oopsie daisy

My Interview with the Bold Italic: The stuff they should've shown

The kind folks at The Bold Italic reached out to me last week asking if I wanted to be featured on their site as a "Found Local." Never one to turn down anything that's ALL ABOUT ME, I, of course, said yes.

Mat Rick, who is one of my new favorite people because he went to the 49ers NFC Championship game all by himself, sent me a list of questions which I diligently answered while in the car on the way to Tahoe. I didn't even let the fact that Campfriend's Jeep killed itself in Auburn deter me.

You can read the actual interview here (it was posted before the brutal 49ers loss in the NFC Championship, so excuse my optimism), but since they couldn't feature all of my answers, I thought I'd post the ones that weren't published here. SF represent.

 

Name: Daisy Barringer

Title: 49ers Fan, Hedonist, Non-Hugger

Neighborhood: Upper Haight, but sometimes I lie and say Cole Valley

Gig: Writer

 

SF is...

Everything I want or need in a city.

 

Where do you get your local gossip (and why)? (blog, paper, etc.)

I wish my answer were the Nob Hill Gazette, but, it’s SFist and Twitter. I’m also a masochist because I love reading the comments on SFGate. That’s not gossip as much as it is inane blather, but it’s just so entertaining.

 

Where's your go-to date place (and why)?

That’s so cute that you think people ask me out on dates.

 

Why do you love your neighborhood? 

Snob alert! I love that I’m two blocks away from Haight Street, but up such a steep hill that I can completely escape the gutter punk kids who are too lazy to make the hike.

 

Where's your secret spot (and why)? 

My 8’ long / 47” deep couch from Restoration Hardware. I should probably say something like The Wave Organ, but I’m pretty unapologetic about the fact that the sloth is my spirit animal. Also, they don’t show “The Real Housewives” at The Wave Organ. But they should, right?

 

What's your favorite under-the-radar SF restaurant (that others may not know about)?

This isn’t exactly under the radar, but I feel like everyone should order the Caesar salad and Chicken for two at Zuni. Oh, and I’m a big fan of ½ price wine nights at Perry’s. I like to go there after the gym to nullify all of my hard work.

 

What's your favorite SF institution (i.e., character, food cart, museum, landmark)?

The Exploratorium. I’ve been going there since I was six. I love that now they have “After Dark” with cocktails, but I’m pretty bummed they’re moving out of The Palace of Fine Arts.

 

What's next for you in your personal world?

I’m paying my therapist a lot of money to try to figure that exact thing out.

 

What's next for you in your work/creative world?

Not sure, but if anyone wants to pay me to write for them, I’m available! (Don’t worry. My therapist and I are totally working on my whole lack of tact and shame thing.)

 

What's next for San Francisco?

I really hope it’s a sixth Lombardi trophy.

 

Ugh. That last answer is really depressing.

 

 

Getting Ready for "The Big One." (Or: Why You Probably Don't Want to Make Home Depot YOUR Meeting Spot)

My mother is a part-owner of the apartment building I reside in. And no, this does not mean I live there for free because she is not the type of woman to give handouts. When I was in sixth grade and I desperately wanted a double-cassette "stereo" with a digital radio and high-speed dub, I had to earn that $140 all by myself, which I did by rolling quarters from her buildings' laundry machines. In hindsight, I should have asked to be paid by the hour, not the roll, but that's the kind of thing you learn when your parent puts you to work.

When I finally had all of the money I needed and only a few blisters on my hands (not really), my mother took me to Macy's to buy my new stereo. I think the fact that I picked my stereo out at MACY'S says something about me, but I don't like what that thing is, so I'm going to move on. I then took it home, plugged it in, and ohmygod you guys: Bon Jovi has never sounded so magical. It also lasted me until my junior year of college, in case you were thinking that shopping for stereo at equipment at Macy's means I'm spoiled.

(Aside: it just occurred to me that considering I bought that thing with my own "hard-earned" cash, it was totally unfair that my mother routinely took it away as a punishment. You know, after grounding me and revoking my phone privileges. Do you know what it's like to be 12 years old without a phone OR Skid Row? I was tormented as a child, to say the least.)

Wow. All I was trying to do there was tell you that my mother is a part-owner of the apartment building I live in. But look at all that extra baggage you got as a free bonus? Yay, I can't afford therapy!

Moving right along: In addition to my mother being a part-owner of the building, my oldest brother is also the manager of the building. He lives on the ground floor; I live on the fourth. This is just enough distance to keep us from ever running into each other's one night stands (RIP: mine), but also means that I can shout to him from my window when pigeons invade my apartment (shudder) and give him my leftovers since I sometimes fear he subsides on beer and beer alone.

They say "no one reads anymore," so I'll make this easy for you. All you need to take away from the above five paragraphs is:

1. My mother is a part-owner of my apartment building and

2. My brother also lives in my building.

3. I no longer have one-night stands. Just kidding. I never had one-night stands. Not because I didn't try but because, seriously, guys are so much needier and more pathetic than they pretend to be. No I don't want to cudddle and then have brunch and see you next week for dinner. GO HOME ALREADY! And did you seriously already request to be my friend on Facebook? You haven't even left the bed for fuck's sake!

ANYHOO. My other brother, Ross, who does not live in or own my apartment building, sent an email out to the family a few months ago outlining a very detailed earthquake plan. If you don't have one, you totally should, but wow, they're super complicated and include things like: designated out of state contacts, primary and secondary meeting places, cards you're supposed to print out and fold up and put in your wallet (oopsie), removing anything hanging above your bed, putting a pair of shoes beneath your bed (broken glass, bitches), flashlights, and, well, you get the point. (Something to think about: It's good to keep about $500 cash in your apartment because if the city loses power, you're not going to be able to get cash and you're going to want some when you start your new life in Nevada which will now have amazing coastal views!)

How did this post start with my first boom box, linger awkwardly over one night stands, and finally land on earthquake safety? Is this what happens when I am left to my own devices and get hopped up on meth? KIDDING: Large black iced tea. I'm SO responsible.

So Ross sends this earthquake plan and designates his apartment in Potrero Hill as our primary meeting spot and the Home Depot in Colma as our secondary spot if, for whatever reason, we can't get to Potrero. His reasoning makes total sense: Potrero will be somewhat easy to get to for everyone and we don't need to cross any (now sinking in the water) bridges to get to Colma. He's so smart. And the Home Depot is OUR meeting spot; get your own. Unless you're bringing wine. Then come! We'll party!

I'm not going to bore you (TOO LATE, DAISY) with the details of Ross' email to the family, but it was very thoughtful and well planned out. All we had to do was nod and say, "Wow, thanks Ross!" and then wonder behind his back if he'd joined a cult.

But guess which member of the family JUST COULD NOT DO THAT? GUESS.

That's right...

My mother responded to the email asking if perhaps we could relocate the meeting spot to somewhere else. Somewhere like... HER home!

I mean. Of course she did.

Later that week, over lunch, I tried to explain to my mother why she should just let it go and leave Ross' apartmen as the meeting spot.

"But my home is just so much NICER. And I have enough beds. And it's really more convienient," she quibbled.

"Well, if that's the argument, then we should all meet at my building. Todd and I both live there and it's the most centrally located," I retorted.

"Oh," she scoffed as though I'd suggested the most inane thing ever. "There's no way your building will survive an earthquake that big."

If only there were someone to do something about that...

The Bicycle Diaries: When good things go wrong and then a stranger gives you strawberries.

When I was a kid, I got a blue ten-speed for my birthday. Owning a bicycle was a requirement in my family since we seriously did things on the weekend like mandatory family bike rides across the Golden Gate Bridge to get ice cream in Sausalito (It sounds far more well-adjusted than it was; I promise). But then I turned fourteen, my mom sent me off to boarding school in Connecticut, and my ten-speed never left the storage room again. And I never owned another bicycle again.

In fact, other than a few beach cruisers here and there (only one of which I fell off of due to severe intoxication—twice, fine! three times), I haven’t really ridden a bike since I was thirteen.

But when I spotted my first PUBLIC bike—the clean lines, the fun colors, the elegant design—I knew I had to have one. Am I a “cyclist?” Hell, no. Do I like pretty things? Absofuckinlutely. Am I basically comparing a bicycle to a handbag? Yes. But a handbag with magical transportation powers!

Campfriend surprised me with the super-fanciest of PUBLIC bikes on my birthday. It was the first time in my life I was ever rewarded for being patient because if I’d bought it on my own, I definitely would have gone for the one that was half the price. I was excited, but also nervous. So nervous, in fact, that the bike just leaned casually (on its kickstand!) in my living room for almost two weeks. And yes, I love that my bicycle has a kickstand; I mean, isn’t that one of the best features of a bike? It’s so James Dean.

Eventually though, I realized that Campfriend probably wanted me to, you know, actually RIDE the bike, so we set out on an adventure through Golden Gate Park. And then we rode through the oldest redwoods in the world. And then by the Truckee River in Tahoe. Turns out the bike wasn’t just pretty, but it was fun. And practical! Like a vacuum cleaner, but BETTER.

Despite all our adventures, however, two months had passed and I still hadn’t ridden the bike (how to say this without sounding like a kindergartener?) without adult supervision. (Shit. Failed.) So when my dinner plans on Tuesday night were in a neighborhood with horrible parking and just far enough away that I didn’t want to walk, it hit me: That’s a place a bicycle could go!

So I looked up the flattest route on BikeMapper, grabbed my helmet and lock, and rode the 1.2 miles to the restaurant. ALL. BY. MYSELF.

And yes, I had to text my brother and Campfriend to find out how I was supposed to lock the bike. And yes, I basically panicked the entire dinner because I couldn’t see it and why WOULDN’T someone try to steal it. And if they didn’t steal IT, wouldn’t they probably try to steal my adorable red bell that perfectly matches my brake cable? And, fine, when I left and a pedestrian complimented me on my bike as I rode across the intersection, I *may* have said, “Thanks! It’s the first time I’ve ridden it alone!”

Who’s a big girl now? WHO IS?

But it was actually fun. And efficient. And so much faster than driving.

So when I went to meet my friend Matt for dinner the next night at a restaurant that was only 1.7 miles away from my house, I decided it was time to take my bicycle out for our second night of alone time. Yup, I move fast. Which probably isn't something I had to tell you since you *are* reading my blog.

Riding to the restaurant was easy. A ton of downhill, very little traffic, and the only issue I had was when I realized that because I’m on a bicycle, I now talk to strangers. For example: to the man rushing to jaywalk in front of me: “Oh! Don’t worry! I won’t hit you!” because the thing about riding a bike is, you're flying down the street, the wind is in your hair (that is obviously mostly covered with your helmet) and it just feels good and that makes me super friendly. Who knew? Also: awkward!

After a delicious dinner during which I found out that I’d been holding a serious grudge against Matt for something that never even actually happened (oopsie!), I got back on my bicycle, waved at Matt and rode away while literally yelling, “LOOK AT ME! I’M RIDING A BIKE!” 

Thirty seconds later? BAM! A car rear-ended me while I was at a complete stop at a red light and I flew off of my bicycle and slammed onto the pavement.

Yup, that’s right. I rode my bike all by myself TWICE and was hit by a car.

The police and fire engine were there within minutes and, luckily, the bicycle’s injuries were far worse than mine. I was shaken up, pretty sore, and crying like I’d just found out they cancelled “My So-Called Life,” but ultimately, I was going to be okay.

Police reports were filed, information exchanged, and Gina, the woman who hit me, even gave us two baskets of organic strawberries she’d just picked. Apparently, in San Francisco, getting hit by a car comes with party favors. I love this town! 

As night fell, the fire truck drove away, I shook hands with the police officers, and, finally, it was just the three of us—me, Matt, and Gina—waiting for my brother, Todd, to come pick me up. I was still sniffling, Gina was still apologizing profusely, and Matt? He turned to Gina and said:

“I have to say: A lot of Daisy’s friends want to ram her in the ass, but I never thought I'd see a stranger just go ahead and do it.”

And then he popped a strawberry in his mouth and said, "Wow. These are delicious." Which, to be fair, they were.

Drew & I Pontificate on Life in Marin

Me: "Campfriend" wants to live in Marin when he grows up.

Drew: Marin is nice. It's sunny. I'd like to be able to go there sometimes.

Me: It is.

Drew: It's too bad they don't let BART go there.

Me: Yeah. Why is that? Because they don't want poor people there?

Drew: Yeah.

Me: (nodding thoughtfully) Makes sense...

Conversations About Coachella (OR: Why I Will Always Be a Misanthrope)

This morning on the bus, I was subjected to a conversation between a boy who'd just returned from Coachella and a boy he was holding hostage his friend. In case you live in the midwest a cave, Coachella is a three day music festival full of sin and disease where your children will mostly likely die. Anyway, this boy either had a life-changing experience at this event you couldn't pay me five million dollars to attend or he stood way too close to the speakers when Cee Lo Green was rocking out singing his over-played Top 40 hit because his voice was so loud every single person on MUNI was forced to hear each riveting painful detail of his indie rock it-has-to-have-jumped-the-shark-by-now festival experience.

But since you're all smart enough not to commute using MUNI, you missed it. Which is why I was careful to take copius notes, so that I could share each and every glorious minute with you. I'm even throwing in my commentary as an added bonus. I know. Always giving, always giving...

And with no further ado, I present The Most Amazing Conversation I've Heard on the Bus...This Month.

****

"So yeah, I came back from Coachella and I just picked up all of these new habits there. Like habits I'm totally going to keep. Like, I dunno, I'm SUPER into hydrating now. Like I drink tons of water. So much water. And, you know, I go barefoot at the office now. Because, it's just so much better to be barefoot. And hey, why not?"

I'll tell you why not you wannabe dirty hipster. You just said you work in an office. You know what an office is? It's a place where you show up and someone pays you to do work for their company. Part of the agreement when they offer to pay you is that you'll come in to said office looking presentable. And, yes, in the last twenty years, presentable has sadly morphed from a button-down and slacks to t-shirts and jeans (even shorts in some offices and even *gasp* jean cut off shorts in others, like, you know, mine), but at no point in time did the corporate overlords say, "You know what we should start? No-shoes Tuesdays!" So keep your effing shoes on. No one wants to see or smell your socks and feet. Seriously.

Good job with the hydrating though. Keep it up!

"I really miss the bathrooms at Coachella. I just miss taking a shower there. Taking a shower in the desert, you're just like RARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR. You know? RARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR! And everyone was just so nice in the shower. Like some guy forgot his shampoo, so he asked if anyone could lend him some. And another guy said, 'Sure, I'll just squirt some over the wall and onto you head.' Like, how cool is that? Showering in the desert. RARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR."

So let me get this right. You miss taking a shower in a trailer in a tiny stall next to a bunch of other people. Which, I hate to break it to you, hardly counts as showering in the desert. I'm not going to make some homophobic comment here about how that's the one thing you really miss, but I am going to ask that, going forward, you refrain from talking about showering en masse in a trailer and then follow it with RARRRRRRRRRRRRR. Thank you for all that you do.

"So you know all of those videos you see of girls crying hysterically at Justin Beiber concerts?"

[I'll just pause while that last part sinks in. Because, no, no I do not know all those videos I see of girls crying hysterically at Justin Beiber concerts. Seeing as how YouTube has videos of baby sloths reaching for cameras and monkeys riding pigs and magical double rainbows, I've never found a reason to spend an evening watching Justin Beiber videos. Also, now I'm really confused as to why you were at Coachella...]

"I never understood that. I mean, how could those girls be screaming and crying like that? Just, you know, over Justin Beiber? But then...Brandon Flowers came on stage and that's exactly how I was. I mean, like, to just hear Brandon Flowers sing 'Mr. Brightside' live. It was so amazing. So intense. Just so overwhelming. I was just like those Justin Beiber girls."

"'I was just like those Justin Beiber girls.' The fact that you're willing to admit this makes me both love and loathe you simultaneously. Come to think of it, it's really weird we're not dating.

"Have you heard of The National? Well no one I was with wanted to see them, so I went by myself and pushed my way through the crowd to try to get to the front. And I got really close. Like there were only  two people between me and the barricade. And then they started singing my favorite song. And Matt Berninger, you know the singer, climbed onto the barricade. And he reached his hand out into the crowd. So I grabbed it. And he was singing 'Mr. November' and I was holiding his hand while singing the lyrics. It was like, wow. Holding his hand, you know. And singing along. It was a religious experience. It was just so intense.

And then after it was over, I wandered away and Duran Duran was playing. And I bummed a cigarette from some girl. And I was off to the side. Just trying to process what happened. And I started crying. Just really, you know, crying."

There are no words. There simply are no words.

"So yeah. Eleven more months and 26 days..."

Crossing the days off my calendar. Crossing the days off my calendar...