfortunately every time I moved, lawyer moved with me until we were both sitting stiffly at the far end of his leather couch with his arm draped around my shoulder like we were two pre-teens in a movie theater. 3:10 to Yuma is 122 minutes long and I think I spent 118 of those minutes fidgeting uncomfortably and planning my escape. Also, as far as mood setting goes, gunfights and dirty men are not very romantic even when paired with incessant hand holding and unsolicited kisses on the cheek. Strike 2.

Following the marathon evening of forced cuddling, I began the slow, but steady blow off. Three dates doesn't require an explanation right? I didn't return his calls and after a couple of weeks, figured we were clear. Not so much clear. On Wednesday around 11:30 he came into the restaurant, alone, to have breakfast. All of a sudden there he was, standing in front of me with this big accusatory smile, looking very not edgy and asking me what he should order. I am aware that I work in a public place, but I still think this is completely inappropriate, not to mention LAME. Strike 3. You can't come to my work!!! Do you see me all up in your cubicle??

"Hey, so, you get off at 3 right? Why don't we get a coffee or something, I'll probably still be in North Beach."
"It's only 11:30. I'm not off for another 4 hours."
"That's cool, I'll be around here. Give me a call."

I did not call. But that's ok, because he did. At 3:25...to see where I was...cause he was still in North Beach...waiting.

Sir, have some dignity please. Ugh, it was so awkward, maybe it serves me right, I should have called him back, blah blah. But, come on, whose side are you on anyway?

percy sledge

2008-02-06T00:29:00.000-08:00

Mike and I have been exchanging music and relationship advice over the instant messenger for years. In general, he has better music and I have better advice. So the other night I was sending him a few tracks from a Percy Sledge album...his musical tastes are significantly hipper but I love, love, love that old soul stuff. So I sent him a couple songs along with the following footnote:

F: If you were single I'd tell you that this man will help you get laid, it's total mood music.
M: U think so? So wait...more than Al Green? Or Sade? Really??
F: Sade does not make me want to have sex, but this man makes me want to slow dance and then have sex.
M: Really?
F: Yeah, he's got such an ache in his voice, like he's really in love.
M: This song makes me want to like... I dunno, I feel like I want to get emotional and hug someone and like, talk about how I feel about things.
F: RIGHT, but that's what makes women want to have sex!
M: OH YEAH!!!! Man! Maybe I HAVE been going at it wrong. You're the most helpful person I know.
F: You're welcome.

yes, I vote

2008-02-05T23:03:00.000-08:00

Someone recently asked me if I blogged about politics and I found myself answering, "No, mostly just shoes and bad dates."

I suppose it's a good thing that I blog for my own amusement and not to pay my bills, because that statement certainly does very little in the way of self-promotion.

It's not that I don't have any interest in politics, I actually think that the upcoming election is incredibly exciting. However, it didn't really occur to me that any of my handful of readers would be eagerly awaiting my endorsement. It's not as though I've established myself as someone with a significant political opinion. At any rate, here it is, unsolicited and without any intent or agenda. I voted for Obama. I won't lie, part of me feels a slight twinge of guilt for not voting for Hillary simply because she's a woman. But therein lies the problem, the fact that she's a woman is virtually the only thing about Hillary that I find exciting. Beyond that she strikes me as politics as usual, and besides that I'm slightly horrified by the idea of Bill wandering around the White House in his house slippers baking cookies for Ladies Home Journal.

More importantly I find myself swept up in the positive energy that seems to move around the entire Obama campaign. I appreciate his eloquence, his message and his potential. I believe he has the ability to unite people and appeal across party lines...as evidenced by the fact that my 86 year old, Mexican Catholic, Fox news watching, Republican por vida grandfather is willing to vote for him. Sold.

Plus, John Legend is in this video and you know how I feel about that man.

feb 1 - off to a good start

2008-02-04T21:45:00.000-08:00

For about 17 minutes after I received Isa's email about a Goldenbleu sample sale, I pretended that I was not going to go because I didn't really "need" another handbag. I'm usually not one to throw around a word like "need" carelessly. But it was raining and I was feeling kind of funky and honestly, you can't go to a sample sale the day before you have to write your rent check. Even I can usually prioritize the roof over my head versus the leather shell carrying my empty wallet. However, Isa and Jan approached the sample sale with true dedication and zeal. They shamelessly left work early and then drove through a full on storm in order to arrive promptly at 6 when the doors were set to open. They also graciously offered to pick me up and promised to limit me to one and only one purchase...no matter what.

One out of two ain't bad.

Let me just say, this was an unbelievable sale. We're talking about Neiman Marcus merchandise for Nordstrom Rack prices. $800 bags selling for $60. Umm, that's the equivalent of free by the way. Which is why I decided it was in my best interest to buy not 1, not 2...but 3 bags. It sounds bad, but not if you take into account the fact that at one point I had 3 bags on each arm and 4 clutches balanced precariously underneath my chin. It was like those busloads of Asian tourists that get dropped off at the Louis Vuitton store.

Now just be patient because the transition into the next part of this story is shaky but I promise it all comes full circle in the end.

So some time prior to the heavenly handbag sale I met a boy...a bartender, yes I know, you've heard this all before. What can I say? I instantly gravitate towards their ability to banter and talk shit. And pour me free drinks. These qualities sometimes cause me to lose my otherwise stellar judgement and good sense. General lesson learned: a man who cooks you dinner and offers you a toothbrush of his own accord can only be up to no good. I'd love to say I didn't fall for his nonsense, but I think that I was blinded by an ounce of chemistry and a cute pair of Diesel jeans. Oh, and he played the guitar. Come on, what am I? Made of stone? Not surprisingly the whole affair was short and somewhat anticlimactic and in fact, as is not uncommon, bartender went completely MIA. And I, of course, had the good sense to write him off and make a date with a stable, grown up lawyer who could be relied on for dinner reservations and polite conversation. As we all experience rejection from time to time, it seems best to pass through it with dignity and pride intact and simply move on. Which was exactly what I planned to do. That is, until I ran into him on a Saturday night at a bar. 4 vodka sodas + sassy dress + new discount clutch = one feisty goddammit. It went something like this:

barboy: I know you're pissed and I'm sorry.
miss thing: You know, I don't really need to have this conversation, if you're gonna be that guy, you might as well just own it and be that guy, I don't need you to say you're sorry.
barboy: blah blah blah.....was sick....blah blah blah...meant to call...blah blah blah
This part gets sort of fuzzy, I can't quite remember what was being said, although it's reasonable to expect it was more of the same.

And then (and this part is much clearer) I hit him...with the new clutch. Twice. One quick rap to the chest and one firm backhand across the face.
barboy: Umm, I know you're pissed, but could you stop hitting me with your purse?

I know it wasn't one of my finer moments, I know I should be embarrassed, I mean, what? Do I actually think I'm in my own episode of Sex & the City? But I gotta tell you, I'm really not embarrassed. I mean, what did I have to lose? I laugh a little every time I think about it and I've proudly told the story to anyone who will listen. In fact, I expect I will be telling that story to my grandkids someday, just so they know that Grandma was once a fierce bitch in patent leather platforms, wielding a ruched clutch with suede lining that she got tax free at a sample sale.

james

2008-02-02T22:10:00.000-08:00

My very talented and wonderful friend and ex-coworker James once painted a gigantic watercolor of my face. This may or may not sound appealing to you, I suppose that depends on how you feel about my face and my somewhat steely glare. I'm sure my mother, if she could get her hands on it, would mount it somewhere in the living room.

Even if you don't care for my face, James is, as I said, very talented and the entire collection he did is absolutely fantastic. Take a look here. He had an art show in LA this past weekend which I unfortunately could not go to, but Kath went and was kind enough to send me some photos of my big face and James.

You will note that in addition to being talented, James is also well dressed. I can't explain how much I miss our lengthy lunch conversations about the latest pair of shoes I was flirting with or the latest designs for his bikini line. He has some fantastic ideas for bikinis.

My absolute favorite James story though involves him rescuing a terrible dress I bought on ebay. I don't quite remember what possessed me to buy the ebay dress. It was a Rachel Pally, white bubble dress with gold cranes embroidered on it, which I think I saw somewhere but couldn't find in my size. I was, however, determined to have it because I had decided it was the absolute only thing I could possibly wear to a party. I am often guilty of this sort of fixation and unreasonable pursuit because of an image I have conjured up in my head of me in an outfit. So it was with the Rachel Pally dress, I tracked it down on ebay, bid on it relentlessly and then gasped in horror when it arrived and had the audacity to be tea length. In my head it was a sassy bubble style mini-dress. In reality it hit about mid-calf which you may, or may not know is an absolutely unacceptable length for someone as short as me especially in a bubble style. With only 2 days to spare, I cried to James about the dress disaster over lunch and probably dramatically threatened to cut the thing short myself. That afternoon I received an Outlook meeting request entitled, Atelier and the next day, I found myself standing in my strappy gold platform heels on top of a 12 person conference table in the only meeting room with a decent sized mirror, while James took his sewing shears and promptly transformed my maternity dress into a mini. That is the kind of man you want around in a pinch. How I envy his daughter and the years of style superiority and amazing prom dresses in her future.

the one and only miss Aych

2008-01-15T23:17:00.000-08:00

It's really hard to get Aych on the phone, she hates it and would flat out rather have a marathon IM session than actually talk on the phone for 5 minutes. So I have to call, leave a message pleading with her to call me back and then wait for her to be in the mood to talk to me. Sometimes I will get a text that lets me know she's alive and grumpy/busy/studying/drinking/watching sports or just not interested in chatting. She sends the text to buy herself some time but also so I know she still loves me. However, I do not hold this behavior against her because the girl always comes through in a big way. I haven't talked to her for probably 3 weeks and I pick up the phone today and without missing a beat she says,

"Oh my god I have to send you this picture, I went deep sea fishing and caught a giant Mahi Mahi."

give me patience

2008-01-12T21:35:00.000-08:00

Saturday 10:45 AM

"Good morning Mama's."
"Hi ma'am. Could you tell me how long the wait will be if my family and I come down in about an hour?"
"Well, it's about 40 minutes right now, so I would guess it'll be the same or longer."
"You think it's going to get even longer?"
"Probably, you know, it's Saturday and we usually stay pretty busy all day."
"Well, should we even bother coming then?"
"Uh...well, there's definitely going to be a wait, so I'm not sure what to tell you."
"Well you sound kind of depressed."
"Umm, no, I'm fine actually, a little bit busy, but I'm just trying to be honest with you about the wait."
"Well maybe we'll just go to Sears. How's the breakfast there? Pretty good?"
"Yeah, sure. I hear it's great. Try the Swedish pancakes."

adventures

2008-01-12T00:12:00.000-08:00

Wow. I had the most extraordinary weekend. Not extraordinary like I found designer shoes on sale and in my size at Barneys, extraordinary like each night I came home to my little apartment battered and thankful to be safe from the boobery and antics of the average San Francisco male.

Isa and I kicked off Friday night at an art show in the Mission, where our friend Claire was showing some of her stuff. We arrived overdressed and way too early with expectations of a gallery full of attractive, broody artist types sipping cocktails...and instead walked up 5 flights of stairs to a bare bones loft space where a scruffy looking teenager insisted on charging me $10 and checking my ID to get into a room with 9 other people where they weren't serving alcohol and a highschool style garage band was tuning up in the back. To make matters worse, he looked at my ID, looked at me and said, "Wow, '81 huh?"

Next stop, obviously, was anywhere that served alcohol and employed a dj. We decided on John Collins and maneuvered through the heavy crowd until finally finding our way to the bar where 2 gentlemen (and I use the word loosely) seated in front of us offered to help us get a drink. I believe his words were, "Believe me ladies, I am the cocktail expediator." That's not a typo, that's the way he said the word. We surveyed the bar, 2 to 3 people deep in most places, and figured it was worth 10 minutes of conversation. So Mr. Expediator moves to get the bartender's attention and his friend turns to us and says, "You (Isa) must be Lebanese and you (me) must be Korean." I offered him a giant eye roll and turned to my left where a young man caught my eye because he was cute and then made the mistake of opening his mouth.

"Whoa, is that an airforce jacket?"
(Looking down at my basic black zip up) "Uh, no."
"Do you fly a jet? Are you a jet flier? Can you fly me somewhere awesome?"
Met with the classic Felicia, what the hell are you talking about stare.
"How about the Bahamas? What about Mexico? Waikiki? The Big Island...."
I turn to Isa to see if she is hearing this but she's still trying to explain her and my heritage to a complete stranger.
"Hey! What's the matter? You don't like Hawaii? You don't want to fly? I've got a magic carpet!"

A cocktail never arrived at a better time. Mr. Expediator turned around and handed us 2 badly needed vodka sodas. And then stared at us expectantly. And we stared back blankly until I realized he was waiting for money. "Oh! Right, uh how much is it?" I handed him some cash and Isa and I wandered off talking about our glory days when middle aged men in bad sport coats offered to get us drinks AND then paid for them.

A smarter girl would have thanked her lucky stars that she survived such a horrifying evening and then spent Saturday night holed up in her apartment with takeout and a movie. Instead, I met some people for dinner at Luna Park and then ended up at the Lion's Den, sitting at the bar with Ali talking trash and sipping mojitos. The evening's pleasantries were interrupted by the bartender saying, "These are from the guy down there" and putting two shots, each with a wedge of lime, down in front of us. Ali groaned and I sniffed mine cautiously. I took a small sip, turned to her and said, "It's water." What? Right. Water. 2 shot glasses of water. Who sends shots of water? The mystery was solved 10 minutes later when a short man in a floppy, leather Old West style hat came up and tapped me on the shoulder.

"Hey, I'm Justin. I sent you the shot of water." Chuckle.
"Oh yeah, thanks, it was uh, really refreshing." I was swiveling myself away and back toward the bar when my adorable friend Mike grabbed the short man by arm.
"Dude! You sent the water?? That was awesome. Felicia, you have to talk to this guy!" Dagger eyes. Mike is clearly the worst bouncer ever.
"Ha, yeah well, it was the cheapest way for me to make an introduction."

What do you know? Charming and economical. I have to admit though, that I'd love to know the thought process behind that whole approach. I suppose it's original, but is there any real expectation of success? Is it possible that the shot of water thing has actually worked for him in the past? And really, on a Saturday night, what kind of bartender has the time to entertain some jackass who asks him to send a couple of girls shot glasses of water? "Oh and can you make sure to add a lime wedge..."

Dan, and the cab driver, laughed at my expense the whole way back to Russian Hill. Hoping to change the subject, I mentioned that earlier in the day, a cab driver had talked me into paying an extra $15 for a copy of a book of short stories he had written. He was carrying a box of them around in the cab with him and he even insisted on signing it, "To Felicia, my passenger!" Dan looked at me, shook his head and said, "Felicia, every time you open your mouth your life gets weirder."

Incidentally, the book is called "Don't Take Me the Long Way" and it's 30 short and allegedly true cab stories. The first one is about a man named Bob who pays my cab driver to find him an ugly hooker who will give a blowjob for under $30. I expect it will be appearing on Oprah's book club list any day now.

arnold, california

2008-01-01T00:01:00.000-08:00

I took a break from the usual New Year's Eve type festivities this year. Perhaps it was the month of wedding and holiday related social engagements or perhaps my friends, we're just getting old. Either way, instead of a big bar bash to ring in 2008, a group of us headed up to the middle of nowhere for a quiet cabin fever style, New Year's Eve in the snow. I don't expect you've ever heard of Arnold. It is not as hip and vacation friendly as Tahoe, it's not even by anything significant that could assist you in determining where the hell it is. We know where it is because Ali and Dom's families have been vacationing there for at least 15 years and throughout the years many of us tagged along, spending one week each summer fighting, flirting and generally tormenting each other like only prepubescents can. You can rent a 4 bedroom cabin in Arnold for 4 nights for a little less than $900. And it turns out, that if you pack this super saver cabin full of booze, food and a rowdy group of friends, you will arrive at New Year's Day feeling just as hungover and body battered as if you had spent the evening at an overpriced party trying to get a drink at the bar.

The cabin had 4 bedrooms. 2 rooms had queen sized beds. 1 room had 2 twin beds, and the last room was a single twin. Apparently people who are having sex get first pick...illustrating once again the hardships us single people face. I was all for the single twin until I saw the tiny bed, the doll collection and the creepy crochet. Why is crochet so creepy?

"Dom, we're gonna be roommates."
"What? No way. I'll take the single, I want my own room." (walks down the hallway) "You're right, it's creepy. We'll make Ian sleep in there."

And that's how Dom and I ended up like a 1950's TV couple in twin beds, listening to the Nick and D pillow talk from next door and complaining about the injustice of it all.

In case you're wondering, the wallpaper you see there is gun wallpaper. All different types of handguns and revolvers. Teddy bears, handmade quilts...and guns. It's like Charleston Heston picked up a copy of Martha Stewart Living.

We stopped at BevMo on the way up and all 4 of us grabbed shopping baskets and proceeded to stock up like Jan. 1, 2008 was the first day of Prohibition.

You know you're out of control when the people who work at the alcohol warehouse store are giving you strange looks as you all dart around the store yelling things like:
"Hey, do you guys think 12 bottles of champagne will be enough?"
"Juana is bringing up a case of red, so we should probably pick up 5 or 6 more bottles right?"
"I've got the gin, the vodka and a couple bottles of Crown...who's drinking Bloody Marys in the morning?"

The result of that trip to boozeland is that Dom, Nick, Ali, D and I got completely and ridiculously drunk all on our own the first night and danced around the cabin like a bunch of assholes...ironically much like this lovely print of Bear Dance hanging on the living room wall.

I think this is when the cousins in unison broke out into their interpretation of a dance from Jersey Boys. Meanwhile, I'm just confused.

The great thing about Ali, is that one month she's an elegant bride and the next month she's in pjs and a sideways cap slow dancing with a giant teddy bear. Versatile and shameless.

Those of us too lazy to deal with chair lifts and sporting equipment made a quick trip to family fun in the snow land. Nothing like 4 grown women showing up at the kiddie snow park wearing designer sunglasses and carrying big sleds.

I do not particularly enjoy winter sports. Shocking right? I have been snowboarding on more then one occasion when dragged by an overzealous and outdoorsy ex-boyfriend. But spending an afternoon with my feet strapped to an over sized skateboard while sliding down a mountain, most often on my ass, is not my idea of a good time. I'm not good at this type of shit! It hurts and beyond that, it's cold and wet. Kindly point to me the fireplace and the bar.

The only thing that truly separated the trip from your average college style spring break, was the food. We drank like teenagers, but we ate like adults. I, of course, handled breakfast. And by that I mean, I had my poor prep guy put together a box full of Monte Cristos and french toasts which I grilled up each morning, Mama's style. Dinner fell into the hands of Ali and D, who brought up almost the entire Whole Foods cheese section. Sausage and Peppers, gourmet pizza, short ribs and polenta.

Typical.

You might be wondering what the hell we did for 4 nights in a cabin in the middle of nowhere. I have no idea. We ate a lot and drank even more. We made it through about 7 minutes of Cranium, Balderdash, Pictionary, Scattegories and Trivial Pursuit. We played the most pathetic round of charades in history. We fought over whether it was the boy's turn to play video games or the girl's turn to watch an episode of 90210 Season 2.

Yeah, that's my New Year's Eve outfit. Sweat pants, a t-shirt, and hot pink socks. Don't judge people, I was in the woods.

Apparently rental companies ask for a deposit just in case one of the guests (DAN) decides to get rowdy and surf on the family coffee table. I should take this opportunity to thank Brian whose box o' tools came in super handy the next morning. And I offer my sincere apologies to the Kerr family whoever you are...I also suggest that you not put your feet up on the table, it's in a delicate state.

The "we cook, you clean" rule is still one of the best guidelines out there. The boys were happy to tackle the mess after being well fed, and they even did it with a little JT style. After seeing this, Dan is going to tell me for the 100th time that my blog makes him look like a drunk...to which I say, work that dishrag baby. Video doesn't lie.

It's not the woods without a Wii. And it's not New Years without...Guitar Hero??? Wow. Who knew we were that geeky?

Again. Like the wedding photo, I cannot explain to you exactly what is happening or why we think it is so funny. Our whole trip was sort of like a big family vacation. Nobody to impress and no pretense of maturity. We might as well still have been 12 chasing each other around the cabin with silly string. Except this time we were drunk and nobody really had the energy for chasing.

This is the last thing I remember before passing out. Dom, scrounging through one of the closets and emerging dressed like Harry Potter.

4 nights, 36 bottles of wine and 11 bottles of champagne later, our overfed and hungover group piled back into our cars and headed back to civilization. Happy 2008!

holiday cocktails

2007-12-23T21:47:00.000-08:00

I don't really have the space to go throwing parties in my studio. It's always a little bizarre to have people over...and then offer them your bed to sit on. So I did the next best thing and threw a little party at the restaurant. It started as a little holiday get together for the girls and then expanded to a slightly larger holiday get together for whoever wanted to come by and bring something to drink. Isn't that always the way it happens?

I love to throw parties. I think it may be where you can really tell that I grew up in the restaurant biz. I get absolutely caught up in all the little details. I plan appetizers, buy Christmas cocktails napkins, matching hor d'oeuvres trays and arrange candles. Even at my old job, while I produced less than spectacular spreadsheets, I never missed a chance to force snacks and cake on everybody else for a birthday, a holiday or just because it was Friday and I was bored so I brought donuts. Cupcakes and champagne could spice up even the most boring meeting (otherwise known as scheduleboard for all you PDI people). Gotta go with what you're good at and what you love. So as soon as I can convince Ali to leave that dead end job at Genentech, we'll be starting up our own little catering company ... and probably driving Dan to drink.

See. She looks right at home in a kitchen, even in her sparkly mini dress and heels.

I try not to let aprons cramp my style.

The finished spread. Food by Ali and myself. Layout by Isa.

Love Pooh.

Tooting my own horn. I made all those damn brownies, and they were delicious. Oh and that's Ian and Jen and they are delicious as well.

Bubba and I. Not models after all.

Ali is at a bizarre angle in this picture, and Dan appears to have some sort of stain on his shirt. Good thing Heather and Lamont look cute.

Well cocktailed newlyweds.

ugly sweaters at 954

2007-12-21T23:17:00.000-08:00

Who knew it would be so difficult to find an ugly Christmas sweater? Don't you feel like you see them everywhere? My cousin Ed has one every year, at least one size too small with snowflakes and reindeer and all that shit. So why, 2 days before having to attend an ugly Christmas sweater party was I running from Ross to Target to Marshalls and having no luck? Where do people find these things? I went into Talbot's for god's sake. Technically I found one at Talbot's, but I wasn't about to drop $50 on a zip up cardigan with a Santa's workshop scene. I finally found an ugly Christmas sweatshirt at Longs for $9.99. Bright red with pink puff paint teddy bears that look like they're from the Night of the Living Dead Christmas celebration.

I got one for Dan too.

Ian took the whole business to a new level and created his own sweater, and it was ugly.

Better shot of the zombie teddy bears. D in her not so ugly Christmas sweater.

Fran - attacked. Somebody help her!

No ugly Christmas clothes here, but they did just get engaged which is clearly as blogworthy as my Longs Christmas sweatshirt. Congratulations Chris and Dominique!

tall boys

2007-12-09T21:54:00.000-08:00

There are nights that simply get away from you, despite what you had planned and in spite of the outfit you chose, there are nights that simply take on a life of their own. December 8th was one of those nights in the absolute extreme. I was supposed to be in a party dress enjoying Ali's company holiday party while she enjoyed her honeymoon in Bali. Another person's company holiday party might not sound appealing, people rarely enjoy their own company parties, but Ali works for Genentech and the party was being held at AT&T park, which they had tented in for the event. Dom and I were ridiculously excited. We spent weeks discussing our plans to eat and drink our way through the Genentech crowd while telling everybody that we worked in janitorial and food services. We speculated endlessly about who the guest performer would be (last year is was Elton John. Elton John, for god's sake). We even had a divide and conquer plan for picking up our own Genentech dates. So you can imagine our disappointment when Ali and Dan took off for Bali without leaving their keys for us to get the tickets. After a brief pros and cons discussion around whether or not to break into their mailbox, we resigned ourselves to the idea that we would need to make other plans for our Saturday night. Other plans ended up being a birthday party over at Levende Lounge. On the cab ride over I lamented again over the list of rumored amazing performers..."Justin Timberlake? Stevie Wonder???" to which Dom replied, "Whatever, that party is going to SUCK!" and took a swig of his Bud Light.

Here we are at Levende, clearly saying, "Take that Genentech, we don't need your stupid party, look how much FUN we're having!!"

Fast forward to 1:30am, when we leave Levende with Nick and D in search of a cab. Uh and we searched and we searched. After several blocks and much complaining on my part, we ended up on the corner of Mission and something drinking Bud Light tall boys out of paper bags and eating Doritos. So now, not only am I not at the fancy party, I'm sitting on a fire hydrant in the Mission, freezing my ass off and drinking piss beer out of a paper bag like a homeless person. Awesome.

Moments before I fell off the fire hydrant.

After a full hour on the streets, we managed to get a cab back to good old 954, where D and I, frozen to the bone, proceeded to raid the boy's drawers for tube socks and oversized sweatshirts. We then demanded that a pizza be ordered, after discovering that the only thing in their fridge was Thanksgiving leftovers. December 8th people, you do the math.

D loves this picture. She will love that I have posted it on the internet. Lucky for me there are no photos of me in Dom's soccer socks and Giant's shirt, eating garlic pizza.

The evening ended when the 4 of us passed out in front of the TV while watching, Field of Dreams. A movie about baseball in a corn field.

farm boy

2007-12-09T20:33:00.000-08:00

I just fell in love with a Christmas tree farmer. I'm not even kidding. If you are in the market for a Christmas tree I highly recommend the lot at the Marina Middle School. They have trees and an amazing selection of men with accents to help you hoist them onto your car. D and I stopped by this evening to get our little trees and we were assisted by one of the most beautiful men I have ever seen WITH an Australian accent that didn't hurt either. The poor man was actually trying to give us information about the varying types of trees available and there were several times that he said something and neither of us answered because we were both too busy staring. As he helped us pick out our trees he mentioned that he had a twin brother and I swear to you, our eyes were like giant saucers in our little faces. We were silent for a moment until I spoke up to say,

"Um, are you guys identical?"

In a moment when I felt very appreciative of my single status, I handed him a Mama's business card and invited him to come in for breakfast. Dear Santa, all I want for Christmas...

the day

2007-12-01T14:30:00.000-08:00

I woke up at 6am, threw on my sweatpants and headed over to Ali's parent's house. I stopped at Starbucks where I told the barista that my best friend was getting married, despite the fact that she didn't ask and didn't care.

can't you just hear you yelling, "It's my wedding day!!!!!!!!!!"

bride in progress as Nonni and Mom look on

I spent the entire morning at the house while we all passed through the various stages of hair and makeup. It was surprisingly calm. We snacked and chatted. We teased the weepy members of the Tredinnick family. We tried to stretch out Isa's shoes because the only pair left in the country were 2 sizes too small for her feet. Then all of a sudden, right around 12:30 when the other girls started to arrive and the photographer arrived, chaos broke out in true T family style. Shouting, running, tears and frantic behavior of all kinds.

Isa, trying to make me look pretty

not exactly what I had in mind

doesn't she look beautiful?

I wanted big, fun hair...and it turned out big all right. This is a nice photo except that we are looking at the nasty, blistering burn on Ali's wrist from pulling something out of the oven and suggesting she get some makeup cause it wasn't going to be pretty in the photos.

Eddie T holding it together on the big day

look at Fran, super excited to be adding Ali to the family...either that or already drunk?

maids of honor

Arriving at the church. Note the cathedral length veil, that thing kept me hopping out of my pew every 5 minutes because it was my job to arrange the freakin thing every time she moved. The ceremony was beautiful and very official, considering they had not one, not two, but three priests up at the altar. I didn't drop her bouquet, Amanda didn't forget the ring and nobody said I don't. There were plenty of tears, but I think I just grinned the whole time because I really felt so hugely happy for the both of them.

We left the ceremony with the new man and wife and headed down to the ferry building where the photographer tried to make us look natural. I don't know how natural we're going to look in our tuxedos and dresses, freezing to the bone as homeless men congratulated the couple while at the same time stealing our champagne. Gotta love San Francisco.

limo ride to the party

I love this photo. Rob and Joe have come a long way since we first met them as pudgy little first graders.

Please note that Isa has abandoned her Ann Taylor bridesmaids shoes, scorned the flip flops Ali bought for us, and changed into her gold Giuseppe's. Such a diva.

From a lovely first dance with Dan...

to the moves we're used to seeing out of her.

You have never seen a group of people more excited for the song "Shout" I wish this photo did true justice to the scene of men flailing on floor.

She's about to toss the bouquet, and I am telling her in no uncertain terms that she better not toss that thing in my direction - I don't care what my mother said to her. Aych, Isa and I could be seen visibly scowling during this portion of the reception.

Another bridesmaid? Nope, that's Debs, looking sassy.

I have to admit that the entire event flew by in a blur. There was so much happening and happening so fast that I'm racking my brain for the highlights. And believe me there were many, the boys showing up at the church in Giant's jerseys; the look on Dan's face when Ali came down the aisle; Eddie T's perfect father of the bride speech; Dan's Dad bringing down the house when he joined the band. It was a beautiful day, a fabulous party and at the end my best friend is a married lady. I don't expect too much to change since we have considered them our old married couple for years. Although I sort of feel like I'm all of a sudden unemployed and I'm not sure what Ali and are are going to talk about from now on.

ladies lunch

2007-11-30T12:36:00.000-08:00

On Friday, the mother of the bride threw a beautiful luncheon for all the bridesmaids at the Marin Country Club. Admittedly, we are all looking a little on the lackluster side. Well, maybe all of us except for Ali, she's got that "I'm getting married tomorrow!" glow. While we lunched, the boys played golf and met up for like the 80th happy hour of the week, I on the other hand, flat out cringed when the waitress handed me a glass of champagne.

I spent the evening cooped up in the apt writing my little speech for the reception. Here I am, always with something to say, but faced with the words for my best friend on her wedding day I was utterly speechless. Big thanks out to the people who answered my late night phone call for feedback! I barely slept all night because I kept waking up, convinced that I had overslept and missed the entire thing. And because Aych couldn't sleep either and was creeping around my apartment at 3am, having a snack and poking around the bathroom.

rehearsal

2007-11-29T16:30:00.000-08:00

Thursday evening, the rehearsal dinner. The bridal party was hungover, the bride was late, my dress was potentially too low cut to be in a church. At one point the bishop asked for the maids of honor and then looked at me and said, "Oh, or are you a matron? Are you married?"

No. No I am not. Let's move on.

Halfway through the faux ceremony, as I sat watching Ali and Dan practice their steps at the altar, it started to sink in that this was really happening. Luckily before I could get misty eyed and potentially ruin my makeup, Aych tapped me on the shoulder to tell me that she left my flat iron on in my apartment and I was momentarily distracted by the thought of my apartment going up in flames.

This photo is a tad grainy, but all I really need you to see is Ali, at the altar, in her Vegas Jimmy Choos and a cream coat looking like she's not wearing anything underneath it.

The dinner was over at Perbacco, where there was plenty of space, food, and booze for a lively group of family and friends.

the bridesmaids

the groomsmen (and the bride)

love her

This is in the midst of Dom's speech when he totally sold me out for a cheap laugh!! "If you had asked me in highschool to put money on who Alexandra would end up marrying, it would not have been Dan. Probably because at the time he was making out with Felicia in Joe Sheehy's garage." Yeah, that's an adorable story for the relatives and the bishop.

Though in all seriousness, one of the things that made this wedding so special for a lot of us is that we were able to celebrate two of our best friends getting married. We've known eachother so long and many friendships survived many little melodramas. Check out this picture, it's ridiculous and not just because of all the bad hair. It's from our 10th grade Winter Formal. Stay with me now, we'll start with the back row, left to right.

Groom, Maid of Honor, Groomsman, Bride, (skip them,skip her) Groomsman, (skip her) Groomsman

(skip her) Groomsman, Bridesmaid, Groomsman
Best Man (he had a date I think)

gaining a sister

Not a true Tredinnick girl, but pretty damn close.

Down to the wire! Almost Mr. and Mrs.

and so it begins

2007-11-28T19:40:00.000-08:00

Monday, November 26th, my day off. 7:30 am. The phone rings and it occurs to me that it's really time to change the Golden Girls theme song ringtone. (Thank you for being a friend...)

F: It's 7:30 in the morning.
A: IT'S WEDDING WEEEEEEEEEEK!!! I'M GETTING MARRIED IN FIVE DAYS!!!!!

And so it begins.

Aych arrived at my front door on Wednesday, with a suitcase AND an enormous duffel bag. Moments later she opened the suitcase and pulled out a crumpled mass that I barely recognized as her bridesmaid dress.

"We aren't wearing the straps right? Cause I already lost one."

We officially kicked off the celebrations with a bridesmaids get together at Amelie, the lovely little wine bar in Russian Hill. Ali glowed over several bottles of champagne and a cheese plate and we toasted to the crazy week ahead. Meanwhile the boys had steaks and probably talked about sports.

We all met up to finish the night up at the classiest joint we could think of...the North Star. Appropriate I suppose, since this group has ended many many nights at this beer soaked dive. I guess we figured we'd be sophisticated for the rest of the week. (yeah right)

half a table of bridesmaids

well fed groomsmen

overdressed for the North Star - what's new?

her boys

the happy couple

thank you Dom, it was almost a great pic

Mike gives this whole marriage business a thumbs up

If you read this blog, you are now familiar with this look. Ali is drunk.

pole dancing

2007-11-26T18:21:00.000-08:00

One of the truly wonderful things about being single is that you can be sitting home one evening and another fabulous single girl will call you up and say the following magical words, "Hey, do you want to go to a firefighter's party on Saturday night?" Umm, yes please!!! And that's how I found myself in my gold sequin dress, dancing on a faux fireman's pole at Bimbo's, surrounded by men who were all physically capable of rescuing me from a burning building. I might even have met a fireman who I like enough to not write about him in my blog.

must love rocks

2007-11-24T23:03:00.000-08:00

Blind dates are for television sitcoms scenarios and the opening scene of romantic comedies. I do not think they are for real human beings looking for a pleasant way to spend an evening. Yes, yes I know. Someone out there reading this met their future life partner on a blind date....congratulations. But really, what are the odds? Even the people who know you the best in the world can't be trusted to choose a romantic partner for you. Look at Ali, we've known eachother 23 years and she takes me down to the financial district for happy hour, no doubt in hopes that I would strike up a conversation with an attractive man in a suit and tie. I of course, struck up a conversation with the one man in the room with full sleeve tattoos. Leave it to me, in a room full of investment bankers, I will be flirting with the bartender. My poor mother. But I digress. Back to the blind date, since as I'm sure you've gathered by now, I went on one.

I should say right off the bat that I did not go into this with high hopes, I went into it with my current attitude regarding all dating scenarios, Sure, why not? My friend Bubba set it up and I agreed on the condition that if it was awful he had to take me to dinner. That way I was guaranteed to get something out of the experience either way. In retrospect there were 2 red flags:
1 - In response to, "Is he cute?" Bubba said, "I think he gets better looking the more you talk to him."
2 - In response to, "Well what is he like?" Bubba said, "He rock climbs."

I have been on one or two really awful dates and I should start by saying that this was not one of them. Really awful was the hour at a bar with the painfully shy man who dressed his pet chihuahua up as a crocodile for Halloween. This was more like, wow, you seem like a nice enough human being but I can't believe that someone who has met us both thought that we would have anything at all in common. Berkeley living, bike riding, passionate rock climber meets city dwelling, high heel loving, avid shopper. Don't give me that opposites attract bullshit either. While I suppose it's true that two people with nothing in common could have decent sex, they would never get there because they wouldn't be able to make it through an average length dinner conversation. Which brings me to my largest complaint about the evening...it was incredibly long, like way too long for the amount of dead air and conversation killers we were experiencing. So let me just run this by you guys. On a blind date, or even first date situation, I usually meet for drinks because dinner is too risky...and I always thought that it was a pretty standard dating rule that if one person doesn't order a second drink...well, time to hang it up. No? It seems like a clear and yet fairly inoffensive signal that there is no need for the evening together to continue. And it has always worked for me. Until recently when one glass of wine turned into 3 hours of watching someone else drink slowly and nibble endlessly on a cheese plate. I, of course, did end up getting a free dinner out of this dating debacle, based not on the date being awful but on my discovering that Bubba sort of threw me under the bus. Turns out I got sent on the date because someone didn't have the balls to tell his girlfriend that he didn't think I'd like her friend. I got a free dinner, and Bubba permanently lost set-up privileges.

Now, I know that there are several of you out there shaking your heads, "Felicia, you're so judgemental." And I know this because recently I've been accused by more than one person of being too judgemental in my dating life. Who me? Ok, so I admit it, I judge. But in my defense, of my accusers, 2 are about to be married and 1 has been in a relationship so long he's not even familiar with the morning after term, "walk of shame." I challenge them to venture into the San Francisco dating world and not judge. And it's not as though I've cornered the market. I'm perfectly ok with the idea that men go home and say to their buddies, "Dude, she was nice, but she's really short." or "All she talked about was shoes." or "She's hella Asian." Or whatever it is men say at the end of dates. I mean, what's wrong with a little rock climbing? Nothing. Unless one of you is passionately dedicated to the pursuit and the other of you spends more time in the Barney's shoe department than in the great outdoors. I judge because I know what I want and I know what I don't want. And then I blog about it because I have a heartless and vicious sense of humor which a handful of you secretly enjoy.

turkey etc

2007-11-22T23:17:00.000-08:00

Last night my cab driver asked me to explain the meaning behind Thanksgiving and I responded with some fragmented mumblings about turkey and pilgrims. My explanation was so unconvincing that the next thing he asked me was whether I was born in America. For the life of me though, the only thing I could think of was that play you do in the 1st grade with the pilgrims and the Native Americans (who were still Indians when I was in the 1st grade) eating turkey together. Lame.

I do know that whatever the history behind it, Thanksgiving is the day to reflect a bit on those things in my life I am grateful for. It seems to have come at a good time this year as my outlook of late has been a little on the negative side, and like many people I've been more focused on what I don't have as opposed to what I do have. Although it is sometimes lonely, I am thankful for my tiny studio apartment because it is wonderful to have a space all to myself. Although working with my family often drives me to the brink of insanity, I am thankful for our success and our collective sense of humor which keeps us from killing eachother. Although I miss him, I am thankful for the people who are real. For Isa, my partner in crime. For Aych, who makes me laugh out loud. For Ali and Dan, who never get tired of me. For Bubba, my Monday night date. For Mike, my sounding board. For Joe, who commiserates. For Ems, who lets me be me.

A big meal and a little reflection never hurt. Happy turkey day.

muffin tins

2007-11-08T00:18:00.000-08:00

My entire social calendar these last couple of months has consisted of engagement parties, bridal showers and other wedding related events. A week after Vegas, I spent a much more civilized and refined afternoon at the Rotunda room drinking tea and watching Ali open 1,000 Crate & Barrel boxes.

Just this picture this face over and over again...but change the subtitle. "Ooh, a serving platter!" "Ooh, a tea pot!" "Ooh, muffin tins!" BTW - that's her trial wedding hair, very Grace Kelly.

Isa and I were hungover. We didn't mean to be, it just happened. While other guests oohed and ahhed appropriately, Isa turned to me and said, "Do I have to register for all this shit when I get married? Can't I register for shoes and handbags or something? I don't cook." I sort of can't wait for Isa to get married because I know that the whole experience will be like that, a complete "Screw that" to anything traditional. No white dress, no showers full of housewares...and the bride will be tottering down the aisle in 4 inch stilettos.

roses are red

2007-10-15T23:07:00.000-07:00

I am straight up undateable. I'm not kidding, I am gnarly and should probably be wearing some sort of warning label. I suppose I should have stuck with my original theory about staying in the apt with takeout and a movie until I am "ready" to date again. But what the hell is "ready" anyway...or I guess the better question is when the hell is "ready"? It seems unproductive to meet someone and not go out with him because I might not be ready. Isn't that sort of lending more wasted time to the wasted time already accumulated in the failed relationship? What's that saying? The best way to get over one man is to get under another one. Is that a saying? Not sure, but these are the kind of thoughts that led me to continue dating J, otherwise known as the boy who called me the wrong name.

On my third date with J he gave me a rose. A full on, Valentine's day style single red rose wrapped in plastic, complete with that little plastic test tube water thing. I cringed, like, I actually lost control of my facial expressions for a split second and made a face so unpleasant that he said, "Yeah, sorry, I know it's kind of cheesy." So, I made a man apologize for giving me flowers. That is so fucked up. Sure, it's not my thing, I'm pretty sure you wouldn't have to spend that much time with me to figure out that I'm not exactly a hopeless romantic. I mean, I enjoy flowers, but not necessarily from men I barely know, and come on, the single red rose? But still, I could have faked it, I should have faked it. It was a nice gesture. It was just gestured at the wrooooooooong lady. The really unfortunate part of the whole rose situation is that, apparently it was his lead into the first kiss. I expect it was meant to produce a positive effect on that momentous event, but all I wanted to do while I stood there holding the offensive rose, watching him come in for the kill (I mean kiss) was run (really fast) the other way.

You would think that the above scenario would have been enough to deter me from seeing him again. But he's nice and he's funny and I actually do enjoy his company, so I guess it kind of felt like, maybe I'm just being an asshole. Maybe I just need to give it some time....which is how I ended up on a fourth date with J. He walked me home from the restaurant and tried to hold my hand. Look, hand holding is where I draw the line, we are not at the hand holding stage. So I panicked and shoved my hand in my pocket and he was left holding awkwardly onto my forearm for a good block and a half. So freaking uncomfortable I wanted to scream. When he finally released me, I quickly transferred my handbag so that he wouldn't try any of that shit again. Thank god for accessories. We arrived at the door to my apartment building and had that sitcom staple dating moment where he stood looking at me like "Are you going to invite me up?" and I stood looking at him like, "Hell no, I've got frozen yogurt and an episode of Law & Order on dvr, so you're going home." I know it seems harsh people, but he nose nuzzles when he kisses and I hate that. I just couldn't bear the thought of a marathon nose nuzzling session. I said my goodnight in a much more socially acceptable way of course and sent him on his way. That night after several hours spent thinking about chemistry and kissing and trying to figure out what makes it so effortless with some people and so arduous with others, I received the following middle of the night text message,

I really want to make out with you some more.

Game over. Worst text message ever unless you're 16.

My friend Mike laid it out like this,

"He had to have called one of his boys, like he gets back in the car, right
like dude, what the fuck. Upset. Puts on a song to like zone out and drives home.
Gets home, watches sportscenter, like dude, what the fuck. Calls up buddy:
dude, what the fuck? Buddy says, 'dude, I dunno dude. Maybe shes playing hard to get, playing games.'

Sits around. has a beer or something, thinking like, hmmm..maybe I should call?
But maybe shes sleeping. A text will be less disruptive.

OR

He was like dude, wtf, and he and buddy get drinks. Couple of drinks, he decides to send the text because at the time it makes sense and he thinks it sounds sexy.
That's what I'd do, anyways. One of the two."

Men are fascinating.

I expect I'm probably being too harsh on the poor guy, but for god's sake. The whole experience is enough to send me back into retreat mode.

roof top

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

I was feeling a little sluggish this morning after a long night out dancing with Isa and Jan. I was at Mel's eating chicken fingers at 2am, enough said. Thank goodness I didn't have to drag myself very far to enjoy a little Sunday afternoon fleet week action. Ali and Dan had the perfect rooftop view of the Blue Angels, and Ali made some kind of big meaty sandwiches with a ridiculous name that I can't remember now.

I will admit that I rolled my eyes in protest when Ali brought her stereo out on the roof to play the Top Gun theme song, but I confess, it was so much better with a soundtrack! We even got some cheers from the people on the rooftops around us. Why is it the best theme song ever?? (Tom Cruise is fucked up though)

pink showers

2007-09-29T21:17:00.000-07:00

I'm probably not the first person that comes to mind when you think bridal shower. I'm clearly not bright and cheery enough to be at the forefront of an event that is traditionally made up of activities such as toilet paper wedding dresses and tea drinking. And yet, maid of honor that I am, that is just what I found myself doing this past week, throwing my very first bridal shower. First, and if I'm very lucky, last. This was my swan song people. Check out this table!

That's right, mini cupcakes and pink roses. I have an inner girly girl.

Now, if I'm ill equipped to throw bridal showers, Aych shouldn't even be allowed to attend them. Her gift came "wrapped" in a Hustler bag; she had at least 2 Blood Marys before the bride-to-be even arrived; and she kept pretending to go to the bathroom when in fact she was sneaking off to the bar to watch a college football game.

I think Aych and I pretty much showed our true colors earlier in the day while running party errands and having the following conversation.

F: So, bridal shower games are kind of dumb. We're gonna do that "how well do you know he groom" one, but we have to come up with some sort of competition angle, you know? Like, we have to come up with something for her to do every time she gets a question wrong.
A: Aha, well can't she just do shots?
F: Aych, it's the middle of the afternoon, I don't think it's supposed to be that kind of party.
A: Oh.
F: The wedding website said to make her put a piece of gum in her mouth every time she got one wrong.
A: (pause) That's lame.
F: I know.
A: Welllll, what if everyone just pours a little bit of their drink into a glass when she gets one wrong and then at the end she can drink that.
F: Like Kings?
A: Right! Bridal shower kings!
When we stopped laughing hysterically at the thought of transforming that dearly beloved frat boy drinking game into a bridal shower activity, we came up with what seemed like a civilized compromise.
F: How about if she answers more questions right than wrong, we all have to take a shot...but if we stump her and she answers more wrong, then she has to take a shot?
A: Just one shot? That seems reasonable.
F: Done.

Awww, "Dan" thong panties. Adorable.

There are people in this pic, but it's really just me admiring my table again.

Right. Enough with the flowers and the mini cupcakes, it's cocktail hour.

We headed to Lime for dinner since it's the best place for a rowdy group of women looking for strong drinks and the kind of venue where Isabel can get up in the middle of dinner and have a walk off with a gay man.

3 well heeled, sauced up ladies on their way to the rest of the night.

Photo taken after Isa's new BFF Brad bought us a round of red headed sluts in honor our red headed bride.

Madonna happens.

Aych is very clearly born to karaoke whereas I should not karaoke ever. Somehow, this time around, I was not only coerced on stage, but I was up there singing Bonnie Raitt. Bonnie Raitt. My face pretty much says it all. On the upside, this is a good pic of my outfit.

This boy is allegedly a Calvin Klein underwear model. Apparently a bare minimum of encouragement is all it takes for him to take his shirt off in public. I didn't arrange for a stripper because I though Ali was probably too classy for that kind of raunchy nonsense.

And apparently I was wrong.

We were all piled in a cab on the way back to Ali's apartment, talking excitedly about the pizzas we had just ordered, when we remembered that Dan lived there too. So at 2am, Ali picks up the phone, calls Dan and drunkenly instructs him not to come back to his own house for at LEAST another hour because we would all be there and we had pizza coming. It was too late though, because we arrived at the apt and found the groom to be in the above condition. Apparently, bridal shower or not, Dan was not to be outdone.

All I can say is this. Watch out, cause next weekend we're going to Vegas.

feliz

2007-09-24T23:35:00.000-07:00

Getting off to a slightly rocky start with this dating business. The first time uh, "J" called me he left a friendly message asking me to dinner, all fine, except that he called me Felice, which is not actually my name. Not wanting to embarrass him I decided to try a subtle approach, meaning that when I called back I did my best to emphasize the third syllable in my name and hoped for the best.

On a positive note, this was no "meet me at the bar so we can hook up" situation, this was a real, honest to goodness, pick you up at 7 and we'll go to dinner date. He even opened the car door for me. Gotta love good manners.

All was well until we arrived at the restaurant and J introduced me to the manager...as Felice. I guess I could have said something right then, but I felt so bad, he was saying it with such confidence. I was browsing the wine menu while contemplating the best way to remedy the situation without humiliating my date when the waiter stopped by our table.

Hi there, my name is (I don't remember) and I'm going to be your server tonight.
Hi -, I'm J and this is Felice. (Why are we introducing ourselves to the waiter?)

At this point I figured I just needed to speak up before I was renamed in front of the entire restaurant staff. So I put down my menu and said,

Look, I'm just gonna say this. My name is Felicia. (I'm so much better when I'm blunt and inconsiderate)
But, but it's in my phone, it's in my phone as Felice. (he actually held up his Blackberry as proof of some sort)
Um, are you arguing with me? It's Felicia...I promise.

Poor guy. His jaw practically hit the floor, and I could see him mentally counting how many times he had actually called me the wrong name. He handled it pretty well though, and said the only thing I think he could say to properly address the situation.

Wow, that's really embarrassing. I never get embarrassed....and I'm really embarrassed.

gimme more

2007-09-10T22:45:00.001-07:00

I took off this weekend. I felt like I needed a little break from the right here, right now of my life so I hopped on a plane to Portland to spend a few days with my lovely friend Em, and left poor Stella in the questionable hands of her Auntie Alexandra. We don't get to see eachother that often anymore so we pretty much laid low and took the opportunity to catch up...which is how we wound up in our pajamas Sunday night watching the MTV Video Music Awards.

So I hate to do this, but I can't help but join every other blogger in the universe and say, dear god did you SEE Britney Spears last night??

I have never, ever felt sorry for Britney Spears. Not when she wore that ugly 80's lace nightmare and married that stupid man; not when the paparazzi chased her and her fat babies around; not when she was on every magazine fat and flashing her cooter (that word is a gift from Patrick, and it's hideous and offensive and I apologize, but I think it's so funny and I've not yet had the opportunity to use it); not even when she shaved her damn head. Oh but I give in, she has finally melted this icy heart, I felt sorry for her last night. I'm pretty sure you could have shoved my buddy Emily in a sequin bikini and stiletto boots and it couldn't have turned out much worse than that sad, confused girl wandering around the stage and occasionally gyrating to a song she didn't even appear to know the words to. And who, WHO was responsible for those terrible hair extensions? And beyond that, who was responsible for the opening shot being a closeup of those terrible hair extensions? She didn't deserve that, nobody deserves a live television zoom in on their bad weave.

On another note...I am so OLD. I watched that entire show, and all night I kept turning to Em going, "Wait, who is that? Who are they? I've never heard this song." I think MTV must be partly to blame, because I can't really understand how they can have Video Music Awards when they don't ever actually play music videos. But I gotta face the facts, I have passed out of the MTV target audience age bracket. I might as well just hang it up and wait until I start recognizing the music on the oldies station and saying, "I remember when that song first came out...blah blah blah."

oh, this is going to be fun

2007-09-05T21:54:00.000-07:00

Now don't get me wrong, I enjoy text messages. They are handy when you are not actually interested in speaking to someone but need to pass on some info or say hello without actually saying hello. However, I don't think that a text message is a particularly good way to kickoff any sort of dating behavior. *Disclaimer: I don't actually have any strong interest in dating right now. Quite frankly I'd rather sit on my couch with a good book and lousy Chinese takeout than sit across from some random guy, making polite conversation and wishing he was someone else. That does not mean that a girl can't get her Saturday night flirt on and drop her digits if only to prove that she could date if she so chose. Ahem.

So my question is, at the age of 26, is it really too much to expect that the generous act of a phone number turnover would be rewarded with an actual phone call, complete with conversation and the eventual solidification of plans? When I received the initial text message, I thought, eh, kind of a pussy route to take, but hey, let's give the guy a break. I responded, there was banter, I got bored. But I did respond so I figured the next logical step would be the phone call. But not so much. A few days later, instead of a phone call, I got another text message inviting me out for a raucous good time with him and his crew. Okay boys, take note. There are two major problems with this approach:

1. The form, as I've already laid out, is pussy with a capital P. I let the initial text message contact slide, but if I wanted to be chat buddies, I would have given you my screenname and we could have passed many an evening exchanging emoticons and misinterpreting eachother's jokes.

2. I'm sure your friends are fantastic, my friends are too. But before I allow you anywhere near them, why don't we decide whether or not we even like eachother. You know, like, over coffee or a drink...on a date. Because I'm not in college anymore, so I don't really go much for the "let's meet up at the bars so we can makeout" approach.

Too harsh? *Sigh* With my attitude and high standards, I'd say it's a good thing I like takeout.

another saturday night

2007-09-01T22:27:00.000-07:00

When Isa and I get it into our heads to shake things up we are a force to be reckoned with. We spent Saturday at Mama's dealing with the Labor day weekend tourists and enough of a heat wave to make the restaurant a horribly uncomfortable place to be. We walked out at 4, determined to have the kind of night we felt we deserved.

The 3 cocktails I had at dinner would probably have been sufficient for the evening. I pretty much never need more than 3 cocktails. But as I said, there was a certain level of determination. We headed over to John Collins and snagged a couple of seats at the bar. This is where things got messy. In the first 20 minutes the bartender served us 3 free rounds of unidentified shots. You can't turn down free shots of course, so we didn't, and oh my goodness were we drunk, like instantaneously, embarrassingly out of control. When Isa is drunk, she's super demanding, and not particularly rational. So when the bartender dropped another unrequested cocktail, she looked at me all blurry and disoriented and told me to pour the shit out because we had to go. Logically if I wanted to be polite and not leave the drink still full on the bar it would have made more sense to take the drink with me when I left and drop it on one of the tables or somewhere out of sight of our friendly bartender. However, logic was nowhere to be found, and so I took the full glass and proceeded to pour it out...on the floor. Right, like that's so discreet. But here I am, thinking it was all sly and shit, smiling at the bartender, getting ready to leave. Which is when I realized that the girl next to me at the bar is full on outraged because in my drunken state I have somehow managed to avoid my own precious pair of Pedro Garcia's and instead poured my vodka soda all over the feet of my unsuspecting neighbor. So officially, I'm the biggest asshole ever.

Next stop is Harlot, where we cut the line of people at the door like we were the brunette version of the Hilton sisters or something. It's amazing how far attitude will get you. We walked in, hit the dance floor, when all of a sudden Isa turned to me again and announced,

"This bar is full of losers and we need to leave and go to Tonic."

She was on her on her way out before I could assess the loser level of our surroundings. The real motivation behind her decision was that 2 nights earlier we had seen a cute guy standing outside of Tonic, so in her head, not only would he still be there, but he would be joined by hoards of attractive friends. We arrived at Tonic 10 minutes later, after a $20 ride in a towncar that Isa insisted was totally reasonable and somehow preferable to a $10 cab ride. Needless to say, the cute guy from Thursday was not still there, and neither was anybody else. We ordered 2 more cocktails which we did not need, and therefore did not drink and trudged up the hill back to my apartment where we promptly passed out.

That would be the end of the story except that it turns out that one of the unidentified shots contained something that Isa is allergic to, because she woke up in the morning with a giant puffy face, barely able to open and close her eyelids. I escaped with nothing more than your average hangover. I do send my apologies to any and all that encountered us this past weekend, I assure you that in our finer moments we are really quite pleasant.

sola

2007-08-20T18:50:00.000-07:00

The strange thing about this blog business is that the primary subject matter is me. My Friday nights, my silly stories, my shoes. You all read and for whatever reason appear to be entertained, meanwhile you get familiar with the characters and the lineup. So what to do when the lineup changes? How much do you all need to know? When do I cross the line from talking about my business to talking about his business? Maybe I'll just symbolically change the color scheme and the layout. Girls like that shit. Tangible fresh starts and all that. Tomorrow I'll rearrange my furniture.

How about I'll just say this.

Nothing ruins an 'I love you' like the word: but.

But on the other hand, some people are worth having in your life whether they stay forever or only a moment.

Female breakup behavior is pretty standard I think. The girlfriends rally with tissue if you want to cry and booze if you want to drink. They talk shit because they would rather you be angry than sad. They force you into your favorite pair of shoes and take you dancing. Maybe I've just been watching too much Sex & the City, but I gotta tell you, nobody loves me like my ladies love me, and I don't know that anyone ever will.

accessorizing

2007-08-15T21:08:00.000-07:00

The important things to note about this picture are my new bangs and Isa's fedora. That's right, the girl is wearing a fedora with sparkly trim. I don't know where she comes from but I love her. Also, you can't see them, but I'm wearing really fantastic red patent pumps.

See, here they are. And Stella loves them too.

puppy love

2007-08-14T21:10:00.000-07:00

My god, look at that face. Quan was a Christmas gift for my Mom a couple of years ago, and although her initial reaction was not promising, I can now safely say she loves him with all her heart. In fact my brother and I often accuse her of loving him more than she loves us. As demonstrated by the fact that this picture was taken during a weekend she made me spend at a dog friendly hotel in Carmel. Dog friendly bar, dog treats at the front desk, dog blanket in the room...dog sitters at your beck and call.

in memory

2007-08-13T00:21:00.000-07:00

My grandmother died 6 years ago today and sometimes I am still surprised that she is gone. She had an open heart and a joy for life that seemed invincible, even when her body gave up on her. My grandfather would tell you that the early success of Mama's came out of his own stellar business skills and superior knowledge of produce and deli meat, but people who remember will tell you that success came because of Mama herself. I don't think my grandma believed in the idea of strangers, she believed only in family and friends. And when you walked in the door, that's exactly what you became. I still encounter people today who wander back into Mama's after 20 years and remember her kindness or her smiles or her generosity. Should anyone remember me in 20 years, I expect it will be because I scowled memorably or refused to put cheese on only one half of their hamburger. A lifetime in the restaurant business leaves you with more stories than can ever be remembered or recorded, but of all her stories, Mama had a favorite. She wrote it down in a notebook so that she wouldn't forget, and maybe in hopes that the point would be passed on.

In the early Mama's days, it was often just my grandma behind the counter, making the sandwiches, serving the sandwiches...probably washing the dishes. It was a neighborhood place, starting to make a name for itself, but a neighborhood place first and foremost. She had her regulars, and because my grandma could never turn a blind eye on a hungry person she had her share of regulars who could never quite pay the bill. One of these was a local homeless guy named Pete who came by every week or so with his scraggly dog, my grandma would feed them both of course. A sandwich for Pete, scraps for the dog, both left happy.

One afternoon a famous orchestra conductor, whose name I can't remember, came into Mama's, sending my grandmother into a bit of a tizzy. He seemed stern and unfriendly, difficult to please. She sat apprehensively watching as he ate his meal, and then cringed when she spotted Pete and his dog heading up the street. She silently prayed that today they wouldn't come in, feeling sure that this man would be offended by the sight of them. She breathed a sigh of relief as he passed the Filbert street window without stopping, when all of a sudden the conductor jumped out of his seat and headed for the door yelling, "Pete, Pete!" They were old friends who hadn't seen each other in over 20 years, and that afternoon they sat at Mama's for hours over sandwiches and coffee, catching up, exchanging stories. They probably never crossed paths again, but my grandmother loved that story. I think she loved it because she learned something that day that she carried with her through life and applied to every person that ever walked through her doors.

After the funeral service, we gathered in front of Mama's and watched while they drove her one last time around Washington Square Park. We have a line out the door every day and we serve food that is still worth waiting for, I know she would be proud. But I can't help thinking that the people in the line, with no memory of Mama, don't know what they're missing.

gracias pedro

2007-08-12T20:50:00.000-07:00

Just look at that presentation. If I didn't know that there were a beautiful pair of shoes inside I may never have opened it.

Shoes that were meant to be danced in. Don't you just love the Swarovski crystals? Net-a-porter is having a really amazing sale. Check it out.

introducing...

2007-08-01T00:11:00.000-07:00

People keep asking me and I realize that I never did an official naming post. Everybody meet Stella. It was chosen in mild desperation over beers, she seems happy with it. Picture Marlon Brando at the end of A Streetcar Named Desire.

tales from the gym

2007-07-31T22:29:00.000-07:00

I do not enjoy exercise. For real. And I especially do not enjoy gyms. I do however, belong to a very nice gym here in the city. The reason behind this does not actually have anything to do with exercise. A couple of years ago, after I first broke up with the boyfriend, my mother suggested I join the gym and offered to pay for it. Suspicious. I initially took it to mean that she wanted me to lose weight. Her true intentions became clear only after my initial visit and tour of the facility.

So how was the Bay Club?
Oh, it's actually really nice. And they have a women's workout area which I like be-
You can't work out in the women's area.
Uh, why not?
How are you going to meet men if you stay in the women's only area?

Got it. I suppose it was a nice thought. Get me back in the saddle with some Financial District young professional. Working against her master plan is the undeniable fact that there is nothing even remotely attractive about my appearance at the gym. I scowl and I sweat and I turn bright red instantaneously. I don't have cute matching workout outfits and I don't look good in anything spandex. The Bay Club is mostly made up of trophy wives and Marina district size 2's who don't appear to sweat and manage to look pretty killer in matching lululemon sports bra and booty shorts. Sandwiched in between a couple of these ladies in the treadmill section, the red-faced Asian girl in the sweatpants huffing and puffing through an episode of Law & Order (all the machines have TV thank GOD) has not attracted the kind of notice my mother was hoping for.

In fact, the only attention I've received thus far at the Bay Club was from a woman recently in the locker room. Although not completely Puritanical in locker room situations, I do prefer to get in and get out with a minimum of public nudity. Locker rooms are always full of women who prefer to lounge around naked, which is fine, I generally try to avert my eyes and continue on my way. Which is exactly what I was doing when a naked woman in the middle of her body lotion application decided to strike up a convo with me. She broke the ice cheerfully with the following advice,

Honey, don't ever gain 40 pounds after your turn 50, it's impossible to lose.

I nodded my head and smiled because I didn't know what to say but felt that I was supposed to respond. She went on to tell me the story behind her 40 extra pounds, which apparently were the result of a messy divorce and a 3 month vacation in France. All the while I'm doing the under the towel shimmy to get into my clothes. I'm safely half dressed in a shirt and panties when she says,

Oh your underwear looks so comfortable (!) I've been looking for something just like that. Are those cotton?

And then the REACH, as though in slow motion, before I could get away, she reached over to assess the material of my underwear. Hello! Totally crossed the lines of locker room etiquette, am I right people? You can't just go around touching other people's panties. I would have answered the question, I was perfectly willing to give her the cotton percentage AND the place of purchase. The reach was completely unwarranted and unnecessary.

And that, my friends, is the kind of action I get at the gym.

at the makeup counter

2007-07-24T22:32:00.000-07:00

I am a beauty product/makeup addict and yet, I wear very little makeup. Day to day I can't be bothered with much more than my bare escentuals mineral foundation and mascara. I love makeup, but when I get up at 7am, it's about all I can do to get from my apartment to the restaurant not wearing my Cyndi Lauper pajama shirt. I certainly can't be trusted with shadow pairings and multiple brushes. However, on a recent shopping excursion with Aych, I picked up a MAC shadestick which is my absolute new favorite thing. It is makeup for lazy people. It goes on with a finish very similar to a cream shadow, BUT it doesn't crease. For real. All day no crease action. And if you put it on first, underneath a regular shadow, it makes the color pop and stay. That's right, pop and stay. I'm sold. It actually came as kind of a surprise because the woman who sold me the wonderful shadestick lazy makeup, was wearing three shades of eyeshadow that looked like a trio of highlighters. Yellow, blue and pink in shades that would have been offensive at the height of the 80's neon craze. After the shadestick things went kind of downhill with a matte, berry lipstick. I was checking myself out in that weird hand mirror that looks like a little frying pan, when Aych wandered over, assessed the situation and said,

"It's kind of early 90's don't you think? Like, Melrose Place or something."

God, I love Aych.

why I don't answer the phone

2007-07-17T22:14:00.000-07:00

The phone rings allllllll day and I answer the same questions alllllllll day.

"Yes, we're open."
"We're on the corner of Stockton and Filbert."
"No, sorry no reservations."
"Yes, there's a line. (pause) About 40 minutes. (pause) Yes, really."

But every now and then I get a ridiculous phone call to keep me on my toes.

Good morning Mama's.
Do you serve your special brunch today?
Umm, well we serve our full breakfast menu.
No, brunch. Do you serve Sunday brunch?
We serve breakfast all day until 3, we don't have a special menu on Sundays, is that what you mean?
Is it a buffet?
Uh, no.
Oh (very disappointed). Not a buffet?
No, sorry, not a buffet.
Is it like Denny's?
No! (horrified), no, definitely not like Denny's.
Well what's it like then? Do you have waffles?
No, actually we don't have waffles, we have pan-
You don't even have waffles??
click.

a day of rest

2007-07-15T01:01:00.000-07:00

Sunday is not my favorite day at Mama's. I prefer to avoid Sundays if I can. The line starts at 7:30 and people are hungry and entitled. They want to sit immediately, they want to eat immediately, and they do not want to pay extra for anything. They are often tourists who have not been properly warned by their concierge or their copy of lonely planet:San Francisco that the wait will be almost an hour. Your breakfast experience on Sunday will probably not be as enjoyable as it would be if you called in sick and came in on Wednesday instead. Still, we do our best to get people through the line and fed well as painlessly as possible. But as I sit here recovering from a particularly lengthy Sunday at the pancake house, I can't help but point out a few of the things that would make my experience a little less painful.

The correct answer to "Good morning, how are you?" is not, "I'll have the French toast sampler." I know that you're hungry, but it's only polite.

If you do not have time to get off your cell phone to place your order, than I don't have time to take your order. It's rude and I will ignore you and make myself a hot chocolate.

I am very sorry that your mother/baby/grandfather/pregnant wife/diabetic sister is unable to wait in the line. I am very sorry that you have a plane to catch or tickets for the ferry to Alcatraz in an hour. However, I seriously doubt that the rest of the people in line will have sympathy for your situation. There is nothing I can do, so please do not yell at me. Thanks.

It's really helpful if you're specific about what you want because it's your breakfast and I am not invested enough to make the big decisions for you. For example:
What kind of cheese? Incorrect: Shrug. Correct: Cheddar (Will also accept, Jack, Provolone, Havarti, etc)
How do you want your eggs? Incorrect: Uh, however you normally do them. Correct: Scrambled. ( Will also accept Poached, Sunnyside Up, Over Easy, etc)

And finally a pet peeve. Sunglasses are an outdoor accessory. If you are inside, chances are you no longer need them to block the sun. We don't even have outdoor seating.

admiring talent

2007-07-13T22:35:00.000-07:00

I wish I could sing. I really really can't, but I have always had recurring daydreams where I am astounding people with my undiscovered talent. Not like I'm on American Idol or anything. I think it must come from my love of musicals. I secretly wish I lived in a world where people would casually break into song and choreographed dance numbers throughout the day. Anyway, in addition to wishing I could sing, I much appreciate people who actually can and do sing. So I was happy to go and hear one of our regular customers sing down in SOMA on Friday night. And I was even happier when she and her band turned out to be really good, because I'm a terrible fake and I might not have been able to muster up the faux enthusiasm next time I saw her. Check her out on myspace, her voice is really beautiful and sultry and even richer when you hear her live.

erin austin

Meeting people is one of my favorite things about working at the restaurant, for all the tourists and the nutty people, it's nice to have your regulars and people you know by name...and it's even nicer when those people have talent.

hit me with your best shot

2007-07-02T00:10:00.000-07:00

Because I didn't quite get the 80's out of my system at the True Colors concert, Isa and I shelled out $13 to see Pat Benatar perform at the Marin County Fair. I know. Not very glamorous right? I imagine that in her hey day, Miss Benatar did not picture herself rocking out 20 feet from a ferris wheel and a corn dog stand, but I guess a stage is a stage. Her initial appearance came as a bit of a shock. I'm generally not in favor of the Cher method of defying age by plastic surgery and wardrobe denial, however, I don't necessarily expect an aging rockstar to act her age. When she came out in my grandma's silk chiffon blouse and pantsuit, part of me considered fleeing the scene altogether in order to keep my vision of her intact. I don't know about you, but I prefer my Pat Benatar straight out of the "Love is a Battlefield" video, with some sort of tattered Cinderellaesque mini-dress and enormous bangs.

Her current haircut makes her look like Ellen Burstyn in the Exorcist.

She was absolutely worth seeing though. She sang and danced until her outfit almost looked cool...ok, not so much. But I was able to look past it.

true colors

2007-06-29T23:27:00.000-07:00

For my birthday this year, Ali and Isa got me tickets to the True Colors concert at the Greek Theater. I am allegedly difficult to buy gifts for and Margaret Cho is my favorite woman on earth. That is not an exaggeration. She's funny and loud and crazy outspoken. She's not afraid to talk about anything, and she uses her own experiences to shout out a big fuck you to everything from Hollywood to the President. Her stand-up act, in all its raunchy glory, almost always comes back to the fundamentals of having respect for yourself and for others. She absolutely rocks. A couple of years ago she was doing a show on my birthday and I was completely disappointed when I couldn't get tickets. So this year, when Ali saw that she was hosting an event in the area, she bought the tickets immediately without, of course, bothering to see what it was she was hosting. In fact, loved an adored by the gay community, Margaret Cho was hosting the True Colors tour, put together by Miss Cyndi Lauper to celebrate the GLBT community and to raise money in support of the Matthew Shepard Act which would amend current federal hate crime legislation which incredibly doesn't include hate crimes based on sexual orientation. Ali somehow missed the larger purpose, simply zeroing in on Margaret Cho and Cyndi Lauper. And that, in short, is how I ended up in a sea of gay with 2 straight girls from Marin. Isa, in her version of casual and dress and casual makeup, in flats against her will, but still smiling. Ali in her Banana Republic headband, jelly ballet flats, and an enormous canvas mom-tote carrying a Laura Ashley blanket and snacks. She somehow managed to spot a small empty patch of grass in the ridiculously packed lawn area and shamelessly bulldozed her way through the crowd while Isa and I watched with a mixture of embarrassment and sheer awe.

The event boasted an 80's por vida, fantastic lineup. Debbie Harry (who apparently now goes by Deborah), Erasure and of course Cyndi Lauper. The performances were awesome and glittery as only 80's pop music can be and Margaret Cho was hilarious. Even Rosie O'Donnell was funny without being horribly offensive, although her rubber duck yellow Crocs were offensive enough on their own.

The night ended with a lavender haired Cyndi Lauper leading the other artists in a really beautiful version of True Colors. Whatever that song was about 20 years ago, she's now given it a new meaning. (look closely to see the horrible Crocs)

pride

2007-06-24T22:54:00.001-07:00

In all my years as a San Franciscan, I've never actually attended Pride, or gone to enjoy the parade. Shame on me! I have however, seen the Columbus Day parade in North Beach like eight zillion times, and I assure you it's the biggest waste of street closures you've ever seen. Not to mention they always get some chubby Italian highschool kid to play Queen Isabella despite the fact that she was Spanish. But I digress. In an effort to enjoy some true San Francisco style Queens I headed down to Civic Center to enjoy Pride 2007.

Just so we're clear, the theme was "Pride not Prejudice" not "Got Sperm?"

Chucks with style.

In the midst of street fair season, with each neighborhood hosting its' own stale combination of beer gardens, hideous craft booths and garlic fries, Pride stands out as an event with a purpose and if nothing else, crazy amounts of style.

birthday shoes

2007-06-23T21:44:00.000-07:00

Happy birthday to me! This funky pair of flats went on sale on my birthday (clearly a sign from god) and arrived at my apartment this morning. And I love them. I love them because they're fashionable AND equipped to deliver a swift kick in the balls if necessary. Actually, I think that might define my personal style.

june 17

2007-06-17T00:01:00.000-07:00

Birthdays aren't what they used to be. I mean, after a certain point, you can't really expect people to get all crazy enthusiastic about your continued presence on this earth. And as my next milestone birthday is a few years off, the best I could do was to send off an email telling people where I'd be drinking, and hope that somebody would show up. I kicked off the night at the House of Carnivore Indulgence, where my poor suffering vegetarian boyfriend was forced to watch me eat a substantial cut of prime rib. The highlight of the dinner (besides the meat) was that the waiter called me fat. No really. We had this super animated cartoon character of a waiter with schtick coming out of his ears. And when he took our order I asked him what the size difference was between the City Cut (smaller) and the House of Prime Rib cut (larger). And I shit you not he looked down at me and said,

You look like a House of Prime Rib cut kind of girl to me.
To which I responded, Uh, are you calling me fat?
Noooooooooo. You just look like a girl who appreciates her beef.

Right. Thanks. Glad we cleared that up.

Thankfully several of my wonderful friends turned up to have cocktails and assure me that I did not look like a big fat beef lady. I held the festivities at this random bar called EZ5 which I love because it's orange, which is a tremendously ballsy color to do an entire bar in.

Daph & J were kind enough to make the trip from San Jose, and smart enough to get a hotel and turn it into a mini vaca.

The little brother put on a nice shirt.

The ladies had champagne cocktails.

I have no idea what is going on in this photo, and apparently neither does Patrick. That's his "WTF???" look. My guess is that Joe is yelling at me (or at the wall) for not being as piss drunk as he was. Aych...well Aych could be saying just about anything. It was either offensive or complete nonsense. Whatever it was, you can be sure she was saying it loudly.

Here we are seated in front of the faux window, another unique addition to the EZ5 ambiance.

Train wreck.

Party faces.

Midnight. 26 arrives.

bundle of joy

2007-06-01T23:25:00.000-07:00

I just went to look. Honestly, it's one of the drawbacks of having Mondays off, everybody else I know is working, so I'm left entirely to my own devices and who knows what kind of trouble I'm bound to get into when forced to entertain myself all day. Sooooo, I just stopped by the SPCA, to look, people, just to look. Like window shopping. I had been toying with the idea of getting a kitty. Well, originally I thought maybe I'd get a puppy. And then my mom kindly pointed out that I'm completely irresponsible and barely capable of taking care of myself, so how could I possible even consider getting a puppy? No really, she actually said all that. Tough love. So then I downgraded to a kitty. Technically I already have an adopted cat. I sort of abandoned her with my parents, which sounds bad, but there are extenuating circumstances. 1) The cat was a gift from the ex. That's bad feng shui or something. 2) The cat lives very happily with grandma and grandpa, in a house with a yard that she can run around in and a big dog to play with. I couldn't very well take her from her pampered Marin life and stick her back in an apartment now could I?

So anyway, I found myself strolling through the SPCA. SPCA is not really an animal shelter, it's like an animal boutique hotel. Not that I want to downplay the amount of animals that need homes, but if I was going to be a homeless cat, I would definitely want to be in my own little kitty condo at the SPCA, with my personal tv on the all day birds and mice channel and all kinds of little kitty sized furniture. I imagine that several of these cats find themselves in their new homes wondering what the hell they're being punished for. My little window shopping excursion became a full scale adoption when this little runt of a cat ran from her hiding place up to the glass to say hello. I like cats because they're moody and independent and only affectionate when they want something from you. This of course reminds me of myself. The next morning I was carrying a meowing cardboard box up the stairs and running down to my local pet boutique for essentials and accessories. Proof that you can buy anything in pink? I now have a pink litter box with matching pink poop scoop.

Little miss thing is tiny and black with big ears and huge green eyes. She talks incessantly. She's fairly well adjusted, she's bratty and demanding, but she doesn't pee in my shoes. The only dilemna being that I have yet to name her. She's been here 3 weeks and I'm concerned she's developing an identity crisis because I can't come up with an appropriate name. God forbid I ever have a child. She came with the name Cashmere, but I wasn't thrilled with that. I called her Olive for a couple of days, but decided it wasn't diva enough. Isa suggested Miu Miu, after the designer and because she never shuts up, but I find it's kind of annoying to say throughout the day. Joe has a tendency to name animals like he's 7 years old, so he suggested Shadow. I'm currently experimenting with Dinah, after the cat in Alice and Wonderland (and the biblical character further explored in the book the Red Tent, which you should absolutely read). But I'm not sold, so I'm open to suggestions.

bay to breakers...I love you

2007-05-20T21:14:00.000-07:00

I do not have the words to fully express how much I love Bay to Breakers. It might be my favorite day of the year. At this point, I've participated six years in a row, twice in the pouring rain. I've been sober (not recommended). I've been a waitress, a trashy celebrity, a pirate and most recently a bride. However, I'm most proud to say, I've never been a runner.

This year's theme was drunken bridal party...or drunken 80's bridal party...or white trash wedding. I dunno, something to do with weddings and cocktails. Half of the groomsmen aren't wearing pants...which theme did that fit into exactly? We're not so sure.

Ugh, man thighs in action.

Ali wore this hat because she is a giant dork...and because she is super white and in need of sun protection. But mostly I think because she is a dork.

Pink hat, pink shirt. Love it.

Umm, huge shout out to Fran, the creator of the ingenious arts and crafts fusion of accessory and to go cup. A big gulp and some fake flowers=the most kickass vodkalicious bouquet ever. Too bad I lost mine in the vicinity of Mile 4 somewhere in Golden Gate Park.

And we're off! One rolling wedding cake/keg and a group of drunk people dressed like assholes. B2B 2007!!!!!!

So the cake started out with 3 tiers...and somewhere coming out of Chinatown it became 2 tiers. Here we have the boys experiencing a little bit of trouble crossing Market St. Watch out for the bus.

Fran is hiding behind that bouquet, because her dress is all kinds of hideous, the kind of dress that makes Jessica McClintock look like couture.

The aftermath. This is only mile 4, but this is as far as we made it. To be honest, the closer you get to the finish line, the colder it gets and the harder it is to get back. Better to pass out where the sun is still shining and you're within walking distance to cab friendly areas...and food.

And here we have Greg, ironically dressed like a priest, doing a little yoga with the naked guy. Thank goodness I don't have a zoom lens.

I love it because it just screams San Francisco. Where else? Where else do people wake up at 6am to join a 7 mile street party under the guise of an athletic event? Hours after we had left the race, I left the rest of our disheveled group drinking beers and eating BBQ on Haight St. and wandered off in pursuit of a taxi. So there I was, in my random bridalesque fluffy gown, my running shoes, an updo and a veil wandering up Franklin St trying to flag down some sort of transportation. And then, just when I started to feel a little bit silly, I looked across the street and saw a caveman with an afro, Wonder Woman, and a man in a banana hammock and a fanny pack. Best day of the year.

studio fi

2007-05-12T21:57:00.000-07:00

So I moved. Moving is a drag, and should not be undertaken lightly. But I got the itch and signed a lease one week after casually starting to browse craigslist. I moved half a block. Here's the thing though, I was tired of roommates, bottom line. I didn't actually have truly lousy roommates, I have no horror stories or substantial gripes, especially when you consider the odds against you when you choose a roommate based on an internet housing ad and a 20 minute meet and greet. In some ways the situation was a best case scenario. I lived with two other girls and one of them spent the majority of the time at her boyfriend's apartment. Unfortunately though, roommates, especially the random craigslist kind, have the unhappy ability to take the home right out of home. I was forced to clean dishes that I would have preferred to leave in the sink; I was forced to make small talk while I ate dinner in front of the tv; I was forced to watch the Gilmore Girls. I don't care who I just offended. That show is beyond belief LAME. I also dislike sharing a bathroom. I'm squeamish about other people's stray hair and I constantly suspect that my shower products are being sampled. Also, my roommate would mercilessly bombard me with questions during each and every episode of Law & Order. Unacceptable. Fast forward to now, as I am sitting in my small and overpriced studio enjoying the simple pleasure of being surrounded by all my own belongings and decor choices. I had to give up the luxury of the dishwasher, but I compensated with the equally life-enhancing addition of super cable, complete with DVR so that I may fast forward through commercials and record endless episodes of L&O for my viewing pleasure. The studio is small but the layout makes it seem bigger. The bathroom is a decent size and appropriately I think my closet is slightly larger than my kitchen. The best feature is that it is sunny and bright with its' own little SF style balcony aka fire escape. I'll post pics when I have sufficiently sorted through the remaining clutter and made good use of the ample wall space.

dear diary

2007-04-30T11:35:00.000-07:00

When I was growing up I kept diaries. Diaries with little locks as though anyone was interested in my surburban 10 year old life. Because I'm a hopeless packrat, I still have these diaries and sometimes, when I want to feel embarrassed about my existence I reread them. My favorite part about my diaries is that they have a pattern. There will be painstakingly detailed entries for weeks, play by plays of every unfolding drama from getting in trouble for eating too many jelly beans to the purchase of my first pair of denim shorts from the Gap (gross, I know). And then there will be gaps, sometimes months, sometimes years. Like I got bored with my own life. So all of a sudden it will say,

Dear Diary,
Sorry I forgot about you (what a geek, right?). I'm 13 now and here's whats been happening in my life...

And then follows a Cliff Notes version of what I considered the "important" events over the course of the missing time.

Uh, point being...

Dear Blog,
Sorry I forgot about you. Here's what has been happening in my life....

this is not l.a.

2007-04-29T21:13:00.000-07:00

Phone rings.

Good morning Mama's.
Yes hi, we heard that this is the place to get breakfast in San Francisco. Could you tell me if you guys have a wait right now.
(It's Sunday at 9:30 am) Yep, it's about 45 minutes right now.
Oh. (Pause) Really?
Yep.
And is there a better time to come? You know, to avoid the wait.
Well, Sundays are our busiest days, it will probably be that way all day.
So here's the situation. (I can't wait.) Rosario Dawson would really love to come and have breakfast. She's in town for the San Francisco film festival and she has to catch a flight this afternoon back to L.A.
Silence. (I resisted the urge to say, who?)
Soooo, do you think there's anything you can do, she's with 5 people.
The only thing I can say is that sometimes it slows down around 2 or 2:30, she could try coming by then.
Oh.

What exactly would the advantage be here? What? Are we going to be in next week's issue of US Weekly? Sorry Rosario, at Mama's everybody waits in line, even attractive, B list celebs.

don't cha

2007-04-19T22:48:00.000-07:00

I don't particularly enjoy children in the restaurant. They're usually cranky from waiting in line. And they almost always order either pancakes or chocolate cinnamon french toast, and I almost always have to clean up the sticky table full of disaster when they leave. However, in the interest of distracting them from playing with sugar packets or unscrewing the tops of the salt and pepper shakers, I will generally offer a box of crayons to any child who looks old enough not to eat them. I have had several portraits drawn, usually only recognizable by the green apron and girl hair, and beyond that I see the usual assortment of rainbows and stick figures. I'm not going to lie, I throw them away, someday, should I have my own children, I'm sure I will love them and feel the need to keep their placemat artwork. For now though, they end up with the other placemats in the trash. Oh, but today, today we've got a keeper. I handed a box of crayons to a girl who couldn't have been more than 8 years old and look what she came up with, bless her little heart.

Pussycat Dolls, all 16 or however many there are of you, sleep well tonight knowing that little girls all over the world are picking up their Crayolas and embracing your catchy, pop message of hotness. We can only hope they will also embrace your love of shiny, metallic hot pants and drag queen inspired makeup.

vegas, baby

2007-03-29T23:30:00.000-07:00

My baby brother turned 21 and the Sanchez fam celebrated in the only real place to commemorate a 21st birthday. That's right, my parents, my grandparents and my brother's 4 best friends all headed to Vegas to celebrate the fact that Mikey can now legally drink Jack Daniels. I don't particularly enjoy Vegas, in fact I like it a little less every time I go. It's hot, there are too many fanny packs and men in tank tops, and I don't gamble because frankly, I'd rather shop. At least I'm guaranteed something in exchange for my money. My brother, on the other hand, was in heaven. The last time he was in Vegas was for my 21st. He was 16 and he spent most of the weekend in the hotel room eating Krispy Kreme donuts and watching the Lord of the Rings movies.

Tryst is the club at the Wynn. It's such a scene. Long line, girls in little clothes, and door guys with headsets who apparently think they're guarding the doorway to heaven. Thanks to a connection, we had a free table, by free I mean that we did not have to pay the usual $450 per person sitting fee. So there they are, the 2003 SI Varsity offensive line in their first swanky club. My brother is even wearing a new outfit.

Somehow my Mom appeared in the club, she probably flirted with the door guy. She was about to take a shot with Mikey, but her sister dragged her out before any damage could be done. 5 more minutes and we would have lost her on the dance floor. She's got moves.

Aww, by little bro. God I wish he'd lose the goatee and the 'stache.

This is what a $450 bottle of Jack Daniels looks like. Oddly enough, it looks much like the $30 bottle you might find in your local Safeway. Though in all fairness, the Safeway bottle will not be served to you by a better than average looking girl in a bustier.

P and I said our goodbyes before the nights festivities turned to more guy oriented activities. Our night ended with large plates of fried goodness. My brother's night ended with a stripper offering to go to his hotel room. Charming story.

tips from your waitress #2

2007-03-27T19:26:00.000-07:00

Two men walked into my life this afternoon at 2:51. 2:51 is exactly nine minutes until 3:00. 3:00 is when we close our doors, turn up the music, and clean up the havoc that has been reaped upon us throughout the day. We will still serve you if you come in at 2:51, but we will probably talk shit about you in the back after you have ordered and taken a seat. Sorry. It's the truth. Sure though, it happens. It's probably unintentional and we won't always hold it against you. If you are pleasant and friendly, we will most likely be pleasant right back and not spit in your food. (That's a joke, don't worry.) Anyway, back to today. So these two men walk in, they look like a father and son team. I smile even though I don't mean it, and silently pray that they do not order an espresso drink because I already cleaned the machine. They look at the menu for a really long time as though it is written in a foreign language. I glance up myself, just to be sure it's not. Finally the father asks me if we have Italian sausage grinders.

"Sorry. What?"
"A grinder, do you have grinders?" (He says the last word slowly as though my confusion has to do with his own enunciation or my comprehension of the English language.)
"Umm, we don't. We have Italian sausage so-" (Here is where I am cut off!)
"You don't know what a grinder is? Uh, it's a pretty basic Italian sandwich."
"Actually, we're not Italian."
Father looks at Son as though he cannot believe the situation they are in. No grinders???? No Italians????
Against my better judgement, I try again.
"Well we have Italian sausage, so maybe if you tell me what it is we can make it for you."
"Do you even have tomato sauce?" (The indignation!)
"Nope, we don't. Sorry." (Right. Sorry that we don't serve marinara with our pancakes.)
The silence is uncomfortable so I attempt a joke.
"How did you guys manage to walk into the only non-Italian restaurant in North Beach?"
"Yeah well, obviously we're in the wrong place." And he storms off!!!!

Godspeed sir. I hope you found yourself a grinder.

tyra tyra tyra

2007-03-27T18:06:00.000-07:00

So I'm just gonna go ahead and admit this. Sometimes I watch the Tyra Banks show. Yeah, I know! Embarrassing. But look, I'll be sitting at home flipping through channels and all of a sudden, there's Tyra, doing something completely insane, and I feel compelled to watch. This is exactly what happened the other night when I saw something that made me think: Shit. That's worth sharing, that's worth admitting that I watch the Tyra Banks show. So yes, my name is Felicia, and sometimes I watch the Tyra Banks show.

This particular episode caught my attention initially because as you can see, Tyra is doing some sort of pajama party thing and she isn't wearing any makeup - which I 94% admire. Hey, I wouldn't want to be on national television without makeup, that takes an extreme level of self confidence. So she's showing the audience her skin regime, and everybody has a bowl of water and their own set of products so that they can walk through the process with Tyra and her lovely volunteer up on stage. It's all relatively normal, she cleanses, she tones, she moisturizes. She's incredibly enthusiastic about all of these things, but still, for Tyra, things are at an abnormally tame level. I almost changed the channel. But next thing I know Tyra pumps herself a handful of lotion and starts moisturizing her breasts with intensity. All the while bellowing, "MOISTURIZE THE BREASTS" and gyrating around. Cut to a studio audience full of slightly uncomfortable women, a handful of gay men, and 2 or 3 boyfriends who are all of a sudden way more enthused about being dragged to the Tyra Banks show. I like that the girl on stage manages an almost equal level of enthusiasm and even vigorously moisturizes her own breasts without looking horribly embarrassed. I hope she got to keep the products.

Tyra Banks Moisturizes Her Breasts -

For the record, I don't hate Tyra. I think she's all kinds of crazy. I am sometimes disturbed by the level of drama she ascends to. And I find her generally embarrassing on America's Next Top Model. But I appreciate that she seems to have a quality that people can relate to, something about her seems real and in addition to that I appreciate never having to see her private parts hanging out of a limo. These days that is the scale with which I judge celebrities.

*Side Note: The lotions she uses to moisturize her boobs is actually really good...for your face. Aveda Hydrating Lotion.

spring break '07

2007-03-25T21:57:00.000-07:00

So Ayça's* in town for Spring Break. I obviously don't get a Spring Break myself, but her being in SF seemed like a valid reason to party like I was still in college and my parents had just paid for me to go to Mexico for a week.

*Note: Please see the appropriate spelling per special request of Miss Erbilgin herself.

Just one thing: When I make an appearance in the blog, can you sneak
the ç in there? I hate my name with a c. or make it a ch - the poor
man's cedilla.

Yes ma'am. A cedilla it is.

Patrick's friends threw a party at the House of Shields down on Montgomery. Kind of a happy hour, guys in suits bar, but they managed to take the class right out of the place with plates of Krispy Kremes, Taco Bell tacos and pigs in a blanket. I could tell you that I myself am too classy to eat that shit. But I full on ate a donut AND a taco, I'm not going to lie about it. It would be shitty to post these unflattering pics of Aych stuffing her face without admitting that I too was involved...I was just smart enough to avoid photographic evidence.

The tacos were cold, and the meat(?), cheese, lettuce and sour cream had condensed into one indistinguishable solid chunk sandwiched between a cold soggy taco shell. Mmmmm.

Donuts and beer.

Oh look, all full of vodka and junk food with my bra hanging out. If I was white, I'd be white trash. And doesn't Patrick look impressed?

Pink shoes in the air.

You will just never guess what she's dancing so enthusiastically to. Gangsta's Paradise. As in, Coolio, circa 1995, facing off with Michelle Pfeiffer trying to look badass in a a leather jacket and heavy black liner. She knew all the words.

I might have drunkenly promised not to post this picture.

comfort is ugly

2007-03-22T22:41:00.000-07:00

Look, before you judge, let me explain. I have never been one to choose substance over style. Ask anyone. I once bought a pair of bright pink, satin heels with rhinestone stars a size and half too small because the last pair was a size 6. I was also encouraged by Isa who made the outrageous claim that she always buys dress shoes at least a size too small because her feet look daintier. Hello? I think that was the theory behind Chinese foot binding. But I wore those little tiny shoes until my feet screamed and my toes throbbed. Actually I wore them until the heel literally broke out from under me as though the shoe itself was protesting my big, old ugly stepsister feet. And what did I do then? I marched right back into Macy's waving that pink heel around, all full of indignation, and insisted somebody hammer that shit back on.

And now look at me. How far the mighty have fallen. Clogs. Full on the Walking Store style, old lady wearing, one step away from orthopedic footwear CLOGS. But here's the thing. I stand all day - 5 days a week. Not that I'm complaining. Believe you me, I love it, I love it even when I hate it. But I can't be standing there in a pair of Marc Jacobs ballet flats for god's sake. I need some support! I need a sturdy shoe and a shoe that can resist a little grease.

Example: Here's what happened to my Pumas.

See! Fucked up! This place is not kind to shoes.

I rationalize my decision in the following ways.

1. I walk to work at 7am. There isn't anybody around to see me at that time in the morning.
2. I stand safely behind the counter for the majority of the day so customers are not in danger of losing their appetites as a result of my fashionless footwear.
3. Hey, at least I'm not wearing these.

Hear this people, you will never, I repeat, never see me in a pair of rubber, ventilated slingbacks. I do not care what marvelous array of Crayola colors they are available in. I do not care that they will protect me from electric shock. Crocs inexplicably continue to laugh in the face of good taste, even having the audacity to take up an entire display wall at Nordstrom. Sooner or later Lindsay Lohan will be photographed wearing a pair on her way out of Starbucks and then there'll be no saving us. So it was with Ugg boots, so it shall be with Crocs. Amen.

green is not my color

2007-03-17T22:36:00.000-07:00

Saint Patrick's Day is one of those holidays where, year after year, photos of the event tend to look the same. People wearing green. People drinking beer. I am not wearing green, I am wearing pink. I am not Irish. I survived not wearing green by instead wearing a look on my face that said, "Go ahead and pinch me fucker, I dare you."

in pursuit of a rich husband

2007-03-09T17:10:00.000-08:00

Rose and Lillian are two old Chinese sisters who have been coming to the restaurant for their Slim Joe Burgers for years and years. They have perms and red lipstick and a great deal of jade jewlery. They arrived on Thursday, in their matching jackets, pushed their walkers through the front door with some difficulty and plopped themselves down at a table that belonged to somebody else. They're old, they don't care. I was standing at the reg with my mom making fun of the obnoxious child on table #2 when Rose walked up, looked me up and down and proceeded to ask questions about me as though I wasn't standing there, perfectly capable of speaking for myself.

Is this your daughter?
Yes, isn't she pretty? (My mother always poses this question as though people have the option of saying no.)
Yes, she looks just like you. Is she in college?
No, she graduated already!
Oh! She couldn't find a job?
She had a job! Do you know where she used to work? She used to work for DREAMWORKS. (What am I in the Joy Luck Club? Let it go Mom, let it go.)
Oh! Well, it's a shame she's working here. She'll never find a rich husband working here. Pretty girls need to find rich husbands. (She finally turns to address me directly) They won't want you when you're 50 you know.

I walked out of my office for the last time one week ago. Despite having made the decision months ago, I was still hit with that inevitable stomach tornado of feelings. That last minute freak out, an out of nowhere regret, the big question: am I doing the right thing? I guess it comes down to fear. I could have stayed, maybe I should have stayed. I could have finished the project, I could have left without burning bridges, without disappointing people. But I left because I absolutely, 100%, without any uncertainty knew that I was in the wrong place. My unhappiness in my situation permeated my life outside of work and made me into a person I am not willing to be. I believe that my own personal chaos has the potential to be a strength and not a kink in somebody's master plan. I left in the pursuit of a life first and a career maybe, to indulge in the parts of my life that matter. I am quite aware that these are not the sentiments of a future CEO, or apparently a future Mrs. CEO. But over the course of the past year, I have had the opportunity to look around and say "This is not what I want." And eventually, "This is not what I want, and that's okay."

I had a "good on paper" job. Fancy company, good benefits, ergonomic chairs... But everybody knows that the "good on paper" guy ends up being bad in bed. So I'm going to strap on an apron and learn the business that I was lucky enough to have been born into. Hopefully invoking some of the boundless spirit of my grandmother, who loved the restaurant business and poured her energy into the little sandwich shop she started on the corner of Stockton and Filbert over 65 years ago.

independence day

2007-03-02T00:15:00.000-08:00

That's right, I'm not ashamed to throw my own damn party! Those who came know that they are awesome...especially the PDIers who hopefully know how much I'll miss them!

Mr. and Mrs. D & J

2007-02-23T22:10:00.000-08:00

Last weekend was Justin and Daphne's wedding. It was beautiful. Right, that's what 99% of people say about weddings whether or not they were really beautiful, because it takes a singular type of person to talk shit about somebody's wedding. But really, their wedding was beautiful in a way that I hadn't even anticipated. I think it's almost unavoidable, a wedding becomes an event that slightly loses focus of its' actual purpose. It's perfectly natural to leave a wedding talking about the dress and the flowers, the centerpieces and the music. Did they serve chicken? Was there enough booze? Even the bride and groom spend the months leading up to the big day working as their own unpaid, overworked event planners. Daph and Justin's wedding was simple and intimate and infinitely special. It was a unique combination of the magical setting of Oahu and yet the comfort and intimacy of a gathering of family and friends. It left me reminded of the magnitude of the purpose and not lost in the details of the event.

The bamboo arch looking out over the ocean.

Daph was radiant. Justin was wearing brown Chucks which pretty much earned him Patrick's eternal love and admiration.

Dancing to the sounds of the "band" made up of her dad and brothers.

To Patrick's delight, Daph informed me that this was not a suit and tie event. So on day 1 of our trip, we spent an hour inside the Waikiki Macy's debating whether "aloha attire" meant flip flops or close-toed shoes. We decided on "nice" flip flops, which basically meant, "Fine, I agree that 99% of shoes look ridiculous with shorts, so you can wear flip flops, but you're not wearing those nasty old shower flip flops you wear around the house to my friend's wedding cause if you do I'm gonna pretend I don't know you." The shirt is Hawaiian but not offensively, garishly, touristy Hawaiian. He looked good.

One detail I didn't miss was the kickass malasadas they offered up instead of wedding cake. Cream-filled donutesque pastries and champagne, mmm.

And finally, a toast with lychee martinis. Congratulations!!

happy heart day

2007-02-14T15:30:00.000-08:00

I enjoy Valentine's day for the same reasons I enjoy all other holidays. I have a fondness for days with their own themes, I like to make holiday inspired cookies and hand out cards and treats to people. I like the color pink and those heart-shaped chocolate marshmallows they sell at See's Candies, I love to give presents. I don't particularly enjoy conversation hearts but I love love love flowers. So for the most part, I'm able to ignore the blatant commercialism and overall abusurdity of a day devoted to proving your love to people by showering them with gifts and affection. Although in that respect I don't suppose it's all that different from Christmas expect that it doesn't have baby Jesus to hide behind.

Best Valentine's day ever: V-Day 2005

I snuck out of work early and met Ayca (who, for the record is a great Valentine) for pedicures and shoe shopping. I got a kickass pair of chocolate brown pumps with red patent leather WINGED toes. They continue to be amazing. Anyway, at the time Isabel had a boyfriend who we'll call Matt, because that's his name, Matt Schaeffer. I was fully prepared to spend an evening alone in our apartment, I had wine and pajamas and a movie. Who needs a man? Which is exactly what I was telling myself when I heard the door open and saw Isa in the doorway, all diva'd out in her puffy jacket and full smokey eyes, but looking confused.

What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be making out or something?
Ah...nooooo, guess not.
Oh. Did you get flowers?
Nope. Shampoo.
Huh?

So she's standing there with that same confused look on her face and she takes a bottle of shampoo and a bottle of conditioner out of a PAPER grocery bag, as in the kind of bag homeless people and frat boys drink beer out of, and holds them up. You have never seen a more forlorn little person in your life. The fantastic thing about Isabel though, is that 90% of the time she has eyeliner to lip gloss, full perfect makeup and really big hair, so she kind of looked like the embattled star in a Mexican telenovela.

Well, is it good shampoo?

That snapped her right out of the previous confused state and she looked at me like, what the hell do you mean is it good shampoo? Like, what could I possibly mean by asking a question that even allowed shampoo to exist on a list of things that are appropriate to give to your girlfriend on Valentine's day.

Ok, was there a card at least?
Yep. There's a card, but it's blank.
Blank? Blank like it's not really a Valentine's card?
No. Blank like he didn't sign it.
What do you mean he didn't sign it? He didn't write anything at all? Not even his name?
Nope. Said he didn't have time.
You got a bottle of shampoo, a bottle of conditioner and a blank card for Valentines Day?

We laughed so hard we actually rolled on the floor. At the time they carpooled to work together in Mortimer, the Jeep Wrangler they bought together and Isabel would pick him up on her way back from work in Marin. We deduced that at some point while he was waiting for her he spotted some sort of pink balloon or other such reminder and ran frantically over to the only shopping center in walking distance where he was confronted with a Longs, a Peets Coffee, Mollie Stones and a Beauty Store. And fine, it's not as though he forgot her birthday, he maybe could have gotten away with the hair products, although a little pink tissue paper and a festive gift bag would have helped tremendously. But seriously, a BLANK card? Buddy, if you don't have the time to scrawl "Love, Matt" then for god's sake, just go cardless. We can work with cardless. Cardless is like, well maybe he just didn't want to be cheesy, or maybe he's not good at expressing his feelings. The average female could come up with plenty of scenarios for cardless that don't end with, "He's a dick."

We dried our tears and turned to the only people two divas could turn to in such a situation. Mary J. Mariah. Cher. Xtina. That chick who sings Total Eclipse of the Heart. We cranked up the stereo, poured some wine and danced and sang our little hearts out to express our Valentine's Day induced angst. And we used the shampoo and conditioner bottles as microphones.

yet wah

2007-02-05T19:27:00.000-08:00

Patrick and I met up with some of our PDI and ex-PDI people after an evening at the San Francisco Symphony. Talk about one extreme to another. We might not be classy enough for the symphony but we are definitely classy enough for Yet Wah. I was starving when we got there (about 10pm) and the super friendly woman behind the bar was not helping me out.

Me: Excuse me, are you still serving food?
Lady: Maybe pot sticker. (walks away)
Me: (5 minutes later) Umm, so do you have any pot stickers?
Lady: No. (walks away again)

An hour and a half later she appears again and drops a plate in front of me.

Lady: Won ton.
Me: Oh, uh, thanks.
Lady: Seven dollars.

I'm telling you, it's a classy joint.

A Chinese restaurant with a karaoke bar located above a Walgreens, next door to a Safeway. Sounds like a Friday night hotspot to me! I can't actually take credit for the discovery of Yet Wah. That honor belongs to Ryan and Robin, who first introduced me to this little Diamond Heights gem.

Kathy belted out a pretty amazing version of Last Dance. Awesome.

I truly can't even remember what Ry was singing, all that matters is that he was wearing a hat with built in dreds. Sexy.

Look how much fun these drunk young folk are having. And what are they singing? Why nothing other than the karaoke classic, Bon Jovi, Dead or Alive.

And see how the Yet Wah regulars are enjoying the performance?

My favorite part of the evening came towards the end of the night. After our group monopolized the microphone for hours, one of the older Yet Wah regular patrons finally got a chance on stage. So we're sitting at the bar watching this woman, probably in her late 50's, sing what was actually a really lovely version of Fleetwood Mac's Landslide when all of a sudden we hear...

"TAKE IT OFF YOU LITTLE SLUT."

Courtney Ward, charming as always.

not a penis party

2007-01-30T22:37:00.000-08:00

That, my friends, is the smile of a woman who is a month away from getting married to someone she absolutely adores. I took this at her very tame, and very "Daphne" bachelorette party which involved champagne cocktails, fancy vegetarian entrees and pleasant conversation. No tiaras or embarrassing games or group t-shirts. I think there was some sort of penis whistle, but Daph politely hid it away in her purse for the evening.

my best friend's wedding

2007-01-29T08:50:00.000-08:00

Here we are, Alexandra and I, age 7, at our First Communion. Please forgive the splotchy photo...it's a POLAROID from 1988. We have the same bangs, and they're terribly unflattering. Although mine are worse because I have a very round face. I'm not sure why First Communion involves white dresses and veils, are we little brides of Christ? But the point is that this is how long I've known her (longer actually, here we had already been friends for 4 years) and this is how long she has wanted to get married. Had another 2nd grader proposed that afternoon, there is a good chance Alexandra would have marched him into the San Domenico chapel, instructed the school priest to perform the ceremony and then thoughtfully tossed me the bouquet on her way out. After all, what do you really need besides the dress?

Well, you need the groom I suppose. In this case the groom is somebody I used to suck face with in Joe Sheehy's garage in the 10th grade. I must say however, that not once during those romantic evenings in the garage did it ever occur to me that the boy would one day produce an enormous glittering rock from his coat pocket and propose to my best friend on the streets of Paris. Call it lack of foresight, but I broke up with him rather unceremoniously in front of a vending machine in the Saint Ignatius gymnasium. There are no hard feelings however, as I don't think that Dan and I had any real intentions of making out for the rest of our lives.

I do not know anybody who wanted to get engaged with the same ferocity that Alexandra did. Much to my own mind numbing exhaustion we talked of little else in the 6 or 7 months leading up to their Paris trip. She also developed sort of a mental block towards other people's impending happiness and could not for the life of her fake the appropriate reaction to other people getting engaged. I vividly remember Isabel and I arriving at a party sometime last Spring. We were in our "Single and Fabulous!" phase and we walked into our friend's apartment decked out and 3 cocktails deep. 3 minutes later Alexandra (a good 6 beers deep) dragged us into a nearby room, flung herself dramatically on the couch and began to blubber and cry hysterically.

Me: What the hell is wrong with you?
Ali: Ryan and Nicki are engaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaged. (that last word was more of a wail than a word)
Me: Who?
Ali: Ryyyyan and Nickiiiiii, you knowwww.
Me: Oh. So what?
Ali: (much wailing) WE were supposed to get engaged FIRST. We've been together longer. They've only been dating for like 5 minutes. (wailing)
Despite my confusion and complete inability to relate, I strapped on my best friend cap, smacked Isabel ( fixing her hair in the mirror) and tried to be helpful.
Me: Oh, honey, you know, that has nothing to do with you guys. You'll get engaged soon. You know, I mean, what's the hurry?
I force Alexandra to sit up and glare at Isa for some help.
Isa: Honey, honey, you've got something in your nose. (gestures to her right nostril) Right here.
F: Jesus Isabel. (turn back to Alexandra) Seriously, you have the rest of you life to be married (pause) to DAN. It'll....happen when it happens.
At this point her cousin Dominic innocently wanders into the room, takes us all in, and promptly turns to leave.
Isa: DOM!! (holds out camera) Will you take a picture of us??
F: ISABEL!!

Had Dan not proposed, I might have strangled him in defense of my own mental health. But fast forward to December 29th when I got a phone call full of a completely different kind of blubbering and wailing. As a rule, I don't blubber. But two people I love very much are getting married. That's a beautiful thing.

girl in a bubble

2007-01-24T22:40:00.000-08:00

I have allegedly had a cold for the past six months. I am the sniffling, sneezing, runny-nosed person who makes everyone in the vicinity scowl in disapproval and reach for their travel sized bottle of Purell. My sneezing fits, ranging from 4 to 15 sneezes in a row, alternately amuse and alarm Patrick. They're funny because they often climax in a mouse-like, high-pitched squeak, like "Achooo-ee". They're alarming because he swears that he read somewhere that sneezing a certain amount of times in a row indicates that I am dying or my face is going to explode or something. My mother plants Costco sized boxes of that bizarre powdered EmergenC stuff in my car and tells me that I drink too much when I go out. I was not aware that cocktail hour increased my chances of catching a cold, but go figure. As a result of the varying degrees of nagging and genuine concern, I have finally agreed to address my cold by acknowledging that it is not a cold at all. It seems my typical seasonal Claritin treatable allergies have graduated to a more rigorous, year long, Claritin immune form. On the recommendation of a co-worker I went to get my allergies officially diagnosed by Dr. Carmen Choy and her office full of nasal sprays and needles.

Not to be a big friggin baby, but is it too much to expect that modern medicine would have come up with a more sophisticated way to diagnose allergies than to inject me with 62 possible suspects and measure the flaming, itching welts that appear across my body? It was like a short intense busrt of the chicken pox. End result being that in addition to grass, cats and various random trees, I am super allergic to dust. DUST. Thank god I know, because I'm thinking that it should be real easy to avoid from now on. Plus, Dr. Choy gave me plenty of helpful and practical suggestions. For example, selling all of my upholstered furniture and area rugs; replacing all the curtains in my rented apartment with blinds; wearing a very fashion-forward SARS style face mask; and browsing the fancy catalog she gave me for overpriced bedding to wrap my entire bed AND Patrick's in allergen resistant covers, sheets and pillow cases. Or I can try allergy shots. Ugh, more shots?

happy new year

2007-01-15T00:01:00.000-08:00

Yes, thank you, I'm quite aware that today is the 15th and New Year's is generally celebrated on the 1st. Bear with me. One year ago today my 6 year relationship, the relationship that began when I was EIGHTEEN years old, officially ended. Believe me people, THAT is a new year. I suppose I could have ignored the date altogether, but that would be silly because it matters, and not because I'm still harboring any sort of inconclusive feelings about the situation but because I've come so far from where I was then and if I've accomplished nothing else this year I've at least accomplished that. So forgive me for being even more self-indulgent than usual, but I'm saying goodbye to 2006 by laughing a little at my own drama.

the bottom
Less than a week after the incident, I was reminded in an email, that I had promised to pick up the ex's best friend's fiance's wedding dress here in San Francisco. Did you follow that? My ex-boyfriend's... best friend's...FIANCE's wedding dress. I had promised to go to some girl's apartment, inspect the condition of the dress (which she found on craigslist) and then ship it to her in Oregon. This of course begs the question, who sells their wedding dress on craigslist??? Anyway...

"So I had the dress cleaned, there was a stain here in the front, but they managed to get it out."
"Looks great."
"She said she would be getting it altered."
"Yeah probably."
"Are you the maid of honor?"
"No."
"Are you in the wedding party?"
"No."
"Oh, just going as a guest?"
"Uh, actually no."
Insert awkward silence here. I should have just said something generic, like, I'm just doing a favor for a friend. Instead, as freshly single people tend to do, I launched into an inane explanation of the whole situation in front of a complete stranger. To which she responded.
"Well were you living with him?"
"No."
"Good, that makes it so much harder."
Then she patted me on the shoulder and I left her apartment, carrying a giant box containing somebody else's wedding dress. I stopped in the middle of Bay Street, and as though I was starring in my own romantic comedy, yelled up at the sky, "What kind of screwed up karma bullshit is this?"

the set up
When my mom casually asked me to go to dinner with her and her best friend Laura, visiting from Santa Fe, I thought nothing of it. That is, until the night before the dinner when she not so casually asked me what I planned to wear.

"Umm I dunno, I guess I'll wear whatever I wear to work...why?
"No reason, I'm just asking." (guilty pause) "Well, Laura's son might come."
"What? Who? uuuugh What do you mean? What does that mean might come?"
"Well I don't know, he might just come along. It's no big deal."
"Mother, is he coming or not?"
"Yes. He's coming. And he's sooo cute."

So began the rebound phase, short and sweet. Ended badly, but it served a purpose nonetheless.

acceptance
When I moved back into San Francisco, I was delighted to find that I was blocks away from one of my favorite Indian take out places. I called them up one evening, menu in hand and happily gave my phone number.

"Let's see, address is 257 Octavia."
"No, no, uh that 's not my address."
"Sorry ma'am? 257 Octavia?"
"No, that's wrong, I have a different address."
"Oh have you moved?"
"No, that's just not my address."
"That is the address we have in our computer. Would you like me to change the address ma'am?"
"Yes, please. My address is blah blah blah." (well you all don't need to know where I live)
"And would you like to keep 257 Octavia on file as well?"
"No, NO, I will never be ordering food to 257 Octavia again."

in the groove
After a pleasant, but overall lackluster date I received the following email.

One thing I never got to ask you on Thursday… do you have any (semi) athletic hobbies? Tennis, beer pong, running, soccer, climbing, kickball, pool, arm wrestling, staring contests, hiking, etc? I am an eternal 8 year old always looking to go out and play.

Key words: athletic, beer pong, eternal 8 year old

My response wasn't meant to be unkind, just clear. Been there, done that.

"Nope. No running, hiking, camping, beer pong, climbing (anything), kickball, dodgeball, hop scotch, fresh air or anything that can't be done in heels... I go to Pilates class twice a week and walk briskly when I shop. And that's totally non-negotiable."

Happy 2007
On Saturday night I told my friend Joe that Monday was my one year anniversary and he misunderstood and said, "Really? You and Patrick have already been together for a year?" I said, no and explained what I meant.

"Flea, that's lame. That's not what anniversaries are. Anniversaries are for celebrating good shit. Like, you know, good new beginnings and stuff." Pause. "Okay, I get it. Happy anniversary." And he gave me a high five.