I missed the bus this morning. Got off the 1 California and the 24 Divis had just passed. It was a block away. I could see it. I kicked myself. If only I'd taken the 38 Geary, I thought, or the 4 Sutter. I'd be on that bus right now.
I chased it. That didn't work very well, because, of course, buses are faster than people. Especially if you're a woman who's recently purchased microfiber socks from Ann Taylor and chosen to wear them with slip-on, or, in this case, slip-off, shoes. Then, trotting down the sidewalk is extra difficult.
I walked for a block, glum. Then I turned around. There was another 24 Divis bus right behind me. Weirdly, it was empty.
So the allegory is, as my cousin J says, "Men are like buses. Another one always comes along." I took a seat on the new bus, and thought, ok, if you wait long enough, which was about 35 seconds for me, what do you know. One shows up, and takes you just where you wanted to go.
I am out of my "I'm single" funk. I owe my friends a debt of gratitude. To K for giving me big hugs when I needed them, and his last cigarette. (No, mom, I don't smoke. Just occassionally.) To G for keeping me laughing all through dinner. To J, for the uncouth array of things he refers to as "thingie." (I have adopted this Britishism as a shorthand for "thingie-do-bob" or my mother's "thing-a-ma-jigee.") And to my book club, that wild and wacky bunch of ethically challenged literati who find new ways of making me laugh every month. Y'all are fun. And boy, did you leave me with a lot of dishes last night.
Today I head to Texas. I have already learned a bit of Texas trivia, from a woman who is so smart ("Sure, I have a PhD in computational fluid dynamics. Who doesn't?") she scares me. She used to make submarines. Very, very quiet submarines.
"Maverick", besides being Scott McNealy's son's name, is a word dervied from a man's name. A Texas cowboy who decided not to brand his cattle. So every time folks came across a cow with no brand, they knew it was a "Maverick." Hopefully, I'll find out what the lonestar thingie is all about. More about that on Sunday.
Thursday, September 30, 2004
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
This much is true
My friend R looked at my blog and said, "It's not revealing enough. Not nearly." So this entry is for R. It's this morning's diary entry. Enjoy!
I'm up early again. It's still and quiet. And dark. My poopy mood from yesterday is still with me. J got engaged over the weekend to his ex-girlfriend of 4 years. He says last night, "We moved apart for awhile, then came back together in this really amazing way." This from a guy who was so smitten two months ago that he practically followed me home. It was a disappointing day.
So I spent $750 at Ann Taylor. They were having a sale. It didn't really work, though. So I put bids on 3 Saabs on eBay. That was fun. Two of them are in Texas. I may spend next week driving.
I'm not working well. I should be happy, but I'm not. I want kids. I want a house. I want a husband. Evidently I've turned entirely mainstream at 35 and want what everybody else wants. A nice car. A new leather jacket. A handsome boyfriend. Who's single and interested.
Anyway, this is my rant about being single, and being tired of being single. Maybe it's just what happens when you move too slow. You end up alone. Oh well. There are worse things, I'm sure. What galls me most is feeling typical.
Life is going by very quickly all the sudden. I seems like I'm always showering, or doing the dishes. Like it's time to eat, or I've just eaten, or I'm wondering what I'll eat next. It's like being in a time warp.
A (from work) is driving me nuts. No program support, and every time I ask for something, he places a demand or tries to set some deadline. I hope they fire him and hand me the project. Soon. It would be less work. And here I thought I was becoming a team player.
Bought socks yesterday, and brown pants which are very useful. Don't know about the sweater set and the purple pants. They're pretty. But purple pants?
It's nearly time for my call. The sun has come up, the birds have done their morning swarm song, and traffic has begun to roll down the city streets. The foghorn has quieted in the distance. I am still bummed from yesterday, and have devised a plan: an outfit, including my new orange shirt, made entirely of cotton flannel. Today should be a better day. Now, time to do the dishes.
I'm up early again. It's still and quiet. And dark. My poopy mood from yesterday is still with me. J got engaged over the weekend to his ex-girlfriend of 4 years. He says last night, "We moved apart for awhile, then came back together in this really amazing way." This from a guy who was so smitten two months ago that he practically followed me home. It was a disappointing day.
So I spent $750 at Ann Taylor. They were having a sale. It didn't really work, though. So I put bids on 3 Saabs on eBay. That was fun. Two of them are in Texas. I may spend next week driving.
I'm not working well. I should be happy, but I'm not. I want kids. I want a house. I want a husband. Evidently I've turned entirely mainstream at 35 and want what everybody else wants. A nice car. A new leather jacket. A handsome boyfriend. Who's single and interested.
Anyway, this is my rant about being single, and being tired of being single. Maybe it's just what happens when you move too slow. You end up alone. Oh well. There are worse things, I'm sure. What galls me most is feeling typical.
Life is going by very quickly all the sudden. I seems like I'm always showering, or doing the dishes. Like it's time to eat, or I've just eaten, or I'm wondering what I'll eat next. It's like being in a time warp.
A (from work) is driving me nuts. No program support, and every time I ask for something, he places a demand or tries to set some deadline. I hope they fire him and hand me the project. Soon. It would be less work. And here I thought I was becoming a team player.
Bought socks yesterday, and brown pants which are very useful. Don't know about the sweater set and the purple pants. They're pretty. But purple pants?
It's nearly time for my call. The sun has come up, the birds have done their morning swarm song, and traffic has begun to roll down the city streets. The foghorn has quieted in the distance. I am still bummed from yesterday, and have devised a plan: an outfit, including my new orange shirt, made entirely of cotton flannel. Today should be a better day. Now, time to do the dishes.
Monday, September 27, 2004
The Best Things in Life Are French
The French have gotten a lot of bashing during this election cycle. But personally, I am a big fan. Here's 5 ways the French have made my life better.
1. Favorite SF restaurants: Cafe Claude, Clementine. Both French. It's the food, it's the cute frenchmen, it's the decadence of an ice cold blackberry martini on a sunny patio on Friday afternoon. Oh, and Zazie. Where they put your latte in a small bowl and bring you french toast made from challa bread. Dang.
2. Cheese. The sheep and goat's milk cheese at Cowgirl Crememry are out of this world. Some of the best? French.
3. Clothes: my fab new shirt is made by Charles Cotonay, Paris. It's orange. Cotton flannel.
4. Need a tote? Jack Gomme makes great canvas bags. Paris.
5. The world's best linens: Frette. If ever there were a reason to marry someone for their money, high threadcount sheets are it. I can't even go in the store; I'm afraid I'll cry.
A follow-up to yesterday's post: the drill at my workplace in the middle of the night was a staged Sarin gas attack on the underground train, BART. Explains why the sidewalks this morning were very, very clean.
1. Favorite SF restaurants: Cafe Claude, Clementine. Both French. It's the food, it's the cute frenchmen, it's the decadence of an ice cold blackberry martini on a sunny patio on Friday afternoon. Oh, and Zazie. Where they put your latte in a small bowl and bring you french toast made from challa bread. Dang.
2. Cheese. The sheep and goat's milk cheese at Cowgirl Crememry are out of this world. Some of the best? French.
3. Clothes: my fab new shirt is made by Charles Cotonay, Paris. It's orange. Cotton flannel.
4. Need a tote? Jack Gomme makes great canvas bags. Paris.
5. The world's best linens: Frette. If ever there were a reason to marry someone for their money, high threadcount sheets are it. I can't even go in the store; I'm afraid I'll cry.
A follow-up to yesterday's post: the drill at my workplace in the middle of the night was a staged Sarin gas attack on the underground train, BART. Explains why the sidewalks this morning were very, very clean.
Sunday, September 26, 2004
Get your hands off my...
Evidently San Francisco is well-prepared for an unnatural disaster.
I came to the office early this morning, after dropping my parents off at the airport. The streets were blocked off and officers everywhere: police, army, traffic cops, the works. Serious men and women in uniform, hiding behind small trees. I asked a guy with flares what was going on. "Special event," he said.
Ground zero for all the hubbub? You guessed it. My office building. There was a Hazardous Material Removal truck, firetrucks, paddy wagons, little tents over the manholes in the streets. There were flashing lights and emergency cordons and a gurney with no one on it. "There were bomb-sniffing dogs," the security guy said. "They started around 3am."
I asked one more time if it were really just a drill. 'Cause, hell, I can work from home.
My parents had a great time. We saw the SF Symphony perform Stravinsky and Tchaikovsky last night. We went to Napa and tasted wine. We spent a night at Indian Springs in Calistoga, where my mom and I soaked in a giant mineral pool and got massages. My dad read the paper in a chair on the lawn. He does not own: shorts, sandals, a shirt without buttons. He has sneakers 'cause I gave them to him. He didn't bring them.
Unfortunately, I poisoned my mother. I didn't mean to. Wednesday night we went to Teatro Zinzanni, a dinner theater that was very entertaining. Thursday afternoon, she didn't feel good, and it stayed with her for most of the visit. She thinks it was a sandwich she had on the plane. I fear it was my cookies, or a restaurant of my choice. Either way, it was a serious bummer.
Saturday was the best day. It started with me finding an apple under the front tire of my car. Of course, I kicked it. It rolled down the hill, skipping and hopping like the Gingerbread Man. Then, in a perfect arc, it rounded the corner and went out of sight. I was tempted to follow, to see where it was going.
It was a fine, sunny, foggy last day. I took my parents on a driving tour of San Francisco: The Presidio, Legion of Honor, Sutro Baths, Ocean Beach, GG Park, Twin Peaks, where tendrils of fog zoomed around like, um, clouds in a hurricane. My brother M, by the way, got a two-page spread in a major national news magazine. Go M! I bought two copies with my dad. It's about time one of us made the big time.
On my last visit to Rochester, NY, in August, I called my mom from the gate to tell her about The Puffer. In Rochester International Airport (Ha!) you walk into a booth that blasts you with air, which they then check for explosive materials to make sure you are not a walking bomb. I was not a walking bomb, so I was allowed to continue. I guess if you are, the booth just stays shut and some guys in a forklift come carry it away, in case you detonate yourself.
But I digress.
Earlier this week, I talked to my sister D. She'd just dropped my parents at the airport to come here. "It's weird," she tells me. "They're really excited about going through this security machine at the airport. I guess it puffs air at you or something."
This morning at 6am, the security women gave my mom a full rub-down. They patted her fanny (the american version), hips, waist, legs. They checked the underwires of her bra. Keep in mind here, my mother is a silver-haired 74-year-old retired Methodist pastor. And she's had surgery recently: two new knees and a pinned ankle.
"Everything beeped," my mom said when she called from the gate. "My bra beeped, the straps beeped, the underwire beeped. My zipper beeped. My knee beeped, both knees beeped. My ankle beeped. My watch beeped. I was one big beeping mess." I love my mom.
There she stood, in her blue polo shirt and slacks, while they wanded her. She had her head set a little to one side -- an early warning sign that she's just about had it. If things continued, she would shake her head, and then put her hands in the air in exasperation, as if she were clutching a gigantic submarine sandwich.
I watched. Her hands did not go up. But I was ready, boy. Like Mel Gibson in that terrible The Patriot movie, which I never saw, I would burst through the narrow ribbon of nylon and leap onto the x-ray conveyor belt. And point and say, "Get your hands off my mother." This must be what it's like to have kids. As my mom would, and did, say, I need to get a life.
I came to the office early this morning, after dropping my parents off at the airport. The streets were blocked off and officers everywhere: police, army, traffic cops, the works. Serious men and women in uniform, hiding behind small trees. I asked a guy with flares what was going on. "Special event," he said.
Ground zero for all the hubbub? You guessed it. My office building. There was a Hazardous Material Removal truck, firetrucks, paddy wagons, little tents over the manholes in the streets. There were flashing lights and emergency cordons and a gurney with no one on it. "There were bomb-sniffing dogs," the security guy said. "They started around 3am."
I asked one more time if it were really just a drill. 'Cause, hell, I can work from home.
My parents had a great time. We saw the SF Symphony perform Stravinsky and Tchaikovsky last night. We went to Napa and tasted wine. We spent a night at Indian Springs in Calistoga, where my mom and I soaked in a giant mineral pool and got massages. My dad read the paper in a chair on the lawn. He does not own: shorts, sandals, a shirt without buttons. He has sneakers 'cause I gave them to him. He didn't bring them.
Unfortunately, I poisoned my mother. I didn't mean to. Wednesday night we went to Teatro Zinzanni, a dinner theater that was very entertaining. Thursday afternoon, she didn't feel good, and it stayed with her for most of the visit. She thinks it was a sandwich she had on the plane. I fear it was my cookies, or a restaurant of my choice. Either way, it was a serious bummer.
Saturday was the best day. It started with me finding an apple under the front tire of my car. Of course, I kicked it. It rolled down the hill, skipping and hopping like the Gingerbread Man. Then, in a perfect arc, it rounded the corner and went out of sight. I was tempted to follow, to see where it was going.
It was a fine, sunny, foggy last day. I took my parents on a driving tour of San Francisco: The Presidio, Legion of Honor, Sutro Baths, Ocean Beach, GG Park, Twin Peaks, where tendrils of fog zoomed around like, um, clouds in a hurricane. My brother M, by the way, got a two-page spread in a major national news magazine. Go M! I bought two copies with my dad. It's about time one of us made the big time.
On my last visit to Rochester, NY, in August, I called my mom from the gate to tell her about The Puffer. In Rochester International Airport (Ha!) you walk into a booth that blasts you with air, which they then check for explosive materials to make sure you are not a walking bomb. I was not a walking bomb, so I was allowed to continue. I guess if you are, the booth just stays shut and some guys in a forklift come carry it away, in case you detonate yourself.
But I digress.
Earlier this week, I talked to my sister D. She'd just dropped my parents at the airport to come here. "It's weird," she tells me. "They're really excited about going through this security machine at the airport. I guess it puffs air at you or something."
This morning at 6am, the security women gave my mom a full rub-down. They patted her fanny (the american version), hips, waist, legs. They checked the underwires of her bra. Keep in mind here, my mother is a silver-haired 74-year-old retired Methodist pastor. And she's had surgery recently: two new knees and a pinned ankle.
"Everything beeped," my mom said when she called from the gate. "My bra beeped, the straps beeped, the underwire beeped. My zipper beeped. My knee beeped, both knees beeped. My ankle beeped. My watch beeped. I was one big beeping mess." I love my mom.
There she stood, in her blue polo shirt and slacks, while they wanded her. She had her head set a little to one side -- an early warning sign that she's just about had it. If things continued, she would shake her head, and then put her hands in the air in exasperation, as if she were clutching a gigantic submarine sandwich.
I watched. Her hands did not go up. But I was ready, boy. Like Mel Gibson in that terrible The Patriot movie, which I never saw, I would burst through the narrow ribbon of nylon and leap onto the x-ray conveyor belt. And point and say, "Get your hands off my mother." This must be what it's like to have kids. As my mom would, and did, say, I need to get a life.
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
frictionless capitalism
Got my ticket to Austin. Tried to get yet another ticket to NY for Christmas, with no luck. All these airlines in financial trouble are beginning to cut service to upstate NY, and it's getting harder to find cheap seats. A friend in Muskegon Michigan pays $1500 to fly home. Crazy.
Was online for plane tickets, so thought I might as well get a camera for my Austin trip. Bid on a Canon digital Elph S410 on eBay. Probably bid a bit high, but I got caught up in the "I want to win" excitement. I really do. Want to win.
No deep thoughts today, except to say I have sworn off cookies and donuts. My parents arrive in a few hours and I'm wondering if I have enough time to vaccuum the car interior. Then I'm done cleaning. Really. My friend R was horrified that I actually replaced some of the tacky no-slip decals in my bathtub. "That's a little over the top, don't you think?" he said to me. I just smiled. I've been in a major cleaning frenzy, but I wasn't about to incriminate myself any further.
I bought my dad a small package of high-end organic peanut butter cookies at the Farmer's Market. It should be a good visit. Fingers crossed.
Was online for plane tickets, so thought I might as well get a camera for my Austin trip. Bid on a Canon digital Elph S410 on eBay. Probably bid a bit high, but I got caught up in the "I want to win" excitement. I really do. Want to win.
No deep thoughts today, except to say I have sworn off cookies and donuts. My parents arrive in a few hours and I'm wondering if I have enough time to vaccuum the car interior. Then I'm done cleaning. Really. My friend R was horrified that I actually replaced some of the tacky no-slip decals in my bathtub. "That's a little over the top, don't you think?" he said to me. I just smiled. I've been in a major cleaning frenzy, but I wasn't about to incriminate myself any further.
I bought my dad a small package of high-end organic peanut butter cookies at the Farmer's Market. It should be a good visit. Fingers crossed.
Monday, September 20, 2004
another day, another airline ticket
Looks like I'm going to Eugene for Thanksgiving to visit my sister M, niece L, and families. It was a fluke, really. I was online to get a ticket to Austin, Texas, where I'm going next weekend to visit a supercomputer--and my friends who live there. But mostly, the supercomputer. It's for work.
Thought of the day: someday kids are going to look at simulations like these and say, "Uh-huh, yeah." You won't even have to tell them what they're about. They'll just get it. They'll be able to explain all sorts of things just by looking at the model. The rest of us poor saps will be staring and staring, brows furrowed, brains spinning, slippery, over content we cannot interrelate. Kindof like we do now with the Atlantic Monthly's infographic, until five minutes go by and we finally see that they've correllated country GNPs with market valuations of overpriced Internet stocks. OK, I'm dating myself, but you get the idea.
I'm practicing by listening to the radio, watching TV, and surfing the web at the same time, but I'm still falling behind. I can feel it.
Two flashbacks:
We're at the table at cafe in the mountains, looking at a newspaper that's two weeks out of date. I decide it's a magic newspaper; you can open it and read any headline you want. I start.
"Kerry has gained 11 points on Bush in the most recent poll and looks sure to win in November. There were no deaths in Irag today."
M takes the paper. "The war in Iraq is over, period. Our troops have come home and there is quiet in Bagdad."
S: "The median house price has fallen to $369,000 in the Bay Area."
P: "Fiberglass boats have been outlawed; wooden boat prices soar to an all-time high." (S and M are selling a beautiful 1940s wooden yacht. Anyone in the market?)
Second flashback: Some yahoo is firing an semiautomatic weapon in the woods late on Saturday night. Highest uninterurpted stream of bullets, by my count: 27. Wonder what he was shooting at. I spy with my little eye...
Thought of the day: someday kids are going to look at simulations like these and say, "Uh-huh, yeah." You won't even have to tell them what they're about. They'll just get it. They'll be able to explain all sorts of things just by looking at the model. The rest of us poor saps will be staring and staring, brows furrowed, brains spinning, slippery, over content we cannot interrelate. Kindof like we do now with the Atlantic Monthly's infographic, until five minutes go by and we finally see that they've correllated country GNPs with market valuations of overpriced Internet stocks. OK, I'm dating myself, but you get the idea.
I'm practicing by listening to the radio, watching TV, and surfing the web at the same time, but I'm still falling behind. I can feel it.
Two flashbacks:
We're at the table at cafe in the mountains, looking at a newspaper that's two weeks out of date. I decide it's a magic newspaper; you can open it and read any headline you want. I start.
"Kerry has gained 11 points on Bush in the most recent poll and looks sure to win in November. There were no deaths in Irag today."
M takes the paper. "The war in Iraq is over, period. Our troops have come home and there is quiet in Bagdad."
S: "The median house price has fallen to $369,000 in the Bay Area."
P: "Fiberglass boats have been outlawed; wooden boat prices soar to an all-time high." (S and M are selling a beautiful 1940s wooden yacht. Anyone in the market?)
Second flashback: Some yahoo is firing an semiautomatic weapon in the woods late on Saturday night. Highest uninterurpted stream of bullets, by my count: 27. Wonder what he was shooting at. I spy with my little eye...
Sunday, September 19, 2004
Cold snap
The weather in San Francisco is 64 degress. Sunny, with a breeze -- entirely reasonable for Northern California.
The weather in the Sierra Nevadas (not the Sierra Nevada mountains, I've learned) is cold. So cold it hailed. Snowed. And dipped below freezing at night. Waaaay below freezing. Alpine Lake did not freeze, however, so I lost a bet.
Being from upstate NY, I am certain of one thing: it is my God-given right to complain. Besides, I'm good at it. Saturday, for instance, after I cleaned the breakfast dishes with my bare hands at an icy water spigot, I thought it only fair to share the feel of frozen flesh with each of my fellow campers.
Californians are not inclined to share in this way. To them, discomfort is something that must be borne silently, so they don't "harsh anyone's vibe", or "bring people down". All I know is, once I got done making everyone feel how cold my hands were, I felt a lot better.
"Complaining is an art on the verge of extinction," I told my friend M. "And it's my job to ensure it continues, for the benefit of future generations." M is from Albany, NY, so what can he say?
Actually, we had a great time. Yesterday we escaped the hail at a hot springs place in Nevada. My friends S and M just bought a new car, a Passat wagon, and it has heated seats. That was good. We ate burgers and fries and cookies and drank beer and made smores and generally consumed 4-5 times the calories needed to shiver through the night. Today we drove down 8000 feet, peeling off layers all the way.
BTW, my brother M is fine. The hurricane veered away from Mobile, so the paper sent him somewhere coastal, back in its path. He got dumped in the ocean, ruining cameras and cell phone, when a dock collapsed underneath him. He escaped with cuts and bruises, which, if I were him, I'd be complaining about. A lot.
The weather in the Sierra Nevadas (not the Sierra Nevada mountains, I've learned) is cold. So cold it hailed. Snowed. And dipped below freezing at night. Waaaay below freezing. Alpine Lake did not freeze, however, so I lost a bet.
Being from upstate NY, I am certain of one thing: it is my God-given right to complain. Besides, I'm good at it. Saturday, for instance, after I cleaned the breakfast dishes with my bare hands at an icy water spigot, I thought it only fair to share the feel of frozen flesh with each of my fellow campers.
Californians are not inclined to share in this way. To them, discomfort is something that must be borne silently, so they don't "harsh anyone's vibe", or "bring people down". All I know is, once I got done making everyone feel how cold my hands were, I felt a lot better.
"Complaining is an art on the verge of extinction," I told my friend M. "And it's my job to ensure it continues, for the benefit of future generations." M is from Albany, NY, so what can he say?
Actually, we had a great time. Yesterday we escaped the hail at a hot springs place in Nevada. My friends S and M just bought a new car, a Passat wagon, and it has heated seats. That was good. We ate burgers and fries and cookies and drank beer and made smores and generally consumed 4-5 times the calories needed to shiver through the night. Today we drove down 8000 feet, peeling off layers all the way.
BTW, my brother M is fine. The hurricane veered away from Mobile, so the paper sent him somewhere coastal, back in its path. He got dumped in the ocean, ruining cameras and cell phone, when a dock collapsed underneath him. He escaped with cuts and bruises, which, if I were him, I'd be complaining about. A lot.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Something Terrible
Something terrible has happened. Not to my brother. To this guy at work I barely know. Still, it's rather stunning.
Full disclosure: that meeting where I was going to show the client how terrible his Web site was? It never happened. The client never showed up, so it's me and W shooting the breeze for awhile until we hear what's up: the client is in his car, driving at unsafe speeds to San Francisco, where his 2-year-old daughter is in the hospital. She was spending the day with her grandparents in the city and, I guess, got away from them, and got run over by a car.
So I just got an e-mail today that she didn't make it. The project's on hold for awhile. Terrible stuff. It's hard to believe it's possible, on a sunny blue-sky day like today, that these kinds of things can happen and there's not even a ripple in the cosmos. You'd expect it to start raining blood, or giant cockroaches would rise up from the sewers and start spitting on people and eating their shoes.
That's the way it would go if I were in charge, anyway.
Full disclosure: that meeting where I was going to show the client how terrible his Web site was? It never happened. The client never showed up, so it's me and W shooting the breeze for awhile until we hear what's up: the client is in his car, driving at unsafe speeds to San Francisco, where his 2-year-old daughter is in the hospital. She was spending the day with her grandparents in the city and, I guess, got away from them, and got run over by a car.
So I just got an e-mail today that she didn't make it. The project's on hold for awhile. Terrible stuff. It's hard to believe it's possible, on a sunny blue-sky day like today, that these kinds of things can happen and there's not even a ripple in the cosmos. You'd expect it to start raining blood, or giant cockroaches would rise up from the sewers and start spitting on people and eating their shoes.
That's the way it would go if I were in charge, anyway.
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
Hurricanes and Drama
My brother M is in Mobile, Alabama, directly in the path of a hurricane. He called my mother from the roof of his hotel, where he was taking video of clouds scuttling across the sky at 60 mph. Leave it to members of the media to go to Ground Zero and climb up on the tallest, most exposed thing around. The pictures should be good.
"The winds are supposed to get up to 135 mph," my mom tells me. "The storm's not due until about 3am, but even when he was talking to me, there was this white noise in the background." She demonstrates this by blowing, hard, into the mouthpiece of her telephone in NY. "It's quite annoying, actually."
I agreed. I tried to comfort her, and myself, with the idea that in a natural disaster, it's actually pretty hard to get killed. You either need to be kindof stupid or just really, really unlucky. Like that guy who ran his car into a bunch of horses right after the Loma Prieta earthquake. I hope I'm right. Because it would suck, if you really think about it, to lose a brother.
M's plan is to pull a mattress into the bathroom and spend tonight in the tub. Should be a wild ride.
Me? I'm going to make banana bread for my camping trip and turn in early.
OO,
JD, of the D Family Chronicle
"The winds are supposed to get up to 135 mph," my mom tells me. "The storm's not due until about 3am, but even when he was talking to me, there was this white noise in the background." She demonstrates this by blowing, hard, into the mouthpiece of her telephone in NY. "It's quite annoying, actually."
I agreed. I tried to comfort her, and myself, with the idea that in a natural disaster, it's actually pretty hard to get killed. You either need to be kindof stupid or just really, really unlucky. Like that guy who ran his car into a bunch of horses right after the Loma Prieta earthquake. I hope I'm right. Because it would suck, if you really think about it, to lose a brother.
M's plan is to pull a mattress into the bathroom and spend tonight in the tub. Should be a wild ride.
Me? I'm going to make banana bread for my camping trip and turn in early.
OO,
JD, of the D Family Chronicle
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Oh boy
I'm at work late again. I'm listening to the music the janitor gave me. It's just terrible. Like Kenny G meets mariachi. It's schmatzy. It's cheesey. It's nothing like the super-cool "spanish" music, to use his term, I was listening to when he latched onto my appreciation for his people's music.
Let me clarify. I was listening to Lalo Guerrero, who is funny and wacky and sortof like a Latin Lois & Keeley. He does do-wap, dammit. And klezmer. And big band tango. And Christmas carols. My favorite: he has a love song for tortillas. I will transcribe. Imagine this with a pair of steel-string guitars twanging in the background...
I love tortillas
and I love them dearly
you'll never know
just how sincerely
I love the corn ones
y tambien le (I don't actually speak spanish, so use your imagination)
But when my wife calls out from la cosina
'there's no tortillas
there's only bread'
there's no tortillas
and i feel so sad
my grief
I cannot hid
there's no tortillas
for my refrieds
Without tortillas
there would be no burritos
without the corn ones
there would be no (?frutos)
i love to hold one
tenderly and fold one
oh how I dread
to eat with bread
believe me
(refrain, with agony)
OK, I've had one margarita too many. Or too few.
Question: what am I going to *do* with these terrible CDs? I can't throw them away, that's for sure. I'd probably find a dead rat on my desk in the morning. *That* would give the structural engineers something to talk about. Oh boy.
Let me clarify. I was listening to Lalo Guerrero, who is funny and wacky and sortof like a Latin Lois & Keeley. He does do-wap, dammit. And klezmer. And big band tango. And Christmas carols. My favorite: he has a love song for tortillas. I will transcribe. Imagine this with a pair of steel-string guitars twanging in the background...
I love tortillas
and I love them dearly
you'll never know
just how sincerely
I love the corn ones
y tambien le (I don't actually speak spanish, so use your imagination)
But when my wife calls out from la cosina
'there's no tortillas
there's only bread'
there's no tortillas
and i feel so sad
my grief
I cannot hid
there's no tortillas
for my refrieds
Without tortillas
there would be no burritos
without the corn ones
there would be no (?frutos)
i love to hold one
tenderly and fold one
oh how I dread
to eat with bread
believe me
(refrain, with agony)
OK, I've had one margarita too many. Or too few.
Question: what am I going to *do* with these terrible CDs? I can't throw them away, that's for sure. I'd probably find a dead rat on my desk in the morning. *That* would give the structural engineers something to talk about. Oh boy.
Jane Goldman Hates Me
Or if she doesn't, she should.
I talked my way into writing for hip new San Francisco magazine, Chow Mag headed by none other than the fabulously talented and competent Jane Goldman.
I sold her on the idea that I was a whiz at Organic Chemistry, a class I just completed at UC Berkeley Extension (and did well on, thank you very much). I was going to do science corner: all about nutrition, chemical interactions with non-stick coatings, and free radicals. Then, I disappeared for weeks and weeks. What can I say? I had to go on vacation.
Now the magazine is at the printer's. So I will have to wait for another opportunity to get between the covers (so to speak) with heavyweights like Anthony Bourdain. But it will happen. I am convinced.
I did not thrash my client's Web site today. And I got even more leads on work. Just goes to show what being professional can do for you. In the words of my anesthesiologist friend Susan, "I always follow the rules. And opportunities just keep coming my way, one after the other." Go figure.
Heading back to the city. It's 86 degrees on the peninsula today. That's 45 miles in an un-air-conditioned Honda Civic hatchback, to you. Can you say "sweaty?" Sure you can.
Oh Lord, won't you buy me...
I talked my way into writing for hip new San Francisco magazine, Chow Mag headed by none other than the fabulously talented and competent Jane Goldman.
I sold her on the idea that I was a whiz at Organic Chemistry, a class I just completed at UC Berkeley Extension (and did well on, thank you very much). I was going to do science corner: all about nutrition, chemical interactions with non-stick coatings, and free radicals. Then, I disappeared for weeks and weeks. What can I say? I had to go on vacation.
Now the magazine is at the printer's. So I will have to wait for another opportunity to get between the covers (so to speak) with heavyweights like Anthony Bourdain. But it will happen. I am convinced.
I did not thrash my client's Web site today. And I got even more leads on work. Just goes to show what being professional can do for you. In the words of my anesthesiologist friend Susan, "I always follow the rules. And opportunities just keep coming my way, one after the other." Go figure.
Heading back to the city. It's 86 degrees on the peninsula today. That's 45 miles in an un-air-conditioned Honda Civic hatchback, to you. Can you say "sweaty?" Sure you can.
Oh Lord, won't you buy me...
Monday, September 13, 2004
Aye, it's me blog
I have been made to blog. Look at me go.
It's dark already and I'm still at work. I have pulled together a presentation for a client that so thrashes their web property that they will have to hire me to fix it. It's a strategy that almost always works. Go Judyote.
My father turned 75 last week. Three of my sisters droped in on him to celebrate -- two from out of town, and he was thrille.d Took them all shopping and spent $2000 at Talbot's. Maybe I should have flown back, after all. Who would have guessed they'd celebrate his birthday by goign shopping for women's clothing?
The janitor has given me three CDs of "spanish music." He's a nice enough guy, but creeps me out a little bit. Maybe it's because he seems so weirdly smart, like he's just moonlighting as a janitor and really he's a college professor somewhere. And a bit familiar. On previous occasions, he has recommended a shot of tequila to stave off a cold. Evidently, he has told this to some of the architects here, and they say it works pretty well.
Yesterday I bought my dad's favorite cereal -- Great Grains. They're coming to visit SF next week, my parents. My dad hasn't been here in 12 years. Count 'em. 12. First, I thought it was me. Then, I figured maybe his republican leanings made coming to the gay capital of the world an uncomfortable proposition. Now I'm back to thinking it's me again. I called today, to tell him about the cereal, and he said, "Judy Who?" It's just his way of teasing me for calling so much. I think.
I have a confession. I've gone into the architects' food pantry and taken their fancy nut jar and picked most (but not all) of teh M&Ms out of it. Bad, bad subtenant. Although, if I don't share this URL, no one will ever be the wiser.
It's dark already and I'm still at work. I have pulled together a presentation for a client that so thrashes their web property that they will have to hire me to fix it. It's a strategy that almost always works. Go Judyote.
My father turned 75 last week. Three of my sisters droped in on him to celebrate -- two from out of town, and he was thrille.d Took them all shopping and spent $2000 at Talbot's. Maybe I should have flown back, after all. Who would have guessed they'd celebrate his birthday by goign shopping for women's clothing?
The janitor has given me three CDs of "spanish music." He's a nice enough guy, but creeps me out a little bit. Maybe it's because he seems so weirdly smart, like he's just moonlighting as a janitor and really he's a college professor somewhere. And a bit familiar. On previous occasions, he has recommended a shot of tequila to stave off a cold. Evidently, he has told this to some of the architects here, and they say it works pretty well.
Yesterday I bought my dad's favorite cereal -- Great Grains. They're coming to visit SF next week, my parents. My dad hasn't been here in 12 years. Count 'em. 12. First, I thought it was me. Then, I figured maybe his republican leanings made coming to the gay capital of the world an uncomfortable proposition. Now I'm back to thinking it's me again. I called today, to tell him about the cereal, and he said, "Judy Who?" It's just his way of teasing me for calling so much. I think.
I have a confession. I've gone into the architects' food pantry and taken their fancy nut jar and picked most (but not all) of teh M&Ms out of it. Bad, bad subtenant. Although, if I don't share this URL, no one will ever be the wiser.
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