Play that funky music, Glenn

I don't know Glenn but this picture made me so happy I had to post it. Apparently Glenn lost his home (and his trumpet) in Katrina. But tonight he gets to be the grand marshal of the New York Halloween parade by leading the whole damned thing... while he plays his brand new trumpet. Do eeeet, Glenn!

Whore Central

Wow. I always knew Halloween was the carte blanche "dress like a whore" holiday. But if I had a dollar for every milkmaid/beer wench outfit I saw in the past 4 hours, I'd be a fricking millionaire. (OK, I'd probably just be about $200 richer. But I'd take it.)

Apparently, all you have to do to "be in costume" on Halloween is wear an uber short skirt, some hooker heels and a tight, boob-revealing top and then pass yourself off - with a straight face - as pretty much any profession in the free world. It can be as unsexy as you want, so long as your skirt does NOT clear the tops of your pull-up fishnet stockings. "So, what's YOUR costume??" Coyly, sucking on a strand of hair and with a straight face reply "Oh MEEEE??? Well, I'm a coroner/taxi driver/butcher/softball coach." You get the idea. WHORE CENTRAL. Me in my tight spider shirt = Julie Andrews.

In other whore-related news, can someone PLEASE tell me what's going on with the boutiquey makeup/clothing stores of the world? Today I made a trip to MAC on Union St where I needed to purchase some lipstick. ("needed" is questionnable for an unemployed, but who cares at this point). Let me just replay the convo that's been going on for the past 3 years or so at MAC, Benefit, Laura Mercier, etc and driving me up a fucking wall:

(me waiting for a brow waxing or innocently applying the newest Viva Glam to my lips)
Counter girl: HIIII!!! Can I help you?
ME: No thanks, just looking.
Counter girl: Oh, come ONNNN. Don't you wanna PWAY??? Why doesn't anyone wanna PWAY WITH ME today? Let me put some eye shadow on you. It'll be FUN!!! You'll LOVE IT! PWEAAASEEE!!

No shit. I mean. what the fuck? Is this Benefit? Or have I entered a soft-core porn storefront for Cinemax?

Perhaps this the brainchild of some GENIUS in the marketing departments who thinks that the "befriend the customer and appeal to her lesbian sensibility" tactic is really the best way to sell cosmetics? I'm not sure. But i just want to get waxed and get on with things. WWJD? (what would Julie do?)

Why do you torment me, craigslist?

I just need a place to live. That's all. And some semi-normal people to live with. Why ya gotta make it so hard, people? After more than a few email exchanges, phone calls and in-person interviews, I've compiled a sampling of the offensive behaviors that apparently make me a vile, unfit roommate and human being. And I was feeling so good about myself. Silly girl. Here they are...I'm pouring myself a drink.

-I'm not a vegan. (animal disrespector!)

-I own and wear a suede coat. (animal killer!)

-I drink alcoholic beverages. I will keep wine//beer/vodka in the refrigerator/freezer occasionally. (alcoholic!)

-Yes, sometimes I will drink too much of it and you will discover me singing bad disco at the top of my lungs for this very reason. Alone. (Likes unhip music!)

-I buy clothes from the Gap, Banana Republic, H&M, Macy's and a whole host of other uncool places. (Unstylish! And supports child labor in taiwan!)

-I will entertain gentleman callers in my home given the opportunity. (Whore!)

-I would willingly - and gladly - use that grill on the patio to sear up a GINORMOUS, JUICY, MEDIUM RARE STEAK. (Bowel obstructor!)

-I stay awake past 9. (Heathen who will overconsume antioxidants!)

-I shop at Safeway and buy non-organic fruits and vegetables occasionally. (Destroyer of our planet!)

-I've lived in the Marina, Cow Hollow and Pacific Heights. (Bitch!)

-I'm over 30. (Buzz kill!)

-I will be at home during the day sometimes (Space stealer!)

-I take the bus (sketchy/transient type!)

-I watch TV. (shallow!)

-I will use the kitchen to cook. (eater!)

I'm not Jules!

Last night after hanging out with one of my friends, she asked me what my plans were for today. Naturally, I replied with my best off-the-cuff, snarky answer: “You know, hang out on the couch. Stalk people about jobs. Look for apartments since I have to move into one by Tuesday. Sit at Starbucks for a while. Go to the gym. The usual.”

She rightly took my semi-smartass tone as worry on my part and because she’s a good friend, moved in for the consolation. “Don’t worry, you’ll find something. But it wouldn’t be very Rebecca for everything to be planned out and organized. That wouldn’t be exciting to you, right? I mean, you thrive on all this!”

Oh. Holy. Jesus. That’s when I realized that my 3 classes at ACT (thanks, Ryan) had done me way more good than I’d ever imagined. I’ve fooled all my dearest and closest friends into believing that I’m livin’ the dream. What dream, I’m not really sure. But somewhere along the way in the past 2 ½ years, I think I may have become Jules from “St. Elmo’s Fire” to my urban family. And this is disturbing.

You remember Jules. (for those who care to admit they saw this winner. I still watch it from beginning to end when it comes on Lifetime) She’s the happy-go-lucky, coke-snorting, boss-screwing gal who can’t hold down a job and hates her step monster.

Now I’m pretty sure that all my close friends know that a) I’m not a snorter b) I don’t have a job so I can’t screw my boss (nor would I if I had one) and that c) back in the day, I had jobs that I stayed in for years at a time – 5 ½ at one.

But I wanted to clear the happy-go-lucky record. I AM happy with the decision I made to leave my semi-high-paying job (compared to what I WILL make, anyway), clothes-buying, dining-out, trip-taking life I used to lead. All of you (and I’m talking to my urban family now) knew that wasn’t for me. I really like what I’m doing, or at least what I’m TRYING to find a job doing. But make no mistake: as much as I know that many of you derive MAYBE 2.75 ounces of pleasure from your job, I still ENVY you for getting to go to these pleasureless cubes very day. For having a 401K and health insurance and 4 weeks vacation (and 10 sick days!). You can plan vacations. Book your holiday travel. Go shopping. And that just sounds like a dream to me right now.

I know, I know, in due time, I TOO will have my very own pleasureless cube. Don’t worry, I’m not ready to call it quits on this thing I’ve spent the past 2 ½ years working my ass off for (I just ended a sentence with “for” but I’m on a roll). And I know that won't be curing cancer or saving puppies when it finally happens. But I like it. I'm happy. And I just wanted you to know at least that much. But considering it’s Thursday and I’m shooting to find a place to live by Tuesday and not one single whore on craigslist has called me back. Yeah, I’m worried.

But I’m working on it. I’ve learned that my greatest strength is resourcefulness. I can pull a mongoose from a hat when I need to. I could actually probably FIND a real mongoose if I really needed to and come on, how many friends do you have that can do that? Which friend do you call when you need a mongoose? That's right. ME. But most of the time my resourcefulness comes in the way of asking for help from one of my amazing (I think that word’s appropriate in this case) friends. And you KNOW I hate asking. For that, I can never thank any of you enough. I’m grateful beyond words. Verklempt.

I did want you to know where I stand though. Just because I’m smiling, laughing (and drinking) doesn’t mean that the wheels ever stop turning in my head to figure out the next move and that I actually ENJOY all this uncertainty. Because I don’t. Not one tiny little bit. No. Fucking. Way.

But I am happy that I’m such a fine actor. And I’m super happy that I’m not Jules.

The hot girl in this picture wants you to cheer for the Astros

Anyone who knows me understands that in order to truly be my friend, it's probably not a good idea to mock my teams. For those of you who don't know me, allow me to briefly acquaint you with my allegiances:

1) Kentucky basketball.
2) Giants baseball.
3) Game by game allegiance for any team playing Duke in basketball.
4) Game by game allegiance for any team playing any team coached by Steve Spurrier.

There's one last category which brings me to the reason for my post today:

5) Game or Series allegiance for any team that a friend asks me to support UNLESS of course, said team is playing any of the teams listed above.

Such is the case for this World Series. My friend Dayna recently asked me to support her beloved Houston Astros in the World Series. This was a no-brainer since Dayna pretty much saved my sorry unemployed ass and allowed me to live with her for 3 months this summer. And truthfully, if I had to make the decision on my own I NEVER would have chosen the White Sox. I have some sort of allegiance (possibly pity?) for the Cubs (helloo...1907 or whenever the hell it was) since I was lucky enough to be at Wrigley Field the day the lights went on (8/8/88 for those who keep track of that sort of thing). Yes, guys this is the logic girls use to form their sporting opinions when they have no vested interest or real information on either team. Sad, but true.

Anyway, I'm from Kentucky so I know a tiny bit about picking my horses. And my gut tells me that the mojo is definitely flowing in my girl Dayna's teams' direction, at least for baseball and college football. Dayna's also a UT grad and they just passed USC in the BCS polls. So Dayna - and her teams - well, I guess you could say they're my horses. (Sorry, D... I mean that in the most complimentary way).

Welcome to the point of all this. I don't take my allegiances lightly - even the temporary ones. And I'm highly superstitious. (I was traveling in 1997 during the Final Four and didn't pack my lucky Kentucky t-shirt. To this day, I still blame myself for that loss.) Apparently, the Mayor of Houston has asked everyone not to wear socks. Although this seems a little contrived I'm gonna do it. And I'm asking all of you to do it too. Come on, how hard is it to restructure your footwear choices for the next week? Flip flops? Boots? Or at the very least, if you could give a rat's ass who wins the World Series but you just really would like to have an opinion to make watching it more fun, could you please give the Astros a little of your love? That's all I'm asking. Do it for Dayna. You wouldn't turn down a smiley southern girl holding a margarita would you??

30s are the new 20s

I used to not think so much about being or feeling old. But since the whole word is pretty much obsessed with anti-aging I've started to tune in more to some of the remarks I've heard over the past couple of years. You know, with the coming and going of big birthdays and whatnot. (39 days and counting, for those who wish to shower me with gifts).

Following are a few of my recent favorites and a few pieces of good news....please post more. They make me laugh.

"She's a TOTAL cougar"- This one came from my friend Andy and was an absolute shocker for me. I pride myself on knowing what the kids are saying, yo and I'd never once heard this. Apparently a cougar (I'm still not 100% sure this is what it is...I keep calling it a leopard/panther, my friend Dayna keeps correcting me and I keep forgetting it again) is a middle-aged woman who prowls the bars looking for early to mid-20s gentlemen to satisfy her. You know, (whisper) sexually. I asked Andy to define "middle-aged" and he graciously told me it was mid to late 40s. Whew- a decade and then some to spare.

Side note: ladies, if any of you suspect you're a member of this strange feline group, might I suggest a face-saving field trip to a handy little spot in The Mission or on Polk St. before heading out to bars. Just to take the edge off and not look so....catty. Also, can we coin a phrase for the gazillions of disgusting geezers who've been trolling bars for women 1/3 their age since...well, pretty much since the invention of the bar? Anyone?

Can you see the reindeer? I heard this one last week while I was having my annual eye exam. Sean (the very nice PA) asked me to put on a gigantic pair of plastic Harry Carry looking glasses and then he said it: "Ok, tell me, can you see the reindeer?" I seriously almost wet myself I was laughing so hard. Confused, Sean informed me that this was a serious question and I should be able to see a 3-D reindeer popping out at me, otherwise it could be a sign of early-onset glaucoma. Ouch, man. The laughter stopped and thankfully I saw the reindeer. I then had to look through some goggles and confirm I could see a hot-air balloon floating over the center of some lonely desert road. More laughing, more near wetting. Sean even laughed. I just love that the optometry industry is trying to soften the scary business of aging eye diseases with reindeer and hot air balloons.

Have you ever thought about freezing your eggs? This one came from one of my dearest friends from college who is blissfully married with 2 adorable boys and wants nothing more than for all of her friends to share in a slice of this heaven as well. There was scarcely a pause between "Are you dating anyone?" and "Do you want to have kids someday" to "Well, have you ever thought about freezing your eggs?" Um, NOOOO. No offense to anyone who's done this but considering I'm unemployed and halfway-housing it around San Francisco right now, this hardly seems a smart or economically feasible option. And also, wouldn't that be a little creepy? Guys? We date, fall in love, maybe decide to get married and start a family and then oh, hang on...let me run to the freezer and pull out my ice tray of...eggs. What the fuck??? Hot or not? I'm gonna go with... not.

It's OK. I don't need to see your ID. For fuck's sake, people! Please, read more about honesty here.

Good News:
30s are the new 20s- My friend Janny says this is the word on the street. I'm not sure what her source are but Janny's smart, so I'm going with it. Crazy Virgo is actually counting the days to her 30th birthday. Go figure.

Peak physical attractiveness occurs at 38.This according to the iron-clad source known as People Magazine. But whatever. I'll take it.

The average life expectancy of a woman is 84. Praise the gods, I'm much further from this demon whore of a bitch known as middle age than I thought. Oh, I found that little piece on a site called Sex Temple of the Health Goddess. A girl's gotta take it where she can get it, right?

This one's for you, Ali

Just got an email from my friend Ali who's been in London for the past several weeks. As happy as I am to be back in SF and as resolved as I am to stay here for a while, it kinda felt like someone punched me in the stomach when she told me about sitting on Charlotte St. eating our beloved 1/2 price pizza treat that we could only afford once a week (on Tuesdays).

And so, young Ali, sometime during your last 2 days I ask that you enjoy a slice of said 1/2 price pizza on my behalf, allow yourself to be overserved at a pub which has a sign out front of a man wearing a wig (which pretty much means on any corner) and dance at one of the 131 convenient London area Walkabouts where you should then make out with a 21-year old boy who speaks broken English. (The Walkabout's really more of a throw-in for Emily, but since I vehemently opposed going there on the grounds of feeling like a child molester, I thought I'd mention it.)

Most importantly, have a delicious meal. In a RESTAURANT (no, Pret a Manger does not count). Charge it. I'll buy you a burrito when you get to SF to help offset the cost. No more stalking diners through windows and staring at their meals with a forlorn, hungry face. You're better than that, Ali. We all were. Right??

Say hi to my favorite British gentlemen. Mouth. Still. Watering.

When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford." — Samuel Johnson

Somebody's laughing somewhere

I just bought this funny little game as an add-on gift for a friend's housewarming. It's called "Find the Monkey" which naturally made me want to pick it up and investigate right away. You've really gotta respect the person who got the "Write the Instructions for the Hide the Monkey" assignment and came up with these pearls of smartass genius using caps and exclamation marks. Inspirational, no?

How to play:
1. Show the monkey.
2. Hide the monkey under a fez.
3. Move fez hats around quickly.
4. Where IS the monkey?!

Practice deceptive tricks for MORE fun!!

7th Grade called....

...and actually it was quite refreshing to hear from him.

MetroDad, one of my blogging heroes, recently asked his readers to do one of those silly personality tests that we all roll our eyes at when we receive them in email. But I have to say, I did it and I had a grand old time reading everyone’s. Now, I’m asking all of you to do the same. PLEASE don’t make me beg (though I think all caps constitutes begging on a blog). I’ll call you out by name on this public forum if I must. Come on….it’s Friday. Even I remember what happens after 1:00 at most places on Friday. Nada. Crazy V, post your shit, girl, or I’m cutting and pasting it for you so I don’t look like an idiot as the only one with my list of 7’s on here. Follow the categories, add new if you want (Crazy V added “favorite foods to eat on the couch”).

One semi-quick note after much hullabaloo to a few of the ladies on “Why Colin Firth”: Colin = Darcy (William or Mark, whomever’s your pleasure - mine is both). Darcy = Chivalrous. Perhaps Helen Fielding (or her screenplay writer) summed it up best in “Bridget Jones” with this quote:

Bridget: Wait a minute, nice boys don’t kiss like that.
Mark Darcy: Oh yes they fucking do.
Mouth. Still. Watering.

Now, get to answering, people!

7 things I want to do before I die:
1. Live in London again.
2. Travel to Ireland with my mom and brothers
3. Go to the Final Four and/or score a ticket to the last Kentucky home basketball game of any regular season
4. Write something funny that the whole world rushes to read. That’s not a blog. And not an ad.
5. Own a house with either a big front porch, a screened in porch or both.
6. Travel to (in no particular order) Spain, Australia, New Zealand, Scotland, Prague, Africa, Croatia, Greece. Alright, I’ll go anywhere.
7. Fall completely, madly, hopelessly, ridiculously, look-like-a big-fucking-idiot in love.

7 Things I Cannot Do:
1. Give up salsa or any spicy food.
2. Cartwheels. Round-offs. Back-handsprings. And God knows I tried.
3. Crossword puzzles (no patience)
4. Snow ski.
5. Draw.
6. Math. Of any kind.
7. The Electric Slide. (I know, but after the 634,311 weddings I’ve been to, I feel like a jackass asking someone to slow it down for a tutorial)

7 Things I say most often:
1. Hello my little: lamb, nugget, petal, love muffin, biscuit, flower, ray of sunshine
2. Whore. (it can be an insult AND a term of endearment in my world)
3. Fuck. (I know, so unladylike. But I can’t stop)
4. Let’s grab a coffee/a drink
5. Are they hiring?
6. Call me after 9 or this weekend, I’m almost out of minutes.
7. That's ridic. (or ri-fucking-diculous,)

7 things that attract me to the opposite sex (yes, I’ve cheated and doubled up to keep it at 7)
1. Quick witted funny types.
2. Intelligence.
3. Creative dudes. Somehow. Someway. Bracelets out of grass blades. I don’t care.
4. A sexy voice and/or eyes that can switch from sweet to “I’m about to tell you a dirty joke”
5. An easy smiler/genuine gut laugher
6. Tall. Chivalrous.
7. Wants to meet/appreciates my friends. Cause they’re hi-fucking-larious.

7 celebrity crushes (is that all I get??)
1. Colin Firth (Mouth. Is. Watering.)
2. George Clooney (that smile just screams “oh yeah, we’re SO gonna do it”)
3. Cillian Murphy (loved that f-ed up hair in 28 days Later)
4. Gwyneth/Kate Winslet/Tina Fey/ (my non-sexual girl crushes)
5. Matthew Fox. (With the 5 o’clock shadow.)
6. The Owen Brothers.
7. Chris Martin. (Make fun of me all you want, but those soulful words just slay me.)
7.5 - Zach Braff, though I fear he is a wee bit of a man and that I would break him in half if we were to ever roll around in bed together.

Where have all the Levi's gone?

Do Maxim and Vogue have some sort of fashion editor cross training program that I don’t know about? How come so many guys are wearing 7 jeans now? And Paper Denim Cloth and …..hell, I don’t even know what the other good brands are because I can’t afford them. I’m still stuck back in 1998 trying to pull off Banana Republic jeans. (Though I’m more than a little incensed that even they have the gall to price jeans at $178 now. What happened to the good old $78 price point?)

I like a man who cares about how he looks, I really do. Cool t-shirts, nice shoes, good jackets, some product in the hair. Yes, please. But you guys don’t have to dress like this every single day. I’m completely baffled by the obviously very manly, very straight guys with really hot wives and girlfriends that walk around in, OK, I’m just gonna say it: WOMEN’S JEANS. HELLO, people. Sure, they make them for men. But they make Kenneth Cole loafers for women too and I’m not strolling around in those every day.

Don’t you guys know how delicious you look in a pair of perfectly faded, beat up Levi’s? Paired with a cool t-shirt? Somebody tell me what the deal is…please I’m an equal-opportunity-liker of men in 7 jeans. I just want more Levi’s, that's all.

Praise Jesus, Tina's back

No offense, Horatio. But the full-fledged power of estrogen needed to return. All is (almost) right with the world again. (Maya needs to come back too).

Sometimes I want to be a gay man

Is that weird? Don’t get me wrong, I love being a heterosexual woman in this fair city. But the gay man just has it so damned easy. It’s an honest, efficient system. Sometimes TOO honest (“Oh honey, did you see the plaque on the 3rd tooth from the back?”) but it seems to work.

Case in point, my current halfway house host was hanging out, just minding his own business last Monday or Tuesday night. His doorbell rings. The ringer asks for Sam* (names have been changed to protect the semi-innocent). Coincidentally, my host’s first name is actually Sam too though no one calls him that. But he thinks it’s something related to his home renovation project and so he lets the conversation continue.

I’m Sam.
Oh. (15-second uncomfortable silence).
Did you….need something?
Well, um, you called for me, right?
Called for you?
I’m the guy from Men seeking Men…on craigslist? You ARE Sam, right?
Yes, I’m Sam but I didn’t email anyone off craigslist.
Oh. (another 15-second silence). Well, are you up for it? Or can you help me find _____ St?

What the....??!! Interestingly enough, it really was NOT my Sam (he’s exclusively/monogamously dating someone), though he admitted that this is a routinely common practice for gay men. You just order yourself up a dirty man for the night off craigslist and he shows up. Who knew??

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not into placing ads to have straight guys come to my house and service me and certainly not vice versa. I just have a strange admiration for the efficiency of the whole thing. Imagine this scene translated into the straight person’s world of regular old hetero dating. Guy asks girl out, girl says yes or no, they have date and at the end of said date they’re both completely, 100% honest about what will happen next. There’s no “I’ll call you” that everyone knows will never happen or uncomfortable half-hugs. Instead, it’s a different spin on the old sales tactic of “ask for the referral” It saves everyone a heap of time and analysis and it might go something like this:

Look, I had a great time, but I’m not really feeling it for you.
Yeah, me neither.
(pause)
But you’re really attractive, funny, smart and I think my friend _____ might like you. Can I give him/her your phone number?
Sure. And here’s my friend_______’s email address. Email her. I think you guys will get along great. But I’d still love to hang out with you…as friends. You up for that?
Sure. My friend ____ is having a party on Saturday. Come – bring your friends.

Of course, all guys probably already wish for this and think that women screw this up with our over-analyzing. Of course, they’re right…we do. And I might be miffed for about 10 minutes if I was on the receiving end of this brutal honesty. But I’d get over it if the guy was cool enough to be friends with. Instead, no one says anything, you run into each other in a month somewhere and do the uncomfortable half hug thing AGAIN. This cycle repeats itself for the next 5 years or so until that person gets married, produces offspring and/or moves out of the city or you run into them with their new child and significant other which automatically, mercifully and FINALLY ends the whole ridiculous cycle.

New system. Please.

The new shirtcocking?

Many of you may remember my friend Crazy Virgo’s little issue with shirtcocking. Well, here’s a new one, though, I think someone needs to give it a better word because frankly I’m still a little too shaken from my experience and am in no mood for naming.

I’ve just been bus-humped. I was on either the 47 or 49 heading up Van Ness, the bus is completely full, so I’m standing. I’m in front of one of those glorious one-seaters, minding my own damn business, looking out the window when a large man comes up and stands behind me, his front pressed into my back. I tried to move but there was nowhere to go. Suddenly, he’s moving – nay- GRINDING himself into me. And this is not a good grinding. I’m…uncomfortable to say the least. So I turn my head around, intending to look mean, then see that he’s a very large man, much taller than me (and I’m pretty tall) and I manage to muster up “um, EXCUSE me?” (yes, with a question mark at the end because I’m all of a sudden not so sure if I want to be all sassy with this man). He laughs. Then grinds slower. Apparently, the feedback from his other bus lovers has been “slower movement”. I de-boarded at the next stop. Ick.

So was I bus-humped? Or bus-grinded (ground?)? Is there an 800 # for this?

HOLY SHIT - BABY BELLA'S ON HER WAY!!!!

Stay tuned for those who know who this is...I'm told she'll be here by 6 pm tonight!

The RBrown 2005 Guide to Halfway Houses

Sometimes you just need to get away from it all. You know, the job, the apartment, the paycheck, the money in a checking, savings and/or 401K account, the stable place to call home. What’s on your speed dial for situations like this? You need a place to live, but can’t really qualify for a place to live because you have no income. And you can’t find income unless you stay long enough in one place. Truly vexing.

Lucky for you, dear reader(s) to have made the wise decision to read this blog today. Because I’ve got some special little nooks that only us seasoned locals know about. Some places that took me in during woeful times, housed me, allowed me to shower and store food in their refrigerators and then let me fly when the time was right. Some might call this arrangement a “halfway house” but the very words just sound so…. late 80 that for our purposes, I’ll refer to them as my seasonal homes. Where I summer and winter. Here’s a quick run-down in case you’re ever in the area (s).

SPRING

$$$$$$$$$ London, SW14 - While the accommodations were lovely and I was fortunate enough to have a week-long jaunt to Cyprus added into my stay, I haven’t spoken to the host much since. I think this is quite rude and would not recommend staying there UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES…unless you’re into the overpromise-under-deliver-Trans-atlantic emotional trickery sort of thing. Suck it up and pay for a hotel in the center of London. (deep inhale on cigarette…if only I smoked)

SUMMER

The (*) denotes single, hot and available. Stay tuned for more info on these people, but please post comments if you’re interested in me arranging a private (fully-clothed) meeting.

$ *Hotel Dshaw – Fillmore St., 94115 – I was lucky enough to call this little gem on Fillmore St. my summer home. And don’t let that one-dollar sign fool you – the hospitality was 5-star all the way. From chocolates on my pillow to free wireless, to lazy Saturdays spent watching “America’s Top Model” this is one stop I literally couldn’t have made it without. The hostess is charming, generous beyond measure and will make green tea spew from your nose she’s so funny. Truly a life-saver.

$ *The Whitmore – Broadway and Fillmore – 94115 –This hostess hand-makes the most gorgeous jewelry and insisted I wear it. So for one week I looked like someone who had some fashion sense. Minus the Banana Republic/Gap/H&M thing I had going on for clothes.

$ *Einie House – Washington and Buchanan – 94115 – A peaceful studio with an excellent library and exceptionally comfy couch. Catch her when she’s home. She also serves as an excellent therapist.

$ *Farrell Inn – Three words: private back patio. This generous little belle even allowed me to use her car, which exposed me to the foulest scene ever on 9th and Bryant giving new meaning to the word “bobblehead”. But you want adventure, right?

$ *Trevey Manor, 94109 – A comfy studio in the center of the action of Lower Nob Hill with fantastic city views. She shared her cheese and oatmeal with me and given that she’s in the same sorry unemployed state, this was like sharing her filet mignon with me.

$ Trevey’s Friends’ Manor, 94109 – A 2-story apartment. In San Francisco. Who knew? Gorgeous. And they had no idea who the hell I was.

$ Chenery Heights, 94131– A delightfully appointed one-bedroom with an even more delightful golden retriever named Beau. This was the furthest trek out of my summer comfort zone (and well worth it) so friends from 94115 grabbed their passports and made the journey to dine with me for a night. This host is NOT single, but he’s hot. Unfortunately for my man-friendly readers, he’s dating one of the proprietors of Maison de Laussat. Incestuous, these halfway houses.

FALL
$ Maison de Laussat, 94117 – Run by 2 exceptionally wonderful gay men (sexual preference only mentioned to punctuate their exquisite taste), this place has recently been renovated to a state of gorgeousness so great I’m not sure an income-less girl like me is even worthy of sleeping here. Also, I was met at the airport with flowers, wine, chocolate and a hug that reduced me to a sniveling mass of tears then treated to a welcome-back dinner. That always helps earn extra stars in the hospitality category.

$ Skormore, 94123 - I was lucky enough to have one night here in the summer and (I think) will be boarding here again while the hostess travels to Ireland. Her home is divine and her decorating skills and eye for color are rivaled only by the gay man. She makes delicious egg and throws great parties. I’ve also heard that Danielle Steele lives in the building.

I could not possibly continue to pursue this oh-so glorious and very glamorous dream of advertising without all of you. Thanks again for your hospitality. Now, if anyone knows of someone looking to sub-lease in November, I’m your girl.

I miss my boyfriend

I’ve been kind of lonely lately. A little sad. You see, I broke up with my boyfriend about a year and a half ago and things just haven’t been the same since. We were happy, San Francisco and I. Exclusive. Steady dates. But I broke up with my boyfriend to go to London, whom I adored, completely fell in love with but things would never be steady so I had to cut it off. Actually, I broke up with London to hook up with New York. Big mistake – HUGE. TOTALLY unsatisfying. I mean, EVERYONE who’s been with New York said I would love him. But I didn’t. Emotionally unavailable, cold. So I got back together with San Francisco for 4 months – I couldn’t believe he would take me back. How happy was I for those 4 months? Then, like an idiot, I broke up with him. AGAIN. For….Seattle, of all places.

And weird things happened in Seattle. Those American Express commercials kept popping up at the exact moments I would be pining most painfully for my ex-boyfriend SF. The ones where Kate Winslet and Robert DeNiro are walking around London and New York, respectively talking about “My Town”? I’d see those commercials – especially the Kate Winslet one, because it’s London and she’s my non-sexual girl crush – and I get all… weepy. I’d think about MY American Express commercial. MY town. MY boyfriend, San Francisco. Me, On the #3 bus, in my black fleece, unshowered, coming from the gym to MY “home” in Pacific Heights. And being slightly crazy from my painful break-up and too much time sitting in a windowless room writing Lottery headlines, I took my seeing these as a sign of some sort.

So I paid attention to the signs. I started thinking about my friends. My city. My life there. And about all the stupid little things I was missing. I thought about this as I heated up my Lean Cuisine every night. And I started to get antsy. My extra lbs. should come from an authentic Mission-style burrito, not some $2 sale-item frozen entree. My over-carbing should come from the white rice of the freshest, most melt-in-your-mouth sushi a person could ever partake in. My extra calories from a bottle of wine that I buy in a corner store, that I can walk to in less than 10 seconds in my pajamas if I so choose and no one will be the wiser, a bottle of Seghesio Sangiovese that, for $18.99, is a steal in Northern California because it’s bottled 55 minutes from my doorstep. Or from a skinny double mocha where everybody really DOES know my name - since the LAST time I was unemployed. The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf on Fillmore, Cuppa Joe on Sutter. Some random place on Van Ness. Free wireless. People who could give a shit if I sat there all day reading a book. What could be more beautiful and intimate than coffee and free wireless with my boyfriend?

Here’s the deal. I want to walk down a street where I can see an 80 –year old transvestite. I want to see a random pyramid of cheerleaders “cheering for life” in the Castro and not really understand why adults wear cheerleading outfits to do such a thing. I want to see some naked people running. I want to be the naïve southern girl who walks through a drug deal on Geary St. at 9 am. I want to ride on a bus that starts where the beautiful, married people live in the Marina and ends up where the gritty, alone people live in a neighborhood I don’t even know. I want to run the Lyon St. stairs until my legs collapse and sweat out every preservative from every frozen dinner I’ve ever consumed.

So, I made a decision. I’m breaking up with you, Seattle. It’s not you. It’s me. Really. I need to make a go of things with my boyfriend, San Francisco. At least for a little while. I’ll keep London as my mistress boyfriend. A dirty whore Daniel Cleaver type whose booty call I’ll gladly answer when he comes calling until I have the chance to date him exclusively.

Goodbye, Seattle. I think you need a less complicated woman to make you happy. I hope we can still be friends.

It's time to think outside the AA box

In a world where we’ve been conditioned to be PC and embrace diversity – to not ask a lot of questions when someone does something outside the pesky box – I need to know: why are batteries an exception to this rule? Why ya gotta be so nosey about my batteries, people?

Today I set out on an expedition to find a battery. Not a AA battery or a AAA battery or even a 9V battery. A 1.5V battery. Depending on where you go in the greater Seattle area, these little gems are not readily available in the aisles where you can just browse the batteries on your own. Nope, they’re behind a counter, forcing you to seek out and converse with an employee in order to get said battery. Is the 1.5V the crack of batteries? Are people just so damned desperate for them that they need to be behind glass?

As usual, I digress. Let’s just say when a woman goes into a store - by herself - to buy a non-AA battery people are VERY interested in why she needs it. At my 3rd and final stop I was successful, but not before I underwent a Law & Order-style line of questioning that was missing only the swinging, bare light bulb above my head and a billowing cloud of smoke from some filter-less Camels.

“What do you need this battery for?” Asked the early 20-something smartass-looking Safeway employee with a glint in his eye. Well, let me enlighten you, Mr. Safeway employee. It’s for my garage door opener. My camera. My medical defibrillator. My watch. My gigantic hearing aid. Or my prison ankle bracelet which will most DEFINITELY beep if I decide to jump over the counter and give you the smack down for enjoying these questions so much. Give me the battery! Trust me on this – I NEED THE BATTERY! And stop casting that knowing glance at my Blockbuster bag too. (OK, so maybe they do need to be behind the glass.)

When at last he sought out the 1.5V he actually looked a little sheepish. There on the package, clear as day in a Times New Roman-esque font was the word “Medical” along with the familiar medical serpent symbol. “OOOOOOH, so it’s for MEDICAL reasons,” he says.

Medical reasons. Exactly. You have no idea.

More trendy pick-ups

I know you’ve been awaiting another of my celebrated single stories, dear reader(s) (I added the “s” because I’m an optimistic, sunny, smiling person), so wait no more.

Workin’ at the Car Wash (Come on y’all and sing it with me)
Back in the days I like to refer to as “The Golden Era”, I had a car, a job and lived in San Francisco. I was on my out of the city one day – in my CAR (I like saying that now that I don’t have one) - so I hit the Shell station near Glen Park before I got on 280. I filled up (because gas was under $3 then) and was rewarded with the beloved free car wash. I drive to the car wash lane and am about to input my super secret free car wash code when a gentleman wearing a Shell cap and shirt with the name “Rod” (I’m not making that up, Christian) pops in front of the machine. The convo goes something like this:

Rod: Hi there! Can I help you?
Me: No thanks, I’m just, you know…putting my code in to wash my car.
Rod: Really? Where ya on your way to?
Me: Target.
Rod: What? You’re not going to see your boyfriend?
Intermission: Why is there a certain percentage of men who like to segway with an ill-timed boyfriend comment? Anyone?
Me: No, no. Just going to Target.
Rod: Where do you live?
Me: Pacific Heights.
Pesky Inner Voice: Why am I telling the car wash code man where I live?
Rod: Really? We should have dinner at Harry’s on Fillmore sometime. Yeah! Let’s do that! Why don’t you let me buy you dinner at Harry’s- that’ll be cool!
Pesky Inner Voice: Drive away! Say “no thanks” roll up your window and drive away!
Me: Ummm…
Pesky Inner voice: This is not the time to be nice!
Pesky Inner voice 2: But he controls the CODES! He could put the smack-down on Aggie! (my silver civic)
Rod: Ok, I understand that you maybe don’t feel comfortable saying yes right now so let’s do this. I’m off on Wednesdays so just meet me at Harry’s on Wednesday night!
Me: Actually, I have a boyfriend so..
Rod: You just said you were going to Target and NOT your boyfriend's house. Oh well, that’s OK – meet me there! I’ll buy! It’ll be fun! My name’s Rod by the way! (and yes, he was speaking in exclamation mark-ese).

Fast forward about a month. I go through the Shell Car Wash again, taking care to note that it’s WEDNESDAY. But guess who’s there? That’s right.
Rod: Hey, I never saw you at Harry’s.
Pesky Inner Voice: DRIVE!!!

And the moral of this story is: if you want a free dinner at Harry’s, go to the Shell Station near 280, fill up and go through the car wash. Dab on some extra lip gloss. Rod likes 'em shiny.

There’s a new trend in pick-up lines, ladies

What I wouldn’t give for those golden days of flirting yesteryear, when girls were girls and men were men. When guys offered up urban legend gems like “Can I buy you ladies a round of drinks?” or the oft-underused yet more direct tactic of “Hi, my name is _____”. Those were the days.

Apparently there are a few new techniques on the rise. And I think it’s my duty as a single woman to bring some of the more disturbing ones to light. Please enjoy and feel free to share your own.

Coming soon: Why pedicures, Gregory Peck, African children and popping up at the Shell Car Wash code machine just don’t work.

Here’s to you, Mr. Passive Aggressive Verbal Humiliator
Sounds like a dream, huh? Insult a girl, get her really riled up, then tell her you would’ve asked her out if she hadn’t been so (insert original insult here). Brilliant. It goes something like this:

A man approaches a girl or group of girls:

Man: “Hey ladies, you need to turn those frowns upside down!!”
Me: (taking the bait like an idiot) “We’re not frowning, we’re talking. To THESE guys.”
Man: “Well you look kind of…mad.”
Me: “So, should we smile WHILE we talk? Cause that makes it kind of hard to actually, you know, form the words.

Intermission – Here’s where things start to unravel a bit. Because no one’s really mad yet. We’re just talking, probably engaging in a little harmless flirting, probably with young men in their early 20s (because this story takes place in San Francisco) and it must be going pretty well because, oh, look at that – THESE GUYS ARE STILL TALKING TO US. But I digress.

Man: “I’m just saying, you’d probably do a lot better if you’d just smile a little. You seem like an unhappy person. And you’d be prettier if you smiled too.”

Intermission 2: What the…???

Me: I never smile? ME? You have NO IDEA who I am! I SMILE ALL THE FUCKING TIME! I LOVE TO SMILE!! In fact I was VOTED BEST SMILE in high school so DON’T TELL ME THAT I’M NOT A FUCKING SMILER!!!!!

SFX: Bar goes silent, crickets chirp.

Guy: Wow, that’s too bad, because I would’ve asked you out if you weren’t so…angry.

And just like that, I’ve been had. I really AM mad, I’ve been made to look like a mean girl, when in fact, I’m a relatively sunny smiling type most of the time (ok, I have my days). And some guy that I probably never would’ve gone out with anyway has deemed me un-dateable. I'll be damned. Butter my butt and call me a bitter biscuit.