twenty three skidoo...

Too many of the best phrases have died off, only to be given their last breaths by my father who uses these phrases with abandon. Last night at family birthday dinner, Alex offered some funny idea and my father screamed across Spruce, "Now that's got legs!"

I spent the next 45 minutes thinking of all the times I'm going to use, "Now that's got legs!" before my parents started describing seeing "A Trip To Bountiful" in New York. On and on, they went about Cicely Tyson, raving about her performance. My mother leaned across my father, "The New York Times said she was 88."

"Twice!" My father added.

"But Wikipedia says she is 79." My mother sat back in her chair, somehow more pleased with Wikipedia's version of Cicely Tyson.

And then with great flair and enthusiasm, my father boomed, "If Cicely Tyson is 88, (indignant pause), Katie bar the door."

Katie bar the door? What the hell is Katie bar the door?

"Look it up!" My father has recently discovered that one can use one's smartphone to access the internet immediately. Anytime he is questioned on anything, his answer is, "Google it." He walks around town saying, "That's got legs! Katie bar the door! Google it!"

I googled and and read the (now preferred) Wikipedia entry to the table.

Legend has it (oohs and ahhs from the table) that during the King's (James the 1st of Scotland) stay at a Dominican chapterhouse in Perth in 1437, a group of men led by Sir Robert Graham came to the door searching for the King in order to kill him. The King's Chamberlain, Robert Stewart, Master of Atholl (ooh, ahh), aware of the plot against his life, had taken the precaution of removing the bolt from the door of the room in which James and his queen were staying. James fled into a sewer tunnel as the queen and her ladies quickly replaced the floorboards to hide his location. Catherine sprang to the door and placed her arm through the staples to bar the assassins' entrance. However, they forced the door open anyway, breaking Catherine's arm, and discovered and killed the King. From that point on, according to the story, Catherine took the surname of "Barlass". Dante Gabriel Rossetti recounted the story of Catherine Douglas in verse in 1881, under the title "The King's Tragedy". This poem contains the line "Catherine, keep the door!" - possibly the origin of the idiomatic phrase "Katy, bar the door!" (a warning of the approach of trouble).

Our entire section of the restaurant really enjoyed that story, including our fabulous server who managed to work in "Katie bar the door" every time he brought something to the table. But it begs the question of my father, who had admittedly just given us all a really cool phrase to use, why is Cicely Tyson being 88 a warning of the approach of trouble? He just tosses around "Katie bar the door" as more of an, "Well then I just don't know what."

"She broke her arm?" My brother said. "Nice work Katie. James is dead. They should change that phrase to, 'Katie drink some milk.'"

*the New York Times also has some answers on "Katie bar the door" but they said Cicely Tyson was 88, so...

i feel very tiger beat about the whole thing...

I discovered Fever Ray while watching 'The Following", which is a Kevin Bacon TV-show that I watched and discussed with my friend Eve. So in one scene, the TV-show had this super intense song which I Shazamed and downloaded, and then discovered was the theme to the History Channel's show, "The Vikings." It's the History Channel's first scripted show and I have not watched it. But I will. Wanna know why?

 

Needless to say, I looked him up. His name is Travis Fimmel, he is Australian, he is THE LOVE OF MY LIFE. Here is an interview with him at ComicCon, and let me just say, for the record, I am no longer a 13-year old girl swooning over dudes. But this is... I mean, I just... You guys:

 

chips and dip is the name of our band...

I like to go to all the cool restaurants because I am an insecure person who validates herself by saying things like, "Oh, I've totally been there. Did you try the duck?"

I have been waiting for TWO YEARS to go to Frances, a casual yet very impossible restaurant to get into in the Castro, and finally decided I'd just go on Open Table, find the next reservation, and take it. Lo and behold, there was a 5pm dinner open last night. I had to hold it with a credit card, and texted Melissa, "We are going to an early dinner tomorrow at Frances. Please pretend you know this is a big deal."

Let me tell you about Frances! First of all, I am two years behind the times and it is embarrassing that I'm just going to Frances. Who cares, you've all already been there. Second of all, they have chips and dip. I repeat, they have fancy, organic, local chips and dip.

The chips were long, seeded crackers and the dip was basically really onion-y sour cream. There was way more chip than dip and the two of us devoured the whole thing. Our server, Jake Gyllenhaal, offered to bring us more chips. "Oh, no thank you. We're just eating the dip with a spoon. You have chips and dip!"

We also got chick pea "Frech fries" which Jake called "frites", spinach soup, maple bacon begniets (Mel is a vegetarian, so...), gnocchi with walnuts, and leek gratin with blue cheese. We did not order any entrees because the sides looked so good, and one of the things that happens when you turn 30 is that you don't care anymore. They had leek gratin. I'll have 8 of those, thank you. Please bring it to me and then look away.

We timed it, and it took 34 minutes before Melissa and I started in with the, "So, I sent this really embarrassing email. I need you to look at this thing on my back. You have to go along with the following lie." And I realized I wasted my fancy reservation at Frances, because when I'm with Melissa, I could be at a Shoney's and die of giggles. We did not talk about food. We talked about my most recent guy and our parents and big work plans and our trip to Atlanta and the fact that I cut off all my hair. (I cut off all my hair.)

I can say anything to my best friend. I've tested this. I could say, "So, I killed a guy and he's in an oil drum in the back yard" and Melissa would lean forward, "I wanna see. Do you need my credit cards? I actually know a guy who sells lye." She's automatically on my side, without judgement, ever.

Melissa does not care that there is $7 chips and dip. And I have learned, there is no point in my keeping anything from her, ever. We walked to my car and Melissa grabbed me. "Don't think I didn't see Jake Gyllenhaal wink at you. He WINKED, Bethy."

"I KNOW." I said. "I thought it was our own little moment."

"Uh, no. I saw the whole thing." And Melissa, who ran the Bay to Breakers at 7am, saw a wink, filed it away, ate some chips and dip, and pretended to care about a gratin, let go of my arm. She got in my car and knew when to go in a liquor store to buy me cigarettes. We've become fake characters in a novel at this point, we are so ridiculously in sync. Readers are like, "This is bullshit."

Anyway, I went to fucking Frances finally. Melissa came with me. We had chips and dip...

"it's for a friend..."

Last night, Sally, Brock and I decided to go to Trader Joe's. This was in addition to other fun things. We don't just go to grocery stores together and then home. As we drove over, we were each listing off the things we wanted to buy at Trader Joe's, and Sally finally confessed, "I need toilet paper."
We all agreed that toilet paper is very embarrassing to buy.

Present company excepted, everyone pees and poops, right? I mean, I don't. You don't. Sally and Brock certainly don't. But most gross people do. There should be nothing embarrassing about buying toilet paper. Yet Sally and Brock were freaking out, "Well, who's going to hold it when we walk out of the store? Not me. I don't want to hold it. You KNOW they won't put it in a bag."

That's true. Toilet paper never goes in a shopping bag. It must be carried and displayed like a neon sign announcing, "This is for my poo, folks! This is for numbers 1 and 2. Please picture me on a toilet because it is such a sure thing, I am preemptively buying a special product for just that."

"It's worse if you're a guy." Sally said in the trail mix aisle. "Because then it's just for number 2."

"It's for a friend."

Then began a heated discussion on men being kind of into pooping. Not necessarily proud of it,  it's like an official part of their day, one that requires smartphones and magazines attend. It is not that way for women, or so I've heard. Again, I do not use restrooms for anything other than checking my hair.

We dropped Sally off, screaming out the window, "Have fun with your toilet paper! Which you're going to use on the toilet!" Her neighbor was there, helping her with her bags. He was nervously shooting us the side-eyes as Brock and I yelled the words "poo" and "pee" across Nob Hill. And he was kinda awkward not because Brock and I are idiot children with some serious bathroom issues. But because Sally bought toilet paper, and that is totally embarrassing...

"they haven’t quite gotten this taste profile down..."

Not that Brock and I don't go here once a year, but on today's SFGate Tourist Trapped, Blair, Keri, John, and I head down to Chili's, where we discover a popular accessory, sugar-hot sauce, and how much Ranch is too much Ranch. Eat it up over on the Culture Blog...

if peeing your pants is cool, consider me miles davis...

I spent last night at Kate's house, and the best thing about crashing at a good friend's house, other than the unconditional love and viewing of Mermaids, is getting to use her toiletries. I have good lotions and potions. But I don't have ALL the lotions and potions. Kate has completely different hair and body products and I am wearing some of every single one of them today. You can probably smell the toxic blend of eight different kind of body lotions from where you are right now.

We also, watched The Real Housewives of the OC, and had a deep discussion on what our housewife tagline would be. There's a whole website devoted to them, and here are my favorites:

"My tank is full and I'm driving into my future." Vicki from OC, Season 7
"I asked, I believed, I received." Kim from Atlanta, Season 3
"To some people, living elegantly just comes naturally." Obviously Countess Luann, Season 3

I came up with:

"I'm kind of insane, but I make it look fabulous."
"Money grows on trees, and I own a Christmas Tree farm."
"If Spanx counts as plastic surgery, consider me altered."

Speaking of Spanx, I was recently in the Macy's Intimates section, a section that still embarrasses me to venture within, and discovered that New York Housewives Bethenny Frankel and Jill Zarin have competing lines of shapewear (which means Spanx, basically.)

Because I am a journalist, I tried both on and here are my findings:

www.skinnygirlshapers.com

Bethenny's "Skinnygirl Shapers" are WAY sluttier than Jill's, and feel cheap and off-sized. On the plus side, you could theoretically take your clothes off in front of someone else and look like you were wearing sexy lingerie instead of old lady girdles. So, there's that.

Jill offers the appallingly named "Skweez Couture" (seriously). I would say that you can't use the word skweez with couture, only skweez isn't a word. Jill's shapewear works like a motherfucker, but the only way you'd ever let anyone see you anywhere near those flesh-colored bikeshorts is if you were married to Bobby Zarin...

i tried to do the springer-pose but i can't pull it off...

Today's Tourist Trapped attempts to escape from a locked room in Japantown. Using mere clues and tools we find inside the room, my friends and I put ourselves to the test and see if we can escape in less than 60 minutes. The results... will not surprise you. Up now on SFGate.

Also, this is happening all week. Tune in from 2-5 every weekday and watch me guest host on the KOFY couch. Local TV!

Oh, and tonight is Porchlight Open Door. Come on down to the Hemlock Tavern by 7pm, pay $5 and tell a story on stage! You don't have to tell a story if you don't want to. You can just hang out and look cool...

um ma'am, we're going to have to ask you to leave...

There are two parts to this story. The first is that on Saturday morning, I had to meet a friend across town at 9am. I have an automatic weekday alarm on my iPhone already. I simply set a Saturday alarm for 8:10. I happened to wake up Saturday morning at 7:30 anyway, and vaguely recall having a thought that my 8:10 alarm never went off.

The second part is that a wonderful reader of this blog and now friend of mine named Seana very sweetly gave me her last minute tickets to Stuck Elevator, the play (that closes Sunday) at ACT. All of my friends were booked for Saturday night because they are very cool, including the ones who have so many plans, I get their back-ups.

Hey, I have stuff to do, people to see. But I happened to be free this Saturday night. I decided that I am a confident adult woman, and I can go to a work of live art by myself. Plus, if I ran into anyone I thought might judge me, I would just use the greatest/worst excuse for doing anything embarrassing ever, "Oh, this is for a blog post."

I put on some cute clothes. I did my hair. I ate a turkey sandwich. I drove myself to Union Square, and I told Will Call that I was Seana.

Great, they said, and handed over the tickets.

I was in the glamorous orchestra section and even had a "safety seat" next to me, which I soon realized made it look like I got stood up. I told myself that people who go to a play about a immigrant delivery man who gets stuck in a Bronx elevator for 81 hours don't really care who is with or without whom.

The play began at 8, and it was really interesting.

At 8:10, someone's phone went began to ring.

My phone was off. I'm not an idiot, and certainly not new to theater etiquette. Who's the asshole, I wondered, staring into the heads in front of me. Everyone within 10 rows looked around, myself included. C'mon guys.

So... it was my phone, obviously. My alarm was set for 8:10pm, and not 8:10am as I'd assumed. The silent mode doesn't work for alarms, and when I think about why that feature exists, it makes sense. This all happened because I am very old, had nothing to do on a perfectly good Saturday night, and am dumb. I am the asshole in the theater, folks. I, the adult woman who loves to talk on the phone with her mother about which actor stormed off of which stage over a cell phone, was the asshole with the cell phone playing "TIMBA" for what felt like eternity before I realized it was my morning alarm.

In retrospect, thank God I was alone...

My mother took this in New York at the intermission of Newsies, which is is equally embarrassing. 

it is an orange dress. and it's tahari...

Many mornings, Blair and I stop into our work-neighborhood Starbucks and I get a Venti coffee and carbs. Blair gets (big sigh) 2 shots of espresso on a lot of ice in a Trenta pastic cup. Blair's item is not on the menu and, without fail, creates a whirlwind of confusion during FiDi Starbucks rushhour.

The main issue this Starbuck's staff has with Blair's order is putting a hot beverage in a plastic cup.

The main issue I have with Blair's order is why she needs the huge Trenta cup for 2 little espresso shots and some ice. Apparently, she adds her own water when she gets to work. And Blair's point is, Fuck you Starbucks, give me what I want. Which is valid.

Apparently, no other Starbucks has taken issue with Blair's order, including the Starbucks 2 blocks away. "I got it in Hawaii! I got it in Mexico! Here, they write a fucking paragraph on my cup."

I've seen certain barristas go and get the manager, who then shows up and makes the mistake of telling Blair no, which has never worked for anyone anywhere. They didn't even consider it in Hawaii! In Mexico! Blair doesn't really feel bad other people are waiting, which is a pressure I can barely handle. Blair doesn't think Starbucks should be allowed to have arbitrary sometimes rules, which is another thing I'm not willing to fight. I simply stand back with my CUP OF PLAIN COFFEE and watch the show.

Obviously, used for chilled water later on.

One exchange left Blair so ticked off (although with her drink in hand) that she actually contacted Starbucks headquarters. Here, in her own words, is what transpired:

"oh i emailed- a response-bot wrote back- i replied asking for a stuporvisor...that went on for a while, a stuporvisor actually got back to me with his phone number - i called - left message - no response for a week - called back - left message - some other DM emailed me apologies (sort of) saying she saw that it was a re-Dick policy and she would talk to the staff."

I asked Blair for clairification about Starbuck's policy:

"they said that a hot BEVERAGE can damage the cup, i kept pointing out that they put it in a plastic VENTI cold cup so that policy is null and void. it took 5 or 6 emails to get them to admit it."

I love that Blair emailed these people 6 times. I, on the other hand, just snuck back into that Starbucks for a snack because I am a horrible person with no will power and they have La Boulange pastries now. I settled on a carrot cake muffin, which is a brown muffin and made out of vegetables and raisins. As I order, 3 gorgeous men walk in, and because I live in a world of constant food shame, I stood in tense, humiliated silence as the entire staff of Starbucks, the same staff who are now afraid of Blair, repeatedly announce, discuss, and FEIGN confusion over whether or not that girl in the orange outfit ordered a muffin or cake...

i wish he'd thrown in a falafel...

I am in New York City and I have all sorts of exciting things to tell you, like the man who made his wife cry on the airplane or the awesome show I saw at Upright Citizens Brigade, or Tom Hanks being amazing on stage, and appearing relatively tall, which is a relief.

Instead, the most exciting thing going on with me and New York right now is my knock-off handbag adventure.

Some broad on the New York City Council is trying to make it illegal to buy knock-offs. Right now it's illegal to sell them, but I think it's cool if you buy them. I'm not sure. The transaction itself is illegal, but until this law passes, I will not get fined and/or jail time for buying the amazing bag I just bought.

Before my crime wave, I met my friend James for brunch who offered, "What if someone stole one of your articles, made it stupid, reprinted it, and got paid for it? That's a knock-off."

I completely agree with him. I don't think anyone could make my posts dumber than they already are, but don't diminish my brand! I'm Beth, the only Beth! I get it.

My bullshit justifications for buying knock-offs anyway are:

1. Louis Vuitton is an international icon making gabillions of dollars every second. When I am in that position, I will buy real designer bags.

2. The bag I want, which is the Louis Vuitton Neverfull GM, is a totebag in the signature LV leather. It's like a Burberry scarf. Here's a recognizable print, give us a grand. So in my estimation, the bag's actual retail value is $200. LV is ripping people off.

These are nonsense excuses for being a cheap label whore.

I went down to Canal Street and as soon as I emerged from the subway, this man comes up to me and says "Handbags, you want handbags?"

Normally, I'd feel out the other vendors but I got a good vibe from this guy. "Do you have Louis Vuitton?"

"Yeah, yeah. I got it. Come with me."

We walked half a block to a falafel truck. He looked from side to side and handed me a laminated photo gallery of fake bags as hundreds of tourists pushed past us. #24 was the LV Neverfull GM.

"How much for this one?" I asked.

"Eighty Five."

I am a seasoned bargainer. $85 was bullshit. In what I felt was a bold and confident move, I rolled my eyes and started to walk away. He followed me. "Okay, okay. How much?"

"Not even in the ballpark of $85."

"Okay, you tell me what you think."

"$45." I said. You've got to get this part right because too low, and he's like forget it. But obviously, I want to pay the least amount possible.

Right away, he said, "$60."

Sixty I was willing to spend. "I want to see it."

"Okay, okay. You wait here."

I stood in front of the falafel truck, whose vendors seemed to be on board with this whole transaction, as my new friend headed across the street and got on his cell phone. I waited for about 3 minutes, and saw him marching toward me, looking shifty and holding a black plastic bag as low as he could hold it. We stood in the ordering spot of the falafel truck and I examined the bag as secretively as I could. It was certainly good enough and up to my very low standards.

"$55." I said.

"No, we say $60."

"It's obviously fake."

He was getting nervous, our deal was taking too long. "Fine. $55."

I handed him $60, he got $5 back from the falafel guy (!), and slipped me the cash, much the way you'd  discreetly tip a valet. He then spun around and was off. Clutching the plastic bag, I raced off in the other direction. Safely three or four blocks away, I opened the bag to full examine my purchase AND I LOVE IT SO MUCH.

If you see me with this bag, you will know it's fake and I don't care. I put it on Instagram and now all of my fancy friends who have the real one will know it's fake and I don't care. The effort and the risk and the thrill of the purchase make the payoff so much sweeter. Or as my mother pointed out, "It's worth $60 just for the experience!"

Well, no. But oh my God I love my bag...

i don't think you'reready for this jelly...

I feel like this photo collage really says it all. But read "Guy Fieri Is My New Best Friend" over at SFGate for all the gory details...

walgreens jackpot...

I have a shitty, shitty cold, and to what I feel should be my immense credit, have only stayed home sick one day this week. This is mainly due to the fact that I need to leave work early on Friday to go to Pebble Beach, which is less noble than, say, having an amazing work ethic. My co-workers wish I'd stay home. After my 637th sneeze today, Bill said, "That's it. I'm done. No more God bless yous."

I'm so sick of being sick, I'm doing the angry sneeze. Resentful of having to stop to sneeze, I kind of scream it out, along the lines of, "AAAAA-CHOOOOOO MOTHERF*CKER."

I did a little research today on the best over-the-counter cold medicines and went to Walgreens after work to buy them all. I got DayQuil, NyQuil, some sort of abusive nose spray, and cough drops. I forgot to buy fancy Kleenex, so I'm blowing my nose into cheap toilet paper and the results are not pretty. But most importantly, I made an incredible discovery at Walgrens.

Obviously, I didn't just buy medicine. While at Walgreens, I also bought make-up, face stuff, and snacks. This is how I discovered Walgreens "Nice!" brand Fudge Mint Cookies. People, these are Thin Mints.

They're like $2 and available year round. The Girl Scouts are running a racket.

Here are some other things I figured out this week while being sick:

1. The Mindy Project is an amazing and hilarious show, but it is becoming clear that every couple of episodes, a different actor is fired, like its a reality show and people are getting voted off.

2. Murder She Wrote has some serious storyline issues. I am speaking specifically about Season 3's Episode 3, "Unfinished Business." But in watching like, six episodes over the past week, Murder She Wrote has a lot of really convoluted storylines. I ended a lot of episodes screaming, "Wait, what?" at my laptop.

3. One of my neighbors is learning to play jazz flute. I am completely serious. It sounds like the wedding scene from Wet Hot American Summer ALL THE TIME.

4. Aaaa-CHOO!

here come the tiaras...

First of all, today's Tourist Trapped is up! Check out Tighe and my visit to the San Francisco Conservatory of Flowers over on SFGate.

I wore a hat to the Conservatory. Because I'm going through a CHAPTER IN MY LIFE RIGHT NOW where I've decided to be true to myself, own who I am, subscribe to O Magazine, etc. This means that I now wear hats. Hats are the kind of thing women buy because other women and gay men love women in hats. Stright men do not historically enjoy a woman in a chapeau. However, listening to the opinions of straight men has never really gotten me anywhere, and Big Chris will make fun of me no matter what I wear, I decided to rock my hat yesterday.

When Tighe met me in front of the Conservatory, he said, "I saw you from a distance and I just had to take a moment because there you were, in that fabulous hat and sunglasses, waiting for me." But all day long, I could feel that hat on top of my head, standing out, looking very Buena Vista Social Club. I only grew more self-conscious as the day wore on, when I met my friend Alice in Chinatown for photography and shopping.

"Oh! A hat!" She beamed, hatless. "I just love it." Alice knows that, unless you are Andie MacDowell in 'Four Weddings and a Funeral," a woman in a hat needs constant reassurance. While in Chinatown, I bought a silk nightgown for $30. And today, once again inspired to be fashion forward and sartorially honest, I chose to wear this nightgown as a dress to work.

I work almost exclusively with straight men, men who are very comfortable saying things like, "What the fuck are you wearing today?" On the front of this nightgown is a dragon. On the back are lots of Chinese characters, which as my co-worker Carlos pointed out, "could very well say 'Kick Me.'" The more I walk around in this thing, the more it static clings and shows off the stripper bruise I got from walking into a coffee table. The more I sit, the more wrinkled it gets. I am starting to feel really, really awkward in this dress!

As tonight is Porchlight Open Door (you should come!) I needed reassurance that I shouldn't run down to the Gap and buy jeans and a blouse to wear. I got my co-worker Gregg to take a photo, which I then texted to Brock, who described my experimental looks as "a dramatic departure."

It's only going to get weirder. My sponsor's 'suggested' I take a hiatus from dating. Which means I can finally wear my sequined blazer, my full length kimono, and my wigs...

the goldilocks of personal space...

One recent morning on my way into work, I stopped into Starbucks. This being in the Financial District, the line for coffee was probably five-deep. I was the last person in line before one had to stand in the doorway. The next guy in swung open the door, took one look at the line, and tapped me on the shoulder. In a booming voice, he demanded, "Uh, could you step forward?!?"

There was room for a tiny step forward but I had been giving the broad in front of me some personal space. Had I had a second to react to someone else joining our line, I would not have needed public scolding to take that step. Now, I had to bow my head and basically spoon the woman in line before me. This is too close, she and I obviously thought at we cradled each other like newborns. This guy could have just awkwardly stood in the door during the time it takes a barrista to make a Venti latte, not made us perform some fully-clothed girl-on-girl. 

Today I went to the dentist. After having my teeth cleaned, the obvious next step was to go get food. Lee's Deli is right under my dentist's office and on my way back to work anyway. I made myself a $47 salad from the salad bar and stood in line to pay. The man in front of me was giving those paying a healthy 10-feet of breathing room. What is this? Gringott's Bank? No. This is the register at Lee's. 10 feet is too much personal space. As I stood behind him, unnecessarily in everyone's way, I was reminded of the Starbuck's encounter. Exactly how much space, I wondered, is appropriate in between people in line? 

Independently and without consulting anyone else, I've determined an official answer:

If I stick my arm straight out, it goes about 2 and a half feet. That's the circumference of personal space I appreciate. I'd like to be able to do a 360 degree circle with my arm extended, hand up (as if to say, "Stop. That's close enough.") That seems like an appropriate amount of personal space among strangers. In crowded, peak-time Starbucks situations, 1 foot is fine. Anything closer than that is unnecessary. It's a cup of coffee, not the last lifeboat on the Titanic. 

Wikipedia agrees.

I can't believe there are charts online to help creepy people with this concept. Can't we all feel when someone is too close, or not close enough. Body language is the universal language! The fact that graphic designers have taken stylus to epad to create handy visual explanations is the reason I double check my house alarm in the middle of the night. What is wrong with people...

Unrelated: I'm co-hosting Porchlight Open Door at the Hemlock Tavern Monday Night. 7pm, tell us a 5-minute story onstage. The topic this month is Law & Order. It'll be fun!

i feel like my marina-raised father should totally run for this...

this broad.

For the second year in a rown, some bro was crowned Mr. Marina, which is an honor that gets you a signature cocktail at a Marina bar, some argyle socks, and, I imagine, laid a lot. Last night, along with my brave friend Jenn, I headed to Ruby Skye to watch these bros in action, competing in swimwear, talent, and Marina-wear. It was quite the to-do. And you can read all about it over on SFGate...

as i sit here in a $17 dress from target...

www.vaunte.com

Have you heard of Vaunte, the website that lets you buy the used clothing off the backs of very, very rich thin people? I took a look at the site and one of their "starlets" on today's Culture Blog. You should go read it, and then think long and hard about how starlet-worthy your wardrobe is. Up now, on SFGate...

worst dinner party ever...

Sometimes (because I don't want to talk about what they're talking about) I will ask my friend, or my family, or a dinner table, to pick 6 people (dead or alive) for their perfect dinner party. These aren't necessarilly the six most important, significant people ever. It's the six people you'd most like to have dinner with; the seven of you at a table. Here're mine:

Gilda Radner
Paul Newman
George Clooney
Julia Child
Louis CK
Bob Spotswood

In discussing this at legth with Blair (hers are all rock music types), I came up with an even better list. Worst Dinner Party Ever requires you to pick the six people (dead or alive) you would least like to have dinner with. These are not necessarily the world's most horrible people (but they certainly can be.) This list is just the last six people you would ever, ever want to spend 3 hours with. Here're mine:

Adolf Hitler
Anne Hathaway
Sarah Palin
Dennis Rader (the BTK Killer)
Anita Bryant
Joe Piscapo

I'd just like to be clear that Dennis Rader made the list not due to his heinous crimes, but due to his incredibly annoying demeanor. I just can't stand that guy.

Who's on your list(s)...

but is it gluten-free...

I am excited to celebrate my good friend Sally's birthday. So excited, I've agreed to join her to pick out a personalized cake at a local bakery, The Cake Gallery. Naturally, I went to the Cake Gallery's website to check it out and had no choice but to click on the link proclaiming, "X-Rated Cakes."

OH MY GOD LOOK AT ALL OF THESE.

I'm trying to talk Brock into making one of these his profile picture on Facebook. I have several questions. The first is, what would you do if someone surprised you with one of these? Your family is gathered at some lovely restaurant, and your prankster cousin or boyfriend is like, "Oh, I'll bring the cake! It'll be my gift to you!" Oh, okay. Thanks. Great. And then, with grate fanfare and sparkly candles, this emerges from the kitchen...

obviously i had to take a screen shot...

Once again, I had a really weird massage experience. Read all about it over on SFGate, and share yours please. Because spas are vulnerable, delicate places. And everything can go wrong...

Kinda embarrassing. Still worth it.

i am proud neither of what i have done nor what i am doing...

If you're like me or everyone I know, you use your phone to look up people on TV while you watch TV or discuss TV. It's a very distracting habit, but the skill once allowed my mother to figure out that Keifer Sutherland was sitting at the next table.

Tonight I am watch 'A Few Good Men' because it is on TV and it's the kind of movie you have to watch when it's on TV. My mother is now screaming at her computer, "Keifer Sutherland is in that movie and I saw him at dinner in New York!" In addition to Keifer Sutherland, the movie features one of my favorite character actors, J. T. Walsh. I always remember Jack Nicholson dedicated his 1998 Oscar to J.T. Walsh, who had just and very suddenly died. So here I am, watching AFGM and I start thinking about J. T. Walsh and decide to Google him.

First interesting fact: J. T. Walsh was born in San Francisco and lived here until he was 5. Neat!

Second interesting fact: J. T. Walsh died of a heart attack at he age of 54, "while a guest of the Optimum Health Institute, a spiritual detoxification clinic in Lemon Grove, California."

(As I write this, J. T. Walsh is in his character's full Marine dress uniform and about to kill himself. And... he's gone.)

Obviously I had to look up the Optimum Health Institute, which I assumed was rehab for chemical addiction. It is not. I'm pretty excited about the Optimum Health Institute where J.T. Walsh died, and obviously, clearly, want to spend at least one week and up to four weeks there.

Basically, one goes to the OHI to cleanse the body, quiet the mind, and renew the spirit. There is a campus near San Diego and one near Austin, and both of them look like religious retreat compounds. The accommodations are not glamorous (think burgundy and cream-colored quilts) and some rooms have a shared bathroom. The first French I ever learned was 'en suite' and there is no way I can share a bathroom with strangers. I wonder if J. T. Walsh did? There are no TVs or "radios" and only some rooms have WiFi. Also, there are no hairdryers! But they have natural body-toiletry stuff if you're so hell bent of smelling nice.

What do you do all day? I'm so glad you asked. There are core classes, and then classes for each week of your stay. I think you stay by the week, and you don't have to sleep there if you don't want to. (I do.)
Many, many, many of the classes have to do with wheatgrass.

Then, there's this, which is the second reason I really want to go here:

"You" validation
Learn to find the friend in your mirror. Participate in this loving class, where fellow guests share qualities they like about you. All you have to do is say "Thank you" and smile. Discover how giving and receiving validation are equally important.

There is also "vocal toning" which is an ancient practice of screaming while you meditate or similar.

Finally, I really want to attend (and obviously Emcee) "Friday Night Live" where you "share your personal gifts. Demonstrate a skill, sing a song, share a poem, act in a skit, or dance for joy. Enjoy camaraderie, laughter, and friendship in this night of celebration." Just imagine the type of people who go to this place "demonstrating a skill or reading a poem." Oh, the spectacular agony.

How amazing would it be if you went to the Optimum Health Institute to get a bunch of color irrigation, compliments, and wheat grass and J. T. Walsh is there too, starring in Friday Night Live and dropping dead? It would be amazing.

And now, back to A Few Good Men...

brilliant baseball players and knock-off handbags...

Once again, Lisa has dragged me to one of her sporting events. This time we headed to Stanford to watch Rhodes Scholars play a little baseball. It's up now over on SFGate.

And I've got an article in this month's Nob Hill Gazette. Just in case you're a hobo that doesn't live in a Nob Hill Co-op, you can read all about rich ladies and fake accessories right here...

i've never understood the pull of the obscene phone call...

Brock sent over a Los Angeles Magazine article which Eve and I immediately devoured. "In The Footsteps Of A Killer" is a fabulously long and detailed article about the very cold case of the Golden State Killer, who raped and killed people throughout California and remains ON THE LOOSE.

The article is written by Michelle McNamara, a stay-at-home mom who sits up all night on researching and discussing true crime cases on online chat boards, mainly the A&E Cold Cases discussion board which isn't even a show anymore but the chatting continues. Neat! She's been particularly obsessed with the case of the East Side Rapist/Original Night Stalker, whom she has renamed the Golden State Killer. On her quest to find the killer out of sheer personal interest, Michelle interacts with mostly retired police and people from her various true crime discussion boards, and occasionally mentions that her husband is a stand-up comedian.

I looked it up. She's married to Patton Oswalt, whom I now suddenly like WAY more.

The article is fascinating and well-written and for a true-crime obsessed person like me, a joy to read, with detailed info on all of the Golden State Killer's crimes and also tips on books and websites where amateur sleuths take this shit SUPER seriously. Again, Neat! But even better, there is a whole side section of the online version of the article with crime scene photos, much grittier details about the crimes, and (wait for it) a fucking creepy as fuck recording of the killer making an obscene phone call. I listened to that last night before going to bed and it was a big mistake. You've got to give your age and email address to access this section, which I've decided is yet another attempt at catching the GSK, but it is an awesome and super intimate interactive feature, which only reaffirms my love for this medium.

Eve and I have this fantasy where someone gives us money and an office, and then we just solve cold cases all day. We'd have dry erase boards, maps with pins in it, crime scene photos, a lot of old laptops, bad coffee, we could wear leggings all day... If anyone wants to sponsor our independent cold case company, we'll need $250K a year and a mini-fridge.

Anyway, check out the article. And then please discuss it at length with me because I need to know who the GSK is...

too soon, never forget, etc...

A friend's company had extra seats at their table for the Chamber of Commerce breakfast, so I got to go, probably for the last time because I just wrote about it on SFGate. But OH MY GOD guess what Mayor Ed Lee calls the World Series trophies...

like you ever have any plans on monday...

We've all had our hearts broken, right? And/or broken some hearts? I think I've only had the former, not done the latter. Quite frankly, I was really doing the guys I broke up with a favor. I'm a pain in the ass. Anyway, this week's Porch Light Storytelling Open Door theme is "It's Not You: Stories of Heartbreak." Oh man, I can't wait (to feel better about all of my break-ups by hearing how bad all of yours were.)

I'm co-hosting all of the open mic nights from now on (yay!) so please just Google Calendar the last Monday of every month, thanks. Anyway, this is your chance to get on stage and tell us a 5 minute story. The audience is always warm and cozy, you get a free drink just for having the balls to get up there, and a winner is selected by one audience member, so there's no awkward public judgement. The winner gets $50 and a bag of warm nuts, which you might need what with that whole break-up.

You don't have to tell a story if you don't want to. You can just hang out and listen to people's short stories about breaking up. You'll probably end up meeting someone, dating them, and then dumping them, in which case you need to come back and tell us that story.

Monday, February 25th, 7pm, Hemlock Tavern. $5 cover.

ALSO WHILE I HAVE YOU, Monday, March 18th is the Porch Light Main Stage Show. I don't usually get to host this one, but since the brilliant Beth Lisick is out of town, I'll be awkwardly up at that mic again. Held at the gorgeous Verdi Club, the night's theme is "Law & Order." I've roped in two of my friends, former Marin County Coroner Ken Holmes and SFPD Sgt. Carl Tee to join the line-up of storytellers: Nato Green, who is a hilarious and charming comedian, and public defender Renee Paradis. We're working on getting one more storyteller, but the night is sure to be so awesome, it's criminal.

Monday, March 18th, 8pm, Verdi Club. $20 tickets here.

In between these two thrilling events is Muni Diaries Live! Don't worry. I'm not doing any wacky story telling at this one. But join me in the crowd because there will be some thrilling Muni stories by a thrilling line up of story tellers AND Blair's band, Lucky Jesus is performing unplugged!

Saturday, March 2nd, 7pm, Elbo Room. $12...

it is literally cereal for serial killers...

Start a blog, write about stuff you want, and it comes in the mail!

Last month I mentioned Narciso Rodriguez perfume, and guess who sent me more perfume!!! (A: a perfume publicist reresenting Narcisco perfume.) Smell flowers and femininity right now? Yeah, that's me drenched in free perfume miles away from you.

And months ago, I discovered an online federal prison commisary shopping list. One of the many thrilling items available for sale in the clink is a ceral with the charming name, "Honey Nut Scooters." GUESS WHAT ARRIVED AT WORK (and is getting shoved into my face by the handful)?!?!

Reader Tony somehow managed to find "Honey Nut Scooters" and had them sent to me. Thank you Tony! And now, my serious analysis of prison cereal:

Presented not in the traditional box but in a resealable bag, it would apear Honey Nut Scooters is basically cheap Honey Nut Cheerios. It even says so on the package. Sadly, there is no mention of prison or criminals. I think this was simply the poor man's cereal selected as the cereal available in the prison commisary. I have no idea if it's available in non-criminal stores, but you can get it online.

I do not have milk at work, so I have no idea if when milk is added to Honey Nut Scooters, a shiv miraculously appears at the bottom of the bowl. There is no mention of a "prize" in the bag, although stick-on tattoos, nail files, and stamps seem like great possibilities.

In conclusion, Honey Nut Scooters is the low-income/prison version of Honey Nut Cheerios, and I think I've eaten a few too many handfuls of HNS and should go lay down on my cot to play my harmonica and strum a metal cup along the bars.

Thanks again to Tony! And if anyone else wants to send me free stuff, I am currently interested in making out with celebrities, BMWs, and learning to play the cello...

more fun than going on the lam with dolores van cartier...

Check out my recap of the classic American pastime: BINGO! Every Friday night, hundreds gather at the Sister Act church in Noe Valley for what turns out, is an incredibly awesome time. Read all about it over on SFGate's Culture Blog...

just don't drop it in the sink...

Spending time with Blair and her fiance, Keri has opened me up to some much random new information. For example, last night we were discussing what we'd like to happen to our remains after we die. Keri said, "I would like to be a jewel."

While researching how to have her beloved cat cremated, Keri discovered that there are companies that turn animal/human ashes and hair into "diamonds" which can then be worn as jewelry.

"What a lovely necklace."

"Thank you. Remember Stan? Well..."

lifegem.com

Please spend the rest of your day exploring Life Gem. I'm serious. Go look at it, select the color of your stone, and jewelry setting. Turning Stan into a diamond will run you about $2,000, and another $1-2K to put him in a lovely ring or necklace.

For the record, I would like to be a "Colorless Life Gem" and you can wear me in the 14k Gold Cathedral Style with accent diamonds. You don't necessarily "need" Stan to be dead to wear him as bling. Life Gem will turn hair (about as much as comes off during a haircut) into a gem. Or, if your beloved is deceased which seems to be the bulk of their business, Life Gem will need 1 cup (as in a cup of flour) of Stan, mailed in a sealed plastic bag and shipped "as you would ship any valuable item."

Please go explore the website, click on everything because it all FASCINATING, and then leave your favorite quotes in the comments. The testimonial section is pretty great. Here are ones I noted:

"...thanks to you and LifeGem, I’m able to feel something besides the sorrow, loneliness, and fear that have been with me since he died."

 "I had earrings made out of two of the princess cut diamonds and have been offered money for them...my come back is you cant afford them..they are worth more then you could ever pay me."

 And then, in the section called, "Clarity": "As one of our clients said about her husband, 'He was perfect, yet certainly not flawless. I wouldn’t expect his LifeGem to be without flaws either.'"

If your first husband died, you can LITERALLY wear him on the wedding ring to your second. This is assuming they don't mix up the ashes with someone else's. How would you know? You wouldn't. You could be wearing someone's cat. It's just the risk one takes when turning their loved one into an accessory...

have you heard of this bizarre crime wave...

This week, Netflix recommended "Compliance" to me, and I generally do what Netflix tells me to do. After reading the user reviews, I clicked play. Compliance tells the TRUE STORY of a prank call to a McDonald's that resulted in a rape and ruined lives. HERE is the trailer.

Basically, some horrible guy in Florida (I know, right?) calls up fast food restaurants, pretends to be a cop, and claims he's calling about a theft. He then describes a young, attractive woman until the manager says, "You mean Becky?" Yes, yes. Rebecca. That's who I'm calling about. Through some spectacular powers of persuasion and McDonald's manager's blind following of orders, the fake cop talks these McDonalds employees into strip searches, and in some cases, rape. Literally, the "cop" is on the phone saying, "I didn't like her tone. Spank her." AND THEY COMPLIED.

This didn't just happen once in Kentucky (I know, right?) It happened 70 times all over the country at different fast food joints. It's unclear in my post-movie research, but it would seem that one guy was behind most of them. He was a prison guard, married, and had five kids.

The best article I've found covering the entire thing is RIGHT HERE, and mentions several psychological studies of how relatively normal people have been ordered to commit acts of incredibly cruelty and followed through with it, all because someone they deemed an authority figure told them to do so. It's an amazing article, it's like 14 pages, and I really recommend you read it so that you can discuss it with me.

Can you imagine the circumstances or words someone would have to use to get you to perform a strip search on a co-worker? "Oh yes, officer. I will perform a remote strip search for you? Oh, she needs to blow me now? If you say so." But seriously. This happened.

You can watch Compliance on Netflix on Demand, and it's really well done. Also, it's never okay to strip search someone at work. FYI...

nancy grace, outlets, and breakfast buffet...

There are two great things about being a grown-up with limited responsibilities. You can eat cereal at 4am while watching BBC female-based mystery shows. And you can do whatever you want for your birthday. So this year, Melissa and I spent her birthday doing our favorite BFF activities. We spent 7 and a half hours at the new Livermore Outlet Mall, we got a suite at the Fairmont San Jose, watched TV while eating/gossipping all night, and we read the New York Times over the brunch buffet.

Outlet Mall: The Livermore Outlet Mall is only a few months old and it is very nice, with plants hanging from trellises, a huge food court, and lots of fancy shops. For example, the Kate Spade Outlet (take all the time you need) not only had all of their real shit discounted, but it was all an extra 40% off. Some outlets, as you know, aren't really outlets but "Factory Brand Stores" which means the same looks but shittier and for $10 less. See: J. Crew. But the Kate Spade Outlet was, as the kids say, off the hook. The Prada Outlet, however, had nothing under a billion dollars. It was basically a Prada store in Livermore, and thus considered an outlet. Even the nylon make-up bags were $120, SO WHATEVER.  We were surprised to enjoy the Ambercrombie & Fitch outlet because as Melissa said, "This is how an outlet should be. Shit just piled on tables and a sign saying 'ten dollars.'" My favorite outlet was the Neiman Marcus outlet where they lined up all my clothes very neatly in the dressing room and I almost bought this red dress. 

Hotel Movie Night: We stayed at the San Jose Fairmont because... well, I don't really know why. Actually, San Jose is a good place to hide out, and Melissa seemed to think it was near Livermore. Melissa doesn't drive and I have given up saying things like, "That's nowhere near where we're going." Anyway, we upgraded to a suite for $30, and immediately put on our pajamas. Then we ordered a ton of room service and watched Magic Mike. As neither one of use was particularly familiar with Channing Tatum, other than knowing he's a big movie star/hunk type and we should like him, we were deeply moved by his performance. At one point, his character "Magic Mike" does a break-dance/strip-dance and takes off all of his clothes, to which Melissa says to the TV screen, "Respect." I liked Magic Mike because it has 1. a street smart guy that calls women "baby girl", 2. takes place un-ironically in Tampa, and 3. features a break-dance/strip dance. 

We also watched Nancy Grace. Once again, Nance is rocking the bling-y barrette, but this time she is also wearing a handcuff necklace. To which I said to the TV screen, "Respect."

Brunch Buffet: We waited an hour to get into the Fairmont San Jose's $40 brunch. In the realm of hotel brunch buffets, $40 is very, very inexpensive. However, the FSJ holds their brunch buffet in the tiny little 80's Golden Girl set in the back of the hotel, and they have no computers. It was both frustrating and mesmerizing watching the overworked staff constantly consult their handwritten list. With great formality and in business suits, they'd scrawl down names and then scan the dining room for an empty table. Then look at the book. Then look at the dining room. Look at the book. Look at the dining room. And this is the kind of place where people have, like, parties of 16. Finally the suited, stressed hostess called out for "Barb Sportsman, party of 2" and we were seated. We piled all sorts of unhealthy and random food on our plates, sprawled out, and read our sections of the paper. Melissa informed me of world events, and I told her about the most interesting and/or tragic obituaries. Thus ending our perfect, best friend, birthday weekend...

hanging out in the back of a courtroom. seriously...

On this week's Culture Blog, I headed down to the Hall of Justice and sat in on a criminal trial because this is America and trials are open to the public! Intellectually, I guess we all know this. But who ever goes down there and hangs out? I do! Read about it over at SFGate...

DO NOT GO SEE 'THE IMPOSSIBLE'...

Kate picked me up for easy breezy movie night at the Daly City theater.
"Let's go see 'The Impossible'! I said, because the previews presented Ewan McGregor as the star of a feel good true story of 2004 Tsunami Survival. Kate watched the previews and agreed. In perky moods, with popcorn and Diet Coke, we picked our seats in the theater.
"Are we going to cry?" Kate asked as the lights dimmed.
"Probably." I said, and settled in for what I thought would be a PG-13 tragic and touching tale of strength and the bonds of love.
OH MY GOD I HAVE PTSD.

'The Impossible' gets to the tsunami pretty quickly, which is horrible. And horrible. And horrible. People said the first 20 minutes of 'Zero Dark Thirty' was hard to watch, and I, who gets queasy at violence, found it not that bad. The first 30 minutes of 'The Impossible' is the basis for a class action lawsuit I am filing against Warner Bros.
On and on, with gaping open wounds and dead bodies, and then more wounds. Oh, the wounds. Big, huge, hanging wounds, which are then dragged along the debris. Pulling dried insides out of one's own throat while vomiting? That was during a mellow part of the movie, where I wasn't holding my purse up in front of the screen and hissing, "Dear God in heaven, please make this fucking stop."
Kate was crying out of sheer anxiety. I almost walked out three separate times, particularly when the director takes us underwater so we can see (repeatedly) how fucking agonizing it was to have been swirling around in the sharp debris. Which causes horrible wounds. Which you see. Over and over and over while people scream in their understandable pain.
There should be a support group for people who have seen this movie. We should be getting FEMA money. I am never going on a tropical vacation again. This movie feels like punishment for having boring problems.
So, just to recap, do not see 'The Impossible' unless you want to be the most stressed out you've ever been in your life for 1 hour and 54 minutes.

PS: I am 80% sure I was sitting next to Suze Orman...

i once had a date-dream about kevin spacey and i have yet to get over it...

Are you watching Netflix's first TV show ever, House of Cards? I am HOOKED.
I'm trying to talk Melissa and Brett into watching, but in case they have actual lives, I'm on a search for folks with whom to discuss the show. In case you're not in the nerd loop, Netflix has released all 13 episodes of its first series ever, House of Cards.

House of Cards is about a Congressman from South Carolina played by Kevin Spacey. I think he's the House Majority Whip. Anyway, he's married to Robin Wright (and her fabulous hair and wardrobe) and the rest of the cast is filled with amazing character actors who are all spectacular. Plus, it's directed by David Fincher, who directed Se7en and Zodiac and The Social Network, so... it's fucking dark and mesmerizing. House of Cards is a cynical, grown-up version of the West Wing, so I am going to need you to watch it. All episodes, in a row, as I am doing.

While we are discussing TV, let us delve into Downton. Sybil is dead. Am I the only one not heartbroken? So WHAT? I have never been that invested in the Sybil/Branson storyline because Sybil is simply too beautiful and raspy voiced. I have no choice but to ignore her out of jealousy. I've always found Lord Grantham a little on the dumb side. Obviously he's bad at math, since Matthew thinks he sucks at running Downton. But his whole anti-Catholic tirade caught me of guard. What is a left-footer?!? I think this means I am one.

Lord Grantham and Carson are too peas in a judgemental pod, especially over the reformed hooker working for Matthew's medling mother. I hate how Mrs. Crawley so nice and understanding, but when the Grantham Girls are coming over for lunch, she loses her shit over whether or not there will be ham. Don't hire the hooker who can't cook and then be like, "Oh my God, I bet you can't even cook!"

And I think we can all agree that O'Brien is becoming incredibly entertaining. So much of Downton is old-fashioned (hating on hookers/Catholics/chauffeurs) and then all of a sudden, O'Brien is stirring the gay pot in the MEANEST way. Finally, Thomas is human enough to have a crush on someone (Jimmy, who likes girls). O'Brien is telling Thomas it's reciprocated when we all know, as Mrs. Patmore pointed out, everyone is in love with the wrong person. A+ for O'Brien.

If you follow Downton-related live tweets during the show, you must follow O'Brien's Bangs, a Twitter Feed by "O'Brien's Bangs." Seriously. It's an excellent parody Twitter. (For that matter, so in Modern Seinfeld.)

Finally, I find it hard to believe Bates is really getting out of jail scott free. Although this is the land of Downton, where the crippled walk and people are saved from the gallows at the last second with little or no explanation. Oh, Matthew can suddenly walk again. Well, that's been known to happen on rare occasion. Bates has been given the death penalty, but, yay! It's a life sentence, but let's not ask any more questions about it. So now, not that we get to see any of it, Bates managed to get his case re-tried. Something about a pie, you see. It all works itself out on Downton!

i swear to god, it was one spritz...

Last I co-hosted Porchlight Storytelling open-mic at the Hemlock Tavern, in which anyone can sign up to tell a 5-minute story to smart-types in a bar. My co-host Arline was running late, so I was instructed to walk around the bar and see if any of the patrons wanted to put their name down to tell a story. After signing up an older drunk man who'd once met JFK, I came around the bar to a group of people my age who looked cooler than me. One of them began to hit on me, in a not-scary but slightly bombarding way.
A man hitting on me in a bar is a rare and exciting event unto itself, but after awhile of this guy following me around, telling me specifically that he was hitting on me, it got a little creepy. He'd come up behind me and ask to smell my perfume. AGAIN.
"Oh, thank you." I could think of nothing else to say. "It's Narciso Rodriguez." The smeller informed me he could "get used to that." So as I make my way through the bar, I have to pass my friend Matt.
"Matthew there's a guy over there who'd totally harmless but giving me the creeps a little. Please talk to me affectionately for a second." Matt throws an arm around me and turns to face the entire bar. "Which guy? Where? Which one?"
With great dramatics, Matt swivels his head around, screaming through Hemlock. "Is it the bald guy? Wait, Beth. Relax, stop shushing me. I wanna know which guy it is! Is it the guy at 2 o'clock. Okay, wait. Your 2 o'clock or mine? Jesus, Spotswood. I'm just asking. Okay, okay. Wait, is it the guy in the striped shirt?"
This was very similar to the experience of me as a teenager telling my mother I thought someone was cute in church. She might as well have simply approached the pulpit, asked all of the teenage boys to stand, and then said, "Okay, Bethy. Now which one? Who? Standing where? Pam's boy?"
Turns out, I find myself much more irresistible than anyone else, because when I looked up, the smeller had clearly moved on. After the show, I hugged Matthew goodbye.
"Dude, Spotswood. What is that perfume you're wearing?"
"It's Narciso Rodriguez." I replied.
"It's what?" He stared at me and scrunched his nose.
"It's very expensive, is what it is. Why?"
Matt kinda rolled his eyes, looked at me like a big brother looks at his kid sister, and deadpans, "It's just... unusual."

are you busy? i'm 35...

You are a fascinating and interesting person, obviously. It's time to share it with all of San Francisco! And by all of San Francisco, I mean some hipsters at the Hemlock Tavern. I'll be co-hosting Porchlight Storytelling's Open Mic night tonight. AGAIN!

Show starts at 7, and anyone can come down and tell a 5 minute story. Story-tellers get a free drink, and one winner gets $50. PLUS, it's my birthday and Brock's birthday, so you can give us hugs and tell us we look young. I think there's a $5 cover, and also, fair warning, I'm trying out a yellow dress I got at Target. Otherwise, it should be awesome!

also, check than manicure...

On today's Tourist Trapped, Kearstin and I attempt the pedal boats of Stow Lake, and try and find out if the big ruckus over the food concession stand was worth it. Read it now over on SFGate!