In which my super cute and smart boy tries to say "W" and almost breaks my nose.

The "I Heart Your Blog" Award

I won an award! How cool is that? My very first award for my blog. I've always wanted one. Now I have one.

This was bestowed upon me by my friend and fellow blogger Anika. She has a few blogs that you should check out. One is Pasando - in which Anika shares her amazing photographs art. She also is quick to feature her favorite pieces from etsy and her favorite blogs / artists / stuff. Another one of her blogs is AcoLab. Acolab is a great site. She posts a theme and invites fellow bloggers/artists/regular folk to submit their interpretation of her theme in a medium of their choosing. I'm not certain, but I think it's open to anyone wishing to submit. I could be wrong, though. I'm proud to have submitted a few entries. I admit I'm behind in one, but I swear I'll get it to her. Plus, another one is due on Sunday. I better get crackin'.


To celebrate this wonderful award I'd like to follow in the footsteps of Anika and pass this award on to the authors of a few of the blogs I enjoy.

Here they are in no particular order

#1 - Maltese Kat. I used to work with the woman behind this blog. I've never seen her use her real name on her blog, so I won't use it here. Let's just call her Kat. I love reading Kat's blog. She muses about cool things she finds online or in stores. She posts her dream wardrobe via Ployvore.com. She writes beautifully about her heritage. One can certainly tell how much she loves and honors her culture - which is a great quality in the best of all humans. Through her blog she's inspired me to steal and modify a few projects of hers. She created 100 things in 1001 days. Following suit, I created 50.5 things in 500 days. (which is expired by the way. I need to go through the list and reevaluate). She also posted a recipe for yummy monkey bread. Totally white trash, but yummy, nonetheless.

#2 - One Hungry Chef. He's an American living and working in Australia. I don't know this guy. I stumbled upon him via this post in which One Hungry Chef created a BLT from scratch. I've blogged about him a couple of times before. You can read the posts here and here. His pictures, recipies, stories and observations are not only a joy to read, but are a literary mirapoix. I look forward to every one of his posts. I'm happy I found him. Besides the homemade BLT, my favorite posts of his is the one with the parsnip cake. The fact that he thinks Benjamin Franklin was a good guy doesn't hurt him, either.

#3 Pomegranate and Pumpkin. Like Maltese Kat, I used to work with the woman behind this blog; and like the person behind One Hungry Chef, she is also an American ex-pat living on an island far away from her hometown. In her blog she features her Little Miss, who is way too much cute for the internet. Oh my gosh, those cheeks.  She also writes about simple, homemade living; making hand-made toys, clothes, cooking from scratch. My favorite parts of her blog are "currently loving" and "create: list to make". Both comprise lists of websites featuring blogs and shopping sites reinforcing simple and creative living. Take a look at the link "color tiles". When I read this I sent the link to my dad and asked him to make me some tiles according to the website's directions. He did. I'm in the midst of completing them for my son to play with.

#4 Muni Diaries. I love San Francisco and I'm a regular rider of Muni. The site is a great mix of stories from fellow riders from lines around The City. One of my favorites is this one, in which a snooty-ish woman and a homeless man have words. So many different people ride Muni; different income levels, different levels of education, different destinations. Reading these stories brings everyone together. We're all Muni Riders.

#5 i live here: SF. I love this blog. There are a lot of people who live in San Francisco, and most of them hold a love for The City that just about everyone on the outside can't understand. Julie Michelle, the woman behind this project has a talent of showcasing the people of this diverse city. She lets the person featured tell their story while she takes amazing photographs of them. The photos seem to punctuate and underline the story the person tells. I had the honor and pleasure of being a part of this project. You can read / see it here.

I hope you will take a minute to search through these blogs and find things to interest you and make you smile.

Ew, Edward! Now I'm going to have that taste in my mouth for a week!

I told my coworker today about this weird meal my mom used to make us eat when we were kids. I remember not only liking it, but liking it a lot and being really happy when she made it. Today I can't imagine putting a spoonful of this in my mouth. It probably won't taste as yummy anymore and would need to be washed down with a bottle of Siracha.

Here's the recipe.

Take a pound of ground beef out of the freezer and put it on the counter before you leave for work / school in the morning to thaw. The kind that comes in the long tube works best.
When you get home from work, turn on the electric skillet.
Brown the meat. Do Not drain the fat.
Add 1 can each of the following: Cream of Mushroom Soup, Cream of Cheese Soup, Cream of Celery Soup, Cooked, sliced potatoes (yes, you can buy cooked, sliced potatoes in a can)
Add a bag of frozen peas.
If the mixture is too watery, add a packet of Lipton Onion Soup Mix
Mix together until the whole mixture is paste-like
Serve and Enjoy with a big glass of milk and a Flintstone Vitamin.

Lotsa Helping Hands In a Pinch

There's a kid in The Girl's class who has cancer. We learned about it over a year ago, towards the end of the school year. All throughout the next school year, the school and the employer of the kid's dad banded together and formed a community. All throughout the school we took turns making meals, sending good wishes, planning fundraisers, etc. We received updates from the kid's family via a great website called Lotsa Helping Hands. By the end of the school year all was going well.
It all changed a few weeks ago. The kid is sick again. The family's time is once again spent at the hospital. Once again we are signing up to bring meals to the family so that there's one less worry, one less concern they have; what are we having for dinner and how do I find the time to make it?
Today is my family's turn. Before going to the grocery store to buy the necessary supplies, Hubby and I were discussing what we should make. I mentioned to Hubby that I hoped they liked our meals. I hope that when they see that it's my family's turn to bring a meal they say "oh yay, that one family is making the meal today." As soon as I said it I realized how selfish that sounded and felt like a big jerk. Here's this family who is in a challenging and not-fun-at-all situation and I'm hoping they like my meals the best. 
I guess what I really meant was that I want is for them to find some comfort in the food we bring for them. I don't know this family very well. I met the mom at a school function once. I can pick the dad out in a crowd, but I've never spoken to him, same goes for the kid's sibling. I only know who the kid is because this kid is in the same class as The Girl. I'm helping because it's the right thing to do. My family had a few meals brought over to our house when The Boy was born. It helped in unimaginable ways. It let us know we were cared about, we were being prayed for and there was still good in the world. I hope to give this family that same feeling. I imagine they are going to have long hard days in the coming months. I hope that at least they'll be able to say "Today wasn't the best day ever. At least dinner will be OK"

Today's menu
Frittata with red potatoes, bacon, onion, green beans
Green Salad with homemade vinaigrette
Angel Food cake
Strawberries macerated with balsamic vinegar and black pepper (sounds weird but really freakin' good)
Lemonade for the kids
Kim Crawford Sauvignon Blanc for the adults

Would you just stand still for a moment?

Every few months my mom and dad bug me to send more pictures of the kids. It's no problem sending pictures of The Girl. She'll pose, ham it up, be silly, look beautiful; whatever you ask, she'll do, even if she doesn't want to.
I'd like to share with the world why I don't send them pictures of The Boy very often. It's not that I don't want to. It's that I can't. I can't get a picture of him, that is.

Here are some of the most recent pics of The Boy.

Here he is at the Golden Gate Bridge

At the San Francisco Zoo watching penguins

Looking under the curtain at Old Navy changing room

Trying to move a rack of clothing at Old Navy

all tuckered out from a day of avoiding being photographed

It's not for lack of trying. He just won't stay still long enough to capture him on film.

Hey Jamie Lee Curtis, why can't you be more like Jeff Goldblum?

I was in a conference room / lobby-type area. Jamie Lee Curtis and I were talking about crafting, mostly having to do with making beaded necklaces and using modge podge. I told her that over the last 25 years she and I had been running into each other every year or so, we always talk and we always talk about crafts and she always greets me, albeit warmly, like she's never met me before. I told her we were introduced by an old boyfriend of mine. I look up and the old boyfriend is sitting across the room sitting Indian-style (or criss-cross-applesauce, as the kids are taught to call it these days) in a big beat up chair. He's got ear buds in and he's pretending not to listen to our conversation. He finally looks up and tells her that I'm right. I look at her and tell her that the very least she could do is act more like Jeff Goldblum. He and I run into each other every 4 years or so and he always remembers me. He doesn't always remember my name but he always picks me out of the crowd and invites hubby and me to have dinner at his house, which in my dream is on Lower Great Highway.

What Lies Behind the Yellow Chicken Mask - mu-wa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha

It lives in my kids' closet. It lives behind the yellow chicken mask; under the old, possibly broken, lamp without a shade; and next to a bag I haven't looked inside of in years. It sits on a platform. The platform bears my name, painted in large, orange capital letters: ANDREA.

It's a scary starchy clown. It wears a billowy blue unitard and carries a bunch of plastic balloons. Its clothes are hard, like painted fabric. It's got a weird ring of fuzzy hair around its head, but has a shiny bald top. It must have had a hat at some point. I seem to remember it. I think it had ruffles.

I'm not sure where I got it. I have it in my head that my Godmother gave it to me. However I got it, I've had it as long as I can remember. When I was a kid it lived on my bookshelf. When I got older, it moved to the closet. When I moved to San Francisco, I took it with me. It sat on a shelf in the kitchen of an old apartment I shared with some friends. On the shelf, in the kitchen, it shared space with another clown; a clown called "Chuckie-Blue-Head".
I can't get rid of it. I don't know why. Hubby says it's because when my name was painted onto the platform on which it stands, our fates were sealed together. I don't think the clown and I share a "one can't live without the other" bond.
The question remains unanswered, however. Why can't I get rid of the clown?

Inception might be ruining the whole dream-thing for me.

I haven't seen Inception. I want to, though. I'll most likely wait until it comes on on-demand because I never go to the movies and if I do it's to see something The Girl wants to see. The last movie saw in the theaters was that one with Eddie Murphy and some little girl who has a imaginary characters in her head that help her dad make it big in the business world and Thomas Hayden Church thinks he's Native American and makes his kid drink cases of Red Bull in the hopes that he'll have visions.

Anyhow, I think Inception might freak me out a bit. It's about some guy who invades the dreams of people and uses the information he obtains for nefarious purposes, right? That might prove to be too freaky for me. Yup, see it on on-demand for sure so I can watch it in 1/2 hour blocks and watch something to cool down and ease my mind during breaks.

Maybe I'm making too much of it and shouldn't rely on what the general public thinks about it. I mean, I don't mean to channel my inner Jose Ortega y Gasset or anything, but in general, the masses think they know everything but they don't.

After seeing certain movies and reading certain books I usually have themed dreams about them. I don't have a definition of what "certain" means, but I do know that there's something in "certain" books and movies that make me think about them whilst sleeping.

I couldn't sleep for a week after I saw Kalifornia. I don't know what it was, but I kept having Kalifornia dreams. Harry Potter and Twilight Series made me have Wizarding and Vampire dreams. They were entertaining silly, not spooky. The Kalifornia dreams were icky. I did not enjoy those.

I have to say, I have a pretty entertaining dream life. I've had dreams about silver-clad men falling from the sky singing Def Leppard songs; dreams about carnivals in Africa where the prizes on the midway are Giants Bobbleheads; dreams about my mom and Bono being friends. All in all, I can't be disappointed with the musings of my subconscious.

I can, however, be a little bit pissed off at it. My dream life seems to have taken a little siesta.
I've been having boring ordinary dreams of late.
Case in point . . .
I'm at some kind of work/hula-related event. My group and I are dropped off at a hotel. We have an hour of free time to check into our hotel rooms, relax for a bit then meet up with the rest of the group for the remaining activities of the day. I'm assigned to room 503. I walk over to the section of rooms are that are in the 500 series. My room is not in that building, but rather a building way across the courtyard. I finally find my room, open the door and it's all dark. There are two beds with red velvet beadspreads and white sheets directly to my left, both unmade. There's a kitchenette to my right that has some old dishes that room service hadn't picked up yet and a hallway beyond that. I go through the hallway and come into a bedroom. The bed is unmade and there is a man wearing a yellow hard-hat and covered with a blanket passed out on the floor. I go to the door of the hotel room, pick up the phone and call the front desk to tell them that the room isn't made up and someone is on the floor. Just as the operator picks up, the man on the floor comes out of the room and yells at me for being in his room. I leave the hotel room and find a hotel employee who takes me to the front desk to find a new room.

I had another dream a few days ago that was just as boring.

The group I danced Mr. Sandman with at the hula intra-murals last month and I had a few performances. The venues were two houses right across the street from each other. I knew where we were performing, but not the times. I walk into one of the venues to find my group. I'm just about to ask them what time we go on when I notice this guy who works for my company standing in the middle of a room crying his eyes out. I thought it was weird to see him because I've only met him twice, his job and mine hardly, if ever, intersect and I don't know him very well. Anyhow, he's crying his eyes out. I ask him what's wrong and he says he needs a hug. I hug him and miss the performance. When I found the group a little later they were mad that I flaked on them. I kept telling them I didn't flake, I had to give someone a hug. Then it was time to perform at the other venue across the street. I got on stage and danced but kept forgetting the new choreography. They were pissed at me. I got all flustered all because of a stupid hug.

OK, yes, my dreams still have a lot of detail in them, lots of color, etc. But they just haven't been as vivid as they usually are.

I'm kinda pissed about it and I'm blaming Inception.

It's a Thin Line Between Love and Hate

Two kids, two knee surgeries, too much wine turned me into what The Girl calls "Fairy Godmother"-like.
As sweet and wonderful as that sounds, I'm done being so "huggable". In the 3 weeks I've been seeing a trainer, I've lost 6.6 pounds. WOOO!HOOO!
That's about 1.5 pounds more than a standard bag of flour you buy at the grocery store.

There are two machines I can't decide if I love or hate. I hate them when my trainer makes me use them. I love them when I see the results.

I give you "The Leg Lift" thingie (I don't know what it's called but that's what I call it.)

And the ever-torturous
BUTT-BLASTER

This machine doesn't say it, but the one at my gym has 'BUTT BLASTER' written in fancy script across the top. I'm thankful this one is kept in the corner because as effective as it is, it ain't pretty to watch.

My sore muscles say today is a good day. My sore muscles need a hot tub, though.

I have THE BEST little boy

I have the best little boy.

This evening when I got home I smelled one of the most wonderful smells in the whole wide world. Yup, Pot Roast. There was trouble, though. It wasn't done yet. Darn.

Hubby had some work to do tonight so he left the house for a while.

There was still about 40 minutes left of pot roast lovin' to do in the oven. I went into the Boy's room to see what he was doing. He was stacking his blocks and then knocking them down. We spent the next 40 minutes finding creative ways to stack the blocks and even more creative ways of knocking them down. My favorite method was stacking about 7 blocks, followed by two miniature board books, a matchbox car, a plastic pig, topped off with Kehlar the Klingon action figure. We knocked it down with a very loud 5 inch long, three inch tall fire engine.

I thought about getting the camera, then changed my mind. We were having such a good time I didn't want to spoil it by making him pose or trying to reenact the event.

Then of course, the moment was spoiled when the timer went off, indicating that dinner was ready. My Boy got mad he had to stop and eat dinner. Once he realized what it was, however, he forgot all about being mad.

We had a fun evening.

Why I dance hula.

A lot of people wonder, and most people ask why I hula dance. I have no connection to Hawaii. I've only been there once. I don't believe I was Hawaiian in a former life. I'm not trying to become Hawaiian . . . . I'm just a white girl of German, Swedish and French Canadian ancestry from shores of Southern California.

I tell them the simple story that in 2002 I needed to have knee surgery. The doctor told me to do something that would make my legs stronger before the surgery. I started taking hula lessons at the Rhythm and Motion in San Francisco. I did this every week until my surgery and when I was recovered, I decided I still wanted to dance so I joined Na Lei Hulu. And that was that.

I admit that all of the above is true. I did have a knee surgery. I was advised to take up an activity to strengthen my legs. I did take hula classes at Rhythm and Motion and I'm now a student at Na Lei Hulu.

There is more to it, however.

After some searching online I found the Rhythm and Motion center. There were two classes I thought would strengthen my legs, that also fit into my schedule; Tai Chi and Hula. I chose hula.

The first day I went to class was a Sunday. I was in a grumpy mood because at breakfast that morning a few of the people we were dining with thought it was stupid and told me so. Hubby made me go. When I walked into the studio I was super intimidated and had butterflies like nobody's business, but I pushed through it, and I loved it. I had a great time. When he picked me up he said my whole countenance had changed. He looked at me and told me that I had to go again.

After recovering from my knee surgery I decided I wanted a more formal hula education. What I had at Rhythm and Motion was a great exercise class, but wasn't what I needed. Through the power of the internet and a few serendipitous clicks on the mouse I found Na Lei Hulu and discovered that new classes would be starting soon. I signed up.

Again I was terrified. I made myself go the first few months. I really enjoyed it, but I didn't know anybody and just about everyone outside of class that I did know thought I was weird for learning how to Hula dance. I've always sucked at making new friends. I get all awkward, stutter and don't know what to say next. I used Hula class as a tool to make myself less afraid of the opinions of others, and more willing to try new things that I've always wanted to do. Through Hula I've gained so much more than conquering my fear to try things on my own, without permission. I've learned about a beautiful culture. I've learned how to dance. I have learned to (almost) have a conversation with someone in another language. I've learned confidence. I've made new friends. I freely admit that I am not the best dancer in the class. It takes me a bit longer than everyone else to get the hang of new dances, and once I do get it, it's still not perfect. It doesn't matter, though. I go to class for other reasons, reasons that may not be the same as everyone else in class. I go to class and try my best because hula has brought out the best in me.

My first dream about a website. Congratulations.

This morning my alarm sounded at 5:10am. Before it so rudely interrupted my beauty sleep, this is what I was dreaming about. . . .




I was standing on a Muni platform at Embarcadero station in that spot under the stairway in front of the operator potty. I was in my own little world not really paying attention. I looked up and saw a fare checker standing there. I apologized for not noticing her and fumbled for my fastpass. She told me not to worry, she only checks for fares from teenagers.


Then I find myself sitting on the train. I’m on the first car in the very first sideways seat. A different fare inspector comes on and starts checking the fares of teenagers. He finds a few and makes them walk to the front of the train. They are teenagers, but they are clearly Danish tourists wearing long flowing robes and flowers and ribbons in their hair, each carrying $2. On the way to the front the fare inspector asks the riders on the train what they all must carry with them at all times. Everyone says in reluctant unison “proof of payment.” The fare inspector asks what is considered proof of payment and again, in reluctant unison the riders tell the fare inspector what proper POP is. The Danes disappear. I walk up to the fare inspector and look at his nametag. It’s Cambria Birini. I go back to my seat and take a picture of him. He notices the flash but doesn’t know it came from me. He starts spouting off fraudulent California laws, saying it’s unlawful to take pictures on Muni and says it’s written somewhere in the Brown 700’s (whatever that is, it made sense in the dream).


I’m no longer sitting in the front of the train. I’m now sitting on the back of the 29, but an old kind, the kind with the squishy seats and the long backseat spanning the width of the bus, not unlike the kind I would ride to school in Long Beach. The guy behind me tells me I must be nuts for taking pictures and writing a little story for Muni Diaries and I should be afraid of the possible repercussions and retaliation from the fare inspector. I shrug it off.

Bragging Alert: My daughter is Awesome!!

This weekend we went to the Monterey Bay Aquarium and then to The Festival of the Holy Spirit in Santa Cruz. More on those later.

On this trip we gave a camera to our Miss. Turns out she's got an eye. Look what she did.

 There were TONS more that she took. These are just the ones I cherry picked out of the bunch. This afternoon I'm going to show her how to use the meager editing tools we have on our old-rickety computer. I'm excited to see what she comes up with.

My Cousin Sylvia's best friend's husband Bob's pacemaker.

I had such an entertaining ride home yesterday. It was, however, proof that one's mood definitely plays a part in whether or not something so annoying is entertaining.  Had my day gone differently, I may have had a different take on the situation. I actually had kind of a grumpy day. Nothing was really bad about yesterday, it just wasn't the best day ever.

I got to Embarcadero Station yesterday afternoon at my usual time. The station was a little bit more crowded than usual. I was a bit annoyed that they were running 3 J-trains in a row, then a few 2-car Ns, then 1 single car L, followed by a few more Ns. I didn't touch the single-car L. Too much. I waited for the next 2-car L.

A 2-car L came about 5 minutes later. I admit I was a bit of a jerk-face as I threw elbows with the best of 'em to get a seat. There was no way I was going to stand from EMB to all the way past Sunset Blvd; I had some very important crocheting to do.

The train was shoulder-to-shoulder with people. This kid gets on. He was Asian and looked somewhere between 15 and 20 years old. He looked pretty normal; jeans, long sleeve button-up shirt, back pack, ear buds. To look at him there was nothing remarkable or of note about him. I wouldn't have even noticed him except for what happened next.

This kid starts dancing at the music, like "raising the roof" style and starts rapping. He's not any good. He's just singing along to his music. What struck me as funny was how into it he was, how much dancing he was doing (and his dancing was about as good as his rapping) and how crowded the train was. Everyone kept trying to get away from him because he seemed really put out every time he hit someone with one of his dancing arms. Then, just as soon as he started, he stopped, pulled out a super old ipod, turned the dial a bit, put the ipod back in his pocket and started the whole routine over again. He was as into it as he was awful, except he seemed to think he was really really talented. He did this from EMB to West Portal. People around him were staring, some pointing, most of them suppressing their laughter.

At West Portal he either gets off the train or moves to the back. In any case, I don't see or hear from him the rest of the ride.

As soon as we exit the station I hear this woman on her phone.
"Hi it's Janet. . . . Do you know my cousin Sylvia's best friend's husband Bob? ... Sure you do. (then she goes on to explain how the person on the other end of the phone should know Bob) ... Well, you know he's had a pacemaker for the last 10 years. . . Oh you didn't? Well, he did, and get this. He never needed it."
She goes on to explain that he went to the doctor for a check up, the doctor noticed his pacemaker wasn't doing its job, then after a series of tests they realized that he never needed one in the first place.
Then Janet tells the person on the other end of the line that we are going to go into a tunnel (which is a big fat lie because there are no tunnels once the L leaves West Portal) and the call was going to cut off. She hangs up.

A few seconds later --
"Hi it's Janet. . . . Do you know my cousin Sylvia's best friend's husband Bob? ... Sure you do."
She goes on to explain the pacemaker story, adding more detail than the last time she told the story. Complaining about the price of Coumadin and about how doctors only want your money, they'll do anything for a buck,etc. Then she tells the person on the line that her stop is the next stop and she has to hang up.

A few seconds later --

"Hi it's Janet. . . . Do you know my cousin Sylvia's best friend's husband Bob? ... Sure you do."
Again she tells the pacemaker story adding even more detail and embellishment than before, still complaining about those crooked doctors who are just out to get you because all they want is your money and none of them care about making people well.

At this point people are starting to turn around to see who is gossiping about Sylvia's best friend's husband Bob's medical problems.

There are two men sitting in front of me. One of them is bent over, his head is in his hands and he's shaking with silent laughter. The man sitting next to him keeps turning around and giving the lady "shut-up, lady" looks. He picks up his man-bag with a big Harrumph! and moves to another seat, out of earshot, I'm guessing.

I'm sitting right in front of her. I'm dying to know what this woman looks like. Instead of turning around I start craning my neck trying to find her in some reflection. No dice. I have to turn around. I do. She looks about 60, and sort of like Witch Hazel from Looney Toons except more modern. Her curly hair is dyed black and she has 2" super gray roots. She's wearing some well-loved 10-hole docs, weather beaten leather jacket and self-cropped and hemmed jeans; all with a "I slept in this last night" look.

Janet tells the woman her stop is coming up and she has to go. At this point I start, very audibly I might add, laughing uncontrollably, hoping, just hoping she'd call someone else and retell the story, with full orchestration and five part harmony and stuff like that, but alas, this time she's telling the truth. She hangs up. Gets off the train.

I watch her after she gets off the train. She walks over to an apartment building, leans against the garage, pulls out her phone and dials again . . . "Hi it's Janet. . . . Do you know my cousin Sylvia's best friend's husband Bob? ... Sure you do."

From West Portal Station to 35th avenue we heard about Janet's cousin Sylvia's best friend's husband Bob and his pacemaker.

I get off the train a few stops later feeling refreshed. From Bad Dancing and Rapping to Comedic Gossip, my day was washed away with a giggle.

My Rainbow Necklace

I moved to San Francisco almost 20 years ago.

A few months into my new life I was walking through Noe Valley (still thinking that Noe rhymed with Toe). I came upon a shop window showcasing a nice chain with rainbow colored rings. I thought it was pretty. I was just about to buy one of the pretty necklaces when reality hit. Yup, I should spend the money on real food because I was really sick of eating top ramen or buying triscuits and pairing it with the block of cheese my room mate stuck down his pants at Cala. I didn't buy the necklace, but made plans to go back and get it as soon as I had a little bit more disposable income.

I was telling someone about the purchase I was going to make. I don't remember who it was; probably one of my room mates. S/he told me what the rainbow necklace stood for. I got all freaked out and thought to myself that it was probably a good idea I didn't buy it. I wouldn't want anyone to think I was gay or anything.

Flash forward almost 20 years.

This last weekend was Pride. I've gone bar hopping in the castro a few times during Pride but more often than not I tend to avoid any area in San Francisco that's east of Twin Peaks in favor of watching the parade on TV. Sometimes I leave the City all together. I really hate crowds. Large groups of people really get on my nerves and make me all grouchy; tons of people, all of them in my way, not walking fast enough.  Gay Pride, Christmas Shopping, Hardly Strictly Bluegrass, whatever. Crowds bug me.

Someone at work was telling me this morning about how he took his wife, his daughter and his daughter's friend to watch the parade. He commented on how many naked people there were. My attitude was "meh, you've seen one naked parade participant, you've seen 'em all"

Wow, how far I've come in 20 years.

I was this 20 year old kid, fresh from the LBC, learning how to live on her own in the big city, afraid to wear anything with a rainbow on it for fear someone would think I'm something I'm not. Now I'm closer to 40 than I am 39. I know who I am and not really concerned with what strangers think (funny, because I get all worked up about what people I know think about me, but that's another post for another time). I know how to pronouce Noe Valley. I even know how to pronounce Gough St. I still don't have much money so I should probably pay the electric bill or put clothes on my kids' backs before I go out and buy a rainbow ring necklace, but if I still wanted one because I thought it was pretty, I would buy it.

Watch carefully. I'm about to ignite the last half of the last cigar in Moscow.

It arrived yesterday in the mail; my July fastpass.

This is the last paper fastpass I will purchase.

I've bought a paper fastpass almost every month for the last almost 20 years I've lived in San Francisco.

No more complaining and laughing about the funny unseasonal colors they are printed on.

In August I will start using my translink card.

This time next year the Muni Fastpass will be a nameless number on a list that was afterwards mislaid.

Sort of sad, really.

OK, I'll stop plagiarizing Dr. Zhivago now. 






Your attitude is noticed, you know. Oh, yes, it's been noticed.

Dream Fragments while The Boy dreams about cake.

While I was getting a really bad night's sleep last night between the cat meowling (meow + howl), my son being a bed-hog and asking about his cake (I guess he had a bad dream about his grandma, cousin and sister stealing his cake), and having twisted up blankets so my coverage wasn't quite how I like it, I had some weird dream fragments.

First -
I was getting ready for my wedding. I was having 2 weddings. The first one was the real wedding. It was going to take place while everyone was setting up for the second wedding. I had the first wedding, so I was married. I got married to this guy who was in my class in grade school (initials M.A.) I don't know why this guy was in my dream. I haven't seen him since I ran into him in the hallways of Cypress College in SoCal more than 20 years ago. I don't think I've thought of him since. Not that I didn't think he was an OK guy, because he was. I just didn't stay in contact with him. Anyhow, I went back to my little bridal suite to get ready for my wedding. M.A. didn't come with me because it's bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding. On my way back to my little suite I noticed that the signs I wanted displayed at the wedding weren't proofed and the grammar was all wrong and they were all out of order. I decided not to let it ruin my wedding.

Then
I was at my Kumu's house, but it wasn't his house. I don't know, may be it was. I've never been in his house. I know which one it is when I drive by it on my way to Hula, but I don't know what it looks like on the inside. Anyhow, he opened up the back door and a giant gray seal came in. Kumu said "looks like the dog wants in." The seal came in and decided to hang out in the bathroom. This was really awkward because I had to pee, so Kumu said there's only one way to make the dog leave and he picked up a little chainsaw, handed it to this woman that I used to work with at Whole Foods Market. She started the chainsaw. It freaked out the seal and he scooted out of there pronto.

My baby boy's dream.

Last night / this morning I heard my littly boy cry.

Now usually when I hear him cry I wait it out a few minutes to see how serious he his as sometimes he squawks loud enough to wake me up and then he goes right back to sleep.

Last night I let him cry for a few minutes but then got up when I realized his cry was a little bit different than his normal "come get me, I want to sleep in your bed" cry.

When he was all snuggly between Hubby and me he started asking me questions. "where's grandma?" "where's (sister)?" "where's (cousin)?" and the most important question "Where's the cake?"

I had to reassure him that his grandma and his cousin were at their houses sleeping, his sister was snug in her bed in the next room and most importantly, his cake was wrapped in plastic in the fridge.

...and lots of wavy hair like Liberace!

Super Andrea to the Rescue!!!

Hubby says I have an over-developed sense of social justice. I think he may be onto something but I would modify that a bit by saying I have an over-inflated sense of social justice. This keen sense doesn't make me more inclined to work in a soup kitchen or send care packages to soldiers in Iraq, however. That's not to say I haven't done those things or won't do those things, it just means that they aren't the first things that come to mind when I think about how to make the world a better place.

In my screwed up head, the concept of social justice manifests itself differently. I never, ever take cuts in line. I always look behind me when I enter a store and hold the door open for the person behind me. I always stand on the right on an escalator if I'm not walking. I say 'please,' 'thank you,' and 'excuse me' because it's never out of fashion to have good manners. I take my turn at a 4-way stop according to the law. I tip well. I give up my seat on the bus to people who need it. Now I don't do these things because I really want to. I do these things, for the most part, because it's the right thing to do.

On the surface these things may seem like pretty nice habits I've developed. By themselves, they probably are nice habits. But this is me we're talking about. I turn into a really mean and horrible vigilante when I see other people not following the same rules I follow. I've developed the tendency to call people on their rudeness in really screwed up ways. For example, just the other day I was on Muni coming home from work. I was on the inside seat of a very crowded train. A twenty-something girl is sitting next to me. A man gets on the train. He has a cane and a very pronounced limp. He stands by our seat. I look up at him and ask him if he wants my seat. He says no so I stay put, but not without making eye contact with the girl next to me and saying "good job for offering up your seat." Then I proceeded to gather my bag and pretend to stand up every few stops so she thinks I'm getting off the train and moves to the side, thinking that's what she gets for not giving up her seat. She finally got annoyed and changed seats.

I'm not like this all the time. There is a certain time during each month when I turn into big fat mean social vigilante. I'm like the City's disgruntled hall-monitor handing out citations and administering passive-aggressive punishments. I try not to do this as I realize I'm being totally nut-burgers, but sometimes it just pops out.

Bear with me. This lunacy rears its head only one week a month.