Envy is a Green Dress

It's perfectly shaved legs stretching on for a mile. It's a husky voice and a whip-smart wit and a sense of entitlement. And who am I? I'm just the one feeling left out like I'm in a bizarro world first grade, one where sex gets thrown into the mix, so much sand in a sandbox, tossles over who gets the best toy.

YinYang

For every yin there is a yang. For every promotion, for example, there is a bench warrant out for some unpaid parking ticket. I'm not necessarily talking about me. Or am I?

And today. A pretty crappy one as they go. Stressful. Busy. Tiring. And I come home all worked up in a state. Not finding solace in TV. Too hyper to settle down and read. Called some friends and no one's home.

And then, a total surprise. A friend calls who I haven't talked to in probably six months. Someone I've been wondering about. Someone who I was just so happy to hear from. It turned the whole day around. Just like that.

I'm thankful to end the day on a better note. Was starting to seem like yin-yin-yin. Or is it yang-yang-yang?

Live From Procrasti Nation

It's Sunday, the Sunday-itis is settling in, and that list of things I was supposed to do--not only did I not do everything, but I forgot to even make the list in the first place. Beautiful sunny day but I'm in a rainy day mood. I haunt my apartment, wandering between the bedroom and the couch.

I do wonder how I can be such a slacker to myself, when I am so conscientious at work. The messy apartment. The unpaid bills. It's me who has to live with it.

So. This weekend. A snoozer, personally. I heard on the news there are major fires fueled by the Santa Anas in Orange County. The sun shining through my window here reminds me how little rain we got this winter. This warm weather, if it means the rains are done, means it's going to be a long, dry summer. The hills will turn brown early. Rolling blackouts.

Which is one part of why I want today to be a rainy day. But more, it's about mood. It's about wanting to cuddle into the couch with a good book and not feel like a slouch for doing so. It's about feeling meditative and introspective to the sound of raindrops on the roof. Trying to synchronize with my cat's purrs. Stilling my compulsive ills.

Laundry to do, appointments to make, groceries to buy, etc, etc, etc. Instead, I type. And soon, I'll return to my couch.

Don't Stand So

close to me! It's one of those spilky days when everyone is in my way. They aren't really, but that's the way it feels when someone is going slowly on the sidewalk and I can't get around them. Or I can hear all the boring details of someone's grocery list that they feel like shouting into their cellphone while I'm waiting for the light to change at the streetcorner. Click-click someone's heels on pavement following my every step for two blocks. That guy that has a whole platform to stand on but chooses to breathe down my neck. And on MUNI, someone's bag is sticking into my butt, someone's elbow on my clavicle, there is an arm no less than two inches from my face and it's not mine, just someone trying to hold on.

And trying to get off MUNI is like burrowing through a tunnel of people, it's like diving underwater and I can't breathe as I fight for a slot on the stairway, assert my right to exit, ascend the escalator weaving around all those who don't yet get that you stand on the right and climb on the left, until I come up for sweet, siren-filled air of church & market. The cars rushing by as I try and hit my stride, my own little game of frogger, to find my way home.

Never Too Old to Die

Exquisite squeaky-fresh feeling day. Walking through it is like a purification.

Until you get to MUNI. Smelled like burned rubber and bad breath.

On my ride home, there's an old man standing next to me making love to his blackberry. He's got to be upwards of 70, dressed in full suit, and his wrinkled fingers are working the blackberry keys like mad. I looked over (boredom makes me nosy. and shameless.) and had to smile when I saw that what he was doing so intently and businesslike was playing a shoot-em-up alien game. Despite the furiosity with which he hit the keys, he wasn't doing so well. I watched him die three times, but he seemed determined to keep trying, keep living, and kill or be killed age-be-damned-if-he-wasn't-going-to-have fun.

Hits Your Eye Like a Pizza Pie

Last night was a lunar eclipse, although I wasn't able to see it here. BUT. Didn't matter. It was a warm day and I went to S's rooftop to watch the sky change with sunset colors and to watch the moon rise.

It rose like a rose, sprouting straight out the blushing top of Portrero Hill. A shade somewhere between rose and orange, the moon rose and took off towards the sky lighting little wisps of clouds who prettily pranced across its path. It made me feel most mad and moonly, to quote a little ee cummings.

So, logically, since the moon hit my eye I had to follow with some pizza and call it a true more. Today I made the Zachary's pilgrimage to visit my friend B. We ordered the deep dish and sat talking in delightful anticipation for about a half hour before the gooey globe of goodness landed beside our table. Tomato spinach crustacular heaven made with moon cheese. It's ridiculous how good it is. But I disappointed myself by only being able to eat two slices (normally I can eat three no problem), not only that, but I'm still full now and it's hours later, plus I've walked miles and miles in between.

Berkeley bedazzled in a warm early March day. T-shirt weather. All the wildflowers opening up to say hello to the sun. All the grass and ivy and ferns green from recent rains. Could the rains have ended early this year? Can March maybe maintain this level of most mad marvelous and moonly?

Of MUNI and Mustached Men

Muni, get it together! In this past week, I've had to get off the train on two separate occasions because neither of them would go anymore. The first time, I was on the J aboveground, and about to go into the tunnel when we just stopped and sat. And sat. And sat. Finally the driver announces brilliantly that "there appears to be some sort of delay." So for 15 more minutes I just sat there. We then start moving, oh sweet motion, I'm going somewhere and hooray--fuck. We go maybe the length of one car, lurch to a stop, and the driver says, "everyone's gotta get off. there's a bomb threat at Powell." 50 minutes later, I get to work after walking and bussing it. No mention of the Powell bomb threat in the day's news.

Same thing happens the next morning, sort of. At least I got into the tunnel this time, but at Powell station we just stop and sit with the doors closed. There's a homeless guy across from me, raving about getting Chinese food from Gavin Newsom, who, by the way, "looks gay. That fuck. He IS gay. Gay as a bluejay. Fucking Gaving New-Some. Fucker.' Sit, sit, sit, sit, sit. I finally go ask the driver what the hold up is and he says there's a medical emergency on the train ahead. I ask how long it will take to clear. He says he doesn't know. I ask if he could at least open the doors so people could get off and he looked at me like I'd just asked him to part the Red Sea with his eyes shut and while riding a unicycle. But he did open the doors, and I walked the rest of the way.

What does all this have to do with mustaches? Nothing!

But last night I went to a bar where the "winner of the Hustler mustache competition" was hanging out. His mustache was gross and weird. He gave me his phone number and my friends laughed at me. I really attract the winners, literally. Oh yes I do.

After that at Tosca I found myself drinking too much too fast. Overplayed my part. Taxied home and dreamt my way to today and hangover city.