The San Franciscan

Happy excuse for cake day!

2015-04-20T17:09:00.000-07:00

My blog turned 2 today. Even though I haven't been posting much on it lately, I still decided that this was a perfect excuse for cake. Happy blog day to me, but most importantly to all of you! Thank you for reading all my random, ill-constructed thoughts. You're all the best blog readers anyone could ask for!

Some Polish Guy

2015-03-10T10:42:00.001-07:00

I know it's been a long time since I posted. A lot of that has to do with the fact that I've been in a funk these past five + months and just didn't know what to write about.

The other 70% of why it took so long to blog is because I couldn't find the password to renew my URL for this website and just, you know, never really got around to do anything about it. Regardless, everything is up and running again. You can finally breath a sigh of relief.

What've I been doing besides blogging, you ask? Netflix, mostly (if you haven't seen all of season 3 of House of Cards, then I don't think I want to know you). Mixed in a with a bit of dating. And I can tell you, dating in San Francisco at 29 is good for one thing only: the stories you get to tell your friends after.

Brace yourselves, because I'm about to tell you one story I've already told to everyone I know, so you've definitely already heard it. I even called up my grandma to explain every last detail, realizing 30 minutes in she thought she was on the phone with her eye doctor. But I'm going to tell it again anyway, because I want my grandkids to dig up this post and say to themselves, "Damn, Grandma was a slut!" And then I'll rest easy in my grave, feeling vindicated that I was at least well known in the family for something worthwhile.

So: Once upon a time a few months ago, a friend of mine, whom we'll call Big G., told me he had found the perfect man for me. The only problem was the man happened to exist in TV form. And when you're on TV, you're not real people.

This worthy contender for my heart--who for the purposes of this story we'll refer to as Future TV Husband--turned out to work for a late-night comedy show. Every now and then he has bits on said comedy show as a curmudgeonly, highly neurotic Europhile and pretentious coffee slut who has a dark, New Yorker look about him with soulless eyes and a hair swoosh that won't quit. My friend really knows my type: it was love at first YouTube clip

The problem with falling in love with someone on TV is the romance is bound to be one-sided, considering they have no idea you exist. Plus, I was pretty convinced the guy batted for the other team.

But when Big G. and I have an inside joke, we tend to go in way too deep and take things way too far, so on a dare I added Future TV Husband on Instagram. He followed me back, and I never really thought anything more of it, except for the day I saw the skit announcing he was engaged. To a girl. And my entire world shattered before my eyes.

Anyway, flash forward about six months to last Saturday. I go for a run and then post a picture of it on Instagram, because for some reason I feel like the world cares about my half-assed attempts at working out. After the run, I drink wine, binge watch House of Cards season 3, and pass out (the reality of this whole scene is even less exotic than it sounds.)

I wake up the next morning to 11 (11! A new record!) likes on the picture from my run, one of them being from Future TV Husband himself. And not only has he liked my photo, but he's sent me a private message on Instagram informing me that he's in SF for the weekend, and did I have any good restaurant tips?

My first thought to all of this was utter confusion. Future TV Husband isn't supposed to be a real person, and he's not supposed to actually contact me in any way. The sacred laws of celebrity crushdom had been completely violated. My next thought was, "Is this what this guy does? Just goes from city to city, hitting on girls on Instagram? What a sleaze."

But I couldn't NOT respond. I mean, I have some really great restaurant recommendations. I write him back an abridged Zagat guide, and he writes back asking me if I'll join him for dinner.

I ask Big G. if I should be worried about Future TV Husband being the future Bill Cosby, and was I putting my life at risk by saying yes? Big G. assured me that even if I was putting my life at risk, it would be worth it for the story I'd have after. You can't argue with logic like that.

Future TV Husband and I meet at a trendy Italian restaurant in a part of the Financial District I never knew existed. He's wearing Converse and a Dickie's jacket with a broken zipper. He can't get it off and goes to the bathroom to remove it. He comes back and asks me if I'm going to write about "the jacket incident" in my blog. I tell him I will.

Future TV Husband is perfectly nice, keeps the conversation going, and is very generous with the wine refills. He wants to know where I grew up, where I've traveled, how many siblings I have.

I learn Future TV Husband is originally Polish, doesn't like cilantro, and doesn't know what a podcast is. To be honest, it feels like the best Tinder date I've ever been on. Just two strangers who happened to meet because I awkwardly stalked him on Instagram.

In fact, at one point during the evening, he asked me, "So, who tracked down whom on Instagram?"

"Oh, I tracked you down," I said with an air of nonchalant-ness I hoped would stop him from asking for details.

"Oh really? And why did you do that?" he asked.

"Oh, because you seemed as neurotic as I am," I lied. I felt it would be distasteful to mention this whole scenario was based on an inside joke between me and a friend, though why else would you meet up with someone from LA if it weren't based on a joke?

"Neurotic?" he flinched. "I'm not neurotic, I don't think."

"Trust me," I said, "you're neurotic."

"You know, if it weren't for you posting that run of yours on Instagram, you and I wouldn't be here right now, having dinner."

"I know," I nodded intelligently, "It's destiny."

Lesson to you all: the more you post about every minute detail of your boring lives on Instagram, the more likely you are to meet someone who works in Hollywood.

Future TV Husband goes on to spout some cliched bullshit lines during the night that I try to roll my eyes at and get over because tired cliched lines is standard for his line of work. Lines such as: "Leith Tem Sabi Mahoney-Maver? I'll remember that. I never remember names of people I don't find interesting, but when I find them interesting, I remember everything they say," and, "I feel like I've just told you more about my life than I've ever told anyone else."

I mean, I wouldn't fault him for finding me highly interesting, but anyone who knows me knows you aren't going to woo me with bullshit lines any hack with a Pickup Artist guide can string together. I'm pretty sure I ended the night by telling him that if I were his fiancee, I would leave him.

Regardless, I decided to overlook the sleaze factor and appreciate the whole experience for what it was: a completely bizarre, great story. Seeing him materialize in real life demotes him from some TV oddity to a real person with flaws, so no longer husband-worthy (if only I could meet Larry David now, he's the dream man) but a great night none the less.

The next day, I add his number to my phone under the name "Some Polish Guy." When I tell him this, he tells me it should be the title of the blog post I write about him. As you can see, I took his advice.

So that's the story of how an inside joke went way too far and turned into a three-course Italian dinner on Pacific Avenue. Follow your dreams, kids. Anything is possible with access to YouTube and an Instagram account.

Women just aren't as funny as men.

2015-01-09T17:30:00.000-08:00

Here's me attempting to be funny and failing miserably, because I have a vagina.
Also because I was really drunk at the time.

Ugh. I cannot tell you how many times I've heard this, mostly because I can't count very high. And I can't really prove anyone wrong who says this, because my particular breed of cynical sarcasm will only make a select few laugh. But all anyone has to do is watch a clip of Tina Fey mocking Sarah Palin or watch any of Nora Ephron's films to see that humor isn't something limited solely to the Y chromosome.

Still, a disgustingly high number of people still seem to believe that women, by nature, will just never be as funny as men. And if a girl is as funny (or funnier!) than a man, she's going to die alone. Yup, that's right: research shows that straight men find funny women a turn off. Men (no, not all men, I've met a great many exceptions) like it when a woman can appreciate his good joke with hearty laughter, but he feels threatened when she upstages him with an even better joke of her own.

As if that weren't depressing enough, on my daily read-through of feminazi man-killer site Jezebel, I came across this article called "Hey, Men: I'm Funnier Than You."

To be fair, this was not the most well-written piece I've ever seen (by a long shot). In short, it was about how there have been several studies done by psychologists that prove, once and for all, that men are funnier than women. Science, people! Perhaps the same sort of science that proved, back in the day, that women are just naturally better at washing dishes than men. These studies are never wrong, is my point.

Anyway, one trollish commenter in particular really made me say, "What a misogynistic asshole who has no idea he's a misogynistic asshole" to myself out loud.

Here's the comment:

And then here's his follow-up to another person's comment:

So in true dignified, man-hater fashion, I wrote a pretty heated "fuck you" comment in reply, but JEZEBEL WOULDN'T LET ME POST IT. Must have been because it was too good for all those other losers on the Internet.

Ha, well joke's on you, because my blog publishes anything. So here's what I wrote in response:

"But I'm not drawing conclusions so much as pointing out that you can't just assume that men and women are equally 'innately funny' and therefore all differences in our comedic talents is due to socialization."

And I'm pointing out that you cannot assume that genitalia makes someone innately funnier than someone else either.

Not only would that be a ridiculous claim because of the fact that humor is highly subjective and differs widely across cultures, but a good sense of humor has everything to do with personality, not genitalia. Having a penis doesn't automatically make you more outgoing, observant, or socialized than having a vagina does. The only thing having a penis does is provide you more opportunity to assert yourself in public without getting told off for speaking out of turn or for being overtly crude for your sex.

I think that's why a lot more humorous women stuck to writing back in the day (once women were given the right to publish, which is a rather new phenomenon, keep in mind): because they could publish under a pen name or work behind the scenes and not get in trouble for it. Then people like Dorothy Parker came into the limelight. And then there was Lucille Ball, Carol Burnett, Mary Tyler Moore. Slowly and surely more comediennes came out doing routines instead of sticking to the written word. And these comediennes came out of the woods because it became socially acceptable to be a funny female, not because they ascribed to a more "masculine" sense of humor. We owe an incredible amount of debt to these great pioneers of comedy.

Anyway, so now we're seeing more comediennes doing stand up and it's going to make people feel uncomfortable because it's new and different. But in another hundred years it will be so normal that we'll look back and shake our heads at this whole debate, just like we have with giving women the right to vote.

I also think it's worth mentioning that people prefer characters they can identify with. I prefer The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo slightly more than The Boondock Saints because I identify better with a female protagonist. Stories with an all-male cast don't interest me nearly as much because I don't easily identify with any of the characters. Which doesn't mean that Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is any better of a film than Boondock Saints. They're both excellent. But I simply don't identify with any of the characters in Boondock Saints. I do identify with Dragon Tattoo's Lisbeth Salander, though, because she understands fighting to be heard in a male-dominated world.

In much the same vein, I assume a movie like Bridesmaids doesn't have as much mass appeal to a straight male audience because there aren't many characters in that film a straight male could easily identify with. There are, however, plenty of characters a straight white male could identify with in The Hangover, for example. I've seen both films, and I got a lot more laughs out of Bridesmaids than I did The Hangover. I didn't even bother watching Hangover 2 (or 3? are there three now?). I just didn't find the franchise all that funny.

So here's a conundrum: a group of an equal number of females and males are watching both these films. The females laugh more at Bridesmaids. The males laugh more at The Hangover. Which film is innately funnier? Who gets to decide? Why?

Contrary to how all this might sound, I'm not trying to say girls are naturally going to find girl comics funnier and guys are naturally going to find guy comics funnier. I'm just saying I'm not at all surprised when guys do find guy comics funnier, simply because they identify with the male experience more, which is completely fair.

This isn't going to be across the board, of course. For instance, I loved Borat. A guy who thinks there are shape shifting Jews who can turn into cockroaches? I laugh every time I think of that scene. Monty Python and the Holy Grail is in my top 10 list of favorite films of all time. Stephen Colbert is one of the funniest men on Earth. But I would much rather watch 30 Rock than South Park, and I have a couple of guy friends who feel the same. I find 30 Rock to be funnier because of its drier wit. Not that I don't find South Park funny, because I do, but I find 30 Rock funnier. This doesn't mean that it's innately better, but that it is simply my preferred humor. Your preferred style might be more in-your-face slapstick. Good for you. Just because your preference is for slapstick doesn't prove it's funnier. It just proves it's funnier to you.

Tl;dr: Females being allowed to be in the comedy world is a new phenomenon and some people don't realize they're still uncomfortable with it, so they try to prove that their discomfort is based in some scientific proof. Just like anything else (marriage equality, women's suffrage, civil rights), people will come around and realize that women and men are in fact equals, in comedy as in anything else. It's just going to take awhile for people to be ok with that, and some people will never come around. There's always got to be at least one jackass in every group.

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The end. Good. I feel better getting that off my chest. Your thoughts on the matter are greatly appreciated as well. Feel free to comment below.

Cheers to all the times we messed it all up.

2014-12-31T15:53:00.000-08:00

From my plastic cup of $10 sparkling wine to yours, I'd like to make a toast:

Here's to all the tasks we didn't accomplish.
Here's to all the risks we didn't take.
Here's to all the things we wanted to say but never did.
Here's to all the things we said and then regretted after.
Here's to all the jokes that didn't get a laugh.
Here's to all the times we forgot someone's name.
Here's to all the times we said "no" because we were too much of a coward to say "yes."
Here's to all the times we almost didn't make our rent.
Here's to all the times we were sad.
Here's to all the Pinterest recipes we burned in the oven.
Here's to all the times we failed.

We're champions. We fall down and get right back up and keep living. And sometimes it's damn hard, but you know what? We do it anyway. And in the end, it's worth it. So one last cheers to a new year of new mistakes, new failures, new memories, and of not knowing where we'll end up at the end of it. Life is a pain in the ass and I love every minute of it.

Cheers to you! Cheers to us! Cheers to all the times we messed it all up!

Merry Christmas

2014-12-23T21:34:00.000-08:00

From this spinster to your perfect family, merry fucking Christmas.

This card inspired by this genius.

Let the Holiday Season Commence

2014-11-30T21:30:00.002-08:00

Happy holidays, from my family to yours!

Ok, so technically none of my immediately family is in this picture. This is the blonde, female contingent (sans my sister, who is busy surviving the Chicago winter) but, you know, close enough.

I'm looking forward to spending the next 24 days curling up in bed while listening to the rain and playing Sleepless in Seattle and When Harry Met Sally on repeat. I also plan on getting fat on egg nog. Not sad at all. What are some of your favorite holiday traditions?

Newspapers and Paper Planes

2014-10-31T11:39:00.001-07:00

So yesterday I woke up to this:

Also yesterday I moved from West Portal to a quaint little neighborhood called The Tenderloin.

Have you heard of it? (Also shoutout to Mom and Dad for helping me with the move. If it weren't for them I would have had to cart my mattress on the Muni. Which, let's face it: I've seen it done.)

But can we get to the really big news here? After 10 straight hours of putting together boxes, packing, moving, elevatoring, unpacking, taking apart furniture and putting it back together (why do I insist on sleeping on a bed?), my three-weeks-old manicure still looks phenomenal! Let's just take a moment to marvel at it, shall we?

If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times: Gelish nail polish is the greatest contribution science has ever made to mankind.

Oh, also: Happy Halloween!

I'm supposed to be Amelia Earhart, hence the paper airplane. Duh.

Sartorial Saturday

2014-09-20T08:00:00.000-07:00

I like to shop. Alas, I have no money. So I like creating outfits I *would* wear if I had said money. I know fashion blogs are more ubiquitous than Ryan Gosling fan girls, but the difference between them and me is I would never suggest you buy a top that costs $350. To misquote Coco Chanel herself, "That merde is much better spent on champagne."

Make Your Lips the Main Attraction
A casual fall outfit for those weekend days when you want to look effortlessly classic and comfortable. Your lips offer a pop of bright red color to an otherwise muted outfit. Chic.

Welcome to Cougar Country

2014-09-16T21:43:00.001-07:00

The great thing about the Internet is that it really seems to know me better than I know myself. Oddly enough, the scary thing about the Internet also happens to be that it seems to know me better than I know myself.

Case in point, this ad showed up today on not one, but *two* different websites I often frequent:

To be quite honest, this was my first reaction while staring at my computer screen ~~during company time~~ at home while definitely not at work:

I basically read it as a "we know you're pushing 30. Face it: you're a spinster. The only guys left out there for you probably haven't even graduated from high school yet. Lucky for you, that sort of loneliness is totally hot right now!"

Am I the only person out there who constantly needs to be reminded of my age? I mean, I really feel that my organs are a youthful 24 at the most. And my music collection screams teenage angst, not "your biological clock is ticking." I forget at times how old the rest of the world sees me.

Like any good curious blogger, I visited cougarlife.com, you know, in the name of science. I was greeted with this:

So I take back my initial shock and horror.

I mean, yes, this site is reminding me of my aging spinster status, and assumes I not only must have at least one divorce behind me based on my Amazon shopping habits, but I've probably popped out a kid by now as well. Possibly worse is that these same website analytics that had the twisted sense of humor to cause this ad to pop up in my feed, are probably mercilessly judging the desperation implied by my love of 1990s romantic comedies on Netflix RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND.

However, cougarlife.com still has hope that a HOT YOUNG STUD IS OUT THERE LOOKING FOR ME RIGHT NOW! I mean, yeah, younger guys ("cubs" is actually the politically correct term for this breed, as this website points out) have never been my thing, but you've got to admit they've got stamina. And they'll probably encourage my love of Rihanna and late night bar hopping more than any straight guy in his 30s ever would.

Hell, my future prince charming is probably busy doing a keg stand with his other newly-initiated frat bros while I type this very sentence. All I have to do is wait for him to realize he's into older women, find couarlife.com, create a profile, and be within a 15-mile radius of me. There's a fairy tale in there somewhere. If I'm not planning my wedding to this guy by this time next year, then I just don't understand life at all anymore.

Thank you, Internet, for reminding me that there's a large probability my soulmate hasn't even been born yet. I like them odds!

Phototacular SF

2014-09-07T16:26:00.000-07:00

I've been housesitting for this bunny all weekend. It's been glorious getting out of my apartment, away from the roomies, and just not doing anything. The bunny wants nothing to do with me, so it's just been me and Netflix.

When I watch Netflix, I get to thinking. And while I was thinking, I realized I haven't spent a single weekend staying in since...February? As a bit of an introvert, this is toxic. Housesitting was that much-needed time to clear my head...and head cold. I'm currently typing this with a throat that feels like I spent all night shoving burnt matches down it. Lovely.

I've been a bit in the pits lately. I don't know why. I think it's anxiety about the future or something dumb like that. I've been out with friends having a blast, doing the dating thing (which I wish I could write about, but my fear that karma is real won't let me), volunteering, studying and preparing for the future, yet I feel sad. I don't know. I'm in emotional limbo, I guess. I tried to wash away the sinking feeling with mani-pedis and Beyoncé, but weirdly that's not working this time around. So I figured I'd spend Saturday strolling around San Francisco with my camera to clear my head instead. Yep, just me, my camera, my Spotify playlist, and 10,000 tourists out and about on an 80 degree day.

The weather. The bridges. *Some* of the buildings. *I'm* here. I mean, how much better can a city get?! People here are pretty cool, usually dreaming of the next big thing and then actually making it. Probably while fueled by a recreational drug of some sort, but that's neither here nor there.

Anyways, onto the pictures:

Whoever Nelson is, he has a kick-ass last name.

We San Franciscans soak up the sun when we can. It's pretty rare around here during the summer months.

The little java house that could.

In case you were wondering what the underside of the bridge looks like, it's just as boring as you'd imagine it to be.

I don't know, I just think tug boats are adorbs.

Fancy pants.

Cupid's Bow. Also Gap headquarters.

Menacing bird.

...something.

I wasn't allowed inside.

Why do things that look so good taste so bad?

Bike cabbies: significantly less annoying than car cabbies.

I can only assume they were clapping for me.

Art.

I really liked seeing all the small fishing boats at Fisherman's Wharf. A good reminder that the place isn't just a tourist trap: it's still thriving with its namesake's industry.

I never took Elmo for a Marina resident, but I've been surprised before.

Crissy Field is for lovers. Also frat bros (not pictured).

People getting married and making me feel so old, so alone. Jk...good for them.

We had a moment. Then he tried to shit on my head.

What most of my walk looked like: me and hundreds of other people with their cameras.

Showoffs.

That's me!

Postcard SF.

I ended up walking 14 miles *and* making a pitstop at Trader Joe's. Not too shabby. I still feel...off...but better. I also have a brutal sunburn to show for it. Battle scars, you know?

Feel free to use this as a cautionary tale as to why you should always put on sunscreen. Even in San Francisco. It feels worse than it looks.

Don't Forget About the Americans

2014-09-04T21:14:00.003-07:00

Omid moved to London today, so I decided yesterday was as good a time as any to skip work and spend the day romping around town with Omid's perfectly coiffed hair instead.

On Wednesday I spent a leisurely morning in bed and strolled over to Omid's just in time for lunch.

The weather couldn't have been better timed to make Omid second-guess leaving, as well as for a top-down drive with friends--including the canine supermodel--to go get sandwiches.

This lovely number is from Ike's Place on 16th Street for anyone who's curious. This was my first time there but I imagine they'll know me on a first-name basis shortly. I had the Pilgrim, and my only regret is that I didn't order two.

After lunch we decided the only thing that could help cure our Omid-separation anxiety was more food, so off to Souvla in Hayes Valley it was for frozen yogurt topped with baklava and honey. Ask for extra syrup. Trust.

I then pretended to help Omid pack while really just sulking. Packing then took the shape of dancing to Shy'm and thinking about what to eat for dinner because we're responsible adults, is why.

What, I ask you, is a proper dinner without aperitifs first? Had at our old standby, Blackbird, so we could reminisce over our Omid memories while properly sloshed.

This was followed by the last supper at Super Duper, because we're San Franciscans and if it's tech-savvy and fried, we'll shove it in our face and love every last bit of it.

Followed by more drinks at Toad Hall, Omid's last hurrah in the Castro.

The place was (surprisingly?) dead for a Wednesday night, which gave us ample opportunity to sit around looking like our damn gorgeous selves...

...and then owning the dance floor.

Followed by more drinks and tearful goodbyes.

Bon voyage, Omid! Say hi to Prince Harry for me.

The Past Month-ish According to Instagram

2014-09-02T15:47:00.002-07:00

I know I've been a bit off the grid lately. I can't even remember everything I did. Yes, it's because I was drinking. Luckily, I documented some of it on Instagram, so let me get you (and myself) caught up. Behold the poorly-lit beauty of my Instagram feed, brought to you by a cracked iPhone 4S. Still kicking after almost three years! I really need to invest in an upgrade...

End of July:

I got back from visiting my sister in Chicago. Chicago's amazing. I maybe kind of want to live there. I shared a video with you and took ~~three weeks~~ two days to unpack. I took some Instagram pics which I intended to turn into a blog post but my typing fingers were sore from so much ~~texting~~ writing the next great American novel.

First week of August:

My friends celebrated their first wedding anniversary with an official reception, which was spectacular but also reminded me of what a spinster I am, which in turn got me to rediscover ~~binge watching Absolutely Fabulous~~ self empowerment and stuff.

Second week of August:

I rediscovered Fruity Pebbles (also part of the self-empowerment plan).

I cut my hair. Why? Because I felt like it. My hairdresser told me I'd never get laid with short hair. I asked him, "Is that a promise?" We then continued to argue about feminism, politics, and motorcycles for an hour. I think he and I might be soulmates.

I got called a slut by a sign at a bar.

I went to Outside Lands and fell in love with Tom Petty all over again.

My niece turned one and is already more accomplished than I am.

Third week of August:

I ate blue Sour Patch Kids, which brought me toward enlightenment. For about five minutes. Then I just got heartburn.

Your forgot to wish me a happy Left-Handers' Day.

Robin Williams died. It got me and the rest of the world thinking about mortality. I cried. It must have been the tipping-off point for me of something, because I found it hard to get out of bed and put on clothes for a while. Sometimes you get in a funky mood, and no matter how much you try and shake it, you have to roll with it for a while, you know? I consulted my horoscope for advice, and it basically told me I'm screwed. I'm better now, thanks to some very funny Instagram feeds I've been following. Astrology can suck it.

A dear long-lost friend came to visit from France, which cheered me up immensely. I reminded her how we party here in America. She seemed grateful.

Fourth week of August:

I went to see SNL's Sasheer Zamata perform stand-up at The Punch Line. I laughed and laugh-cried and got drunk on absurdly overpriced cocktails. I didn't realize a two-drink minimum was a real thing.

Omid is leaving me for London, so we dressed up like Spice Girls to celebrate. I told him the pacifier was a bad idea. He told me I was a bad idea. Tessa looked like a knockout like always.

Seattle friends came to visit, and the Giants won 13-2 for the occasion.

Fifth week of August (Is that a thing? I don't know, I've lost track):

The sun came out to play in San Francisco. I got sunburned. Don't worry, though: it's foggy again.
I also hung out in the Marina, but please don't tell anyone.

The countdown to Omid's takeoff continues.

Things are busy. Good busy. I hope they're good busy for you too.

I'm sad about Robin Williams. Can we talk about it?

2014-08-12T23:38:00.000-07:00

Is it weird to cry over the death of a man you never actually met? I hope not, because that’s what just happened to me. I came home, read an article published in The Guardian about Robin Williams, and cried.

I’m someone who loves to laugh--I mean, annoyingly so. I love to really cackle and I think it drives everyone insane because my laugh is unfortunately loud and shrill, but I stand by it. Laughter fuels my soul with happy thoughts long enough to make it to the next laugh, so it’s something I plan to continue doing forever.

I have my dad's impeccable taste in films to thank for my refined comedic taste. Monty Python and the Holy Grail was my favorite comedy at the age of six, and Eddie Murphy was probably the first celebrity I knew by name. I remember watching "Good Morning, Vietnam!" around first or second grade: my introduction to Robin Williams. Most of the storyline went *way* over my head, but I was entranced by Williams' ability to be a dozen different people in the span of two minutes, complete with voices and mannerisms and facial spasms. Then Aladdin clinched it for me: Williams was a comedic genius, and that was my professional opinion.

When I was 12, I learned that Williams was bipolar and suffered from addiction and manic depression. This knowledge was like learning that Santa Claus had cancer. Depression, I knew, could tear people apart in the same way.

The gift I enjoy most of people is their ability to make others laugh. Laughter is too rare, and a truly good joke is a moment of sheer brilliance. I have long envied Williams’ unique talent for being uproariously funny, but with genuine sentimentality and a deep respect and understanding for the human condition. He was humorous while knowing full well the pain of the world, and used that pain to construct even more poignant humor. He continued to prove, like others before him, that someone with a debilitating disease can have a profound, positive impact on the world.

Williams’ death has made it all too clear that even filling your life every day with laughter sometimes isn’t enough to overcome pain. But it is enough to create an everlasting bond, even between strangers. A laugh echoes. A good joke never dies. Laughter becomes part of us, making us lighter as we pass that laughter on to the next person. And with that, Robin Williams will live in the hearts of this world forever.

The next time I’m sitting on the bus and a smile creeps across my face while thinking of Mrs. Doubtfire chucking a lime at Pierce Brosnan’s head ("a run-by fruiting!"), that laugh is Williams living on. He never knew I existed, but Williams will be an important part of my life until my dying day.

My entire generation lost a direct connection to their childhood on August 11^th. He’ll never read this, but in some way I just needed to say: his death has made me really, profoundly sad. And heartbroken for the sadness that constantly lingers under the surface of those we love.

Peace be with you, Mr. Williams. Goodnight.

Greetings from Chicago

2014-07-20T02:46:00.000-07:00

This past week I was in Chicago. Here's a little video my sister and I made documenting a day in the life of the experience.*

Greetings from Chicago

or

Walking...

Chicago, you're wonderful.

If the link doesn't work, you can access it here.

*I'm in debt to my sister for an unlimited supply of donuts or milkshakes or beer for her unceasing patience filming a large portion of these shots for me. Thank you so much, Zoë, for a great trip and for entertaining me when I have weird fantasies of creating a music video about Chicago!

Happy birthday to the family gypsy!

2014-07-11T08:30:00.000-07:00

Happy birthday to my beautiful mom, who turns 60 today!

She can wear that number with absolute pride. She's definitely the #1 reason for my wandering spirit. It's always hard to track her down. So thank you, Mom, for showing me what turning 60 with grace and a young, adventurous, gypsy soul looks like. 60 years young, and she's held true to her values and passions. Not many people can say that, and I feel like I'm better off for having grown up with such an example.

I've said lots about her in the past, so I'll make this post short and sweet and end with this song, which my mom used to sing to us when we were children. Her singing to us is, as it turns out, one of my favorite childhood memories. She doesn't believe it, but she has a beautiful voice. Anyway, the song seemed appropriate here. Happy birthday, Mom! I love you!

In case the link doesn't work, please click here.

A Mahoney Affair

2014-07-08T10:57:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago, the Mahoneys had a reunion. Well, some of us did. There's a lot of us, and we live all over. Only, like, .01% of them could make it. My sister wasn't even there. And yet we still had around 130 people show up. Irish-Catholic families are big like that. But let me start from the beginning...or, at least the middle...

My great-grandfather came over to San Francisco from Ireland back in 1911. He came from stereotypical Irish stock: lover of storytelling, lover of the drink, lover of the dance, lover of big families, and Catholic just to be safe. I didn't know it while living there, but back at my old apartment on Funston Avenue, I was living a mere two blocks away from where my great-grandfather had bought the house my grandfather would spend his childhood.

I wish I knew more about my family, but that's what my oldest brother's for. He has painstakingly documented our family history on paper. It's all too much for me to keep track of. But the part I do love is the pictures.

I've always loved photographs, and the older the photograph, the better. I love staring into those sepia eyes of family members who died well before I was even conceived, trying to read their glance for some sign of what their life was like.

What were they thinking at that very moment? Who took their picture? Who was their best friend? What did they listen to on the radio? What did they have for dinner that night? Were they happy? Were they in pain? Did they love their spouse? I know marriage was all so much different back then. It would be nice to know there was at least love involved.

Each picture I see of my family fills me with a plethora of imagined stories about their lives. Whether they're true or not, I'll never know: I know they say a picture's worth a thousand words and all that, but a thousand words isn't much when trying to capture a lifetime.

What I do know is seeing all the pictures taken in restaurants and nightclubs of my grandmother with my grandfather and a circle of friends--silver cigarette cases on the table with silk evening gowns and hair carefully coiffed--inspired me to enjoy the finer side of city nightlife. Thank you, Grandma, for passing down your love of cocktails and dress-up to me.

A picture of my grandmother and grandfather Mahoney.
Photo courtesy of my brother's website.

Every time I walk downtown, I think of my grandmother. She would tell us stories all the time about walking the same streets in her high heels while working as a lingerie girl at the Emporium seventy-five years ago. She passed by the same buildings, hopped on the same trolley cars. Grabbed coffee at the same ferry building. It's a nice thought.

Anyway, the point of all this is I believe in photographs. I believe in the memories they preserve, even if it's only a partial memory. I believe in the stories they inspire. And I believe that one day, my grandchildren will be thankful that I obsessively documented everything. Which is why, at our family reunion a couple of weeks ago, I spent the entire time taking photographs. Photographs of family members so far removed, many of us had never met before. All because two Irish people had a baby.

Anyway, here's some of the photographs from the day:

The end.

A Few of My Favorite Apps: Part II

2014-07-01T19:58:00.000-07:00

Let me be blunt here: living in San Francisco without a smartphone pretty much makes you a social pariah. Or an ironically technophobic hipster. Or poor. Which are all basically the same thing (kidding!).

I can't seem to wake up, socialize or even buy hairspray without turning to my phone for guidance. And I'm not alone. Here in SF, apps aren't just useful tools you download for fun, they're our lifeblood, much like Philz coffee and PBR.

That being said, let me introduce you to some of my most-used apps of the moment. These are all iPhone apps, but Android-friendly versions exist for most of these apps too.

{App 1: Circa}

Circa is the app created by the British news agency Reuters. I have several news apps on my phone, but this one's got the most convenient user interface. Circa introduces news stories to you a paragraph at a time, instead of giving you a block of intimidating words to tackle on your screen. Like what you're reading? Great! Simply swipe up to get to the next paragraph.

Another beautiful part of Circa is that you can share the entire article of any news story you see to your email, Facebook or other link-sharing platform. It never cuts a story short or asks you to pay for the privilege of being well-informed. If you're not the type to shriek in terror at the sight of British English (I mean, that extra "i" the Brits put in "aluminium" can be terrifying, I know), then this is quite possibly the most plebian-friendly news app on the market. "Plebian," by the way, is a big word I use now because I read Reuters every day.

{App 2: Pocket}

Throughout the day, I'm always coming across articles I want to read or videos I'd like to watch, but as I'm supposed to be "working" at the time, or am on a crowded bus with limited patience at my disposal, I don't necessarily have the time to give all these fun little pieces of the Internet my full attention right when I see them.

This is where the Pocket app comes in. This little square on your phone enables you to save any link you come across for later viewing. Just open up the app, and view a personalized list of quality content hand-picked by you to read whenever you have the time.

{App 3: ReadQuick}

I love to read, but I'm not exactly going to be breaking any world records for reading speed anytime soon, especially as my attention span gets easily distracted when there are multiple words on the page. But one word on the page at a time? That I can give my undivided attention to.

That's why I decided to give ReadQuick a try, because I've always wanted to be a faster reader. This app syncs seamlessly with the Pocket app (see above) by saving everything you save to Pocket, as well as any other text-based links you'd like to copy and paste. Or you can search for articles through the app's browser.

The app--which flashes one word of text on your phone screen at a time--tells you how long it will take to read any particular piece, and you can also change the read speed, screen mode and text to suit your needs. The theory is that by constantly feeding you text at a steady pace, you'll eventually train yourself to a faster reading speed.

Whether or not that's true, what I do know is that now I can read the morning's news in half the time, by getting each article delivered across my screen in the simplest way possible. Laziness at its finest, but let's call it productivity here for the sake of argument.

{App 4: RadiOn}

Waking up is, like, really, really hard. I personally like to wake up gradually, within the span of, let's say, an hour and a half. RadiOn thinks this is a great idea, and delivers the sweet, soothing sounds of the BBC to me at 6:00 am, and continues to caress me with that gorgeous British accent until I finally roll out of bed at 7:30. Alarm clock radios are pretty great like that.

Just like an alarm clock radio, RadiOn allows you to set multiple alarms and choose from virtually any radio station on the planet. If you don't like the radio, you can choose to wake up to white noise machine sounds or any of your iTunes music. There's a sleep timer, too.

{App 5: Pixlr}

I'm a big fan of Instagram, but the filters on that thing leave much to be desired. I get you're trying to be the simpler plastic Holga cameras of yesteryear, Instagram, but come on: you're an app on a $600 phone. The jig is up.

Until Instagram gets over its pretentious hipsterness (which could take a while, I get it, I live in San Francisco after all), Pixlr is quite possibly the best free photo editing app out there. All the filters you wish Instagram had, and some you never even knew existed but can't believe you've lived this long without.

{App 6: Think Dirty}

I don't know about you, but cancer really freaks me out. The older I get, the more I'm convinced my toothpaste is trying to kill me. Well, according to this app, I'm right: my toothpaste is trying to kill me. I know I could have found that out years ago simply by looking at the ingredients list, but to be quite honest, my eyes start to glaze over when looking at long words that have a bunch of consonants strung together.

I've scanned just a few of my beauty products on this app and they've all registered as "evil." Not good. Thankfully, this app suggests alternatives that won't seep poison into my skin.

I'm now making the slow and steady transition into all-natural beauty products, thanks to this app's adorable color-coded ranking system. Think Dirty serves as a friendly reminder that the beauty and pharmaceutical industries must be in cahoots, because that's the only explanation I can come up with to why there are so many horrific chemicals in the products we put on our bodies every day.

{App 7: QuizUp}

On a lighter note, QuizUp is a great trivia app filled with every topic to pique your interest. Simply log on with your Facebook account or your email, and duel it out with someone across the world in topics covering math, science, video games, sports and current events that are updated constantly. It's a great way to pass the time while also testing your knowledge. The bonus is you get to feel smugly self-righteous when you win.

That's the list for now. I hope I introduced you to at least one app that will change your life for the better. Please feel free to let me know which apps you can't live without in the comments section below. I love hearing about new apps! Every time I download a new app on my phone, it feels a little bit like my birthday. I know how sad that sounds but I'm not even kidding.

#Pride Weekend in Review

2014-06-30T23:07:00.002-07:00

You know those incredible weekends when you get home from work on Friday night and your friends invited you out but you lied and told them you weren't feeling well, but really you just wanted to finish watching Orange is the New Black in your nightgown with a doughnut and raspberry hard cider? And then on Saturday you sleep in until 11 because you have nowhere to be, and then you finally get out of the house at around 2:00, do some shopping, and then on Sunday repeat the process with a good book at the park?

Yeah, this was not one of those weekends.

This weekend was Pride weekend, the holiest of holy weekends in San Francisco. No one walks away unscathed.

I'd done Pride in Paris a few years back, but extenuating circumstances (aka birthdays and baby showers) always kept me from celebrating it in San Francisco to the full extent it deserves.

Well, this weekend more than made up for that. Highlights of the weekend include:

At least 20 people trying to pull my wig off my head at the Pink Party on Castro street (maybe this wasn't a highlight, per se, but it happened all the same).
Drunk singing to Mariah Carey at Badlands at 9pm.
Wearing a purple wig.
Reuniting with long-lost friends.
Chatting with Oakland mayor Jean Quan about purple wigs and pink boas, and where the best place to order said items is.
Pictures. So many pictures.
Finding a clean bathroom *just in time* and no line! A #Pride miracle.
March dancing.
80 degree weather.
Sunscreen.
Finding $10 on the sidewalk.
San Francisco. Because we love people. No matter what. But we love a party even more.
Also, a family reunion (more on that later).
Also, dog kisses.

Basically I couldn't have asked for a better weekend. Thank you to everyone involved! Let's do this again sometime, shall we?

Celebrating love is a beautiful thing.

The Quarter Century Shuffle

2014-06-18T00:30:00.000-07:00

My sister is one of the prettiest, smartest, funniest, bravest and most creative people I know. She taught me how to not take life so seriously (she's working on it, anyway), and for that I'm forever in her debt.

I know I wrote a post on here not too long ago explaining just how great she is, so instead of going on and on about more of the same, I decided to write my sister a little poem for this, her 25th birthday:

The Quarter Century Shuffle

more iconic than
kim zolciak's
tardy to the party remix

more divine than
jay-z
beyoncé
and blue ivy's hair
combined

kourt
kim
khloé
trust

10 more years until botox
25

also, bethenny's divorce was finalized this month
skinny
cosmos
for everyone

bye felicia

I Love You, Man

2014-06-15T16:38:00.001-07:00

This guy did stay-at-home-dad parenting before it was cool. He sewed together leather arrow quivers for my brothers. He built a tree fort. He painted my sister's nails. He bought my sister and me all the Shirley Temple movies. He had long talks in the car with me about global warming, the futility of religion, and the nature of the universe. He buys random knickknacks on random days and just hands it to you and says, "Here, this made me think of you." He's the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy. He makes pizza from scratch. He's what all hipsters strive to be, only he's the original. And he's my dad.

I love you, Dad. Thanks for all you unconditional love. And thanks for being as awesome of a grandpa as you are a dad. If I ever have kids, it's just so they can have a grandpa like you. I don't have much of a cool factor, but what I do have is because of you. I start most stories with strangers with a, "Well, I'm pretty boring, but let me tell you about my dad."

Happy Father's Day to my dad and brothers. You're all awesome fathers, and the fact that you have kids makes me feel really old and spinster-y, but your kids are the cutest, so it's ok. I forgive you.

The Commencement Address That No One Asked For

2014-05-22T17:30:00.002-07:00

Photo courtesy of tessandwich's Instagram.

To the Graduating Class of 2014: you don't know me, but I know you.

I was you once, and in many ways I still am. I was recognized here and there for my achievements, showered with praise once or twice, and then admonished about my failures over and over again. I embarrassingly made out with people I don't remember while trying to carpe diem when I did study abroad. And after coming home from said study abroad, I annoyingly spoke with an affected accent to show off like a jackass. Again, just like you.

But, for the most part, I am an unknown. Also like you. So really, there's no reason whatsoever you should take my advice, except for the fact that I am older, and am therefore statistically closer to the prospect of dying alone. So, I would like to give you a few pieces of advice I wish I had known when I was graduating either high school or college that I have since learned and think you will find useful.

Be Kind

I have never regretted being kind. I have always regretted being cruel. Don't be the jerk that makes everyone anxious. Just be nice, if for no other reason than being nice allows you to take the high road in any given situation, which allows you to feel superior, and superior people have better skin and get invited to the better parties.

Wine Makes You Smart

Inhibitions stop those creative juices from flowing. Alcohol makes you lose your inhibitions. But you knew that already.

Accept Yourself

Not only does this mean forgive yourself when you forget the whole "be kind" rule, but also embrace yourself. Your flaws, your likes, your dislikes; instead of being embarrassed by them, flaunt them. Once you do, you'll attract others who are into those flaws. If you keep trying to hide who you are, how do you expect to make friends and fall in love with someone who truly "gets" you?

What's more, once you accept yourself for who you are, you'll notice you're a lot more accepting of other people.

Spare the Dramatics

Crying makes you look bloated. Do so sparingly.

Follow Your Passion

I've worked jobs I couldn't care less about. They paid the bills, but I was miserable. I've also worked jobs for free doing what I love. I always had more fun doing the latter.

You can either die doing what you hate because you're afraid of failing at what you love, or you can try for what you love and die always knowing that at least you tried. Which sounds like the more life-fulfilling option to you?

And if your passion is spreading cement, more power to you. Don't let anyone shame you for having different dreams than your own. Hey, you figured out what you love, which puts you in better shape than most people. Own it.

Don't Be Afraid to Succeed

Growing up, I had the lowest levels of self-confidence imaginable. I literally thought I was the worst, and that everyone else knew what they were doing but me.

I wasted so much time being afraid to look like a fool, that I missed out on a lot of great opportunities to prove myself. I didn't realize it until long after college, but no one has any idea what they're doing. We're all born breathing the same air, walking the same streets, and forced to hug the same toilet after eating bad sushi. We're all in this together. You're no more important than anyone else, but by the same token, no one else is any more important than you.

So, next time you find yourself presented with an opportunity you want, take it. Why not you? The worst that can happen is you fail, just like everyone else has the chance to fail. Which brings me to my next point...

Don't Be Afraid to Fail

The chance for success only presents itself when there's just as much of a chance for failure. You can't succeed without setting yourself up to fail. And you will fail. You'll look and feel like a fool. For a moment. And then people will forget all about it, and you'll learn what you're truly capable of. A bunch of times. You will chase after a dream only to realize it doesn't fulfill you. You will fall in love only to watch it fall apart. You will decide to go for a haircut that makes you look like an enraged poodle.

I have a little secret: the only time I've learned how to become a better person was after I experienced failure. Realizing you can do better and be better is the only mindset that will actually make you better. Not setting yourself up for failure means you're equally not setting yourself up for success. Which means you're stagnating. The only people who never fail at anything are the people who have the most boring stories at parties.

A lot of the people who tell you you're no good always, always writhe in their own insecurities. Putting people down makes them feel better about their own failures. Don't let anyone make you believe you're less of a person than you know you are.

For inspiration, here's a list of famous people we love who experienced their fair share of setbacks before reaching the upper echelons of their dreams:

Tina Fey (“In Chicago, I worked a cruddy job folding towels at a YMCA from 5:30 in the morning until 2:30 in the afternoon. I’d nap, then go to improv class all night. I made, like, $7 an hour, and it was freezing in Chicago — but I was so happy....")

Hugh Jackman (got fired from 7-Eleven for talking too much to the customers)

Jerry Seinfeld (booed off the stage at a comedy show, and fired after a poor performance on his very minor role on the sitcom Benson, which he only found out after showing up on set to find his part written out of the script)

Michelle Yeoh (a spinal injury prohibited her from her dreams of becoming a ballerina. She went on to become an award-winning actress instead)

Dr. Seuss, (And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street was rejected 27 times by publishers. Also, the first book he ever wrote was The Pocket Book of Boners, so, there's that...)

Oprah Winfrey (fired as a news reporter because she couldn’t sever her emotions from her stories)

Bill Gates (dropped out of college and his first business venture flopped)

J.K. Rowling (she got fired from the London office of Amnesty International because she would write stories on her work computer all day long)

Anna Wintour (fired from Harper's Bazaar for being "too edgy")

Abraham Lincoln (demoted from Captain to Private in the military, lost political runs for office several times before becoming one of the most memorable presidents of the United States)

Arianna Huffington (her second book was rejected by 36 publishers)

Michael Jordan (cut from his high school's basketball team. Has been quoted as saying, "I have missed. I have failed over and over and over again in my life. And that is why I succeed.”)

Steve Jobs (fired from Apple, the very company he created)

Steven Spielberg (rejected three times from USC film school. USC named him an honorary alumni in ‘94 and dedicated a building to him as a thank you for his donations.)

You Will Have to Work Hard for Everything That Matters

According to the book Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell, the difference between mediocrity and success is 10,000 hours.

10,000 hours is how much practice it takes to become a master at your craft, and to become as good as the other greats. Bill Gates spent hours as a kid in Washington building computers for his school; by the time he built Microsoft, he'd averaged around 10,000 hours of tinkering with equipment. By 1964, the year they got big on the international scene, the Beatles had played over 1,200 concerts together, not including the hours of training and practice leading up to that point.

10,000 hours might seem like a lot, but the takeaway from this is that even the best in their field spent hours of dedication perfecting their craft before they made it to where they wanted to be. You'll have to, too.

Laugh at Yourself

Seriously. Stop being so serious.

Never Sacrifice Your Relationships

Money will buy guests to your wedding, will buy attendees to your funeral, and it might even buy you a spouse (or two or three), but what it won't buy you is someone who will let you cry to them at 3:00 in the morning when you're worried about making rent, or who knew you as a kid when you had that weird rash but loves you anyway, or who doesn't judge the fact that you're a closeted Justin Bieber fan.

Family is a great thing. The best of things, really. In the end, family--whether it be your biological family or the family you've chosen for yourself--is the support system that never fails. They will give you advice and support your crazy dreams and just truly want the best for you.

A job that asks to own so much of your time that you never get to be with the people you love most isn't worth your time. Never. I know the money's nice, but your BMW payments won't hold your hand on your deathbed and say, "Thank you for being in my life. I wish I was as good looking as you."

Don't Be Afraid to Quit

"Quit" is a dirty word in our culture, which is a shame. I'm terrified of being associated with it myself, which is really pretty ridiculous. Because all quitting is, is saying "this isn't the best path for me. I'm ready for something else."

Why be miserable by sticking with something that doesn't make you happy with yourself at the end of the day? Whether it be a relationship, a job, or a living situation, the hardest part of saying "this isn't working out" is letting the words come out of your mouth. The rest is pretty easy, and just like my mom said, "you'll look back and wonder, 'What took me so long?!'"

Be the master of your destiny, instead of letting some crappy retail job be the master of you. Something better will come along, as long as you're willing to do the work that goes into finding it. Promise.

Well, ladies and gentlemen. That's what I've got...so far. You've got a fancy degree and a fake ID. Go get 'em!

Happy Mother's Day!

2014-05-11T13:04:00.002-07:00

Just wanted to give a shout-out to Mom, who not only gave me three amazing siblings as an emotional support system, but also raised me to embrace diversity, follow my passions, and be a strong, independent woman who's not a little asshole (most of the time). That's no easy feat. You rock, Mom! I love you!

As I get older, I realize how important it is to have a family to lean on. No one gets you like your parents and siblings, who've seen you in diapers full of crap, seen you have temper tantrums (not that I've *ever* had temper tantrums, this is just a "for instance"), seen mascara stream down your cheeks, put up with all your stupid jokes and morning breath and all your teenage angst and yet still cheer you on more than anyone else you know. Family's pretty amazing, when you think about it. I'm a big fan.

I'm in awe of all the mothers in my family, who've not only given me a bigger, more beautiful family I call my own, but raise their kids with grace, poise and wisdom that I'm not sure I'll ever be able to pull off if I ever have kids of my own. Raising little humans is really freakin' hard work, and you're all an inspiration. Happy Mother's Day!

Celebrating a Year of Unabashed Narcissism with Cupcakes

2014-04-22T19:34:00.001-07:00

My blog turned one year old on Sunday. So I celebrated. With cupcakes. Trust me, it's a thing.

Blogging is one of the most self-indulgent practices known to the Internet. It's like journaling, only one has the audacity to think that anyone else out there cares to read it instead of keeping the entries where they belong: under lock and key under the bed.

Rather than write about lifestyle tips--trust me, you wouldn't want me to give you advice about anything, much less how to live your life--I just ramble on about whatever happens to pop in my head at any given moment. And some of you actually read it. Probably because you pity me and probably because my clustered thoughts and disorganized passions make you feel better about your own life. But hey, I'll take it. And I love you for reading whatever this blog is.

You know what? The past year was a pretty adventurous one for me, without ever even leaving the state (Nevada doesn't count, I've decided). I started this blog in love with a boy and a cat. The boy and I broke up, and the cat died (I love you, Sid!). We said goodbye to Wicca and welcomed Charlotte. I moved down the street. My sister moved across the county. I met some awesome people and shared more cocktails than I can remember with them. California legalized gay marriage. I added some great experiences on to my resume. I learned how to use emojis on my iPhone. All in all, a pretty solid year. It's like Blogger knew what I was in for and was like, "Hey, Leith, you might want to write this down."

Clearly I don't document everything, sometimes to protect the innocent and sometimes to spare you the details you don't want to hear, pretending there's some details you do, like getting my hair done...or more likely I'm just really tired and lazy typing up these posts takes time, you know. But I just want to say thank you for reading. And thank you, fate, for giving me quite honestly the most amazing family and friends (and readers I haven't yet met!) out there. I know how sentimental that all is but it's true.

I feel like, however slowly, I've grown and learned quite a bit this year. And I'm happy. Really, truly happy...and I'm almost scared to type that because I feel like I'm jinxing it and because no one who's anyone actually admits to being happy anymore, do they? But there you have it, and thank you for being a part of it. You deserve a cupcake too.

Opera Singers on Maiden Lane

2014-04-05T15:41:00.002-07:00

If you're looking for front row seats to opera that costs less than a bottle of PBR at your local hipster pub, I have the in: Maiden Lane. Stop by on any given sunny afternoon and you'll find a husband and wife tag team that can croon Italian lyrics worthy of whatever award they give out to really good opera singers.

At the best of times and at the worst of times, I think of moving away from this city we call San Francisco. I wonder what I'm missing out on by not calling the streets of New York or Buenos Aires home. I feel like my long list of neurosis would do well in New York, for instance.

But then again if I moved away, where would I go for an hours-long opera performance that only costs a couple of dollars in a wicker basket for the privilege? I've lived many places but, for better or worse, I feel at home here.

I might know how to dress for any occasion, but considering my friends joke that they should start a Twitter called "Sh!t Leith Says" (thanks guys, I take that as a major compliment), it's safe to say I don't necessarily know how to act in any given situation. But that's ok, San Francisco loves me anyway. The rule here is, as long as you're weird and have at least $1,000 a month to spend on rent, you're welcome to stay. And if you're boring then just move to the Marina, already.

Groaning under the weight of an influx of tech-hungry entrepreneurs, San Francisco is undergoing a change that I'm, for the most part, happy to be part of. I knew this city in the '80s and I know it now, and I'm glad to see that it's continuing to be an outlier. It will never be the same as it once was, and it will never again look like it does now, but that's ok. I look forward to the days when I can tell my children about walking uphill both ways to the Muni to grab a milkshake at Super Duper and they'll be all, like, "What the hell is Super Duper?" and I can be all like, "Watch your damn mouths, kids!"

Anyway, San Francisco, I kinda love you. Don't let it get to your head, but you're great. Thank you for the cheap opera. And everything.

Bored?

2014-03-29T14:36:00.003-07:00

Are you bored? I know I am. I mean it's raining out, after all.

When you're cuddled up inside today with a hot toddy and all out of shows to catch up on over at Netflix, then by all means enjoy my shameless plug for the weekly quizzes I'm making for Bold Type! It's like the old NPR Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me! quizzes they had online that I used to love, except not laced with humor yet (ever?) because I'm still getting my bearings and I'm trying to be professional, whatever that means.

Bold Type is a wonderful online magazine created by the great Deric Mendes, and has contributions by all sorts of talented people (whether I qualify as one of those talented people is yet to be determined). Please stop on by when you have a chance and take a look. It'll make you superior to everyone who doesn't read it, I promise.

Click here to go to the quiz!