Thursday, April 30, 2009

All week long I bitched

About attending this artsy event Clay had signed us up for tonight.* I've been moody and thundercloudy and headachey all week, which has unfortuntely coincided with needing to get a lot of shit done. Don't even get me started on the "Family Story" project I completely fabricated. I think I really nailed my cousin's voice best. (You had some great lines, Christie!)

(*Last month he met a board member of an SF artistic company in first class, flying back from work. He wowed the guy with all his wowey ideas and suddenly wham bam we're his special guests at a gala?! What up, things that would never happen to me?)

Why so brat-tastic? Because it was tonight and we're moving tomorrow and I wasn't going to know anybody and I can be super socially awkward when I'm tired and hormonal and didn't we just want to sit on the couch and listen to Dr. Huang talk about serial killers over a nice bowl of Kashi before we passed out on top of all the boxes and dust?

But we were committed, so we got dolled up (thank you, navy blue Banana silk dress I bought two years ago that I've worn to every single formal event since) and headed out. And you know what? My curmudgeonly, crabapple butt actually had a lovely time. And may have found something creative and exciting to get behind and give some time to. More details at a later date.

For now, I throw at you a favor. Because all I ever hear at these things is a question that makes me blush and stutter and probably convince them I'm in the CIA:

"And what do you do?"

What the eff should I say?

I've worked in special education, publishing, advertising, customer marketing. I write, I'm taking (not brag-able) classes, I like hot baths. Oh, and I'm jobless. There's just no cute little answer for it. ("I'm a plumber!")

You guys are smart and witty and helpful and pretty. Help?

Congrats Michaela Sue!


Michaela, getting down at our wedding last summer. Isn't she so purty? We met in sixth grade. We used to get detentions together for skipping English to buy frappes. She was my bridesmaid.

And now she's gonna be a BRIDE! Couldn't be happier for you, friendy. XO to the infinity.

In other news, tomorrow is moving day. I'm losing my mind. I've been wearing the same purple sweatpants for five days now. Bear with my short posts for a lil while longer? Hearts and kisses.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

I have a lot of homework to do

But that doesn't sound fun. Posting pics of Clay being mauled by cats does.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

You can't stump Bruce

So the Bruce concert was pretty effing great. It was such raw American-ness; in the good, old fashioned way. And it was touching how deeply people were feeling it. Woah.

Here's a funny video from the stump-the-band segment Sunday night. Someone held a sign that said Bruce couldn't play "96 Tears" -- to which he replied:

"You don’t think we know ‘96 fuckin’ Tears?"

It made me giggle. I especially like his dance moves here. Let's hope I can rock like that when I'm almost-60.

I'll start with the pap smears

Because I was trying to construct a post that enveloped the crazy ride over there (lightning hit the control tower at Atlanta's airport when we were a few hundred miles away mid-air; I was re-routed to Memphis, Clay to Birmingham, we somehow met up that night oy), my day as a Midwife sidekick, all the foods we ate, the cats and Bruce Springsteen. But that was overwhelming me. So we'll start with the sidekick part.

Now to make sense of this, you should know awhiles back I was seriously considering Midwifery. I'm fascinated by women's health, I love me some babies, and it seemed like a good confluence of my people skills and left-brainedness. But turns out to become a Certified Nurse Midwife, you need to dedicate lots of years of your life to getting trained, work long, on-call, overnight shifts, and deal with needles. I still haven't ruled it out entirely, but I just realized I'd be overwhelmed with envy every time I checked a baby's heartbeat and I didn't have my own. (Uh, baby not heartbeat.)

And that's the background.

So Stephanie - whom we were visiting along with Jonathan in their ridiculously charming house in Atlanta's ridiculously charming Inman Park - is an (amazing) CNM. Talk about respect, yo; I've got it in heeps for her. When I was going crazy last fall deciding whether to pursue this or not, she was a super helpful resource, answering all my frantic questions and worries. Even though I've decided -- at least for now -- not to pursue this track, she offered to take me along with her to work on Friday. Even though it meant being out the door at 10 till 8 (meaning 10 till 5 Pacific time) and we'd come in insanely late the night before -- I was in.

I'll tell you straight away, I didn't see any babies getting their born on. This was a clinic day for Steph, and although we were hoping for a quick zip over to the hospital to catch a birth in action, it didn't time out. Fine with me, though, since I saw plenty of, uh, new things to last me quite a while.

I want to be clear here. I wasn't just hanging in the Reception area, or looking at files and sitting on a stool waiting. I was IN THE EXAM ROOM with her, looking at EVERYTHING, nodding and smiling, freaking out a smidgen inside. To get me in the room we, uh, sort of fibbed that I'm a nursing student. Shhh. Shhhhh.

I won't go into any crazy details because, well, I realize I'm sort of unusual in that I love all this stuff. And also because I need to respect the lovely ladies I saw (and who ALL wished me luck in nursing school - can you say guilt trip?!) and keep it private. Happy to share some stories in person or over email, but we'll keep it PG on here.

So! Now you all know what I was doing on Friday. Peering up vaginas and eating pizza for lunch.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

If you move to California


You need to sign a document promising you will love and inhale all the avocados put in your face upon arrival. Luckily, I already adored me some green goop, but you're in a troubling spot if you don't. This state has an obsession I've never seen matched by any other state with any other fruit.

They're everywhere, they are on everything, they might grow legs one day and take over. You can get all fancy with them, smushing them up and making guac, or in a bowl with grapefruit and arugula. But I like mine real simp, eaten right out of the skin with lots of salt and pepper, like a tiny little bowl Mother Nature thoughtfully made me and my opposable thumbs.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Senioritis


So we're moving on May One, which is close -- but not close enough. (Our car got broken into AGAIN, the oven coil exploded and is broked, the dishwasher refuses to use the soap we feed it, we take showers in knee-high water because the drain's busted, and on and on and on...)

We're going away this weekend, which means we'll lose those packing days and need to shake a leg a little early -- but it's still too early to pack everything up. Sure, I can pack up vases and books, but not all my clothes or pans yet. We have all these boxes laying around and we're halfheartedly filling them, but mostly just tripping over them on our way to the couch and a nap.

Clay nailed it when he said we've got Senioritis. We're done with this nonsense, have bigger things ahead of us, and graduation's right around the corner. But it's not tomorrow and we still need to turn in a few papers and show up to class.

The ultimate excuse for everything has become "But we're MOV-ing!"

It's why I still haven't unpacked my bag from Tahoe, we can't see the bedroom floor, I've eaten 12 popsicles in 12 hours, I watched Pee Wee's Big Adventure at midnight, and our pizza burned.

Also adding to the madness? It's ninety eleven degrees outside, which our delicate San Francisco constitutions cannot handle. It's been difficult to find the words to write this post, because we've only used the following four since Sunday: I'M, HOT, MELTING, HELP.

Sunday, April 19, 2009

You wouldn't believe me if I told you

How much four months of Clay's travel expenses add up to.

One pile of many. Large mug for spatial reference.

Tired husband. Into hour four of entering moneys we didn't know we had into spreadsheet. (Note the shorts and tee! It's been H-O-T here, yo. Happens 'bout once a year - like me sleeping through the night.)

We watched a lot of this to get through it.

Froyo on us!

Saturday, April 18, 2009

Tofubulous


For most of my days I've been in the "Tofu is a Satanic Creation" camp. Back when I dated the arty types, I had a few boyfriends who insisted I try it and love it. It's not a coincidence they are now in my Ex Files. But then one day last fall, down the street at our neighborhood Thai place, something strange came over me. I ordered pad see ew (also known as: The Best Dish On Earth) with tofu instead of chicken. And it was PERFECTION.

But I knew I couldn't just run out and whip up some yummy tofu lickey split, because these restaurant people had practice, right? Making tofu taste good could not be an easy task, because why had so many failed me before?

So I did my research. I asked my Twitter friends, I asked my real life friends, I asked the Internets at large. And I made it happen, people. I made it happen ree-aal goooood.






Friday, April 17, 2009

Beauty School Dropout


Clay had a work dinner thing tonight so I checked the Internets for something fun and theatery to do solo. I like going alone to movies, dance shows, plays and the like because I get too worked up when my companion doesn't like what I like or likes what I don't. This way, everyone in the car agrees and everyone goes home happy. I'm ve-ry easygoing.

So what'd I end up doing? I went to "Grease" at the Golden Gate Theater downtown. Not because I was dying to see it (I've certainly had my fill and over the years it's become a way-dumbed-down, cleaned-up, tourist-approved shadow of its former self), but because Taylor Hicks was playing Teen Angel -- and the harmonica. The show didn't rock, but he did. I can't help it, people, I find the dude sexy. Check him in those sparkly duds!

Soul Pat-rol!

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Since snowboarding two weeks ago

My wrists - both, thanks - have been smarting. (Underused vocab #453!)

Since it's been a bunch of days and it's not going away, and since wrists are sort of important if you want to be a Typer of Things, I thought I'd get it checked out.

As you know, I love my doctor. He's so chatty and from-another-time-esque. Here's how our conversation went:

"Well, hello there. Why are you visiting me today?"
"I busted up my wrists snowboarding."
"Ah, the day started sunny and beautiful, the snow like powdered sugar. But by 11, it was all mush and tumbles."
"Uh..."

He then played with my wrists and fingers and pretended he was an old lady shaking my hand to demonstrate what would happen to my tendons one day.

"Well! You've really done a number on these things. How do you sleep at night?"
"Uh..."
"This is how I sleep." *Tucks wrists under his neck in a Glamour Shots pose.*
"Oh, me too. And under my stomach. My arms go numb a lot."
"Yes, yes. That's called Drunkard Syndrome. We basically paralyze ourselves every night!"
"Oh!"

Then he talked to me about his favorite mnemonic device to remember the hand bones.

Some Lovers Try Positions That They Can't Handle

Then he took out his anatomy text book and showed me the corresponding bones.

"Yeah! I've still got it. I could so pass that test."
"Ha. So...what should I do about the pain and stuff?"
"Ski!"

He also ordered up some x-rays under a leaded apron, which are always a delight. I may have a tiny fracture, but it's probably just a sprain or three. I'll get the results in a day or two. Stay tuned, lovers.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Peeps: A History and Gallery

I always received Peeps in my Mom's lovingly-crafted Easter baskets. (Seriously, they were great and continued all the way through college and afterwards. Bags-I-still-use-they're-so-cute instead of baskets, Godspell on CD, headbands, no white chocolate -- heaven!)

I always liked them just fine, somewhere in between a Cadbury egg (creme filled, NOT caramel, what an abomination) and a hollow chocolate bunny. But it wasn't until my high school chemistry teacher, Mr...Mr...?? Help, Michaela?? What was his name?! Old age has officially set in. Moving on while I weep.

It wasn't until Mr. Cute But Dull Chemistry Teacher Man dedicated a class to the Peep and its chemical makeup that I truly fell in love. How had I missed all its glorious virtues? Why had I forsaken it for the more easily loveable egg?

His finale consisted of a solitary Peep, placed on a plate into the microwave. Time set to thirty seconds. We all watched in silent horror and amazement as the Peep blew up to enormous, yellow, sugary proportions. All the while, Mr. Teacher is kneeling down, looking inside, squeaking: "Peep. Peeeep. Peeeeeeeeeep. Peeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep."

It was life changing.

And ever since, it's been important for me to shove as many of these chick shaped confections in my mouth as possible. I've gotten cheap, as well as senile, in my old years and make myself wait until the day after Easter to purchase because the sales are too good to be true. (A box of Peeps for 25 cents?! Build me a Peep swimming pool!)

Usually there are rows and oodles of my tiny friends left after the big day, but something happened this year! Could it be the Recession that's forced Moms into buying Peeps instead of chocolate? Because my neighborhood Walgreens was completely devoid of yellow Peeps. (Other colors, anything made with red dye, is unacceptable to my palate.)

I panicked. Could this be the year I experience the bitter heartache of a Peepless spring?

But just in time I recalled another Walgreens, placed in a shady neighborhood I would only visit in an emergency. Obviously this was one.

The result? I'll let the following tell my triumph:











Monday, April 13, 2009

My own little hunt

Buddy and I took an early evening (bum-cheek-freezing cold) stroll last night - mostly in search of Peeps, but also to cruise our new 'hood at sunset - and came across a lovely treat in Lafayette Park, left just for me:


Sunday, April 12, 2009

I guess I'm unAmerican


Because I barely know any Springsteen. I can sing the words to "Glory Days" and "Hungry Heart", but only because Michaela put them on a Christmas mixtape she made me in high school. (The tape I gave her was shamefully lame and included tunes from Cabaret and Footloose. Not that I don't listen to those things still; it's just that I should never expect anyone else to.)

I certainly have never not liked the Boss (is it okay to call him that? is that like saying 'frisco?), I've just never focused my efforts there. But! In a couple weeks, Clay and I are flying to Hot-lanta to visit our good buddies Jonathan and Stephanie (and their two cats) for a three day mini-holiday. And during this visit we'll be donning red bandanas and rolled-up tees at a Springsteen concert, with tickets procured by the-person-who-goes-to-more-live-shows-than-anyone-I've-ever-or-will-ever-meet, Jonathan. I'm really excited. I just feel super clueless about what I'm about to hear. Because I know these things are infinity more enjoyable when you know what the hell you're bouncing along to, I begged him for help.

To prepare my uncultured palate, Jonathan created for me an incredible email primer, complete with background stories and the Top 13 songs I must familiarize myself with before the show. And because he's a sensitive guy, he's not expecting my unemployed bum to buy these tunes on iTunes. Hells no; he provided me with specially selected You Tube links so's I can rock out for free and get a visual. Whaddaguy, right?

So if you're wondering what I'm doing over here when I'm not not-packing or watching SVU, I'm bopping out to "Badlands" or "The Promised Land" or "Land of Hope and Dreams" or, well, you're picking up on the theme. And hopefully I'll be munching on some after-Easter, on-sale Peeps whiles I do it -- IF I CAN FIND THEM WALGREENS WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM WHY AREN'T THEY OVERSTOCKED?!

Saturday, April 11, 2009

Willkommen

While I'm pretty sure pictures of an un-decorated apartment are snooze-ish, I simply couldn't stop myself. We visited today to start scoping and I didn't stop bouncing around once. However, I realize you won't be living here with us - so if you make it to the end of this post and you haven't fallen asleep? I'm impressed.

Standing near the kitchen, looking out! This'll be our main living space. Having a difficult time figuring where to put our honking huge TV. (Bonus room is open to your left.)

Zooming in on da view. Tough to capture it on film, but the Golden Gate is to your left-center. Can you find it? (And can you tell I've been writing for preschoolers?) It helps if you click on the photo and make it bigger.


Another view of the GGB, Bay and Pacific Heights homes (mansions). We face down onto an alley, so it's pretty quiet.



Slide open the doors and step out onto our teeny tiny balcony for a better look.



Standing outside the sliding doors, looking to the right at Downtown SF. That pointy pyramid is the Transamerica Building. We like to park our scooter there when we're in the Financial District.

To the right and down. That's our park! It's a lot bigger than I thought it was and full of snappy trees. Lots of good people (and dog) watching from here. If (big if) we get a dog, it'll be super simp to get play time.

Here's another view with your back to the view. I'm standing where we'll put the dining room table. (Hopefully we can swap out the boring chandelier for something fun.) Kitchen behind me. Entrance and first bathroom to your right in the back.


My new kitchen! Small, but useful; I'm loving the apps and additional counter space. It needs more light and definite decor help, but I'll be happy to whip up some curries in here. And! There are doors to close it off so when it gets messy? Vamoosh!


This is a terrible picture, but somehow the only one we got of our bedroom (or a corner of it). The open door leads to our second, master bath. (I've never had a connecting bed/bath before so I'm just a tad pumped.) Closets to the right and left of the bathroom.


Here's a slice of the powder room. Trying to keep the landlord from putting up the sliding shower doors he wants to install because...ick. There's a lovely-sized linen closet in here, too, which is a huge bonus and another never-had.


Our cute bonus room! Promise it's bigger than it looks; we were pleasantly surprised when we saw it again today. Behind you is the view. Ahead of you is the bedroom. The door to the bedroom and to the living room both slide closed. See below.


See! All closed off and cozy. Perfect for a snoozing ... puppy. Ahem.


Couldn't not end on me being weird. That big building to my left is the hospital. I'm showing how I'll be able to yell for help instead of calling 9-1-1.

And that's a not-so-quick tour! Didn't show you the other bathroom or the entrance but I'm sure you'll live. We're starting the slow move in stat and can't wait to get a'decorating. Visitors? Enter and sign in, please.

*Bonus feature below! To fully understand the flow, check out the cruise-azy model Clay created online! (The "furniture" you see is stuff we already have, TBD on placement -- he made the model to play with that.) Click between 2D and 3D to see the whole deal. Woot!*

Thursday, April 09, 2009

And that's where you melt the butter, you see


Still loving my 1986 time machine.

I'm going on a save binge

Not that I'm some big spender in the first place, but with the rent upgrade and me not working (but writing!) for the next couple months, I'm tightening up our belts. I think the first step is choosing a menu I keep the same every week. My parents did this when they were saving for a house and I've heard tell of it working for other peeps, so I'll give it a whirl. I figure it means I'll be more likely to shop and cook and stay on schedule if I have a schedule. Plus, I can buy things in bulk since I know I'll be using them again. Plus, I like formulas. (Have I told you how much Law and Order: SVU I've been watching lately? It's...not okay.)

I'm going to take my first stab at it starting tonight. My plan?

Thursday: Homemade pizza. (Made with frozen dough, pizza sauce, mozz, toppings.)
Friday: Chicken curry with basmati rice. Found an online Martha recipe. Sounds delish-o.
Saturday: Black bean burgers and sweet potato fries. Clay will squirm, I'll be in heaven.
Sunday: Beef and green pepper stir fry with quinoa.

Then Clay hits the road on Monday and I'll live off of all those leftovers till he's back again on Thursday. There will be a few bowls of Banana Nut Cheerios along the way, I'm sure. (Have you tried them? They're Num Num NUM.)

Wednesday, April 08, 2009

I'm looking for moving tips so I don't jump out the window

Got any?

We'll hire some help for the big stuff, so I'm talking boxes/tape/organization/drugs/bubble wrap. I know I've done this before, but this is two people's stuff, spread out, three years' accumulation.

Should I start in a corner and go from there? Should I lay out a row of boxes with labels and sort accordingly? Should I just lie down and start crying before I even start?

Also: Puppy or no puppy?

Go!

Monday, April 06, 2009

Movin on Up! (!!!)

To a new place! May One! (!!!) FI-nally we found a place we both like, with a landlord we both like, and made an offer the landlord liked. (Desperately wanted to write: "the landlord both liked" for lovely parallel construction, but alas, that makes zero sense.)

I have to admit, much to Clay's delight, I was not excited about checking this place out. In fact, I was downright angry about leaving my couch to go see it after a long ride home from Tahoe.

It's in a "luxury high rise" (their words, not mine) from the 60's -- which doesn't really translate into my usual style. Sure, I knew it had some views, but view schmiew.

Um.

To start with, the landlord is just plain nice. I have a sneaking suspicion if I locked myself out, he'd lend a hand. Maybe even two!

Next, there's a twenty-four-hour doorman. AH! For you non-city folk, I cannot stress the awesomeness of this feature. A big, strong don't-mess-with-me dude who's going to sit there all day, all night and make sure a) all my packages get delivered and b) I don't get messed with? HEAVEN. I picture myself waving hello, chatting about the weather, maybe bringing him a Starbucks now and again. Friends we'll be!

Okay, so then there's the va-iew. People. I didn't think I really cared about having one until I saw this one. Holy Golden Gate Bridge! And Bay! And cityscape! The whole north side of the apartment is made of sliding doors that look out, uninterrupted, into crazy awesomeness. For two homebodies who spent a heck of a lot of time reading and staring into space, this is ba-BAM.

And what's directly next to the building? A beautiful park! And what's closer than it was before? My go-to row of shops on Fillmore! And what am I allowed to have if I want to walk it in aforementioned park? A puppy!

The space isn't hugely bigger than what we have now, but there are two important improvements:

1) We'll have TWO bathrooms. One with a tub, one with a shower, both newly upgraded. Bam!
2) We'll have a cute little extra room for a study or, you know, a small human. Someday. Ahem.

Actually, the whole place is newly upgraded, so the carpets are all freshy and soft (no hardwoods, but hey I'll take it), and the kitchen has lovely new appliances (things I'd never have said two years ago) including an oven with a wipe-down surface and none of those GOD AWFUL KILL ME NOW COIL THINGS DEATH TO THEM. The things I'll cook without burning embers of old spaghetti sticks!

What else, what else? The whole place just gives me a really safe and cozy and GOOD feeling. Like I can watch scary movies by myself and hit the hay without a second thought. Like I can sleep with the window open without worrying someone might hop in. Because it would be ridiculously hard to climb twelve stories or get past Billy my new best friend. (He likes his coffee with two sugars.)

Can you tell I'm just a lee-tle excited?! Bye bye, mean creepy landlord! Bye bye, awful bathroom! Bye bye loud garbage trucks and motorcycles zooming past and messing up my Murder She Wrote binge! Adieu adieu to you and you and yo-ou!

Oops

Sorry to leave ya'll hanging there! I sort of forgot I'd set up that cliffhanger before running into the mountains...

So now that I've been gone a few days and had time to step away and unwind and get perspective, I'm going to - as Clay suggested - regale you with the lite version of my story. Because honestly, I'm sick of the full version and it's kind of boring anyways.

Tuesday night, after watching Idol at Manjiri's house down the street, I came home and got cozy on the couch. I read a little, I piddled on the Interweb a little, I turned on my Netflix and chose a Law and Order: SVU (always want to call is SUV) episode. Which scared the living daylights out of me. Which, in turn, led me to lock the extra lock on our door - the one we've agreed never to use because it locks behind us. (You're with me now, aren't you?)

Fast forward to 8:30 the next morning. Our buzzer buzzes loud, alerting me to a downstairs laundry drop-off. I shoot out of bed, completely in zombie mode, and zip downstairs. Three minutes later I'm back upstairs, lugging huge bags of laundry and 100% locked out. No phone, no money, no glasses and a hell of a lot of laundry.

Here's where I'm going to fast forward through the story because it just sucked and blergh - I don't want to barf through it again.

I called our landlord from the buzzer downstairs and he was, as usual, super unfriendly. I convinced myself he hung up on me a few times, though I later learned the buzzer hangs up automatically after 20 seconds. Of course, he didn't take the time to explain this to me whenever we'd get re-connected, so I kept getting angrier and angrier.

His basic message that finally sunk in, after back and forth speaker talk while trucks zoomed by and waiting and thinking he was coming and using a wire clothes hanger to try and pick the lock and sitting on the floor and thinking about pancakes and crying and knocking on doors that weren't answered and realizing duh, I had 10 pounds of laundry to cover up my body and slipper socks to cover up my feet was:

It's not my fault you locked yourself out of your apartment. I'm not coming to help you. You can walk yourself down to the Marina and pick up a key or call a locksmith.

(This is getting longer than I thought.)

At this point, I finally got my beyond-nice next door neighbor to answer the door (she's funemployed, too and was watching a surfing movie) and we sat on the couch and I was teary and hungry and my hair looked terrible and I was so blind.

Now. In a choose-your-own-adventure book, I'd choose the following option:

Borrow some money from neighbor. Borrow phone from neighbor. Call a cab. Take cab to Marina and pick up spare set of keys. Take cab back to apartment, open door, put on glasses and real clothes. Return neighbor's things. Drive my car down to Marina and return spare set of keys. Go to sleep.

But instead, because I was so discombobulated and overemotional and not thinking like a person but maybe a monkey after being locked out for four hours and not wanting to deal with my landlord I:

Cried to my neighbor. Borrowed her cell to call a locksmith. Sat on the couch and talked about I-can't-even-remember with neighbor while we waited. Got into apartment after locksmith played with lock and charged me an arm and a leg. Sat on the couch and pouted, sad that my arm and leg were gone.

Whew. So that's my story. Not super interesting after all, but since it was half my day on Wednesday, it felt earth shatteringly important at the time. But then I went snowboarding and I conquered the dreaded S-turn and life is in perspective!

And one more thing. After the smoke cleared, we realized life's too short to deal with a creepy landlord and a super loud street. So we're back to looking seriously again for a new rental. Found a sweet one yesterday, made a lowball offer cuz that's how we roll...and now we wait. And wait.

Tahoe pics coming your way soon. Something about the mountain air made me get all diva on the Rockband microphone. You'll see.

Thursday, April 02, 2009

I've got a good April Fools story

to tell on myself. But I'm a little short on time. (A life of leisure can be very busy.)

We're heading up to Tahoe this morning to frolic in the snow, drink cocoa out of styrofoam and play with babies called Bean. (Don't worry, Moms; I made us buy helmets.)

So stay tuned for my tale of woe, coming soon, after I stop wincing and hanging my head in shameful shame.