Liquid Laughter

Bastille Day 2015

2015-07-14T01:03:00.000-07:00

I doubt I have an audience now as it has been several years, and my last post was a goodbye into infinion (or rather, Oblivian). But my heart told me to write this. xx

On July 13th last year before dinner, my dad asked me what I was planning to do tomorrow. And I went to the white board across from the dining room table and, with the red, white and blue erasable pens, I drew a French flag. Bastille Day! The white board was our new family command post. My dad had recently had a spinal chord injury that placed him in a wheel chair and intense physical therapy. Tomorrow (or today or even later by the time you get this) is Bastille Day. And it will never be the same for me.

I used to love this French holiday. I don't know what it will mean from now on or how it will feel. Now it is the day that I woke up in the morning to go to work and went to my dad's bedside to say good morning and found him not acting right, and said so to my mom. The minute I sat down at my work desk I got a call from her that he was going to the ER and to come home. We sat in the waiting room for an hour and then were told he had stopped breathing for several minutes and was intubated. I worried, instantly hating the knowledge I possess about the affect of lack of oxygen to the brain. How many minutes is "several minutes?" I wanted to know but I couldn't ask in the frenzy of immediate action to save him. My fucking dad. They put him in a "freeze" to slow his body function and minimize the impact. Of course I wondered: how is his brain function several minutes in? I can only ask it to myself. My family doesn't dare to ask this question. The doctor tells us he had a heart attack and needs a stent asap, he goes into surgery and survives that very well, in fact, he is coming out of the "freeze" before anticipated. I'm feeling promise of a great recovery. My dad is the fucking giant of "Yes I will!" After all, he grew his nose back, why wouldn't he have an early thaw from a deep freeze? Then they told us about the multiple emboli in his lungs. Those are what caused the heart attack, and for him to survive, they need aggressive and risky medicines to remove them. We met up with him in the ICU and took vigil, all of us, for 9 days. For many and most of them he was out, for a few minutes here and there he seemed there, biting at the tube wanting to say something, responding to "hello Jims" and commands to wiggle toes or blink his eyes. All the time I was wondering "how many minutes was he unconscious? Is his brain ok? Can he overcome this AND the spinal cord injury AND be the man he wants to be - the man he was before he couldn't stand? Do I tell him it's a long battle and it's okay to let go? What will his recovery even look like if he gets through this new hurdle? How far will he go - walking? Will he be happy? Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. Deep breath. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh and what the fuck?! And so today is that day: full of a million what's and how's and why's. The day that I sat by his bedside and let him tell dictate the next move. Fraternité, Liberté, Egalité. On July 23rd, after what I'm sure was a very difficult battle, he chose Liberté.I love you, Dad.

A Blogger Into Oblivion

2007-07-11T18:01:00.000-07:00

As with the many many stars that light our night sky, there are many many bloggers. Many more bloggers are born each day. And sometimes, like a star that has long burned brightly, a blogger who has filtered news and stories, tales of sadness and joy will just fade out into oblivion. Part of the composite whole no more.

I am feeling the pull, people. Blogging for the past few years has been a great source of joy; it filled voids in between boyfriends and gaps of space and time of friendships, and provided the sense of having a voice that was being heard... somewhere, even if nothing echoed back.

As life ebbs and flows from lazy days to absolute chaos, it is hard to guage if my time and inspiration to share my stories will continue to peak and dip, and that isn't fair to "my three readers" or to the tiny side of me that is always looking for a creative outlet.

First, I want to thank you, my readers, for reading. For not chastising when I was on an apparant rant, for supporting me with like stories or passing them on, for congratulating me on this or that, and for making me laugh and feel like part of a wonderful community. Second, I'd like to ask you to delete me from your rss feed aggregator, or whatever way in which you stumble upon my now infrequent posts, and take me off your blogroll (sad weep weep, but lame if you keep me on there). Third, I'd like to tell you: you bet your ASS I am still reading your blog.

My blog spot will still be around. But don't expect anything new, other than, perhaps, more frequent comments on yours ; )

All my best!
Gertrude "Gertie" Stein.

The Three's

2007-06-29T22:20:00.000-07:00

It is said that things come in threes. Good things come in three's and bad things come in three's. Whether it be an old wives tale, Murphy's Law, or The Universe Sayin' Something, or just plain old superstition, the theory seems to hold true.

When I was in college, I had 3 jobs to pay for tuition. Funny that - never thought about it until now. Anyway, one of those jobs was as the Unit Coordinator on the Post Partum wing of Boulder Community Hospital. For those who don't speak hospital, that's where the ladies go after giving birth. On that wing, all the nurses were convinced that things happened in three's. When something bad happened, they started counting. When a woman was about to have her 3rd child, they celebrated and knew nothing would go wrong. When there was a full moon, they all got edge-y - but that's another story, as is their solidarity on the pro-life issue (it was Colorado, so give them some slack). When something good or bad happened that didn't align with the three's rule, they went about their routine but puzzled over it in the break room.

That was a long time ago, but ever since BCH, I always subconsciously think in three's. When life gives me a knock, I wait for and expect a couple more, not even knowing that I do. So when they don't come, I'm briefly puzzled and carry on. And when everything's good, I hope and hope it will get to or even extend past the three's. Gosh, who wouldn't?

And so, you three dear readers of mine, I announce that I've just summed up six or maybe eight! Three blows and three-plus incredible successes, all within the last 5 weeks. All at the same time. Because that's how life throws it, I guess.

The first string of three's were negative, and all to my dear, darling, adorable car, Desdemona. Most of it cannot be explained really; if I were to boil it down I would figure she had it coming considering her name's origin is Greek for "wretchedness" or a direct translation for "misery." Thanks, Google. Knowing that now, such a pretty name, and such a pretty car who has been so good to me for so long, I don't think I would have ever named her that when I took title.

Three weeks ago, I was out and about for work, driving the lovely Desi, and came second in line to a stubbornly slow stop sign intersection. Apparantly, some Arizona Ass-Wipe got mixed up along his way, pulled into a driveway before I arrived there to do a U-turn, and backed out right up on Desi's shank. Good thing he was of my Jewish tribe - otherwise I wouldn't have been so accomodating to him.

Two weeks later, Desi got the sh*t smashed out of her side mirror (I know this is sounding repetetive to my 3 readers, so I'll keep it short - there's a point here somewhere near the end). A week later someone bashed in her passenger window to grab the mobile she was coddling for me as I absent-mindedly slept.

So there's Desi's 3. Almost all of them are fixed now. She's taking it well and running like the Arabian stallion she is. Goddamn BMW's. You have to love them.

On the flip of the three's though, and congrous with the timing of the bad three's, three great things have happened. Actually, if everything positive can be counted on the plus side of the universe, then 5 great things have happened. So bonus kharma points, I guess. Man, I think I deserve them with all my niceness anyway.

I closed two fantastic business deals even while nursing Desdemona back to health. I also, shortly thereafter, had a (*ugh*) birthday, for which the parties were very well attended (it was a big birthday, so it commanded more than one party). Plus I had my first friggin' date since December (I must be a monster!! Or busy. Or something in between.... at least I hope that's the case), and yes, people, I just scored the BIGGEST contract thus far in my new business. Just today. Woo! Hoo!

I cannot explain the universal wives' tale/Murphy's Law/Universe Doin' It/Kharma thing. I cannot say that I consciously count all the time. But on occasion, when I do, it all seems to add up. So if you don't already, take the good with the bad and know that life ebbs and flows, and all you can do to stay sane is roll with it.

Perspective

2007-06-19T23:02:00.000-07:00

I recently reported that I have nothing to report. Some curve balls, yes. And I'm really glad to have had the perspective I had then, as it continues even further now. After all, they are just curve balls; they are diffucult to navigate, but any pro can manage.

After the previous post of un-interesting events, some others have occurred.
Another one of my contracts closed - pay day - woo hoo. But my company decided to take a big chunk to cover some costs. Boo.

A few days later, my best friend who I hadn't talked to in 6 weeks had her birthday. We went out, had fun, and the late night ended after a 1 hour discussion on how we had both f*cked up. This, actually, wasn't so bad. I swear - so much in the world can be put right just by hearing the other side. Clarity people! We're not totally renewed, but we're both aware now of some outstanding stuff and know we're important enough to each other to work through it and continue to be beacons in each other's lives.

That same night, however, I neglected to remove my cell phone from the car, and awakened next morning to a smashed in car window (no! Desdemona! no!) and the mobile gone. Most of the following Monday was dedicated to getting a new cell and a new window.

But here's where perspective comes into play. Several unfortunate events have come to me recently, but nothing life-altering (except an almost gone best friend, which is pretty huge and altering). But the rest: Annoying? Yes. Inconveniencing? Yes. Expensive to replace when I totally wasn't at fault? Certainly. But it's not like one of my parents died, which happened just recently to another friend.

Over Father's Day weekend, a friend's dad passed away. I simply could not imagine a more devastating blow. To not be there; to have so many things left unsaid; to have so many more life processes to go for which one would want to share with one's parents. Makes my curve balls seem even more trivial than they already seemed. After all, I have pretty much lived 10 years incident-free in a big urban metropolis.

So please, just talk to your loved ones. Parents, rellies, children, and best friends, and let them know you care. I was fortunate enough to putz around my parents' place on Father's Day, trimming the bottle brush tree in front while my dad worked the garden in back and my mom planned her sister's visit and her week's meals in the kitchen, and then I was dragged to the grocery store and helped make a King's Dinner for Dear Old Dad on the BBQ, and I couldn't have asked for anything more that day.

Life-o

2007-06-10T22:57:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, life brings you nothing but chores and nothing to report. And that sucks for general life blogging. That is where I seem to have been for the last many many weeks. For those of you who have hung on and checked in anyway, I thank you and I really appreciate it! And, I guarantee that there are circles in life, and soon I will be sharing some really amazing, surprising joys instead of all this crap.

So life, as it were, and as it continues to be, has recently thrown me several curve balls. Not dissimilar to a rather famous religious figure who was asked to make water into wine, I have been asked to turn curve balls into a balanced juggling act on a tightrope of passion vs. getting payed, not to mention having to prove to my parents that I am not a spinster; no, I'm really, truly waiting for the right guy. And really, I am. Come on.

Needless to say, my intellectually designed pithy diatribes have been reduced to quiet, internal grumblings. If you have been in such a position, in which your pithy diatribes have been reduced to quiet, internal grumblings, then you know that these can eat away at your core of Ever-Positiveness. It can shake one's confidence. All around, a dark place to be.

Sometimes-Positive-and-Heading-Down is a tough spiral to contradict, and a meager replacement for one's previous Ever-Positiveness. Seriously. It takes absolute defiance of natural human tendancies. I'm happy to report that the dark storm is subsiding in the outshine of a glorious sunrise. Wait. What? Who the hell said that?

So, to appease my quiet and small audience, here is what has been going on:
1. Work work work work work work work;
2. work. This, as well as the above work, has thus far gone unpaid. Grr.
3. Volunteer work. Um. Can we say unpaid again? OK> Unpaid X 2 groups and I'm on 4 of the committees, come on...;
4. Social networking. This may be fruitful down the line, but as I'm sure you are aware, these activities are sometimes, but almost always, LAME evenings and are yet again Unpaid;
5. Met a real cool cat at the SF Int'l Film Festival. We set up a tentative date. He changed it around at least 5 times and then said he was in a hurly burly chaos state and can we just chill out. I laughed out loud at his email, because we were only trying to set up a night to get drinks and get to know each other better, and his life, apparently, got overwhelmingly in the way. Whatevs, dude. It was just a drink. Chill out.
6. Car crash - in the most urban and mundane sense of the phrase. Some dickhead from Arizona decided to back out of a driveway and into the back of my car, Desdemona, while I was at a stop sign. Apparently he doesn't know to check both LEFT and right before backing up. Nevertheless, it took 2+ weeks to estimate and resolve while I was staying out of town - in general a pain in the ass;
7. Upon making my lovely Desdemona beautiful again (yeah that's her name, don't judge), I came out from today's 4 hour Sunday work appointment only to find that some crazy got super crazy on Desi and kicked out her driver's side mirror just for fun. Oh Joy! Another call to AAA and another visit coming to Tony's Imported Autobody. Damn, they love me there;
8. Haven't talked to my best friend in 6 weeks. Tired of being the olive-branch giver in this situation. She's pissed at me about something, and with 1,2 and 3 above, I really can't be bothered to figure out why and find the olive branch that will work this time. Why do Geminis have to be so damn difficult? However, her birthday is next week, so I've got to do something... must find appropriate gift/olive branch, damn her;
9. Somewhere in my recent calendar of exciting events, I forgot to mention to you that I was kissed (read: accosted) by a 53 year-old Irish man after he bought me 3 glasses of nice Italian wine at my favorite Italian wine bar Ottimista Enoteca. And, let's just wipe that out of all of our memories right now. It doesn't matter that he was such a gentleman and looked like a slightly older Dave Foley, he doesn't exist. Who? That's right. How? Nevermind. And stop complimenting me on my calves.

Geez. More later and I miss you,
Gertie.

The new mosquito delight - my O+ eyelids

2007-05-31T13:47:00.000-07:00

Occassionally some nordic, moisture-hating version of a mosquito travels into the habitat of my dry-aired apartment and calls it home. I don't discover the mosquito until it annoyingly announces itself about 5 minutes before my REM sleep. Then I begin the frustrating contortion act of trying to be comfortable and able to breathe while hiding 100% of my body underneath the covers for protection.

It's not an easy task. The problem is that by being under the covers you can no longer hear the blood-sucker approaching and finding that one damned spot you left vulnerable. An elbow. A pinky toe. Your forehead.

Sometimes I wonder why mosquitos make the noise they make: after all, it warns us to duck and cover. Then I think maybe other species don't hear the mosquito and the sound we hear is a warning system set-up in the human body. I wonder if mosquitos and other blood suckers prefer a certain blood type, say for example mine, which is O+, since I always seem to be bothered the most. And then I wander off to sleep with only my airways poking out of a sea of bedcovers.

For the third consecutive time, I have awakened to discover that the mosquito has bitten me on the EYELID. Let me tell you this is the most annoying place to have an itch, and the resulting swelling not only makes me look like a descendent of the Elephant Man but also lays pressure on the eye, which makes me feel sleepy all day. I am now going out to buy straws, so I can cover my entire head for the next round.

If You Can

2007-05-25T23:09:00.000-07:00

If you can, go out tonight. Go out where there is the whisper of wind between the Eucalyptus trees and under the shadowy light of the pale crickety moon. Breathe in the cool valley air that tumbles between the sea and the bay and really, really breathe it in. My God! That, my friends, is why we are here. Why we are one. Why we are here! OK, so I'm a little with nature, and a little on the left, and I am a litle tipsy, but being home is why. We. Are. Here. So Be home. Cheers.

Where's Gertie?

2007-05-22T00:31:00.000-07:00

Holy cow. I cannot believe how long it has been since I've been here, and how little I have to say about it. Truly, I don't know how I cannot be writing this stuff down that happens to me. Then again, as I think back at least a week, nothing seems notable. Hmrph. So let me do a quick check-in:

Work. Nothing special. Oh wait! Right. New sale closes the 16th of June. Woo hoo!

Running. What's running? Oh wait! I just ran a 12k! That's right, the Bay to Breakers, that crazy crazy only-in-SF race. I ran with 3 girls, one of which was a bit out of shape, so it was pretty easy. Then I took a nap.

Dating. What's dating? Oh wait! I have a date! Oh my God! I have a date! I have a date! Crap; what the hell am I going to wear?

And that's a wrap. Sorry it's not very exciting.

A New Kind of Sign Language ~ This Time for Love ~

2007-05-02T00:02:00.000-07:00

Granted, I'm a girl who rarely dates and I'm still rather clueless in the department, but I think all my dating problems have finally been solved!

Enter The Bar Code. Apparantly, a discernable sign language allowing you to talk to strangers, when your eyes or your body, or probably nervousness in my case, won't allow. A new language, so to speak, for when all esle fails.

I can't but think this phenomenon will spread like the "Cougars," but will it ultimately pan out as a form of communication other than "can I get in your pants?" I'm wondering if the most popular sign will ultimately translate to be The Number One French phrase known by non-French speakers: Woulez-vous couchez avec moi?

The Sad Thing about Wednesday

2007-04-05T15:54:00.000-07:00

Last Wednesday I went to a luncheon at a horse racing track. It was supposed to be a fun lunch where women where hats and network. I wasn't crazy about the hat part, I went for the networking.

I only bet once, a Quinella on the 4th race in which both of my horses came dead last. Ah, well, not traumatizing. At least they were pretty and had nice uniform colors. What happened two races later, now that was traumatic.

During the 6th race, something happened to horse number 7, and he tripped, falling to his knees, wrenching his head and neck to his breast and throwing his rider. Horse number 4 was so close behind him that he tripped over the rider, also fell and threw his rider. Both the horses got up quickly and dispersed, number 7 running after the rest of the horses down the track and number 4 just kind of getting away from the scene.

Number 7 was fine. But number 4, he limped. And I knew that very second that his leg was broken and he'd have to be put down. I just didn't realize they'd do it right there. Right then. In front of me.

Some track people gathered number 4 and held him by the reigns. Two other workers were bringing a green tarp and began to raise it to sheild the horse from public view. My colleague started to ask "what is the tarp fo-" and before it was completely raised so that Club Level couldn't see beyond it, a man pointed a gun at the horse's head and the horse fell to the ground. Seven minutes from leg break to dead.

Now THAT is traumatic. I'm happy the track is closing this year. I don't think I could ever go back. It's just too sad that once a horse has a broken leg he's a gonner.

Ocean, Faking, & an Axe

2007-04-05T15:40:00.000-07:00

A few years back when I lived close to the beach, my roommate-slash-best friend and I would often walk down there and lay around if the weather was half decent. Usually it was a lazy time of reading and smoking cigarettes and laughing our arses off about nothing.

The problem with San Francisco's beaches on half-decent days is that they are public, and our un-beloved homeless people consider them a nice place to "freshen up."

Minding our own business and hiding behind sunglasses, we were approached by such a character. He was in his mid-50's, had grey scraggly hair and a scraggly beard to match. He came up to us with his backpack on and started talking:

"Would you gals watch my bag while I go in the water?"

Immediately Best Friend and I spoke in French. "No English. Francais. French..." and we began chatting bull to each other and went back to our reading.

But he was unphazed; still there. "Hola. Watch-o my bag-o por favor. I swim." And then he pointed to the ocean, did the breast stroke, and pointed to himself.

"French." That should do it!

It didn't. He started to take off his shoes and said "I swim. Bag-o," pointing at us, then pointed to his eyes, then pointed to the bag. I looked at the bag: it had an axe tied to it. I shook my head "no." He walked toward the water and started taking off his pants.

"DUDE! He has a fucking AXE! What should we do?"

Best friend: "Move?"

Me: "But what if he gets pissed and comes after us?"

Best friend: "Move, but not so far that he gets pissed?"

We tried that. Obviously, since I'm alive to tell the story, it worked.

Gertie's Advice #26

2007-03-22T18:37:00.000-07:00

During allergy season, refrain from taking Sudafed and then having 2 cups of coffee. That is, unless you like being in an uneasy jittery panic for 4 hours.

Damned Nanny

2007-02-12T22:16:00.000-08:00

That damned Supper Nanny. She makes me cry every time. Every Time! Or, maybe it's not Super Nanny's fault. Maybe I'm just a sucker for family relationships. Ugh. Kleenex!

Dear Neighbor

2007-02-11T23:19:00.000-08:00

Dear Neighbor,
I made the mistake of driving home late last night and parking in front of your house. Because it was dark, I did not see that you paid the Dept of Parking & Traffic an exhorbitant amount of money to paint your curb red. Regardless, I certainly left enough space for you to pull your car into the garage. A $75 Blocked Driveway ticket would have been a good enough lesson for me to know never park there again... you didn't have to tow my car and make me pay an additional $218 to go get it out of impound tonight. May Karma slap you silly in your next life.

Love,
Your Neighbor

Ha ha ha ha!

2007-02-08T23:53:00.000-08:00

I'll have to translate for you, but this (to me) is hilarious....

... a message from my French meet-up group (to which I have not gone yet after 4 months) about the St. Valentine dance ("ball"):

SI les hommes sont timides a inviter les femmes a danser ... elles peuvent les inviter! & bien sur un Monsieur ne refuse jamais a une femme de danser avec elle. Dansez, amusez-vous Seul/e ou avec un/e partenaire peu importe! l'idee c'est de danser & de s'amuser. Que personne ne reste
assis/e. N'oubliez pas que la musique & la danse sont un elixir pourl'ame & le corps...

"If the men are too timid to invite the women to dance, the women can ask the men! And, of course, a "gentleman" never refuses to dance with a woman. So everyone dance and have fun, individually, with a partner or as a group, it doesn't matter! The idea is to dance and have fun. Nobody should be sitting. Don't forget that music and dancing are an 'elixer' for the body and spirit..."

Ha ha ha ha! Nevermind the previous email, which I won't pain you with in translating, about the "dress code."

All Hail the Queen

2007-02-05T16:49:00.000-08:00

You would think that the Pope has arrived in San Francisco. Or you would think SF is at this very moment hosting the Olympics. Or that the Oscars are taking place here. People are flocking to the water. They are skipping work and school. They are getting in their cars and driving to San Francisco.

Yesterday for the first time, the Queen Mary II oceanliner arrived in the San Francisco Bay. Superbowl - Superboat. Superbowl - Superboat. What to do? A helluva lot of people were more interested in the Superboat. And still are - SF has been absolute chaos since yesterday. Auto and foot traffic is ridiculously backed up due to all the rubbernecking and people hordes snapping pics.

I knew the boat was coming to town but had no idea so many people would get this excited about it. This morning I took my usual route to work and I saw streets that normally have no traffic completely jammed. I had to park 3 blocks away from my office.

I saw a colleague and asked "Is the Queen Mary around here or something?" I thought it was a funny since the waterfront, which is a block from our office, has 4 miles of piers. Her eyes got real big, indicating that I am dumb and blind, and she pointed up. No wonder there is no sun. We were standing in the shadow of that enormous vessel, tied up just on the waterfont the next block down.

To describe the massiveness of this boat I can only make one analogy: think of a gorilla. Now think of a gorilla standing next to King Kong.

Check out this YouTube Video from Lophat, which was taken from the Golden Gate Bridge as the QMII entered the Bay. It keeps going, and going, and going! And tonight it will be gone.

Hotwire? You Tool.

2007-01-16T23:56:00.000-08:00

Someone tried, I think, to hotwire my car. This past Monday night. I only realized yesterday, well, because I was just in my car yesterday, and there was this pair of willy nilly needle nose pliers just laying there on the floor beneath my floor mat.

Now, I don't normally carry around a pair of needle nose pliers. And, let me tell 'ya, I don't just have them hanging hither nither in my BMW. No-sir-ee. The BMW has its own little tool kit right in the trunk with everything you should need for the roadside emergency. I am not missing a pair of worn-out, chipped-red-paint needle nose pliers from there.

So, it was odd to find these needle noses pliers peeking up on the floor. I thought to my self: "what the fuh...?!" Rewind.

I remembered Monday night. Monday night I had an evening meeting in the Old Neighborhood, the Haight Ashbury. I parked my car; I was early. I decided to visit a couple old haunts. I rumbled the streets. Then finally the hour of my appointment showed up, and I went into said appointment and had a grand olde time with some grande olde folkes with some good 'ole wine for the next two hours. Some colleagues and I walked me to My Desdemona afterward, my tragically beautifully ancient BMW parked on the street.

Whoops. In my excitement for the monthly meeting, I had neglected to lock the car. Initial review: all intact (only retards leave shit in their cars in SF). Phew. Get in, belt up. Roll.

And then yesterday I got in My Desi to go to work, and lo and behold! A booby prize: not new at all needle nose pliers. Cool. Fucked up, but cool. Must have been that someone that Monday night in the Haight Ash tested the doors and found them open. Popped in - BUT! Hold on there Fellow! Everyone sees you and YOU - quite honestly - do not own a Beemer. So, get scared you bastard and run, run! Run! That's right. My Desdemona is not a tragedy for your gain. Bi-atch. And now I have your tool, Tool.

Dumber Than a Box of Rocks

2007-01-09T00:53:00.000-08:00

Why is it that, when I am face to face with Pocket Watch Guy, I become dumber than a box of rocks? Maybe, just maybe, it's because he is the epitome of the figment of my imagination of the guy I end up with. Ever. Since. I. Ever. Imagined. Him.

He is attuned to the fact that every person (including Men) has the capacity for, and a destiny of, Personal Growth. He is travel-adventurous. He is action-adventurous. He is career-adventurous. He is socially adaptable. I don't need to advise him on how to dress [much]. He doesn't have a flat screen because he barely ever watches TV. He reads stuff. He is funny. He is relaxed. He is aggressive in his career path. And! He has a pocket watch collection. Melt. I have no idea why that is attractive to me, but it is.

And so, because of all of these things, I cannot look him in the eye long, for fear he sees me melt, and I say really stupid stuff when I am a reasonably intelligent lady, I shuffle my feet, etc., etc. Dear Lord, what must he think of all that?

Because I have said such really stupid things to him (REALLY, I am not exagerating), I have all but given up on any chance of him being interested back. Which is a good thing, because when I care less about what one thinks of me I can be more myself. So, I should be myself by now; I've blown it at least four times with him already, which is enough for me to feel I've ended Scene I and I can relax now. But somehow I'm still as nervous as I was when I liked the coolest boy, Will M, when he was in the 7th grade and I was in 6th, and I was awkward in stature and just starting to get boobs. THAT'S how it feels when I am around Pocket Watch Guy. The horror!

One time Pocket Watch Guy saw me about to go to Starbucks, and he said "you're going into Starbucks?! I would have figured you for a Peet's girl." And in reality, I am a Peet's girl; the coffee is far superior. But I was new to the neighborhood and Starbucks looked to be more social than Peet's at the moment, and I was hoping to start making a community in my new hood, and I replied lamely... "..."... oh crap, it was such a lame response that I have blocked it entirely from my mind. Sorry to ruin a good reference point. But I will tell you that upon reciting the story to WR, she laughed and laughed and laughed into my cell phone, literally for minutes on end, and I was almost home by the time she stopped. I really wish I could remember now - I can assure you it was one of the most retarded things I have ever said. If I remember over night, I'll let you know. But fate is telling me it's probably a good thing I have blocked it, lest I be too harshly judged.

Gertie Goes Down

2007-01-08T23:24:00.000-08:00

Everyone who knows me, including myself, considers me an athletically inclined person. Between the ages of 7-17, I played soccer, excluding a brief hiatus in Jr. High when my fascination with horses led me to a somewhat pathetic attempt at Equestrian riding.

In college I switched from soccer to the women's lacrosse team. I am known to be a somewhat formidable opponent in volleyball, tennis, racquetball and co-ed softball (catcher!). I am good with a Frisbee, and at kickball, and have been known to navigate the winds pretty well with a kite. If you can convince me to pay for a cabin-share, and pay for equipment rental, and pay for a lift ticket, I will begrudgingly swoosh down the intermediate slopes of a mountain in either skiis or on a snowboard. Begrudgingly, but capable.

What few people know, however, is that I am also incredibly klutzy. I feel the term "athletic klutz" best describes my excessively ridiculous brushes with breaking my bones and poking one of my eyes out. Because frankly, I've been "this close!" way too many times for a normal human lifespan.

Case in point: last Thursday. My office. ("My office" may sound like a bustling place. But because we are all sales people and sales is about getting out there and being with clients, rarely are there more than half a dozen of us in our 75-person office at a time.) Thursday was quiet. Until Gertie went down.

Unless one is a Partner salesperson in my line of business, you are up to your own devices to locate and be the consequence of parking. Because I have received more parking tickets than sales in the last year, I had begun a vigilant watch on my parking meters. The buzzer on my cell sounded and I rushed to move my car.

In the process, I can't recall now what it was, I remembered something very important on my desk. Whether it was an email to finish or double checking to make sure I had my cell as I turned the corner to exit, I don't recall. But whatever it was, it forced me to look back at my desk as I exited stage right toward the hallway. As an athlete, I felt the mojo of the path pulling me forward to an appropriate exit point. As a klutz, I got the turn wrong by about a foot and a half.

Instead of turning right into the corridor, I turned right into my colleague's ridiculously appropriately placed garbage can, which I leaned into with full walking force and motion, and cracked my upper shin upon. As I kicked the can and continued my forward movement, the can stopped hard against the cubicle wall, ricocheting all inertia back toward me. Upon receiving the new direction of force, Gertie was thrown askew to the right, lost all balance and landed rib cage to arm rest on the colleague's empty chair. A chair which happened to be a rolling chair on wheels, and once it felt the force of motion, propelled itself, with Gertie's weight and ribcage stuck to it, to the furthermost point of the cube, where it hit a wall and could no longer continue to travel. As quickly as science stopped the chair's motion, I equalized forces to counter-act a complete falldown.

I remember the last bit, and looking out to the left, to see my left leg doing a high kick only equalled by the Rockettes. I quickly did the athletic elastic "I'm Okay!" gymnastic landing, arms up and everything. When I looked around, the five people in the office had seen none of it. But they heard it. Eyes peared from behind a few computer screens.
"You OK?"
"I'm fine!" Ouch. Ouch. My shin. My ribs. Shake it off. Shake it off! You're fine!

Even the receptionist heard it. And the clients of another colleague, who were waiting (eyes wide open in shock now) for the conference room. All of them heard it. But I shook it off.

Today is Monday. Don't make me laugh. Please. Every time I laugh, it feels like I have a gun shot wound in my ribs. Also, don't make me reverse my car. Parallel parking feels like I'm getting shot. Yes, my ribs are bruised. I cannot run. Fuck, I can't even laugh. Or reverse. Ouch. My GSW! Stop it! OUCH!

The Men Are Right

2007-01-03T14:56:00.000-08:00

Wow.
Wow.
I just got an email from email guy. And here I'd gone and pretty much gave up on that playing out.
I"m rehiring my flirting consultant tout suite.

Ring It In

2007-01-02T23:21:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year to all; I truly hope you had an extravagant time ringing in another year! I am still recovering... this is a long post, but if you skim I swear there is some really entertaining stuff in here...

To sum up my NYE 2006 - it was crazy. I preface my recap by admitting that I hate New Year's Eve (almost as much as I hate Halloween). I know, I know, hate is a strong word. But when you have spent the majority of the last 5 NYE's trying to get home alone very late at night, in the cold, in heels and with less than the appropriate amount of clothing, trying not to be insignificant from the perspective of all cab drivers and other revelers, well, you'd probably not like it very much, either. But I digress.

This year was different. I had a really good event to go to: my best friend's wedding. The wedding was at 8pm and the reception "immediately following" lasted till 1:30am. This was very special to me, as not only was it my best friend's wedding, but the groom was also a friend from the old college days, and the guest list was reminiscent of a collegiate reunion of the coolest kind. Friends descended on San Francisco from Singapore, Australia, DC, New York, Chicago, Denver, and a variety of other places. My parents were also guests, and the officiant of the wedding was a close friend of my parents' whom my best friend and her fiance had grown close to over years of holidays together.

My friend WR was also invited, and she got a comped room at Le Meridien in downtown S.F. for the night, to which, she invited me and our friend NC to share for pre-wedding-prep and after party/crash pad. Excellent!

Le Merid is awesome and high-end, with beds you never want to leave once you lay down in them, sound-proof walls (you'll see why this is important later) and uber-hip decor. WR, NC and I all met there, got ready and had some pre-festivity cocktails. Woo-hoo. My flat-iron crapped out and I had a serious meltdown. Think very cranky 5 year old child - that was me. WR and NC had to avoid me for a long time. I had to walk the halls and cool off. You don't know, people! You don't know what it's like to have thin hair that frizzes like it's all full-bodied! I was crushed!!!!

Looking as fabulous as one can without her flat-iron (although a bit macabre for a wedding - all black), we headed out to the wedding at City Club, an art deco building with an amazing mural by Diego Rivera scaling two levels. It was a beautiful wedding, and although my dear family friend The Officiant was charming, he wasn't exactly smooth; but the ceremony got done and we all started to party.

There was a smoking room at the Club, complete with bourbon, scotch (still almost full! I had to take it with me!), cigars and ashtrays for all. This was a blessing and then also not: many of us CU Buffs huddled in the stinky room to reminisce and so the dance floor was left less than full most the time. I heard several times that my mother was wondering wear I was and was cursing this smoking room under her breath. Damn it. Why was she invited again?

Although I wasn't an official Bridesmaid, I did have some significant responsibilities, which, after executed, left me a bit schizophrenic and displaced. First job: secure food plates for Bride and Groom from buffet and place at their seats. This meant that I had to cut the line on more than one occasion to get to the good stuff, lest my best friend not eat and get drunk too quickly (which she did anyway, but at least I did what I could). I tried not to cut the Old People, as they think all young women who use "it's for the bride and groom" as an excuse are liars.

I was also designated as the "alien consoler." OK, I just made that term up, but that exactly describes it. I was in charge of discovering shy, timid guests who couldn't start their own conversations, and pulling them into the mix. I did this quite well considering I'm a total tool. (The unfortunate fall-out from this job was multiple calls the next day from these "insociables" asking me to join them for tourism - fyi - never give your cell # to an insociable). And yes, this is why the majority of my photos from the night are of grey haireds.

3..2..1.. Happy New Year. We all celebrate, but then we are getting kicked out. We know it. All us cool kids suck up to the bar to get 2-fers before we are shut out. No dice. I fall down in front of the entire cool kid crowd and show everyone my panties. My male college buddies thank me. The girls pretend they didn't just see the most awesome pair of legs spread in front of their husbands,boyfriends and fiances. Shit. I make a mental note to go to the doctor and check my balance and the possibility of having MS.

Things are winding down. Aparantly, I am only on the fringes of "cool," because I notice most of them hitting the elevator. "We're all going to Cito's place at the Clift." Ding. Doors close. I check in with WR and NC and they have attached at the hip one French Man who is quite cool but a little odd at the same time. Not one of the cool kids. I say we are invited to Cito's room at the Clift, but we all take that as a gracious "you're not totally cool but you're allowed" invite and we decide to head back to Le Merid as a 4-some (ha ha ha!) and drink like the fishes. Because we can.

Back at the room, I start snapping photos. I also start falling down again. Really. Go to the doctor! Because I'm not drunk; I just can't seem to catch my balance. Anyhoo. It feels like a really long time since I've had a cigarette, even though there was that smoking room (in which I left my full pack and came back to 2 cigarettes left - bastards), I co-erce all 3 non-smokers up to the roof to smoke with me and look at the skyline. Up to the 24th floor. Doors to the roof are locked. No dice.

But! What do we see happening here on the 24th floor? A big ass party. Sweet. I knock.
"Yes?"
"Uh, hi. Can we come in?"
Bouncer guy looks us up and down.
"Do you have an invitation?
"Well, we just heard about it."
"Lemme ask."
Door closes. I get excited! Big party at Le Merid! It's really big, it's a suite. But outside you hear nothing.

The door opens. A thin, ugly guy comes out in his silk boxer shorts. They are... tenting. I don't look down. Much.

Big smile from Gertie: "Hi! Can we come in?"
"You want to come in to the orgy?"
"Orgy!?"
"Yeah, we're having a fucking orgy in here. You gonna take off all those clothes? Then you can come in."
er...

NC butts into the conversation: "is that really your erection" she asks Ugly Guy. She's known to be bold.
"Hell yeah, this is my real erection!" And he pulls on the elastic waist band to show me a vary bald and very erect 10". Yes, 10". Right. In. Front. of. Me.
"This is an orgy! Goddamnit!" He licks the side of his lip as he smiles. We all just stand there a little grossed out. What the?!

I am staring at the 10". Holy cow. Why are my friends so far away? Anyway, he doesn't take any of us seriously, mumbles something, caresses his cock and closes the door.

WR gets all mad that we are left out of the action. At this point, I throw my calf-length wool coat and my scarf on the floor. I hand Monsieur Nightcap Le Frenchy my iPod Shuffle for safe keeping. WC hands over her coat and cell phone. And we are there, like at a starting line, ready to run in.

The door finally opens and a couple comes out. WR and I charge in. Big Music. Lights Out. Full floor suite. We navigate through the dark. There are naked people everywhere. If they aren't busy having sex, they are busy watching and stroking their own person. Every piece of furniture is filled with a form of fornitcation. Oh. My. God. I walk briskly through. I quickly exit with flushed cheeks. I am worried that, if I look too closely, I might actually see someone I know and get REALLY grossed out.

WR follows me out. She slaps me on the shoulder. "Why'd you walk so fucking fast?! I couldn't see anything!"
"Exactly," I replied. She was bummed. Uh. OK, now I am seeing how my friends are?

I found out the next day that the party really was an organized orgy via The Pleasure Zone. Holy Mother of God. Welcome to the shadows of San Francisco. In the fanciest of places, of all things. Geez. Never know what's under your nose in a sound-proof hotel, I guess.

Later I took an elevator down to the lobby and had my own smoke in my own space. Not because I didn't want anyone's company, but I had lost all of them on one of the four elevators. Finally Monsieur Nightcap Le Frenchy came down, found me, and gave me my stolen Scotch bottle. Which I proceeded take a sip from and then walk a mere few feet before falling down and losing a good portion of it. I really need to get this clumsiness checked out.

Monsieur Nightcap Le Frenchy left around 4am and I think WR and NC and I dove into the luxurious beds of Le Merid. Actually, I know now that WR and NC did another dive into the orgy, and found a lot fewer people but a lot crazier sex going on.

I was awakened the next day bright and early by calls from the "insociables," invitations to coffee and brunch, a walk on the beach, or a stroll over to the Golden Gate Bridge. Jesus, why did I have to tell everyone all the good stuff to do, and then say I'd come with them? Must be I'm retarded.

We called in for a late check out, finally got out at about 2:30pm and went to brunch, where again Gertie was cranky (probably still pining for her destroyed flat-iron), and I complained that the egg portion of the menu was over, and that the sandwiches came with salads not fries, and that I really wanted to get the onion soup and a side of fries but that was more expensive than anything else on the menu. Then I didn't believe that, after my two friends ordered decaf coffees that mine was actually caffinated. And then I ordered a fucking hamburger and anticipated it would come with a goddamn salad because the menu and our waiter were both assholes.

But what really happened was that my friends were erroneously given caffinated coffee and my burger, which was excellent, came with fries. And this, my friends, indicates to me that 2007 will be a very good year!

Consensus

2006-12-31T13:33:00.000-08:00

Does running 7 miles yesterday morning cancel out the fact that I had three candy bars for dinner last night at 1am?

Joe vs. The Volcano

2006-12-31T13:06:00.000-08:00

Coming off of my recent 3 month stint dating Mr. Beef Jerky, and having nothing happen with the email guy, I've just recently been on the best date of my life. This guy just did everything right:

1. He called me earlier in the day to confirm and set the time.
2. He picked me up. Not only did he pick me up, but he got himself a cab and took it to my house to get me. I wasn't quite ready, so he made the cab wait and he came upstairs to escort me down.
3. He helped me with my coat. All night. Every on an off he was there.
4. He opened every door.
5. He complimented me without without those lusty tiger eyes that say "I want to rip your clothes off later."
6. He talked about a large variety of topics throughout the night, not all revolving around himself.

So. Joe is an ace when it comes to navigating a lady through nice evening. Unlike Beef Jerky, who over 3 months made me feel special, oh maybe once (but probably pissed me off 10 minutes later), I felt special the whole entire date. And then comes the small problem of... as always in the life of dating... someone (him) is more interested than the other person is (Gertie). There's just something missing; it's not necessarily attraction. I don't know what it is. But he's a very cool guy. So, like a pair of shoes I'm just not sure about, I'll try him on for a while and see if anything fits.

These Are A Few of My Favorite Things

2006-12-24T22:38:00.000-08:00

I'l admit I have many favorite things. But the 2 most important are probably my parents.

Today was the most mellow Christmas Eve ever. No siblings, in-laws, friends, no orphans this year - just me hanging out with my folks. Which in theory might be nice.

I was destined however to a myriad of household chores. Like, for exampe, pulling the refrigerator away from the wall to vacuum the floor, walls, and clean the coils. My mom hates nothing more than inefficiency, especially if it costs her. In the interim, I experienced extreme boredom. By late afternoon, my mom was still holding down the kitchen, my dad was finally cleaning out his Roledexes (yes, PLURAL) from the business he dissolved 8 years ago, and I was watching a movie.

The movie wasn't holding my attention and I took a break to check in on the kitchen action. For the first time on a holiday, my mom looked out of sorts. She started bitching about the fact that we were all singularly putzing about, and her eyes welled with tears. She was seeing this Eve as very solitary holiday indeed.

We sat to a wonderful dinner, with a wonderful 1993 Stagsleap wine, and enjoyed the threesome, in the only way perhaps, that a family which has never been just a threesome for the past 34 years could.... and it is hard to describe. Comfortable, familiar, pleasant, and lacking anything new or interesting except the fact that here we were, just the three of us.

And then the burden of The Night of Just Three broke, as some neighbors stopped by. And my mother lit up because she could talk about the meal she just made and knew someone would appreciate it, and my dad lit up as the neighbor talked about upgrading to a flatscreen TV. And everyone had an excellent moment when our family bird, who loves me and my mom and tolerates my father, went to the neighbors shoulder and was quite happy there if she didn't look at him and remind him that he really hates her.

And this is one of my favorite things: to see my parents in their comfort, in their element, in their natural habit of entertaining, in the place where 60+ year old men revert to the topics of 20 year olds and the women continute the time resistent traditionof neighborly gossip and beaming with pride about their children. And I can sit there, at the fireplace, with my back warm and my heart filled completely.

Merry Christmas!

Crazy Mom Makes French Breakfast Plans

2006-12-22T22:56:00.000-08:00

Preface: To any French speakers out there - please excuse my absence of proper accents in this post. I know where they should be but I am too lazy to get them accurately placed. My sincere apologies!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I was speaking with my mom earlier today and she told me she was meeting my dad and some friends at "The Club" (i.e. the yacht club where they are members but don't have a boat - ha!) and she invited me to join them. I declined the invite because I have way too many dvd's to watch and I am a bit of a geek who would prefer to be the geek who DOESN'T spend every Friday night out with her parents (one in a month is acceptable, if they're cool, right?).

At 9:10 PM I get a call from my very tipsty mother...
"Gertz..." Uh-oh, that's what she calls me when she's 2.8 sheets to the wind...
"Yeah, mom?"
"We've got a change of plans."
Uh-oh. Please Dear God Do Not Mean a Change of Plans TONITE.
"Oh yeah?"
"Gertz, there is a French woman here, and she and I are going to come to the City tomorrow and walk..."
Shit. I was already planning on spending 2pm and on Saturday at my folks' house, preparing for the holidays and whatnot. Now my mom was altering the plan.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Her name is Anne. Here she is."
What????
Anne: "Oui, bonjour?"
Gertie: "Bonjour, Anne. C'est un plaisir de vous rencontrer. Vous allez faire une petite promenade avec ma mere demain a San Francisco, c'est ca? (translation: Nice to meet you. I understand you are doing a walk with my mom in SF tomorrow?"
Anne: "Oui, tout a fait." [Yes, that's correct]
Gertie: "Superbe! [ not.] Et j'ai entendue qu'on va nous nous rencontrer apres pour un petit dejeuner?" [Fantastic! And I understand we'll meet afterward for breakfast?]
Anne: "Oui!"
Great. There go my morning plans. Plus, I don't know if I'm in the mood to meet a 70 year old French woman, no matter what time it is on a Saturday. But then, I tell myself it is better to practice than not to. But then, I think of sitting at a table with my mom who barely speaks a lick of French (how she got the French lady to understand what they will be doing tomorrow morning I will never know) and some 70 year old French lady and I wonder how on earth my mother is going to enjoy listening to Anne and I rattle off En Francais. Because, if I know my mother at all (and I know her to the core), she will ask me at the end of the lunch, if I don't speak French with the French woman "what is wrong with you?! You didn't use your French at all! How are you supposed to remember it if you never use it?" And I also know that we speak French the entire time, my mom will sit there politely in oblivian and afterward say "well, since I made the plans and introduced you and paid for your breakfast, it would have been nice if you included me just a little bit."