Operation: Get It Together

It doesn't feel like anything too sinister is happening, despite the date. Mostly, I'm just happy it's Friday. That said, it is quite possible that I'm getting a(nother) cold. I blame my boss who, for several days, leaned over my desk sounding increasingly like a man with a five-pack-a-day habit, saying, "I don't think it's a cold." Um...don't you? Well, I do. Please get out of my office. He gave in and is now at home in bed, but last night I began to feel the sneaky symptoms in my own head and throat. I spent three bucks on a mere twelve ounces of healthful juice, so perhaps that will fend it off. C'mon virus. Three dollars is a lot for juice. Mind you, I was just sick three weeks ago. That's too much sick. I object.

Trying to be less susceptible to every damn sneezy thing that makes its way through the building is on the agenda. There are quite a few things on the agenda, in fact.

The Outside
Lately, I am cutting a figure a bit more like a Renaissance nude than is currently fashionable. (I know, I know. Body image, etc.) Were I going to be spending most of my time reclining in the altogether in pastoral scenes, surrounded by cherubim or similar, it would be okay. Under those circumstances, I'd say I look pretty good. However, many of my clothes do not currently fit me. Since circumstances (and chilliness) dictate that I do have to wear something every day, that is problematic. So. Either invest in a new wardrobe of flowing Renaissance garb, or try to whittle myself back to my erstwhile silhouette. I chose B.

Theoretically, this plan should involve exercise. That is the hardest part for me, so it remains aspirational. Meanwhile, I am trying to go for oatmeal for breakfast (note that anything for breakfast is a novelty) and salad for lunch. Dinner is such a random affair already that no sensible guidelines are being applied other than "try not to eat pasta. Or pizza. Even though you totally want to."

So far, I'm pretty excited about the oatmeal. It turns out to be pleasant to have the first several hours of my day not marked by near starvation. I am not very enthusiastic about the salad, but that does not shock me. I am notoriously indifferent to salad, with the exception of the very plain one they used to have at Ti Couz, but that was due to magic dressing. Alas, Ti Couz has closed and taken its magic dressing with it. My feelings about salad are so lacklustre that I feel very virtuous for having had four so far (this is week one of this plan and I've not had lunch yet today). However, this attitude also makes me feel that having had four salads, my body should look entirely different. (In related news, this is also how I feel about walking for one hour or swimming for 20 minutes. "Wait. What? I look exactly the same. But I'm so tired. I'm confused.") To me, salad is the Food of Deprivation, but thanks to its pal oatmeal, at least I'm not a ravening wolverine when lunchtime rolls around so salad is at least possible. We'll see. I hope to be reunited with my pencil skirts by November.

The Inside
There are problems. There is, of course, the cold that I can feel settling in right this very moment, but there are other things too. Some pesky infections, some sleep-ruining allergies, some "I thought walking might be a good exercise option, but my whole right leg is a disaster" pain. I guess if I were a coat or something, I'd be discounted and sold "as is." Not tip top. Not shiny and new. I want to turn this around. Are you listening, salad? See what you can do.

Additionally, after being told by a surprising number of unrelated people that it has changed their lives, I made an acupuncture appointment. I am terrified of needles. I never get the flu shot despite yearly miserable illness. I don't even have pierced ears despite, you know, noticing that earrings are quite pretty. (I do have a full sleeve tattoo, but I was drunk at the time. No. I don't. That was a joke. I don't even have a very tiny butterfly inked onto my ankle. By the way, zero ink and piercings is about as alternative as you can get in San Francisco. I win.) A needly approach to health is pretty daunting for me, but Operation Get It Together demands I give it a try. It is not easy to get out of a rut, particularly if you have no upper body strength to speak of. It takes a lot of scrabbling around and falling back in a few times, but I'm working on it.

Among things that concerned me was the expense of acupuncture, but at lunch yesterday, a friend told me that he had had good results with sliding-scale community acupuncture centers in the East Bay. So I looked it up. There are several in San Francisco (unsurprisingly). What this seems to mean is that four people in one room receive simultaneous treatments. I am a little dubious about this; if I'm going to be full of needles I want it to be all about me and my special, special needs and problems. However, since I can't really afford to have it be all about me and my special, special needs and problems, I'll try it. Not the first time though. I'm paying the big money for the first time so I can blather on about all my fears and symptoms. I'm sure she'll enjoy that. Don't worry. I'll do it very quietly so as not to incommode the four porcu-people in the community room.

The Perimeter
In my high school, all girls took self-defense as part of the P.E. curriculum. Notably, during that section, the boys took wrestling. That strikes me as no less disquieting now as it did then. It always seemed like they were learning how to pin us to the ground while we were learning how to gouge out their eyes. Maybe slightly awry culturally and pedagogically. Anyway. I hated it. The scenarios we were given were scary and the actual physical combat stuff just embarrassed me. I was very shy, spindly, and not at all athletic. I don't actually remember any of the physical techniques we learned. For me, they didn't make me feel safer, but rather, doomed. If anyone ever laid a hand on me, it seemed obvious to me that I was going down.

I remember the feeling. I've carried it with me long past the moment where it would have been sensible to shake it off and learn a few physical defense responses. So far, I've been employing the other things I learned at 16: 1. Pay attention 2. Walk with authority. I do believe that these two things are half the battle. (I worry for all those earphone-wearing, Twitter-scrolling ladies I see everywhere.) However, it would be nice to stop carrying "doomed" as the inevitable next step if glaring doesn't work. And, as you know, I did recently watch ALL of Alias, aka Women Kicking Ass.

The Blog Bully had recently encouraged his wife to take a free safety class offered by Impact at Sports Basement (thanks, Sports Basement). She had been reluctant for many of the same reasons I have been reluctant, but had gone and been glad. So, when by the sheerest chance I happened upon a notice that the same class was being offered this week, I went. I'll be honest; my knee to the groin skills are only so-so, but just showing up felt important. Just showing up felt like claiming some sovereignty. Just showing up felt like taking one step away from doomed. There is a much, much longer more hands-on class offered by Impact. That'll be the next frontier.

For now, I think I need some more vitamin C. And maybe a nap.

A total blank

Last night I managed to finally transform my bed from the Platform of Misery to the Bower of Rest after many nights of itchy fitfulness. It is possible that atmospheric conditions aligned in my favor or it's possible that newly laundered sheets really are the answer to all our problems. (Were my pillowcases previously covered with a fine layer of pollen? Possibly.) Then, as an extra special bonus treat, the neighbors did not wake me up. (Possibly because of the passive aggressive remarks I made to the baby when I encountered him and his nanny yesterday. What? Like you've never made passive aggressive remarks to a baby. Yeah, right.) Sheets, neighbors, meteorological conditions, pollen counts, I salute you. I was really very tired and appreciate your help in this matter.

Last night I went to see Neko Case in concert. To quote the woman who screamed this from the other side of the balcony, "I love you Neko!" I'm not the sort of person who yells things in a theatre, but that doesn't mean I don't have feelings. I really do love Neko Case. Her voice is serious business, but her personality is pretty darn goofy. It's a pretty delightful combination. In fact, I would say that I love Neko Case every bit as much as I detested her opening band, and that, my friends, is saying a lot. Wow, those boys were shouty. Why all the shouting, boys? My friend and I took refuge in the lobby until the opening act was over--a thing I have never before been compelled to do. Mind you, the lobby was not really far enough away, but it was the best we could do.

While we were out there, I ran into various people I knew: a couple of people from high school, a local musician, and uh....someone else.

I saw this woman and felt a little internal leap of the "Oh! I'm so happy to see you!" kind. It had been so long. She came over to me and we hugged each other and then she went downstairs with her friends. I have no idea who she is. None. Not just, wow I can't remember that woman's name, but I haven't the slightest idea where we met each other or when. It is worth noting that she is a very lovely girl and she also has more body art than anyone I know. Full-color tattoos over her chest and down her arms. A distinctive person, in other words. A person you would not forget. (Unless everyone you know is covered with tattoos, of course, which is certainly possible in this town.)

We have all had the experience of someone coming up to us to say hello whom we do not remember. In that case, you just smile and nod and hope for some kind of conversational clue. This was nothing like that. My happiness at seeing her was instant and genuine. It came sooner than the realization that I could not place her. At some point (when?) we must have known each other quite well (where? how? Was she a waitress? A dental assistant? A singer? A classmate? An actress? An ex-boyfriend's best friend?). I am vexed by the whole thing, but am happy to learn that, troubling though it is, senility is at least suffused with good will toward others. It was good to see her after all this time.

Movie musings

You probably don't know this because I am one of five people who is ever there, but the quietest place in San Francisco is the Sundance Kabuki cinema just prior to a matinee screening. Sundance cinemas play no advertisements (and, indeed, no music) before the previews begin. They are able to make up that revenue by charging you more for a ticket than you can believe you're paying and then, they also sell wine. So, basically, they are millionaires and you are poor in a very short time. I am willing to pay for the barrage-free environment, though. Boy, am I. I do not enjoy people yelling at me about food I don't want to eat, television I don't want to watch, music I don't want to hear, and various products I don't want to buy. So rarely do I go to any other movie theaters, in fact, that, every time I do, I am shocked anew by the yelling about all these things. Blah. Thanks, Robert Redford, for the lovely quiet.

Matinees are often sparsely attended and more often attended by solo movie-goers than are evening screenings. This means that the pre-show hush is not just the comparative quiet of an advertising-free zone, but actual silence. Dimly lit silence. Ahhh. It is like going to a meditation center, but not needing to change out of your street clothes. And, even better, after your fifteen minutes of peace, you get to see a movie. That is my idea of a fine afternoon.

Yesterday I saw Afternoon Delight which I thought was excellent (hey, Kathryn Hahn, you won't get an Oscar for that, but you should totally get an Oscar for that). I also saw previews for at least four other movies that I will see immediately upon their release. Watching previews for me is often like watching money flying out of my bank account. I wonder if there could be some kind of flexible spending account set up for the Sundance Kabuki. I mean, just sitting there, I saw sixty future dollars go out the window. It would be less painful if I could just pay in advance and not think about it.

My only criticism is the bizarre copyediting on the slide about turning off your cell phone. There's a picture of an illuminated smart phone half submerged in a container of popcorn. At the top it reads:

Cell phones and movies don't 'go' together

Can we agree that there's no need to put quotes around that go? And if you feel truly compelled for some reason, why not just go for regular ol' double quotes?

I want answers. Let's have Robert look into that.

It's on

Tonight! I am teaming up with Ken Grobe (whose website is very fancy and makes me wonder what the hell I'm doing with my life and how do I become Ken Grobe) and Simone Chavoor (who also has an elaborate website, but because interior design is not my dream, she can go on being her with no competition from me for the role) for Word/Play at Booksmith.

I do not know Simone or Ken, but they are clearly very impressive individuals and they are in it for the gold, so I vacillate between hoping I don't let them down and being pretty sure we will totally win this game with no help from me. It's already a cliffhanger and it hasn't even started. The one thing I know is that I will not be wearing my red shoes. I know. I'm also disappointed, but frankly they looked dumb with my dress and no one wants to see shoes that look dumb with someone's dress. Or, I suppose, dresses that look dumb with someone's shoes, depending on whether you identify more Team Dress or Team Shoe.

Since not only have I never participated in this game, I have never even seen it played by others, Ken provided me with this helpful description: "It's like FAMILY FEUD with authors. Sort of. The two teams face off over trivia games ("Name six books with a color in the title"), quick write-offs ("Write the first line of this book I'm holding up that no one has ever heard of"), and a lot of trash-talk between teams. And drinking. Points are awarded kind of arbitrarily and it's just a lot of fun."

Simone told me I should brush up on Taboo and Scattegories.

Mind you, I can't actually think of six books with a color in the title and I've never played Scattegories, but I'm sure I will be totally fantastic at this and we will win like the big winners we are! Right? And it will totally be worth the ten bucks the event-goers are spending to drink wine and watch us be clever on demand. Yep! Because, even if it all goes to hell, there is wine. Everyone likes wine.

You should come.

Good news / bad news

Happy new year, Jews. I humbly thank you for the day off with which I was happily presented on your behalf. We're heading into the season that San Francisco does best (read: sunshine that lasts throughout the day) and it was very pleasant to be out in it, rather than theorizing what it might be like from within my windowless office. Knowing I had all this liberty, I scheduled an appointment for today. I chose a leisurely late-morning hour because a day that requires you to participate in real morning does not count as a day off. Obviously.

Extra time in the morning means an extra-functional brain, which is how I had the laudable foresight to stop by the nearby laundromat (that I no longer frequent. Ha! Let us have a moment of silent gratitude for the life-changing washer and dryer that I now own) to avail myself of its change machine. Take that, parking meters. You want quarters? I got quarters.

When I arrived at my destination, not only did I find a parking place within a block, but the parking meter already had over an hour of time on it. Not five minutes, people, an hour. This is unheard of. A happy omen if ever there was one. I added a quarter just to be on the safe side--twenty-five cents worth of paranoia--bringing the time to a hour and fifteen minutes.

And that is why I am so sorry to report that the meeting went for an hour and twenty-three minutes.

A miscalculation that cost me seventy-four dollars.
74.
Dollars.

Of course, this is all the more infuriating since I had two dollars worth of ticket-preventing quarters at the ready all along. Also, word to the wise, DPT, you're not fooling anyone. Just call it $75 and be done with it. Saving me the dollar isn't doing anything to improve my attitude. Indeed, personally, I feel that this is maybe, at most, a $35 infraction. Unsurprisingly, my opinion on this matter was not solicited. I regret that the rest of my thoughts on this subject are just a jumble of incoherent profanity, which I will spare you, though, in the interest of interactive fun, feel free to create your own.

Later, despite my new poverty, I allowed myself some sunny, no-work Thursday treats. First I went out to lunch, during which I had a very enjoyable conversation with the SF Opera's lead set-painter (who happened to be sitting next to me) about the old days of San Francisco theatre. Then, while looking for something else, I came across some promising sunglasses. After soliciting feedback from two strangers who assured me they looked good, I bought them. The sunglasses. Not the strangers. The strangers were not for sale. I promptly put the glasses on and about a half an hour later while I was waiting to cross the street, a lady came up to me and said I looked beautiful. (Thank you, lady! My new sunglasses and I are very flattered that you think so. Thank you original strangers! You were right about the sunglasses.) As a finale, I bought some flowers and now have some very congenial dahlias keeping me company.

It is always good to discover that the loveliness of your life greatly outweighs the seeming endless injustices of the Department of Parking and Traffic.


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Update: It turns out that to pay your citation by phone, online, or even in person, you have to pay a fee. The DPT thinks it is Ticketmaster, apparently. In addition to the original $74, I had to pay $2.50 for the convenience of paying a parking ticket. Just when I had talked myself down from the rage. But they aren't happy without the rage. They thrive on the rage. Fine. They've got it. Bastards.