oopsie daisy

Proud to Be an American

Once again, I find myself casually "not" dating a dude. Apparently guys see me and think, "Now there's a girl I'd like to email sporadically and see once every couple of weeks!" and then I drool and pant like an eager puppy if and when they do think to invite me out to a meal or, more accurately, drinks at 11 p.m. on a Friday night when they're already wasted and need someone to laugh at their jokes and do Jager shots with them. Truly, it is charming and I can tell I am on my way to blissful and eternal happiness with my soul mate. I'm a lucky girl like that.

The good thing about the steady flow of non-dudes in my life is that it leaves me plenty of time to do - whatever the hell I want to do - which lately, is surfing. On Saturday, the waves were almost non-existent up and down the coast, which meant it was the perfect time for me to try surfing at Ocean Beach. For those of you who aren't familiar with San Francisco, Ocean Beach is known for being constantly enveloped in fog, as well as its powerful (and terrifying) waves and rip currents. Basically: chicks who have only been out three times should not be surfing at Ocean. UNLESS, of course, it's the rare occasion where the waves at Ocean are only 1-2'. Which, last Saturday, was exactly the case.

Despite the small waves (and I'll be damned if I actually saw any waves that were under 2' which may not sound big until you are paddling out and one is headed right towards you poised to crash directly on your head), my experience at Ocean Beach was totally exhausting. By the time I'd paddled out, I thought my arms were going to fall off. There was no way to tell which directions the waves were going, mostly because they were going in all directions. And when we finally decided it was time to head in, there was truly a point when I thought I would never touch land again. I'd been slammed into the water more times than I could count, my arms were so tired they wouldn't have been able to lift the last beer on earth to my lips, and I'd swallowed so much of the acrid sea-water, I was convinced I was going to sink my board and find my final resting place on the murky ocean floor.

What on earth does any of this have to do with the latest non-boy? Well after I finally did return to dry land, the non-boy called to check in, which I guess is what non-boys do when they've made zero effort to see you since the 4th of July when they drunkenly removed their American Flag t-shirt in front of the entire bar (oh wait, I've divulged too much, haven't I?).

Anyway, the non-boy and I were talking about Ocean Beach and I pointed out that it was a far cry from the puppies and rainbows that is Bolinas. And he made the astute observation that while Bolinas is like surfing with unicorns, Ocean Beach is more like surfing in unicorn blood, and I said, Exactly! I feel as though I am drenched in the blood of virgin unicorns... and then he told me he was busy for the next seventeen months and that maybe we would hang out in 2012 right before the Mayan-predicted Apocalypse. And I giggled and said "absence makes the heart grow fonder" and then drank a bottle of white wine while soaking in a hot bubble bath of my own tears.

So, anyway. I sent the non-boy an email yesterday about a book he'd suggested I read, and this is how he responded:

"Check out today’s horoscope. Pretty funny in light of Saturday’s conversation.
 
Seeking and finding true love might sound as possible to you as capturing a unicorn right about now, but you shouldn't get bitter about your search. Romance isn't an easy thing to conjure. Do your own thing until Cupid catches up."

I, of course, responded as any girl would:

"I'm a little scared to ask, but where do you go to read your daily horoscope? SuperFuckingGay.com?"

But that is not the point. Nor are the elusive unicorns. Or the fact that I am obsessed with surfing even though I suck and almost die every time I go out. Or the fact that non-boy not only wore an American Flag t-shirt on the 4th of July, but also removed it. In public. No, none of those tidbits of amazement are what concern me. What concerns me is that CLEARLY THIS DUDE WAS BLOWING ME OFF. Via a, I almost can't bring myself to say it, yahoo horoscope! (He replied to my email with a two-word response: "yahoo horoscopes." Apparently he didn't think "SuperFuckingGay.com" was that funny. I don't care though. Because it was.)

And so I did what any girl who received such an email would do... I opened my calendar to 2012, and put a big red "X" through our drinks date. And then I called the wedding planner and told her to cancel the location I'd booked. Because you know what? If he's going to do his own thing until Cupid catches up, then SO I AM.

And if you've been paying any attention at all, then you should know exactly where you'll find me this weekend... That's right. Waiting by the phone for the 11 p.m. call. Dreaming of Jager and unicorn blood and American Flag t-shirts...

The Right to Shoes

I have a humble request to make of all people who might ever throw a house party. If you are going to INSIST that people remove their shoes, please kindly warn your guests of that fact in the invitation. It is absolutely not okay to catch people completely off guard when they enter your home by requiring them to cruise around barefoot. In fact, let's be honest, asking people to remove their shoes in cases other than extreme rain/mud or snow is pretty ridiculous.

Several reason why people may want to keep their shoes one:

• Shoes can make or break an outfit. (As seen on the episode of Sex & the City where this very topic is brooched.)
• Broken glass.
• Linoleum. Sorry, but my feet have decided there is no reason for them to ever have to touch linoleum again. For as long as I live. Seriously. Also, if you have linoleum floors, you are in no position to require people to do anything, much less remove their shoes.
• Women often wear sandals or heels without socks. I have zero desire to have the crumbs from your midnight cookie feista covering your kitchen floors stuck to the heel of my bare foot or, even worse, getting caught between my toes.
• This never happens to me (obvi), but some girls are remiss on their pedicures. They cover this fact up by wearing closed-toe shoes. I know I certainly don't want to see chipped toenails, and I can't imagine anyone else does either.
• Dudes have ugly feet 90% of the time. Looking at their feet will cause me to lose my appetite and throw up. Simultaneously. What is worse? The soles of my shoes touching your carpet or cleaning up chunks of my vomit?
• Cold weather.
• Hairy toes.
• And finally: Webbed feet. They are more common than you'd think. Pay close attention.

Frankly, I think people who insist on shoe-removal-upon-entry are sort of toeing the line (oh yeah, I went there). In fact, I walked into a party a few weeks ago, got to the top of the stairs, saw it was a "take your shoes off" soiree, and instead of doing so, simply turned around, and walked right back out the front door. Perhaps had the host been offering some kind of slipper, I would have stayed, but the idea of my bare foot on this dude's bathroom floor was just more than I could stomach. Plus, I had on super-cute new sandals and they did not want to be left next to all the hipster sneakers lined up in the hallway.

I guess if you really, truly feel it is your right to insist people remove their shoes upon entry to your home, you should move to China. Or even Canada. But here in America, we have the right to shoes. And I'd like to keep it that way.

Thank you for all that you shoe.

4th of July Surfing Safari

In case you missed the tweet...

Driving up Highway 1 on the 4th of July looking for a surf spot since Bolinas wasn't letting cars into their town for the day. I'm sitting shotgun. My friend, Matt, is behind the wheel. If you've never been on Highway 1 in California before, you don't know that it is possibly the most beautiful highway of all. Every five minutes you feel like you're in a completely different world... It's redwoods and damp air and green moss one minute... Golden dunes and sweet sticky air the next... Humid lagoons with frolicking seals and pelicans and rocky beaches and a salt water breeze... and then ten miles later... Rolling pastures and black and white cows and the musty smell of farmland...

We saw jumping elk (it's possible we made this name up), horses, cows, seals, pelicans, egrets, hawks, sheep, llamas... and:

At one point I saw a bunny hopping across the road.

"Bunny!" I squealed and pointed forward. "Bunny, bunny bunny, bunny!!!!" It was tiny and covered in soft white fur. I was mesmerized by its cuteness. "Bunny!" I cooed.

And then...

The truck in front of us ran over the bunny. And it's little hind legs twitched in the air.

"Buuuuunnnnnnnnnnnnyyyyyyyyyyyy....."

Things I Learned This Weekend or: My Rafting/Napa Trip with 6 Boys

1. Some people should never karaoke. Boys, especially, should not take the part of Princess Jasmine in Alladin's "A Whole New World." No matter how many whiskeys they've consumed prior. Also, you should not pout for an entire day that YOU didn't get to be Princess Jasmine even though you were the only girl and it was the obvious choice.

2. That being said: if you ever ARE staying at the Travelodge in Auburn, you will not want to miss Lou La Bonte's Restaurant (and karaoke bar), established in 1946, and home of the underage waitress who, when removing your pie plate, will say things like, "Sir? Do you want to lick it?"

3. You can meet a woman who seems like she just may be the sweetest girl on earth, but then she will surprise you with a story about the time she suffocated a cat. Because she has the biggest muscles and fake boobs you've ever seen, you'll smile and nod and pretend like this is normal.

4. Of course, this will immediately lead to an hour-long conversation about autoerotic aspyhsixiation, which is something 250 - 1000 people die of every year in the U.S.

5. If your river guide yells "BUMP!" that is code for "Hold On." If you don't hold on, you will fall out of the boat. If this happens ten minutes into a 7 hour rafting trip, you will feel like an ass. That being said, there is no better cure for a vodka/karaoke hangover than immediately falling out of the raft and into the freezing cold river. Plus, you get to be rescued. And if you didn't get to be the princess at karaoke the night before, thsi will sort of make up for it.

6. When your river guide is swimming next to you in the water and comments on how the water is warmer than he expected, you don't absolutely HAVE to tell him that is because you're in the midst of peeing.

7. Also: If you river guide asks if you want to play a game called "Let's See If It Fits," you will be very disappointed after you eagerly exclaim "OK!" to find out that "It" is the raft... and he means between two rocks.

8. Just because the septic tank at the Napa house is fully disfunctional and the emergency plumber is in Reno does not mean you must abort the trip. Peeing in nature is actually quite enjoyable. And a swimming pool is just as good as a shower for rinsing off post-river. That being said, there is nothing more disgusting than sewage covered showers. For the record.

9. A Pauly's Island hammock can hold over 600 pounds of human weight.

10. If you are playing drunken late-night croquet, and someone calls you incompetent, you might not be able to stop yourself from throwing your mallet at his head - tomahawk style - 40 feet across the lawn. Of course, you will miss because you weren't *really* aiming for his head, but you will, however, snap the mallet in two. Also: You will sort of want to kill yourself the next day when he spends thirty minutes trying to fix said mallet.

Hodge: A Damn Fine Name for A Damn Fine Cat

I was in a wretched mood yesterday. It started with an annoying email first thing in the morning and just progressed from there. It seemed no one was listening, even fewer people were understanding, and I was on the verge of a full-fledged meltdown. When a co-worker mimicked the way I said "Hi-eee" when I passed him coming into the office, I almost through my 6" Subway sandwich at his head. And he's really a nice guy. Who absolutely does not deserve spicy mustard and pickles slammed into his face. Or shredded lettuce in his hair. Or slimy turkey stuck to his t-shirt. (Plus, I was hungry.)

And no matter what I did, my day just keep getting worse. After the MUNI driver kicked me off the train ("THIS IS THE LAST STOP! PLEASE EXIT THE TRAIN!") and then drove back in the direction I was going (I get on at the last/first stop), I seriously started crying. It was all just too much.

I was sending text messages that only a crazy girl would send. "Sorry I took my bad mood out on you." followed less than five minutes later with, "Not that you GIVE A SHIT anyway!" I saw the mental hospital in my immediate future. I was on a one-way train to Crazy Town. Except the FUCKING TRAIN LEFT WITHOUT ME.

So I did what any girl would do and asked my best friend to come into the city and have dinner with me at Zazie. I figured if my best friend and Zazie couldn't get me out of my funk, at least I would know my only other option was shock therapy. Which, frankly, was starting to sound rather appealing.

But dinner was good. And I decided to hold off on the straight jacket and padded cell for at least another day. And I was tired and sated and feeling lucky to at least have one friend who was willing to sit there and listen. Even though I was telling the same sob story for the seventeenth time.

After dinner, Maura drove me back up the hill and came to a stop in front of my building. "What's that?" she asked and pointed to what looked like some kind of bag moving in the street.

"I think it's just a bag or something," I said.

But she thought it was something else, so we drove up a few yards to investigate.

And it wasn't a bag. Nor was it a raccoon. It was someone's kitty. Who had just been hit by a driver who didn't even bother to stop.

For once, I'll spare you the excessive details, but I put my hand on him and saw that he was still breathing... but clearly he was taking his last breaths. So I did the only thing I could do - pet his warm, soft body so that he'd know he wasn't alone - until he finally stopped struggling and died.

Someone called Animal Control. And while we waited for them to show up, Maura and I directed traffic and buses around the cat's limp body. The police showed up and told us not to touch him, but just to keep doing what we were doing until someone from Animal Control got there. And so despite the exasperated looks, and the one driver who actually sped up and flashed his brights at us, we stood in the middle of the street and pointed the cars to "go around." We couldn't save the cat, but there was no way were going to let him get run over again.

About twenty minutes or so later, a neighbor came to see what was going on. They recognized the cat and said they thought their neighbor would know to whom he belonged.

Within moments, a barefoot couple in their pajamas ran out into the street sobbing. The man scooped the cat up and cradled him in his arms while they both cried. "Oh honey, oh honey," he kept saying to his wife who was too shocked to speak.

We let them grieve alone for a few minutes, but finally approached them to tell them what had happened. We apologized again and again. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry there wasn't more we could do."

But they were grateful we'd been there with him. That someone had comforted him while he was dying. And that we'd protected his body from being hit again.

We told them Animal Control was on their way. And they sat on the sidewalk, holding their dead cat, and crying.

"I'm so sorry," I apologized one last time. "I'm so sorry there wasn't more we could do."

"You did everything you could," the man said. "And we're so thankful for that."

"What was his name?" I asked.

"Hodge."

"Bye Hodge," I said. "You were a good cat."

And I'll admit what I'm about to say next is incredibly selfish, but as I walked away, leaving the barefoot couple in the shadows clinging to their dead cat, tears streaming down my face, it hit me how wrong it was of me to waste an entire day of my life with a terrible mood that affected everyone around me. And how it just wasn't worth it. And how every moment spent moping or pouting is a moment I'm not living my life in the way that I want to.

And it's sad that it took such a terrible accident to remind me of that, but sometimes I'm stubborn and shitty that way.

And Hodge was a good kitty. Who was clearly so loved and will be missed by everyone who knew him. And even though I met him under tragic circumstances, I just know now that I am lucky to have met him at all.

Happy Father's Day!

To celebrate Father's Day this year, I'm having matching stickers made for me and my dad to put on our cars! I think he's REALLY going to like it.

The Obligatory "Sorry for not posting" Post

It's not that I don't want to post; it's that every day I try to think of something to write about and I realize I have nothing funny or interesting to contribute to the blogosphere (lamest word ever).

The thing is, I guess, life is pretty good. Except the parts which are totally sucking, but unfortunately, due to my readership, I can't bitch about *certain things* that are bumming me out, and frankly, who wants to read a big wank fest about how I'm unsatisfied or whatever. (And no, this has nothing to do with sex. I'd TOTALLY write about that, and you know it.)

Actually, that part of my life is going OK. I even had a boy text message me a few weeks ago: "Watcha doing later? Want to come over and jump me?"

Clearly this was a HUGE breakthrough... and so FORWARD of him! That's the kind of text messaging I can really get behind. Or on top of. Or both.

Sadly, it was followed shortly thereafter with, "I have jumper cables if you don't."

Yup, he was asking me if I wanted to jump start his car. Not his heart. Or his penis.

Which totally didn't bother me after three tequila shots and a valium.

But yeah, things are good. I will do my best to totally destroy that in the next few days so that I have fodder again with which to entertain you. After all, my happiness only brings joy to one person: me. My self-destruction? Now that's fun for the whole family!

Just Sprayin'...

My mother has met a new man. I have not met this man and know almost nothing about him because, well, at the risk of sounding like an awful daughter (ha!), when it comes to my mom's boyfriends, there's just no point in getting to know them because by the time you've met once, she's already decided she's just not that into him anymore. This is a woman who actually sings the song "Someday My Prince Will Come" in refence to dating.

Clearly I handle this better now that I'm my *ahem* late 20s than I did when I was six. While it's not her fault I had to live through a parade of Neils, Franks, Richs, Harveys and Bobs, a girl can only get attached to so many potential daddies before learning it's best to just be a total brat and make them hate you immediately. However, since brattiness is no longer an option (oh god, I am hilarious), my brothers and I agree that the only way to handle the introduction of one of our mother's new men into our lives is to shake his hand politely, scream "YOU'RE NOT MY FATHER!" into his face, and run sobbing from the room.

The new boyfriend has NO idea what he's in for this weekend.

All of that being said, the new boyfriend has taken to emailing me somewhat frequently. It's actually all rather cute because it is quite clear he adores my mother and wants to make her life - and especially her upcoming birthday - all the more special.

And so when I mentioned the possibility of a birthday slide show, he was very eager to send me photographs he'd taken of my mom. After all, he is a professional photographer. I thanked him kindly and said that would be great, and he immediately sent me one of her sitting by the pool in Napa. Since this was so thoughtful of him, I decided to completely overlook the email that accompanied the photo:

"Also one of her being served brunch in bed, rose on a tray, fresh fruit, tea, Sunday NYT, etc. The Pampered Princess, if you want to take a look..."

Uh, NO New Boyfriend, I absolutely 100% do NOT want to take a look at a picture you took of my mother while serving her breakfast in bed. Would YOU like a picture of me vomitting onto my computer? That's what I thought.

After that, the email correspondence slowed as there was really no reason for us to communicate... Until I saw this email in my in-box last night. And I quote, verbatim:

"I am thinking of giving your mom a surprise message for her bidet, relieve some of the stress, anticipation, details, and bigger stuff. Might be good to chill for a bit."

Yes, "a surprise MESSAGE for her BIDET."

Now here's the scary thing. My mom actually does have a bidet in her bathroom in Napa. I'm just not sure what the surprise message New Boyfriend wants to give it is.

"Hot water surprise!"

"Moonshine Ass-Blast!"

"COFFEE ENEMAS ALL AROUND!"

The huge bummer is that clearly this dude's present for her 60th birthday is going to completely clobber any ideas I'd had.

I mean, let's face it:I simply cannot beat an Anal Sneak Attack.

High Skool Girls Love Their 40 Ounces

This is my friend Meredith:

And THIS... this is Meredith's fake ID from high school.

I truly hope this brings you as much pleasure as it brings me.

A Post with a Happy Ending.

I'm sitting here thinking about how my shoulders are aching and how I would really love a back rub... and how the chances of my getting a free back rub any time in the near future are pretty much nonexistent. Because unlike 6th grade when we'd sit on the floor in a line during film strips and tickle each other's backs, once you become an adult, you either pay for a massage at a spa, or you get one from your significant other.

But here's the rub (sorry, couldn't resist): The boyfriend back massage is never really about the actual massage. I mean, let's face it. If he's giving rubbing your back, he has one thing in mind - and it is not getting that tight knot out that's been bugging you all week. It's not about helping you relax, or aiding you in getting over a hard day. No... the boyfriend massage is about something different altogether and lasts for about .2 seconds before he's trying to flip you over and massage your boobs. With his penis.

Or, even worse, on the rare occasion that he actually does finish your massage... then it's your turn. To give him one. And you will be shocked to learn: Not a big fan of the whole giving massages thing.

Which is the best part about going to the spa. You get a full body rub-down with zero complaining and no worrying about when the masseuse is going to get bored and start asking you for sex. Plus, when they're finished, they don't take off all their clothes and get on the table. They just leave the room and let you relax. In peace. Alone.