As I offered her a gingerbread cookie, she sweetly declined. “Oh, no. I couldn’t. I don’t eat anything with a face. Unless it’s meat.”

A dear friend was relaying a conversation she recently had with her mother.

“Mother, I met someone this weekend, but I’m not telling you anything about him for 3 weeks.”
“Why?”
“Because I really like him. I don’t want to jinx this, and I don’t want you to ruin it.”
“Ruin it? I wouldn’t ruin anything, you little bitch.”

7 am. Drizzly San Francisco street. Me, briskly walking to BART. Him, homeless man, weaving back and forth across the sidewalk, heading towards me.
Him: Mmmmm. MMMMM. Nice legs.
Me: (eyes cast downward, no response)
Him: (coming closer) Yeah. You look good. You look real good. (pause) But I bet you can’t cook.

Moorcheeba. At the Fillmore. Awesome.

Seriously. Something about seeing Jody Sternberg singing then saying, “I can’t believe we’re at the Fillmore,” and laying down on the stage. And singing. And gesticulating. And singing. And the passion.. So much passion. Like she couldn’t believe she was there.

Awesome.

someone googled “i want bigger hips”

and my site came up second, only to a channel 4 news story about being fat. awesome.

…was the color I saw as I extended my arms out in front, then swished them to my sides. To me, swimming is all about numbers. Odd laps are breast stroke, even, crawl. One and a half minutes per lap. Average. The first ones are less, the later ones are more. R237 G28 B36 – the color of my fingernails, a deep red contrasted against the R113 G206 B235 and R0 G124 B197 blues of the tiles of the pool. I come up for air. Mozart is playing over the loudspeaker, 7/8 time. Or is it 3/4? I return under water, concentrating on my breath. One stroke, two strokes, three strokes, breathe. One stroke, two strokes, three strokes, breathe. Until all laps are done. And I have 37 minutes to shower, dress, and make it to the train.

My car was rifled through last night. No big deal — I must have failed to lock it, because there weren’t any signs of forced entry. It was ransacked, but nothing was destroyed or broken. I think all they took was my CDs, meter change, and maybe a blanket. The funniest part is the visual of a homeless person or ‘hood making off with my fluffy white Hello Kitty CD case filled with folk music. Enjoy, thief!

in the cubicle next to me at work…

“I failed to notice that on your application you checked you had been convicted of a crime.”
pause
“No, that doesn’t necessarily prevent you from being hired, but I can’t read the explanation underneath.”
pause
“Possession of a deadly weapon? Oh. I see. Uhm. What was the weapon?”
pause
“A rooster? Did you just say a rooster?”
pause
“Someone from Texas sent your son a rooster for Easter?”
pause
“The SPCA did what? They came to your house and killed the rooster?”
pause
“They put you in jail for 8 days? For possession of a rooster? Okay.”

A likely story. I can’t wait to meet our new Bird Lady employee. Awesome.

Maggie came up with the idea.

“The de Young is reopening this weekend, and to celebrate, they’re staying open all night long on Saturday night. Admission is free, and I have an idea.I think we should get dressed to the nines, and head over at 3 a.m. on Saturday night. We’ll meet up around midnight for drinks and then head over in the wee hours. Maybe we could even have a picnic on the front steps afterward. What say you?”

The best idea EVER.

A fellow southerner and I recently prepared for our non-Southern friends a feast that rivaled the best post-church Sunday dinner. Fried chicken, cheese grits, collard greens, biscuits, fried okra, and the mandatory ‘nana puddin’ for dessert. We were comparing cookbooks (his from Texas, mine from North Carolina) when I noticed the directions for frying chicken included this: The pan should contain enough oil so that the chicken floats freely (Crisco preferred). It wasn’t until we had used an entire 48 oz. bottle of Crisco, and our chicken still was not floating freely, that I realized the magnitude of that directive. Southerners love their oil.