Wednesday, September 29, 2010


1. Riding the bus is, for the most part, a calm and peaceful experience.

2. It’s kind of fun wandering around the city during the day.

3. I’m surprised so many other people are also wandering around the city during the day. Don’t these people have jobs?

4. Some people just like to dress up like “sexy” cats.

5. Some people just like to dress up like “women.”

6. San Franciscans are friendly and kind.

7. The Alemany Farmer’s Market taught me that plums are not exclusively sour and mealy. There’s this one kind of plum that looks like a grocery store plum on the outside, but on the inside it’s dark maroon and super juicy and sweet. Now I understand why people make desserts with plums, or really, eat them at all.

8. I can go approximately three weeks without social interaction (other than talking to Chris in the evenings) before I start to think, “Hm, I kind of wish I had friends here.”

9. We have no friends here.

10. Hardwood floors and glass doorknobs make me as happy as I thought they would.

11. There is NO MILDEW in San Francisco. I may never clean my bathroom again, ever. I’m not kidding. Yes, I am. No, I’m not.

subtle hints received

Hello, friends. Sorry so silent.

I got lost inside my own head, and boy, is it confusing in there. Almost immediately upon entering, you forget what you came for and wander around slack-jawed and wide-eyed. Nothing is arranged quite like you expect it to be, so you walk back and forth, back and forth, just knowing the lemon zinger tea has to be there somewhere, and you keep passing the same guy over and over and you worry that he thinks you’re one of the crazies, and you try to discern out of the corner of your eye if he decided to hold his breath when he walked by you, just in case.

Wait, I’m thinking of the supermarket. But it is also confusing in my head, and there’s apparently no blogging allowed there. Good news, though—I got out, and here I am.

And now, thanks to my award-winning imagination (and by award-winning I mean that I’m still afraid of the Jabberwocky from the made-for-TV, late 80s version of Alice in Wonderland) I’m doing a remarkably good job of pretending I have a tattoo that says No Regrets. Not a tramp stamp—geez, what kind of a girl do you think I am?—but a nice, classy one on my bicep.

My No Regrets tattoo reminds me that no matter how long it’s been since I’ve written here, I don’t have to apologize. I don’t have to summarize what’s happened since the last time I wrote (and in this case, it’s been a lot). I write when I feel like it, about whatever I want, for the same reason I finally starting cutting the nasty bottom crust off my sandwiches: Because I’m an adult.