I'm sooooooooooo over 2007, Take II

Close your eyes and imagine the waft of burning hair, a.k.a. my hard drive. Yum. Bye bye hard drive, grades, photos, emails, calendar, brain. Hello, the peace of a vacation totally unplugged and unavailable.

I’m sooooo over 2007…*

As if it weren’t enough to fall into someone who was into someone else and not so much ready for/into me until I was no longer ready for them so my heart could get stomped into apple sauce... As though it wasn’t enough to up and nearly die in the hands of inept UCSF interns... so it wasn’t enough to have to repair a month’s 'worth' of substitutes setting the tone for my classroom for the year... like it wasn’t enough that everyone I know is having a crazy hard year and it is 48 degrees daytime in San Francisco and I am freezing despite Michelin Manning myself in a North Face puffy jacket... I gotta get full-body groped, jumped, and nearly carried off into the night by a wild eyed, alcohol breathed one-legged man in a wheelchair. In view of ten bystanders looking at me like I’m the only crazy ranty one for miles on 14th and Mission when I unleash a screechy pent up rage-a-thonic diatribe on his surprisingly fast-wheeling ass.

Did you get the part where I got jumped by a guy in a wheelchair?! I mean, WTF?!!!

Well, F#$% you, 2007. I am so over you.



*And as a bet-hedger, I would also like to point out that I am also over the Year of the Pig, the school year, the fiscal year, and even the Jew Year 5768.

2008: A Spaced Oddity

Up until Aprilish, I was steeling for one of my 2008 themes to evolve into: 2008 – Year of Relationships, Gulp. But now circumstances have led to an alternate plan, one that is less novel and more wordy. 2008: Year of Speed ‘Nating’ (non-dating) for Potential Therapists. A little more awkward to say, but I don’t exactly control these things. And true to form, I am of course engaging in a preview run of the year’s theme a month early. My screening process is quite simple. I even skip the Craig’s Listings, going straight (or gayly forward, whatever) to recommendations. Me: Talk to potential therapists by phone. Say things like, “I am sure four sessions will cure whatever is wrong with me.” If they noncommittally “hmmm, that is interesting and something we can explore” me? Rejected. If they laugh, they win a face-to-face Nate with me. What with the Hollywood writers’ strike, I sense 2008: A Reality Nating Show in my near future.

Again, My Suspicion that My World is Secretly a Musical About to Happen?

Was Almost Affirmed.

Never content to allow me a moment of normalcy, today the J Church found me literally surrounded by the lyrical mutterings of seven chanting nuns with rosaries and one street fella with a poorly sewn up nose. Do you think it is pheromonal or just my perfume that leaves me OK-choralled in an otherwise empty train?

A Reality Check for All the Insanity Questioners

I was reminded that despite all recent indications, my sanity is actually fairly intact.

My upstairs neighbor was recently basically forced to move out of her $300 a month, two bedroom, wood floors, view of the bridge and bay, sunny sunny sunny, top floor apartment to shuttle herself into assisted living. Choice A: $1000 for an Assisted Living large studio in New Mexico or Choice B: A SHARED one ROOM, i.e. a twin bed and one closet, Assisted Living in San Francisco for almost $3000/month. Um, duh, hello New Mexico.

So, she wrote to say we really need to start keeping an eye on our downstairs neighbor, who has sent her two packages since she left on Thankstakin' weekend. The first contained essential “old mail” – i.e. three catalogues that arrived for Assisted Living ex-neighbor at the building. OK, kinda silly but that’s cool, because lord knows my neighbors they love their catalogues. Some might even say, a little eccentric, but very thoughtful to forward such shiny things.

The second package? Well, that one consisted of a “whole tub of country crock margarine and half a stick of butter which she decided to ship here in a padded envelop.” Um… Yeeeeeeees, that is clearly a package sent with much thought, but those thoughts are a little concerning. Oh dear.

On the up side, since this blog is all about me me me, I feel comparatively healthy simply by living in the vicinity of the dairy shipper.

A Blessing on Your Head, Mazel Tov, Mazel Tov

Much love to the likes of Boothie-Baby and other non-jewie friends, especially all those of you who were kind enough to inform me it was Chanukah, since without you, I would've as usual totally missed the whole thing. The Boothie wrote: I think today is the first day of Hannukah....so just wanted to say HEY and that I am thinking of you. Not sure if you are 'en la escuela' o en casa, o en temple. To which I thought, are we supposed to go to shul on Chanukah even? Hmmmm...

Aaaaaaaaaaaw. Y’all keep me Jewish. More so than my mother, in any case, who true to form dug out her favorite "festive" attire of green/red plaid everything accented by cotton sweaters with appliques of Christmas trees on then and LED lit Santa pins, which she wears before she lights the candles, which is after she set up this year's disturbing version of a creche and decorated the house like a Macy's window display. Isn't assimilation da bomb?

Let's Make First Dates Final

In the same vein as “never take different lovers to the same vacation location within one month of each other,” I would like to add a “never do the exact same activity on two first dates.” Even if the activity is fun. Even if the activity has ‘80s music crooning in the background. It is just too weird and we don’t live in a one-Denny’s kinda town for that to have to happen. That is all I am gonna say about that.

Shhhhhhh, someone is eating cereal somewhere in Iceland...

I called my dad the other day just to holla at him. And I mean that in the most friendly and literal way, since he is pretty hard of hearing. He answers his phone in a whisper.

Dad: Hello?

Me: Dad? Are you in a concert, a movie, a lecture, a play?

D: No.

M: (Mind you, I am not even putting down all the "Whats" I asked him). Where are you?

D: I’m at home, why?

M: Is mom asleep next to you?

D: No.

M: Is the cat sitting on your face?

D: No.

M: Are you sick?

D: No.

M: Why are you whispering?

D: Am I? I got my hearing aids yesterday!

M: Hmmm.... and how’s that going?

D: Everything is so … LOUD! I woke myself up snoring last night.

M: Um, dad, ya know you can take those off when you go to sleep.

D: Oh yeah. Huh. Good idea. I am so loud, I can hear myself swallow. I can hear myself chew. Did I always chew so loudly? But it is worse. I can hear people across the room swallow. I can hear people chewing from last week.”

M: (recognizing that this line of conversation could go on indefinitely) Hey, mom must be excited that you don’t yell, "WHAT?" to her every thirty seconds anymore, eh?

My mom, who is profoundly stone deaf in one ear and doesn’t love conversation anyways has for years been getting mad at my dad each and every time he says, ‘What?’ after her sentence, which is pretty much every time she speaks. She responds by getting exasperated and refusing to repeat herself, so I figure she must be happy.

D: Oh you mom and me? (Extended but fairly quiet sigh)

D: Yes, that is a problem.

M: Eh?

D: She says I am whispering now. She is mad she has to keep saying ‘What?’ to me.


Well, it is comforting that even with technological advances, my parents at their core never really change.

Jen is 35 Peeps!

Shout out to the Jen on her 35th. Her Saturn shift should start screwing with her any day now. Welcome! The real question: Can you tell Jen from her niece? Can you tell D and me from lunatics? Can you tell gay from metrosexual? Cree-Pee.

Oh Red Vic, Shield My Eyes: Witness to “Cornibalism”

Accompanied by Gabby PM ("Egg") and the patrons of the Red Vic Movie House, I saw two Kings in November on Haight Street. One, King of Kong, was mos def my pick for Best Documentary I Saw in a Theater this Year. And the Egg and I even won a poster. Oooooooooo.

But despite my love of all things choclo and my name in Quechua meaning 'corn,' the Disappointing Documentary of the Year "Award" is hereby handed to the film King of Corn for being both somehow weirdly non-political and just downright mediocre for all 100+ minutes. The highlight turned out to be the pre-game entertainment, which consisted of the following:

Down the aisles strolled a lovely damsel squishing a concertina accompanied by a tweed-vested fella strumming through a folk guitar. They parked next to the Red Vic's movie screen to teach us the chorus of an important sing-along song: Everybody Grab a Hoe (Get a Hoe? Have a Hoe? Take a Hoe? Whatever, I blocked out the lyrics, but you get the point). Yep, I and 60ish other people sang 'Imperative Verb a Hoe' with gusto and confused facial expressions for at least the following five minutes. They led us lurching into singing alongside a frightening ‘70s farming-americana video, complete with a bouncing ball icon above each word to focus our warbling.

As if that weren’t torture enough, halfway through the song appeared in the theatre a human-sized ear of corn with green tights who came to shimmy around in front of us. What? You point out you are from San Francisco and therefore not easily spooked? Fine, fine, I feel ya. Because most disturbing of all, the dancing corn cob carried in and then ate a bowl of Red Vic popcorn. Now, I know that Red Vic popcorn is all Brewster's Yeasty hippy and all, but you will allow that things have taken a marked turn for the worse when a rather tall Corn Cob can eat the popped, dried remains of its own kind in public, right?

Take Your Stuffed Animals to Breakfast Day

Twice a year, the Ti Couz staff dons their finest flannel two piecers and offers all pajama clad customers free drinks or desert crepes, all to celebrate Urban World’s OG throwback akin to the concept of inches… aka Daylight Savings.
I think my fuchsia hippo, vulva-focused Sunil Bunny, Smurf, and I weathered our first experience of a waiter saying the word “jammies”to me with grace and aplomb.

All Hallow’s Eve... Morn... Eve...

I notice that when I explain Halloween to younger people, it sounds confusing. “One time a year, child, you can dress up at anything, ring people’s doorbells, and they will smile while chucking showering sprays of candy at you. In many areas, you could do this anywhere. In San Francisco, you have to get a Map of Halloween Houses… or go to the rich areas. Now remember, you don’t get to pick the day, so mark your calendar. Because, child, please note that any other time of year, if you show up at a person’s house with a mask, particularly at these same houses, you will be arrested. This means no candy for you. And lastly, child, when you grow up, you can once again suck the sweetness from others on this particular eve by dressing up as the severely sexed up, short-skirted, cleavage/package enhancing, tight-suited versions of any of the following: Uniformed Professionals (cop, nurse, paramilitary personnel, firefighter, mechanic, etc.), Childhood Book characters (Dorothy, Mermaid, Harry Potter or friend, etc.), or Very Particular Unwritten But Well-Delineated Acceptable Feral and Domesticated Animals (Kitty, Mouse, Rabbit [versus NO Llama, bear, horse, gerbil]). Got it, child?”

So I have whipped up my own recipe for making this bizarre Halloween situation last just a little longer:




1. At least four days prior to the actual holiday, dress up like a burnt out 70s icon, complete with full vodka bottle. Put on mascara and blue eye shadow, then cry and rub your eyes for maximum drippage effect. Don strappy shoes you can twist your ankle in at least twice an hour.


Stumble towards a party on Geary/Polk, where it will be impossible to tell who on the street is in costume. Be questioned by a pirate as to whether you are wearing a costume. Question them back. Begin to question yourself. Open the vodka bottle to sustain you until you arrive at a party in which Captain Impossible (er, I mean Incredible) will greet you at the door with vegan jell-o shots.



2. Having marinated in your own fermented juices overnight, chill in the Fruitvale the next day for the Día de los Muertos festival, which, despite being overtaken by people selling EZLN shirts and mass produced tourist crap from Guatemala, is still a good time. Coat your intestines with all manner of fried hangover food - papusas, tacos, churros, etc, shake, and stir.

3. Two days later, having congealed enough to be determined human, dress up as a non-descript person using only clothing from your actual life and one small wig. Allow students to identify and name you. For example, 'Lola,' 'Sheniqua,''a soccer mom,' 'one of those country singers'. Get told by students that you look better, younger, fitter, prettier, etc. in that hair with those clothes. Make a mental note to feed your self-esteem when you get home before it starves to death.

4. That evening, release into the public one 5 year old boy with sugar comaed eyes and a bloated lizard belly under his iguana head and watch him stagger punchdrunk through Sno-e Valley while his mom Blackberry’s him to all the best candy destinations, biting her lip as she tugs his scaly hand, saying such things as, “OK, Kevlar, I hear the candy is good on Fair Oaks, and after that we should head up to Church and 28th before the block closes and from there…” Note that the name Kevlar on a little blond sprig of a kid induces your Harry-Potter-esque scar to flare up. Now sprinkle hundreds of little Kevlar-and-mom combos all over certain blocks.


5. Finish that evening watching Shaun of the Dead after mixing together different strains of cops. First, plant one actual cop on a motorcycle of every corner near the Castro in order to intimidate folks away from gathering there. Then introduce groups of 4-5 men wearing tight fitting cop uniforms and have them keep approaching the motorcycle cops, saying things like, “Oh honey, I LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE your ride. And your biceps are so large. Wanna compare muscles?” Note the frothiness of the motorcycle cops as they grimace behind their glasses in their wonder over whether they get paid enough to be flirted with by fake cops all night.
6. Stir.

Little British Wizards Got NOTHIN' on Me...

Wow, go back to work a month earlier than recommended + lack of bad classes to live through = stop blogging. Once again proving that work gets in the way of life. So, yes, I have lost some of my innards, including my mind, but I have GAINED a cool Harry Potter scar! So that is something. My scar is akin to a mood ring, with stress being my own personal Voldomor, setting off twitches and pain at the most opportune moments. The abdominal grippage and grimaces are followed by me saying such things as, “Oh, I cannot talk about that anymore; my scar says you are stressing me out, man. Bye bye.” Click. Milissa pointed out that Voldomor [ALERT: impending SPOILER] was reduced to some sort of sniveling baby-like gelatinous mass at the end. I don’t know how that connects or what that all means, but I am sure it is important and related. As an avid therapy avoider, I cannot deconstruct this, but y'all feel free.

You Choose: Laughter, Leather, or Laryngitis

Thing #458 that I love about San Francisco....

Forget the VegFest or the ArtCar Parade of Berzerkley, today you can also choose between the following free S.F. events:

Golden Gate Park Laughter

Tamed-Down Leather Boys and Bois

or

Singing Your Voice Off with a Bunch of Jews

Weird.

Love Cynics on the Web

So cute. So twisted. So geeky. Check it out.

Love, "The Mandrake" Style, Exhibit 1

So cute. So twisted. So geeky. Check it out.

Too Much Time On My Hands? Symptom #428

So, I was watching Buffy the other day, and now I find myself confused.

Here's my understanding: Vampires, at least according to the internal logic that is the Buffy Universe, do not have hearts that pump or circulating blood.

Here's my concern: Wouldn't it be hella uncomfortable for Buffy to spoon with Angel? I mean he is cold. Seriously cold. Ew. Clammy and all. And I know she has extra powers, but she is always wearing those spagetti strap tops and well, doesn't she get cold?

Here's my question: How can vampires, such as Angel, get and keep erections? [One assumes they can, ya know, plotwise. In which case, see my concern above. I am not the most judgemental gal, but, um, EW. Again.]

Anyone care to opine?

Never Had I Seen A White Eggplant

I was hobbling into the garage behind my wig-wearing next door neighbor when this man holding an Organics Express box filled with a ridiculous amount of the most unexpected and delectable assortment of organic veggies and fruits showed up behind me ringing my doorbell. WEIRD. So first I was all confused, trying to get him to see the mistake in trying to hand me such a gift. And when I finally understood that it was, in fact, meant for me, I tortured the fellow who brought it right to my door for me; however, he "could" (or would) not even give me a first letter of first name of the completely angelic but unnecessary secret produce producer. Nothing. I have clearly lost my touch. (I choose to blame my already weakened state, sigh.)

So let me just say, THANK YOU.

Now I gotta tell ya, while I do have my suspicions and leads, what is both alarming and vexing is that I been blessed with such a bucketful of wonderful, loving, generous, kind, crafty, concerned, funny friends who are so interested spending time and contributing in so many ways to my health and well being that it really could have been more than one person who would do such a thing.

So, whoever the FruityVeggy angel is, I just want you to know I cried. You made me cry. Luckily, crying doesn't hurt as much as it used to last week (woohoo!). So thank you so much for your unbelievably totally unnecessary random act of kindness. I cannot wait to pay this shit forward.

POSTING UPDATE: They have been found out. Today's Personal Heroes, who will be punched and hugged for making me cry, are my cute bossy bosses at P.R!!! God love them and their belief in the power of the white eggplant.

Let's Just Be Clear on the Plan

The plan is, having survived this crazy surgery situation, NOT to destroy my insides by getting run over by an SUV on my own corner.

Just so as we are all clear.

Apparently not everyone had received the plan outline, however. On Sunday the Bear Whisperer and I embarked on the slowest walk to Dolores Park ever recorded by my shoes. I got one half of one block before we started to cross the street. On a green light. About halfway across the street, I found the grill of a gleamy blue SUV all up on my ass. The driver was rolling his eyes, waving his arms at me as I puttered across the crosswalk. Green light. Did I mention that? Unable to contain himself for the 3 seconds more it would take me to shufflingly reach the sidewalk, he blasted his horn in my ear while he turned his wheels and spun alongside me out just beyond my hair to drive as close next to me as possible. Rather than taking off, he took the opportunity to blast the horn at me again and scream about how slow I was. Yawn - SUV road rage... wasn't that so 1990s California Highway?

Turns out that, while I am slow, I do still have a trigger reaction to SUVs almost running me over in crosswalks while I am walking on a green light. I mentioned it was still my green light, right? And, oh, I have a seemingly bottomless pit of pent up rage. So that is something.

So I smashed my hand onto the hood of the car, stuck my head in the open windowed backseat, causing a rustle to the two women perched back there, and screamed something like, "I just had f*$%ing surgery, so I am going to be a little slow. What's your excuse for being an a--hole, eh? F*$% you - get the f*$% out of my neighborhood."

Ahem. (Smooth down hair.) The Bear Whisperer looked terrified... both of the situation and of me, which made sense since he has never ever seen me hoppin' mad, since it takes buckets to get me hoppin' mad. The pedestrian who witnessed the whole thing stood at the corner and applauded my self-righteousness. Aw, community. I smiled and waved, which further scared the BW. Apparently directed rage followed by peacefulness is also confusing to some.

And I learned several things today: You can get a six-pack of abs without attending a gym. And, stitches and sores can be a chore, but words they now can hurt me. Because it turns out that punching your head into an open SUV window? Uses your abs. Slamming your hand on SUV hoods? Uses your abs. Yelling obscenities? Strains your abs into stinging pain. Greeeeaaaat. In the future, I will be taking license plates and simply calling in smog checks on these nitwits, thereby protecting my abs and my serious lack of a washboard stomach.

Oh Am I Kickin' Some Recovery Ass

So if you have been paying any attention, you know that my Inner Granny has been ruling the roost in a serious way these days. But I was inspired by my triathlete sister-in-law, who came in 3rd in her age group (30-35) and 15th overall in some ridiculous Colorado mountain race that involved boulder scrambling and a 6,000 foot elevation gain (and no, they START in the friggin mountains.... not at sea level) last weekend. And, thus inspired, I challenged my neighbor to a race. At sea level plus two stories. From one end of the hallway to the other. That is maybe 30 feet.

My neighbor? She's got emphysema, an oxygen tube in her nose and cannot hold her head up using her neck muscles alone.

My point? My chances were pretty good.

Because my neighbor is feisty, she accepted my challenge. So off we went, she holding her oxygen in one hand while using the other fist to hold her chin up so she could see ahead, my inner granny holding my abs together and my guts in. The waddling fierce, the length long...

The result? She won.

So, having had a week to recover, I challenged her to a duel. I mean a rematch.

The result? Since I cannot do the twist as a victory dance without risk of herniating myself, I am settling for grinning broadly and making a smoothie. And I didn't even need to cheat. Feel free to lightly pat me on the back when you next see me.

The Beauty of Pain

From Still Life, by Martin Klimas

Freecycle's Questionable Kinky Item of the Week

"Offer: Fisher price ocean wonder vibrating chair"

Even Toys in Babeland doesn't come up with such precious titles.

An Almost Alphabetical Lengthed Version of 'It's Never a Good Sign When ...'

A (for Active). You are the slowest moving person in your apartment building. And your building has five apartments, each containing one person. And you bring down the median age of the apartment building to 70ish. These apartments consist of:
*One 70+ year old permanently on oxygen who cannot lift her head using her neck muscles.
*One 96 year old who wears wigs on her three hairs and just bought the most amazing leopard skin print glasses I have ever seen. They match her silk robe. Hot.
*One 70+ year old who just had two hips replaced.
*One blue-pale, skin sloughing off 80+ year old who leaves her house only once a week at most and is so memory-lagging she believes that the apartments were never sold to the Mega-Devil known as CitiApartments this year. And we must keep doors open for her "man" doing the laundry, although she has no man and no one is anywhere near the laundry room.
*One 35 year old who is suddenly not allowed to go to work for at least a month and right now cannot even make it down two steps without feeling pain and wanting to nap.

Wanna guess which one you are?

That's right. They are all more mobile than I am presently. They bring me the mail. They offer me rolling TV dinner tray sets. They offer up spare bedside commodes. Bad sign A. Actually, that really should be bad signs A-C at least, but ne'ermind.

B (Bummers - or the Bell Curve). You find yourself on a Friday night in the "prestigious" UCSF ER, surrounded by a confederacy of dunces, and get to use phrases like:

1) Tap on his shoulder, "I am sure the ladies just adore you, young doctor boy, but do you think you could avoid ACTUALLY leaning on the area that I am pretty sure is bursting as you do that ultrasound?"(Response: 'Uh, oh, sorry.' He readjusts his weight so he is not actually lying on you for a minute. Of course two minutes later, he relaxes back into squashing you and your leaking innards. Nice.)

2) It is lovely, truly lovely that you want to get a chance to explain what general anesthesia is going to be like, Mr. Resident Anesthesiologist Boy, but since you are unfettered by the sharp intake of breath I just did and the gasping, gripping, eye rolling I am doing, I am now forced to reach out and take your arm and say, "Sorry to interrupt, but now you need to shut up and move away from me because I am going to vomit and faint again." (Response: Full-scale panic and the ceasing of a tiresome room-wide argument over whether you should have surgery at 5 a.m. with the very tired current team or you will still be alive to wait for the new, fresh, 7 a.m. team to appear. It turns out that dropping your blood pressure and fainting is the best way to spur action in the ER. I know, I did it twice.

Note: Anecdotal evidence such as telling people at the ER that you know you have burst and are bleeding internally is not enough, especially when they cannot find real evidence in the form of an ultrasound... although it, in retrospect, turns out they only couldn't see such evidence because they had you on your back and, as they were looking on your sides, the blood was quietly pooling in the back of your stomach. Woops. Oh and, note #2, it also turns out that turning powder blue is not enough. For confirmation of this point, ask AM, who remarked: 'How is it possible that with 10 people in the room, you and I seemed to be the only people to know that you were about to faint?' A good question, one of several, on AM's part. Just tidbits to know should you find yourself in the ER in the near future.

3) "This is not personal, but I am beginning to lose confidence in you people. First you don't know how to use the keys to get the elevator from the ER to the OR floor, and now you are pushing my bed back and forth on the OR floor, saying things like 'Right or Left? Do we go Right or Left?' It's like you've never been here before." (Response: Nervous giggles and the confession that that is essentially the case. You request AM to snap a pic with your phone to document this occasion, should these be the last four people who will ever see you alive and your mother needs to know who to hate. See one nervous grinner, as the rest of them hide when the camera appears. All this transpires as you bleed out at least three pints of blood into your stomach and stop coagulating, which it turns out is unfortunate because you only get six pints to start with.)


But back to 'It's Never a Good Sign When...'

C (Chances, Second). You hear a fellow say over you to someone you cannot see, "God I'm glad you saw that. I really think you saved her life."

D (Diet). You are encouraged to eat solid foods by your caretakers, at which point you have to question them and refer these experts to page 13 of your chart, letting them know you believe you are not allowed solid foods. They look at you sideways, come back acknowledging that you are, in fact, right.

E (Encouragement). You get to point out that perhaps they have, as all hospital rooms do, a pre-fab sign they can put on your door that relays this so future caretakers will not rely on your Vicadined self for the most accurate medical information. They find the sign on the shelf and post it.

F (Food). Three hours later, you are offered a liquid diet made especially for you, since you are a caffeine-free vegetarian: coffee, gelatin-horse-hoofed jell-o, and a choice of clear broths. These broths come in two packages. One package is red, portrays a drawing of a cow, and says BEEF. The other package is more promising. It is yellow, portrays a drawing of a chicken, and says CHICKEN. (Nurse assistant response: Yes, vegetable broth. I am pretty sure.) You drink chamomile tea.

G (Graphic). Your first personal experience of someone drawing on labia is in a hospital context, done by a lip-biting Resident with a furrowed brow.

H (Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy). Several days later, you call your nurse in, expressing with the wildest joy that he simply must note in your chart that you were finally able to poot. He does a victory dance for you. You grin widely. Clap your hands. Burst into tears, because you cannot believe you have been reduced to this as a context for elation. He hands you a stool softener and a Vicadin, and, comforted like a defenseless puppy, you go to back to sleep.

I (Inconvenienced). Nurse assistants, when they do actually respond to your infrequent call bells, tell you things like, "Hey, you know you can record the levels, empty and clean your own bathroom pan and just tell your nurse later. Then you won't even need to bother us."

J (Juggled). You never see the same doctor twice. One doctor is supposed to come back to sign your release papers, but forgets and clocks out... going home instead.

K (Kicked Out). 14 hours and several pages to yet another different doctor (who is surprised you are unreleased) later, you are given a Vicadin and then informed your paperwork is being processed and you are being released within the next 15 minutes. And by the way, your room is needed, so you'll have to get dressed and pack your stuff and go sit in the waiting room within the next 10 minutes to await your ride, who should be at UCSF within the hour. Note: You are simultaneously being told you are not to bend, pick up, or carry anything. It is like a team challenge. You are your whole team. Sweet.

L (Listening to Liars About Lists). You are told that if you have any of the list of symptoms written on the paper, you must call a certain number immediately so you don't almost die again. You call the number. Three times. No one returns your calls.

M (M'bad, Yeah Right). You are called the next day. You are called in order to be yelled at for your audacity at calling other doctors through a different number at 3 a.m the previous night, which apparently got your team of doctors "in trouble." Once it is ascertained that you are not, in fact, a liar, and that you did, in fact, call the three times you had stated, as you were supposed to, and spoke with someone promising you'd get a call back but no actual response, you are then both apologized to and again strongly chided not to call other doctors, not to call your father, not to call your brother for advocacy. (Response: Hey, call me back and I won't.)

N (Nope). Several days later, you find out that although searing pain with 100 degrees feels hot, chilled, abnormal, and potentially worrisome, it is not technically a fever, and therefore not a good enough reason to call the doctor. It would be a good enough reason perhaps if it were 101, it turns out. Click.

O (Ouch). You are not allowed to laugh, cry, sneeze, snarf, hiccup, yawn, stretch, or throw things in disgust at Julia Roberts on the movie screen for at least four weeks without tremendous pain.

P (Payment Plans). Despite having insurance, you know that in the coming weeks you are going to very efficiently receive a fat bill from this illustrious institution for their stellar services.

Q (Questionable). At at least three different doctor junctions prior to the ER, different decisions could have most likely avoided all of this.

This really could go on forever.... but let's end on a happier note:

It's a Less Bad Sign When....

You know that nurses should be the highest paid, most honored practitioners in the field of western medical hospitalization. Even if they sometimes forget about you, take 1.5 hours to come when you ask for your next pain pill, fumble around with your IV as you watch now-someone-else's blood spill from you. Even then, they are your heroes.


And most importantly, It's Such a Good Sign When....

A - Y. You cannot express the profundity of your love and appreciation for the likes of: AM above all for a 3 a.m. ride and butt kicking advocacy, plus your bro and sis-in-law, the Smurf, the Bear Whisperer, AM and AA, your intern Leslye, your terrorized panicky superstitious militant sleepy parents, Miz CK, the other WALC teachers, your principal, and the superhero Nancy, your boss E, Sej, Pamikins, PQ, Ros, Gregorio, Miz D, Sista Boothie, MarquitaPants, Meem, Dimple, Noodle, Advisor-ee, My Patient, and the rest of your incredibly loving, helpful, compassionate, patient, sweet, reiki-skilled, laughter-avoiding, food-bearing, cooking, cleaning, dropped items retrieving, tea-making, snuggling, boggle-playing, handholding, book-sending, helpful, and concerned friends. You know who you are. I really cannot express my joy at both being alive and that I am so well - I have you all to thank for that. I am the most blessed person I know. I even just found out that Moo donated blood in my name. Aw shucks. Givin' back, givin' back.

Z. You have so much food in your fridge, placed there by so many lovely and considerate friends, that you have to force your friends to take some home, because really your biggest problem? That food will rot and go to waste. How's that for a problem?

What's an hour and a half of your life when it's MUNI?

What with the last two weeks including finding the contents of my classroom piled haphazardly in a hallway except for MIA hula hoops and radio, having doctors use phrases like "life threatening condition" in my vicinity, being shot up with the same drugs used in chemotherapy, discovering that everything I ever eat is liberally laced with the one vitamin I must currently avoid, and (worst of all) being thrust from the languid hammock of summer vacation to the ice bath water of a 40+ hour work week in which I am expected both to clean mouse poop and to arrive on time, at the same time every day, five days in a row - for all foreseeable future weeks - to stand in front of blinky, expectant youth, you'd think that the universe would say to itself, "Self! Let's give S a break 'til September 1 at least.... if only to lull her and her temporarily-Burner-free-neighborhood into a false sense of joy and complacency."

You'd think. Well, at least that was what I was thinking [Ed.'s note: See dictionary definition to "optimist" or "unrealistic"] when I boarded the Outbound J train at Market early this morning. Especially when I saw the Spare the Air Ride Free signs. But, as the Ray Troll illustrated t-shirts of self-described realists (pessimists) will attest, my Sugar Child, there is just No Free Lunch.

Got it?

So I must have relinquished my Ray Troll shirt too long ago because I am peacefully enjoying apple sauce (one of the only items available to my body) when the MUNI driver stops at the far dead ending of Church street and says, "Last stop. Everyone off."

But it is scrumptiously balmy outside, especially for being Sucka Free 8 a.m. rather than, say, noon in Bombay during the summer, so I cheerily exit the train to await the next one. After some time an accordion bus labeled SHUTTLE careens into the bus stop. OK. So it doesn't say J. Is that such a bad sign? I mean, the driver is wearing a brown polyester MUNI jacket. No fear - can't a sister have a little faith?

We poke our hopeful, various heads in the swung door gap, asking, "Er... is this the J? Do you go to Balboa BART Station?" The MUNI jacket sporting driver nods his head vigorously, splitting his face open with his joyous grin. "Balboa BART, Balboa BART, yes, yes." When his face and hair don't actually roll off from all the nodding, on we pile. The doors clamp closed.

We get to the end of Church, where it meets 30th Street. This constitutes a whole 50 feet at most.

Driver calls back, "Balboa BART, right or left? Right or left?" (splitty happy smile)

Passengers: Er, left. Left.

Fellow: That is confidence building.

Driver: Good. All is good. Not to worry! I have never driven this route! (Chestier Cat grin)

Passengers: Right on San Jose, in two blocks.

Lady: Do you leave off on Randall and Mission?

Driver: Hmmmmmmmm

Passengers: No! San Jose, San Jose!

New Lady standing on entrance stairs at Dolores: Do you go to Glen Park BART Station?

Driver: Hmmmmmmmm (slightly worried smile)

Driver exits seat and stands, feet apart, hands on hips, in the aisle. Swivels to face passengers. Asks: Balboa BART, right? Balboa BART?

Passengers 1-6: Yes, yes. We are very Greek Chorus, really.

New Lady backs off of bus. Doors reseal.

Passengers 8-14: (grumbly mumbles and loud complainy whining)

Me: (grin and laugh, I mean what exactly could possibly go wrong?)

Passengers: Right on San Jose.

Driver: No problem, no problem. I see the tracks. I'll follow them!

While our addled passenger brains attempt to work out how he is going to let people off on the next corner when he is driving in the inner lane that leads to only either a freeway entrance or a train stop on tracks that are no longer on the surface street, the driver shuttles our accordion bus through the San Jose/Randall 4-way-light, beginning-of-freeway-and-separated-MUNI-gravel-tracks intersection. He stops at the train's normal stop. Which would be normal, were he a train. But he isn't. He is a very long bus with a bendy middle. Did I mention that?

Doors open.

The men, every last one of them, pile out.

Angry Elf Fellow: I value my life too much to stay on here.

The women all smile at each other. It is not like we have not been through worse. It's not like he's tried to touch our asses or said some racist, sexist, homophobic bullshit while attempting to secure our phone numbers. I mean, puh-leeze.

I approach the front. And point out the end of cement just past the train stop, the beginning of true gravel train tracks and an approaching MUNI J train that is honking a bit wildly, considering the circumstances (being that we cannot exactly do anything about our situation right then and there).

Driver: Hmmmmmmm (flashy grin continues)

Me: You do realize you cannot drive on these tracks, right?

Driver: No problem. No problem.

Driver leaves his seat again to go outside and assume the hips-hands contemplative position. Grins and squints. Gets back in. The electronic MUNI LADY voice says, "Hold On." And we back up the accordion bus across the 4-way, freeway entrancing, rush hour laden intersection. And maneuver somehow into the far lane freeway entrance lane. There is clapping, Driver honks at the train-driving driver, we ladies wave adieu to the stranded gawking men cluttering the original, now inaccessible train stop, and forward into the future we go.

At which point it seems wise to move to the first seat and give Grinny Driver directions.

Me: You need to be in the other lane.

Driver: (grin) Other Lane?

Me: Yes. Like, nowish.

Driver (grin): No problem. No problem.

Done.

Me: You need to get off at this left exit. I cannot remember if the underpass is tall enough, but I am assuming it is.

Done.

We drive along. Eventually the tracks meet us back on the road and we are in business.

Driver (beaming, blinding, dazzling grin): Tracks!

We pick up more ladies pretty much any time we tell him we want to get off or he sees a place where people appear to be waiting? loitering? on our side of the street. I wonder whether it is ethical to give him wrong directions in order to be dropped off in front of my school. Eventually we gals and our MUNI jacket sporting grinning lunatic driver make it at least alongside Balboa BART.

Like Laughing? Tune in to our Local Politics

Remember that CA Special Election circus of "Gravis" vs. the 129 candidates who could raise the loot to pay their way onto the ballot [including Schwarzenegger, Gary Coleman, the porn star, the guy who hates plumber's crack, and the boy who never won a student government seat in his high school, and oh I could go on]? It really set a precedent for weird, not that we needed it in San Francisco.

But in the interest of keeping things... well.... interesting, San Francisco has somehow retained its ability to head right over the top of sweetly funny. This year it's Chicken John Vs. Ken-Doll Newsom. WHAT?! Celebrity Fight Night? SNL spoof on the WWF? Not yet, it's just your run-of-the-mill mayoral race around here. My favorite was this FULL PAGE ad in last week's Guardian.

Outcome? Though I've seen no indication that his plea fell on anything but deaf Ken Doll ears, Chicken John did come up with the money somehow, meaning he will now be on the ballot. And you thought this fall's reality series lineup would be dull.

But ONE Reason Why Market Street's Safeway Does Not Have a Family Show on TV

1. The Parking Lot.

Walking through on this lovely Friday afternoon, I "enjoyed" a vision through the windowshields of three cars in a neat little row right near the entrance of the Safeway (we're not talking far corner, people).

Car A: Older fellow getting lit, pipe in hand.

Car B: Six younger adults compressed into four seats, attempting simultaneously to inhale the smoke emitting from Car A while mixing alcohol into Pepsi bottles and rapidly throwing the concoction down their gullets.

Car C: Ageless adult shooting up.

All windows down, basking in the lovely sunshined day before they... er... drive somewhere?


And, yes, this is the same seemingly unaware parking lot that somehow manages to tow within two minutes of their arrival anyone parking and running into Sunny Produce for organics and mom and pop shop love. Funny that. Besides, I'm not even going into what was happening in some of the other cars.

Better Red Than Dead in Colorado?

Though we were guideless, the ever-fabulous PQ still expresses her gratitude for such Sage-like Colorado Signage:

Colorado Mountain High

Ah John Denver in Vail. The atmosphere up here? A little thin. So thin that I have witnessed not one, not two, but THREE hummingbirds SIT DOWN and pant quietly, slowing their heartrate, for over a minute. Is this news to anyone besides me? So either I am imagining things, or hummingbirds have legs. Which they use. To sit very still. Quietly. For substantial periods of time. Pretty much until I point and scream, "Seated Hummingbird! Seated Hummingbird!" Weird.

What Do All the Ex-Pat Swissies Do to Celebrate Indie Day?

I know you have all been asking yourselves just this question when you find yourself unexpectedly awake at 3:49 a.m.

Answer: They apparently stuff their trim, fit, muscle-only selves carb-silly at the nearest Swiss bakery.

On August 1st I had yet to learn this. So when I walked out of Avon's Columbine Bakery and into my bro that day, I remarked:

"There's a shitload of very festive Swiss people in that random little bakery. You'd think not so many Swiss people would hang around Vail, since it is like some creepy "Disneyland Swiss Chalet" set. But I swear they are all in there. Weird."
Really, I am guessing every Swiss in the region was there. The place was packed.

Now, as some of you know, in addition to my usual attracting of hovering hummingbirds, I am currently attracting all things Swiss and have consequently become the most recent convert to the League of How Do the French-Swiss Do It? Appreciaters, even if it does irk me that people like Smiley Smiles-a-lot and his countryfolx somehow manage to appear clean and well pressed even when their white clothing has been worn for days, even in the saunas of Colombian jungles. [Note: This is yet another sign demonstrating my non-Swiss origins, as I have a genetic tendency to appear dirty and recently Cuisineart blended/chopped even when I am recently showered and wearing fresh clothing. If you'd like to test yourself, use the ending picture to identify which one's the unshowered suiss wearing a three day old trekked in shirt who looks like they got off an industrial ironing board/steam clean versus who's a recently blended looking double-showered estadounidense? Bet you can't tell.] Oh, tangent, tangent. Where was I? Oh yes, talking to the bro.

And my bro, who is only vaguely listening to my pronouncements and opinions anyways, looks at me and says, "What ARE you yabbling about?" But then the next day he points out this picture and caption in the Vail Daily Newspaper and all is revealed.

Well, happy jour d'indépendance, ya neatniks.

Another picture worth a thousand very telling words:

Stern Grove 2007

This week's Stern Grove kicked some serious booty shaking musical social ass, between my dear friends, the lovely energetic yellow clad Emeline Michel [picture her holding her heart: "I just want to stay in San Francisco; you are such blessed souls," and me + 15,000 others screaming back: "You can stay with me!!!") and the equally soul soaring Andy Palacio and the Garifuna Collective. Not to mention a super fun not too crowded but enthusiastic multi-generational groovin' crowd. One 4 footer-and-rapidly-shrinkin elder was raising her red sweatered arms up over her broad rimmed white straw hat in her enthusiasm. Unfortunately this dance move knocked her off balance almost every time. Despite a couple near disasters, she continued to groove, putting her next in line on my "Elders I Idolize" list (after M.E, who has been rocking the casbah for 96 years).



Me with both a Birthday Girl and a Quite Recent Birthday Girl



So I was on "hard core" duty, which means a 10 a.m. arrival so that Sej the birthday girl can have a fantastic view while showing up 4 minutes before the music starts. So I'm hanging out surrounded by lunchable snackage and blankets and other onesies similarly holding down spaces for their peeps. With a book, a damp but not too cold sky, and an equally prepared but chatty neighbor. His name was Drew? Stu? I think Stew. AKA the self proclaimed "Smoking Police." Light up near this fella? From inside the vest breast he whips out the water glock and dowses our neighbors midlighter flicking all while vocally enforcing the newly codified but old san francisco tradition of banning cigarette smoking (but not toking) from all public land. Here's to Po-Po Stu, who apparently represents a Stern Grove Classic. Should you be in his vicinity, may nothing but condensation escape from your mouth.

"I Wiped My Butt with a Beetle," and other snippets from Colombia travels

("Under construction?" I swear I will get back to this soon as I take a moment to condense a crazy crazy trip)

Swap Yer Books, Ye San Franciscans!

They could be good,
They could be bad,
But take them both
And there you have the
Bookstore Swap, the Bookstore Swap.

(sung to the tune of the Facts of Life, preferably off-key and in the shower)

Colombia's a little far to travel back from to make it for this, but I want everyone to go for me please please please! Besides, who among you can resist some drunken book buying?! Spread the word!

Book Swap - Sucka Free San Fran, Baby - July 21

Least Favorite Thing My Friend Dimple Has Heard Me Say

to people I might date but have never met (and surprisingly, she's had a lot to choose from):

Scene: S and D are chillin at Dolores Park Cafe. The ever-squinting S semi-recognizes a passing fella (formerly known as M, now known as ScruffyMan) from ... well.... the Onion... who has contacted her and with whom she will perhaps go on a date with sometime in the next decade should they ever be in the same town for over a minute.

S (yells and squints): Hey! Are you M?

M (looks scared. Approaches cautiously)

S: Hey this is M, whom I have never met!

D (rolls eyes and prepares for coming disaster)

S: M, this is my friend D. She's visiting from Houston [NOTE: This is definitely winner for the Least Favorite Thing D has ever heard me say about her... since she lives in AUSTIN. Whoops. I knew that. I blame Tourettic-Dyslexic tendencies. Besides, they really do sound similar to the untrained CA-centric ear.)

D: Austin.

S: Whatever. M, you look just like your pictures. How fun!

M: (looking increasingly uncomfortable, eyes look for escape route) I am normally not this scruffy and unshaven.

S: Oh, me too. Haven't even showered recently. (grin)

D (faint groan)

M (blink. more uncomfortable lookingness, eyes dart faster)

S (missing the whole uncomfortable thing): So, I'll see you sometime in August when we are both in SF.

M (emits nervous laughter. shuffles off, making mental note to avoid Dolores Park Cafe for remainder of evening just in case)

Post-Script: It is important to D that the world, particularly the world of people who perhaps have thought to ask me on a date, know that I bathe regularly, even if I don't brag about it. To which I would like to point out that at least I didn't actually think to put my unshaven, um, parts next to his chin and do some kinda scruffy comparison, ya know? I got filters.

But regardless, do us both a favor and spread the word on my bathing cleanliness, k?

What is more absurd than an air guitar competition?

The Air Guitar Competition at the Independent? Very educational. From it, one can learn at least the following:

1. Unfortunately, us ladies need to start air guitaring younger because many of us? We suck. But the beauty of sexism and heterosexism is that we still get bigger applause and many many more woopings and hollerings. Even the blonde headbangy rocker spectator in the front row actually got much more attention than most competitors. Yeay for sexism.

2. Blues songs? Although a pleasurable respite, do not belong in U.S. Air Guitar competitions. Which makes my ears and everything else so so so sad.

3. That guy Bjorn Turoque? He's still a tool.

4. Visually speaking, epilepsy and air guitaring are sometimes dangerously close.

5. (I know, this is SO obvious): White boys? They LOVE their air guitar. Wow. It is startling.



But back to the title question: Well, I figured on NOTHING, but then today I came across the following headline under "TOP NEWS"

Top News: Harry Potter Gets His First Kiss

Yep.

The Mags Tag.... I Take Your Challenge

In response to the challenge, here are eight random things about me:

1. I never had a cabbage patch kid.

2. I once ate a whole chicken in one sitting in Panama about ten years ago. I have been a vegetarian since 1982.

3. If I ever went back to eating meat, I would start with a corned beef sandwich on rye or a pastrami sandwich from M & L Market on Market/14th.

4. I once tried to escape from the hospital pre-appendectomy. I got all the way to the second floor before my wheelchair and I were caught.

5. Once, at night, I was convinced I wasn't dreaming that someone was sitting on me, holding me down. I woke up the next day to bruises where their fingers had been, the angle of which could not have been self-made.

6. I used to be babysat by a nursing student. In order to get us to stay in bed, she would show us pictures of diseased skin/bodies and tell us that if we got out of bed, that would be what would happen to us. Then she would sit in the hallway outside my room on the red carpeted stairs. All night I would see her face reflected in the globe of the hallway light fixture, distorted like a circus mirror.

7. While cooking peas, I often struggle with the following dilemma: if an uncooked pea falls out of the pot, do you toss it unfeelingly back in the pot to cook (with the rest of the captive peas), throw it away (because it escaped), or take another pea from the pot to join it on its next adventure (and hope the pea you chose is friends with the escaped pea)? As a result of this dilemma, I rarely cook peas.

8. I was recently surprised to learn that I am a rather hopeful romantic. How nauseating is that?

And because I know only one person who would potentially respond to this besides folks already named by Mags, I tag the lovely PQ.

Falling Off the Blogging Bandwagon

See what happens when I am not bored off my gourd to the point of being dangerous in class?

OK, so there's dead cats, replacement Brillo-pad cats off dead women, camping, games nights, air guitar competitions, and more to talk about, but let's just chuck all that for the much quicker topic of:

Thank You, Friends

Many of you called or texted me to see how my dad's surgery went.

I am happy to report that all went swimmingly. After an excruciating pre-surgery, full-family "celebratory" meal (think: celebration of his life in case he DIED, I believe was the typically uplifting idea) and after waiting over 6 hours to see him post-op, we were allowed in pairs into the recovery room to find my very cute little dad, all blinky and bleary and drugged. A certain unnamed relative, in the usual display of poor timing and thought-to-voice control, managed to queasify the anesthesia-laden pop by first suggesting that once he get out of the hospital they come BACK to the hospital to sit in the library chairs looking at the exquisite view and eat at the CAFETERIA because it was so scrumptious and then describing in detail the potatoes while the cute little dad turned progressively greener. Sweet. Once said person was ushered out, all returned to status quo, and true to form, in the space of our two minute visit, Cutest Pops in the World told a fairly bad joke (not like made a funny statement, I mean told an actual joke), laughed, pressed his meds button, and fell asleep. Cute.

So thanks for the hollerin. We are all good.

One Reason Eye-Rolling is a Great Exercise Here

Reason #54....

Posting for an upcoming Saturday Rally reads [sics are all theirs]:

"Demonstrate against petroleum addiction;and against Iraq war. We'll watch the SF section of "World Naked Bike Ride" asseble, strip, and depart.
Some of us predestrians may also go nude for peace, unless cops threaten us.

For more info,google 'World Naked Bike Ride.'"

You'd think it were warmer here, for all the clothing-free event planning that goes on in these parts.

Jury Duty: 2007

So, at first I was bitter, seeing as how I already DID my jury service earlier this year.... which included calling in a sub for two days so I could hang out and read and make no plans just in case they happened to want to call me, and calling every single night to make sure I was not required to do anything else. Which I swear I did. And I swear I did every single night.

Then, last week, I was shocked to receive a letter saying I had shirked my service (gasp) and if I wanted to keep my money and my freedom, I'd better call up and haul my ass over there. Of course their language was more polite, but this is just a transcript of the obvious undertone.

So, sigh, I ditched a finals day and headed down to the courthouse.

Arrived 5 minutes late. Stayed 33 minutes. Was released, my jury service officially done for another year.

All that finding my offensively sloganed t-shirt for naught.

It Has Been a Weird Week for Animals

1. The feral parrot colony that used to live outside my apartment building now lives in the trees at my work. I am not paranoid, but the term "stalking" did enter my mind.

2. I may have killed my parents' cat within three hours of taking the folks to the airport. [Since that time, I have driven around with the corpse in the car all around the city, done the kaddish and other Jew rituals over her, made a collage of my family members (because there are no pictures of all of us together), cleared out the refrigerator to store the cat, placed the cat in deep freeze (with the picture), bought a plane ticket to Colombia, and successfully avoided speaking to my parents at all.] Gilda-Mitzvah: RIP.

3. A camel stood for a while on the street corner near our school. Apparently he was stretching his legs.

4. He stood with his friend, a pony. I didn't realize that camels and ponies became friends.

Ah.... appreciations

During my students' finals, they always do appreciations. And every year there is crying. And every year there are a few choice phrases that secretly make me laugh. This year the random winning phrases are:

"You are such a funny person. When you talk. I mean... Normally? You are quiet, like a snail..." Huh. I had never considered the relative silence of the snail. Poetic, these people are.

"Wow. You are my best friend. When I first met you, I was really scared. Especially since you had that attitude like, 'Bitch... I am going to kick your ass. I am seriously gonna fuck you UP.'"

Aw. So sweet. So thoughtful.

And Now for Something Completely Different...

... A lavender head in the park (snap courtesy of Meem's phone... ooooh)



Somehow this reminds me of the whole Benny Hill skit:

A: "What's that in the [park], a head?"
B: "No, no, no! It's 'What's that in the [park] ahead?!'"

Sorry, my ability to recall tidbits like that just reminds me why new, more pertinent knowledge appears to have a hard time attaching itself to my brain.

Biggy Blessings to J of J'n'S

How to go from shallowed breath leaking to laughing clapping grinning deep breath sigh in 10 seconds flat?

Push playback on my virtually ignored home answering machine and hear the soothing sweet voice of one mister j.h. of j+s saying,

Springtime weather reminds me of you.
Everything reminds me of you.
You remind me of you.

Followed by:

This is a poem I wrote for you, S.

God. I love love love these guys. J has NO idea how much I needed that just then. It more than makes up for making me the keeper of that phenomenally creepy and persistent Prayer Doll that will not disappear from my life. Really. Well, maybe.

Now I am no fancy foody but...

I rolled into my house a couple minutes back to recover from the ridiculously tasty "Theme Night" at Millennium, which MiAMy brought me in honor of being a Master of Mokut(h) Nei.

Cute. Southern Comfort Food night, t'was.
Which somehow turned out meant that they served Pabst Blue Ribbon and Mint Julips with the four course meal and all the waitstaff (plus some of the diners) dressed up as stereotypes of either '80s suburban girls hanging out at Dairy Queens or as, well, working class white folks.... John Deere hats, mullets, spandex and hairspray, studded tight jeans and all.
It was FUCKED UP.
And yet there we were at the vegan restaurant (which is normally even more ridiculously prohibitively expensive) turned bad movie stereotype halloween night, and so eat we did.
Pictures really say it all.
Here are the first three sets of plates. All fake dairy. Fake meat. Pickled okra and celery jam. Fake chicken and waffles.


And then there was the ice "cream" bar, complete with a man blowtorching (seriously) bananas. Weird shit. Unfortunately, we missed the opportunity to take a final shot, in which our starry bright eyes are slipping into food coma and the sugar manic episodes are subsiding.

The various phases of dessert:

Daily Hero

Today's Hero Award goes to my sister-in-law, who SOLD HER HOUSE on Craig's List today. Seriously. That shit is sweet.

Si(gh)tings

I am under any circumstances a cheerleader for freecycle.org. But today I particularly appreciated:

OFFER: THE ART OF EATING MAGAZINES

I was soooooooo unaware that eating periodicals was an artform. I am decidedly twentieth century.

And Now Some News That Would Be Better Off as Songs

It's been a good spell for freedom, with the hopefully permanent moving on of Jerry Falwell, and a bad spell for lovin' birds. Not one but TWO depression-inducing stories on birds and love: (1) Albert the Lovesick Albatross. I wrote an angry letter to the BBC wondering why, in all their coverage, nobody is offering a one-way ticket HOME to this unfortunate soul. I mean... 1967?! WTF?!

And then there is (2) the sadness of the (former) Snowy Owl owl couple of Bernal Hill (credit to artolog for the photos). Stinks to be a bird these days, especially where mating for life is concerned.

Season Finale

First, a one-breath haiku for you:

Grad school completed
Timed to cold weather returns
Typical. I cope.


On Monday I turned over three copies of a bound, 104 page paper to my Muppet professor, who reacted by saying,

1. I am so proud of you.
2. I never wanted you in this program.
3. I fought to keep you out.
4. You are quite tenacious.
5. You should get this published.
6. You should get a PhD.
7. You are NOT coming to graduation?! Why not?!
8. Have a square of bittersweet chocolate.

The Muppet is sooooo funny, no?

On Tuesday, I turned in my final for my last class. Our final assignment was to write a song. Could I have waited, I would've written that song about my class. My last class on grad school consisted of the following:

1. Students bring EVERY imaginable form of off-white food to class. It is almost creepy how much food can be off-white. Even the wine couldn't blush. Even the strawberries paled in fear. Typically, the tomato and green chile of a certain someone's corn bread felt uncomfortably out of place, and florescent pink frosting of a certain - perhaps same - someone's peppermint butter cookies stood out sorely. Surprise.

2. When I point out this is the second time we've broken a meal of off-white bread together, I am glared at. Apparently, off-white food is suggestive, perhaps of something race related? Don't get me started on this.

3. Students evaluate professor on scantron. I will keep this description to myself. Luckily for this unspoken process, I happen to like Palm-Sweats himself.

4. Students drink to oblivion in classroom.

5. Students turn in final - a portfolio of 30 poems.... 15 related to a theme (mine is about folks on the 22 MUNI), 15 from the class assignments.

6. S smiles at Palm-Sweats a Lot. Blinks. Says, "Sometimes 30 looks a lot like 18." Blink. Hand over rather lightweight envelope. Prof blinks back. Appears mildly confused. S figures he will eventually figure this out.

7. Drunken students pull out our assignment for the day - to write a song.

8. S has learned many things during grad school. One of these things is not like the others, but this one is right in line, for it is a "S should never..." moment. This one is "S should NEVER become a songwriter."

9. S has also learned that when drunken, sex-poetry-obsessed, white hipster mid-western boys start circling you saying comments like, "You smell delicious this evening," it is time to go.

10. S has also learned that when drunken, sex-poetry-obsessed, white hipster mid-western boys have written an "underground, like Jay-Z" rap that they want to perform, it is long past time to go.

11. S employs learning from her time in faculty meetings. If you put your bag on your shoulder and BACK OUT of a room with a "Hi everyone!" smile on your face, people will become confused and believe you are arriving.

12. S casually walks by the window outside the classroom as she flees campus. Drunken students inside classroom, between song crooning, are discussing which bar to "move" class to. Those who notice her outside look mildly confused, but S figures they will attribute this to being a surreal Simpsons' moment or something chemically induced.

13. S has liberated herself to go home and graduate from other aspects of her current life.

And so I am quite done. People keep asking how I will celebrate. Thus far it has consisted of recycling every ounce of paper related to grad school, reading into the wee hours a book for pleasure, listening to deafeningly loud live music, witnessing the incredible abilities of my students to inhale pizza and brownies, and encountering an armadillo. I am open to suggestions. Good times.

My Love For Prom is Maybe a Little Maniacal

I have a problem.
There, I admit it.
I have a problem with prom.
I love prom. The kind of love that is deep, intense, boundless, illogical, and in opposition to every political value I hold true. The type of love that wears a dress from the '50s and fat high heels. The kind of love that leaves me unable to sleep and still hung over the next day even though I didn't even drink water. A dangerous kind of love.


See these pictures?

Imagine my face. This expression. Times 60. For four hours. Because I make, and I mean MAKE, each and every one of my students at prom take a picture with me. And so I wish to publicly thank them and the Bear Whisperer and My Favorite TA and everyone else for putting up with me. Think it is because I was anti-prom in high school? My students seem to think so. Their reaction to my mania: