This Week on California Street 1/5/2012

Megan is biting my old style.

And I got a shot of healing power from my favorite Brand Strategist/herbalist. Marshmallow root for the mucus membranes, y'all. It soothes!

gimme all your lovin'

(This is totally a rambling-confession-style blog post. If you're here for some of my wit, come back later.)

It was a lovely day, nearly 70 degrees and sunny. Rare enough for SF and some lovely friends sent texts to the effect that we simply HAD to go out. But, it's been a while since I spent a whole day at home reading, so for today, I refused to venture out into the sunshiney California paradise.

And, I mean, sure, I've read plenty of books on planes in the past few months, but a day spent reading at home is the best thing ever. Home has kittys curled up and purring. Home has a kitchen (no, I didn't cook, but the kitchen is where I keep my ice cream). Of course, I stretched the boundaries of my home a little today. I wandered as far as four blocks north this morning and read at a restaurant while eating breakfast; several hours later I managed to cross the street for a salad and two PBRs that I was able to portion into tiny little sips that lasted long enough to justify finishing the novel at Radish instead of interrupting myself mid-read to re-cross the street. And we wonder why I am low on cash.

(Tangent: I name-drop Radish because, even though I never considered the word this way before, now that it's the name of a restaurant in the Mission I think of "radish" as a hipster term for something that is not quite all the way rad, but still kind of approximately rad. Which is kind of perfect for that place.)

Anyway, gorgeous day. I read Margaret Atwood's The Edible Woman, even though I totally just bought 1Q84. Murakami's more than a single day's worth of reading and will probably be traveling east with me next month. But on the other hand, I'm not sure that I'm going to really heft it all the way back east, really. Because...well, because, I've decided I'm just going to start publicly owning my massive romance novel habit.

My mom knows all about it, of course. In fact, she shushes me if I mention one that I got from her. Because, what? Because of how often we've been told that reading books by women for women about women's escapist fantasies is shameful somehow. Yeah, by society, but also (WARNING, gasp! I'm about to talk about my childhood, with blame and finger pointing:) my dad used to really insult her for reading them (and by extension, insult me for reading them, but I was like, 8*, and hiding them pretty well at that point, I think, but I remember the gist of what he said about women who read that filth). He would say she was wasting her time, she was reading trash, blah blah, she should read something that made her a better person instead of reading whatever frivolous waste of ink she was reading.

My dad used to read a whole lot of Louis L'Amour, by the way. (Maybe he still does?)

Feel free to spend a minute here laughing at his deliciously obvious lack of self-awareness. Interestingly, though, I only just noticed it. Yeah, I'm going to blame (society) (gender stereotypes) (small town small mindedness) (lack of education) (whatever, this is boring) for the fact that "men's romance," or Westerns in this case, get some respect and the ones I want to read get a bunch of scorn. Oh, I know, there's plenty of romance novels out there that deserve scorn. I've read a lot of them. But I've also read some pretty okay ones that made me really happy.

Which brings us to here and now, and me owning my guilty little pleasure and admitting I need a little help, I guess, finding more romance novels I'll like. It's too random to count on the luck of the bookstore draw, although I did accidentally stumbled into Diana Gabaldon's An Echo in the Bone the day I quit working at JWT. I bought it because it was thick and I had a lot of free time to kill. And I fell in love with it. I read the whole series in a matter of a few months and sometimes now I'll randomly catch myself missing the characters.

Where do I find more decent romance novels? I just read this awesome article about Nora Roberts and I think I'm totally going to start seeking out some of her books. From the Guardian:

...she's doing a signing and answering questions...What does she find helps keep her going when she's writing? "Alcoholic beverages." Does she tweet? "I'd rather stab myself in the eye with a flaming stick." What does she think of the recent news story claiming that romantic fiction gives women unrealistic expectations? "Because women aren't supposed to have expectations, right? We're pretty smart. I think we know the difference between reality and fiction. I don't think that people read Agatha Christie, and then think: I know, I'll go and murder someone."

She sounds like my kind of lady. I found the link to that article on a blog I just started reading called Smart Bitches, Trashy Books, which also sounds like my kind of ladies.

In other news, I have to sleep now so I can go poke around and gawk at big ol' redwoods tomorrow.

This blog post has been brought to you by stream-of-consciousness, fatigue, and the number 6**.

* I was probably 8. I have a memory of looking up the word "libido" in the dictionary, and this memory is set at the elementary school I went to for Kindergarten through second grade. Around this same time, I believed "temples" were some sexual part of the body because frustrated heroines were always going off alone and "rubbing their temples" and thinking about the jerky dude who was only being a jerk because of how into her he was. Anyway. I knew what "libido" meant before I understood which body parts were considered sexual, if that explains anything at all about me.

**"The number 6" being more of an Edible Woman reference than a Sesame Street joke, even though I hope by now to have gotten my unfortunate blog readers so helplessly lost in their own reminisces about their own childhood beliefs and misconceptions about sexuality that any dirty thoughts they ever had about Sesame Street will now be shared with me, either publicly or privately, for my own amusement.

Severe Bi-Coastal Disorder

Last night I dreamed (so did you, i bet).

Last night I dreamed I was moving into Red Zero. Lots of the old people were still living there, and there were lots of new people, too. Chief was moving into a new room, so I was taking his old one. It was supposed to be the same room that P. and Steph lived in (the second one), only it looked different in my dream, of course. Also, there were spiral stairs with a slide where the real stairs should have been. Alan lived there, too, but I didn't see him, I just knew he lived there. And Dave was there, but not really stoked that I was moving in. Scott was, of course, offering to help me move stuff in.

Even the yucky bathrooms put in a cameo appearance.

I was moving with my two cats, one of which was Gracie, who got stuck on the spiral stair-slide and earned us all a disapproving look from D.Mo, and the other was a Disco/Lyle combo that was fat and fluffy and confident and didn't even really need me to help her/him settle in.

But, the kicker is that, in my dream, I was also keeping my job in San Francisco, because that's how I do.

It made perfect dream-sense that I'd be a bi-coastal commuter, and spend my weekends tending the garden in the back of dream-land Red Zero and taking my turn in the kitchen on potluck night. I woke up wishing I could make that happen. Who knows? Maybe I'll figure it out.

Anyway. Dreams are boring if they aren't yours, so here's a picture of that one time that I moved back to Richmond:

I'm hideous; you all are gorgeous.

I'll say this about the west coast. A lot of y'all will drop by out here. That's just the absolute best. I've got an all-star list of folks I've seen in the past couple of months, and some of them were unplanned spottings. For example: I went to lunch one day the other week and nearly ran right into Bruce and Molly. And, even though Andrew Deutsch and I had planned to meet up for some yummy dinner (Mission Chinese, fools, it's good, put it in your mouth!) one night while he was on the wrong coast, a few days later I was late for work and ran into him again on the street. Nice. Who else have I seen out here? Tom Sullivan, Alan Seigler, Sherrie Edwards, Bob Kaputof, Trevere Thomas, Brian Leo...uh, I shouldn't have starting rambling on about names because now my mind has gone empty. Let's blame that on the steroids.

What steroids? Who's writing insane run-on paragraphs with barely any transitions? Funny you should ask.

This past weekend while I was suffering a serious face malfunction more commonly know as a sinus infection, I had the pleasure of hanging out with the fine folk behind the Travelogue Appreciation Society. Ramming and (another!) Molly are in their third month of vagabond awesome adventures and even though I'm a health hazard, I managed to meet them out at Hobson's Choice Punch House --and enjoy a half-used bowl of punch we acquired after some less thrifty co-consumers wandered out of the establishment--shortly after they arrived (which was right after I left Hardly Strictly Bluegrass. More on that in a moment.) Naturally, that led to late night Mission burritos at Taqueria Cancun.



They got a sweet parking spot for their truck right in front of my house, so I got to play a weird sort of Mission Lodge role where I invited them in for internets and launderies, but they slept outside. I managed to hit Brunch Drunk Love at Bruno's with them on Sunday before I admitted defeat and went home to sleep and wish them well enjoying SF without me. Hope they had fun, it sure was nice to see them.



Ok, back to Hardly Strictly. I wanted to see so much of it, but I only heard some of it. I heard Merle Haggard and Kris Kristofferson while sitting on a blanket with Charity and the other Nancy under some trees off the beaten path at Golden Gate Park. We made friends with a European dad who was hanging with his kids, letting them climb tiny trees while we shared a beverage with him. (The forget-me-nots were collected by his daughter, who made a number of nice little bouquets while we were there.) Later, we transplanted our little camp over to another little hill to listen to and not see Gillian Welch and Steve Earle. It was good times. I wish I'd seen more acts, but if that's my only complaint about a free festival, then I think we're all doing ok out here on the west coast.

Especially now that I'm all 'roided up.
I think I have to go walk really fast up a very steep hill now.

13 States* in 10 Days, or How I Remembered to Just Drive and Relax Again, For Crying Out Loud

I'm back in SF, safe and sound and suffering from what my doctor calls "non-allergic rhinitis," which I think means that he thinks I'm crazy, but in the end we can all agree I'm sneezing and involuntarily weeping and my nose is training to run a marathon. WebMD writers patiently suggest that these things can be provoked by excessive travel, especially by air, so I think it's totally worth it and I truly hope I can fall asleep tonight even if I am hopped up on all this drug-store-brand-speed.

13 States* = should I count DC as a state? and should I count landing in VA as a State I traveled to? I decided to answer both of those questions "Maybe" and count them both as half states. So, in the past 10 days: Virginia, the District of Columbia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, West Virginia, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, Utah, Oregon, California.

I'm in love with Portland, in one of those "I want to go on long strolls through dark neighborhoods with well-lit porches, content in the cool evening air" sort of ways.

I have much and more to relate about the great times I had all over the country, but for now my brother Daniel is curling up in an Army sleeping bag that I got from eBay that he's explained to me how to pack better. Disco is curled up at his feet and as much as she loves me, she loves male people even more. It's night night time and I'm going to sleep the sleep of a weary and happy traveler.

xoxo,
n.

Update on The Adventure

Ladies and Gentleman, I am pleased to announce that I have officially decided not to drive from Salt Lake City to San Francisco next week. Instead, I'm flying to Portland to visit Sherrie. Please prepare yourselves to be inundated with photos of us having fun together that will have surely been staged for optimal hot-looking-ness in the middle of a "let's make them miss us" conversation. Exhibit A: Sherrie at Big Sur, March 2011:

On the other hand, I've got a Things To Do and See List about a mile long for that town, so let's hope I remember to take some pictures. Perhaps this picture of us at the Hearst Castle is going to have to tide you over for a while because we'll be having so much fun that we forget to document it.

I suppose that all we can do now is wait and see. Meanwhile: I'M GOING ON VACATION NEXT WEEK OMG, I CAN'T WAIT TO TYPE IN ALL CAPS ABOUT IT.

Life Moves Pretty Fast

The longer I go without updating, the harder it gets to even think about blogging. There are stories I haven't told you! So many stories, how do I pick just one?

I guess I'll just jump in...here:

One of the most remarkable things from the past week was a whirlwind visit with Kara S., whom some of you may remember from such stories as That Time I Went To Greece and Lost Both My Temper and My Lunch or the more boring Long Nights and Bleary Eyes at 3rd Street Diner. Kara's been living in Chicago for the past X years (please, Lord, don't count them) and has visited me in both NYC and SF, so it's pretty much looking like I owe her a visit in the Windy City at this point. She and her man friend arrived on a late flight last Thursday and were setting out to Nevada City the next day, so I disregarded my geriatric-lifestyle-approved-bedtime and dragged them out for some late night food and drinks at to Taqueria Cancun and Benders. Next time I see her, I'll have to be less sleepy so I can do a better job of provoking that famous Kara giggle.

Anyway, the tacos were 2nd Dinner, because Thursday nights I have a standing date at Cafe Gratitude with Liz, Kelly and Megan. Cafe Gratitude is so very California (even worse, it's so very Berkeley), and it's growing on me. (Please, send help!) It's mostly a raw vegan restaurant with a few cooked dishes. Part of their deal is that the dishes have hippie-dippy names like "I am Fulfilled," "I am Rejuvenated" or "I am Whole" (those are my three favorites, by the way), and then when the server brings the food they say "You are Fulfilled" or whatever. When you order wine -- which, hello, it's ladies who work in advertising, we order it by the bottle -- the server says "You are Spirited." You can say that again, you tip-pooling communists!

They also have a question of the day every day and I used to grumble and wave them off, but now that I've started to lose the top layer of my east coast crustiness, I allow them to ask the question even if I do still refuse to answer unless I have an appropriately inappropriate or flippant answer. You could probably guess the questions, they're all like "what do you love about yourself?" and "what's your loving wish for the world?" And of course they also have communal seating. The first time I ever went there I swear to Ronnie James Dio that I was sitting next to these chicks who were comforting their one friend whose life was an absolute mess. Like, I'm surprised this woman is successful at arranging food and shelter for herself. Anyway, it seems that in addition to everything going wrong for her always, she was particularly upset that night because she wasn't really getting very many clients in her business as A PROFESSIONAL LIFE COACH. My word, these people.

And so, in conclusion, since the server at Cafe Gratitude asked, here's my loving wish for the world today:
May your life be as warm and comfortable as this picture of Disco looks.

Three things you'll see in Dolores Park that you'll never see in McCarren Park

1. Drum Circles
2. Ganja treats guy
3. How do you pluralize "penis," anyway?

That's just what I get for kicking so much ass.

I call this one Composition 2: Office Desk With Baby Carrots, but it's more commonly referred to in the blog-reading public as Sorry About My Potty Mouth, Mom.

The doctor said a lot of things to me today, but only two of the things really stick in my mind. One preposterous thing and one awesome thing. The preposterous thing she said is NO EXERCISING, and this includes the little Restorative Yoga I've been doing so as to try to prevent myself from going crazy and yelling at people (more than I already do on the average day). The awesome thing she said is that for the next two weeks I only have to wear the boot when I'm commuting.

(All y'all suburban haterz with minivans [I'm just jealous] need to recognize that I commute on foot, which means I walk a half a mile straight uphill [only a slight exaggeration], I'm bobbing and weaving around little old Chinese ladies and weeble-wobble tourists, I'm limping and hopping and lop-sided swagging and still getting really frustrated about how slowly everyone walks around here. So, yeah, pedestrian rage + steep hill + me + recovering foot = wear the boot when you commute. It has a rhyming motto, does your doctor's advice have a rhyming motto? I didn't think so.)

I still have to wear the stupid compression sock at all times except sleepy time until my next appointment, and I still have to strap on the old bone stimulator at least once a day, and I still have to wear sturdy shoes when I'm walking around in the office, but starting tomorrow I'm going to finally start working on recovering my normal walk again.

There are people in California who've never even seen my normal walk. Can you just imagine how amazed they are going to be?

Baby We Were Born to Run

As many times as I've driven up and down Interstate 95, or back and forth between Texas and Virginia, I've never driven all the way across the country.

Now that's about to change.

In a few weeks I'll be flying out to DC to meet up with my Mom, who's getting ready to serve an eighteen month mission in Salt Lake City. She needs to have her car with her while she's there, so we'll be driving together from DC to Utah. After I drop her off, I figure, what they hey? I'll just rent a car and drive the rest of the way home to San Francisco.

(ATTN: DC friends: party on 8/27. With my mom, but still, a party's a party.)

Here are things I need, if anybody still reads this blog and has advice, suggestions, or an overwhelming urge to bake us some cookies for the trip :)

- a passenger from SLC to SF (this is a "nice to have" not a mandatory). I think I can peer pressure Liz into this, unless we spend all of our money planning to go to Palm Springs in October.
- A cooler full of vegan snacks.
- Tips on where to stay between SLC and SF. So far, someone has suggested that Truckee is cute, especially the Old Town part, and I could wander around Tahoe enjoying the view before driving again.
- I hear there are good vegan restaurants in Sacramento. True/False?
- Hotel/vegan food tips in Cheyenne. For some reason, I'm obsessed with Cheyenne right now.
- Audio book advice. I think I'm going to download The Hunger Games. What else?
- iPhone to stereo connector contraption. (What's good? Still googling about that one.)
- Tips/suggestions on sights we should not miss along this route.

F 8/26
Flight: SF to DC

S 8/27
Spend Day in DC with Family & Friends (maybe see Joanie!)
Going Away party for Mom

S 8/28
Washington DC to Indianapolis, IN (9 hours 58 minutes)


M 8/29
Indianapolis, IN to Nauvoo, IL (5 hours 48 minutes)
Nauvoo, IL to Des Moines IA (3 hours 30 minutes)

T 8/30
Des Moines IA to Cheyenne WY (9 hours 49 minutes)

W 8/31
Cheyenne WY to Salt Lake City UT (6 hours 53 minutes)
Plan to arrive in time to have dinner with Daniel


(Also, I hope I can take off this boot. Is my foot done being broken yet? Geez.)