The Plow is Coming

So, this Saturday is moving day, and even though most of my things are packed, I still feel vastly unprepared.

I still don’t have a bed. I didn’t know until this afternoon what I’ll be able to pick up the keys for my place on Friday, so I’ve been holding off on getting the mattress so that I know when I can have it delivered.

I have to call PG&E to have the billing for the electric switched over into my name.

I have to call to get an appointment to have the internet hooked up.

I don’t have any forks or spoons.

I think I need a shower curtain.

Aaahhhhh – it’s all too much. I’m totally freaking out.

135 Years Ago Today

On November 5, 1872, Susan B. Anthony voted illegally in the presidential election.   She was arrested 18 days later.   As her defense, she stated that per the 14th Amendment to the Constitution, all persons born in the U.S. were citizens and could not be prevented from voting.   However, the judge in the case disagreed with her, and in some shadiness that you would only expect from the Bush camp, told the jury to find her guilty, never polled them, and then delivered an opinion which he had written before every having heard the case.  She was found guilty and fined $100, which she never did pay.  It was over 14 years after her death that the 19th Amendment was passed, giving women the vote.

So, if you’re a woman reading this and you’re not registered to vote, get to it.   A lot of good women put up with a lot of crap to get you that right.

Just sayin’.

I Find that I *Can* Make it There

This last week’s journey to New York City was a work related trip. I got in on Sunday evening, checked into the hotel, and then headed out with my two co-workers from SF to find some food. We decided to try the West Village, and as we were walking down the street, I spotted an Ethiopian restaurant. Everyone knows I love me some goop on flat bread, so I was down. One of my co-workers had never had it, but he was game to try. I thought it was really good, but I also think I’ve had better in Oakland at either Ensarro or Cafe Colucci.

Once we were done with dinner, we decided to aimlessly wander the streets of New York. We ended up at a pub for a pint, and caught a bit of the ALCS game 7. Then our party diminished by one, and me and the other co-worker decided to check out Times Square.

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Sorry to report, there was no debauchery this time.

After tromping through the theater district, my co-worker decided to call it a night, so I was on my own. I decided I wanted to see some more of that ball game, so I found an Irish pub (there are a million of them) and bellied up to the bar. The funny thing, mambo music was blaring out of the jukebox the entire time. No jigs. No reels. No airs. Just mambo. I thought it was a wee bit funny. Anyway, I was watching the game, enjoying the pint or two, but I was really only one of two paying attention. I felt like there had to be a better place to see it, but at the same time, I didn’t want to wander any more. I eventually went back to my room to watch the last inning. And then I called my mom to tell her how big the room was. I had a suite to myself, and it was bigger than my new apartment. (BTW – still haven’t moved, but I’m packing.)

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Eventually I got to bed around one in the morning east coast time, which would be ten back home, so still pretty early for me.

Monday was the first day of our training and meetings. I have to say the best part of the trip, work wise, was meeting a bunch of people face to face who I had only emailed, IMed, and telephoned before. My co-worker likened it to the first date with someone you met via on-line dating.

After work, we went to dinner as a crew, I think there were probably 30 people at the dinner. We had “Mexican Themed” food. They called it Mexican, but I’m sorry, that was not Mexican. The guacamole was decent. That’s all I have to say about that. I’ve had better margaritas. After the dinner, a smaller contingent of about 15 ventured to a nearby lounge. From that point on, people began to mysteriously disappear, and the party dwindled. Finally it was just me and the crew from Boston. I had no idea what time it was, but they wanted to make their way over to Times Square (again) and were very keen to have me come along.

So I found myself at another Irish pub, with the 4th pint of Guinness on the evening, having a lively discussion with a pair of guys from the Boston office, when I leisurely looked at my cell to find that it was three in the morning!!! I booked it out of there, got a cab back to my hotel, and crashed.

I made it to work on time the next morning, but I’m not sure how. I chugged two cups of hotel room coffee first thing in the morning, and I know that I would have died had I not. That day went without much incident, and that evening, I finally had some time to myself.

I wandered the East Village for hours, trying to make up mind where to eat, before I finally decided on a Himalayan place. I had the best salad there, with avocados and potatoes in a citrus dressing. Then I hopped in a saloon I’d seen that had gotten my attention. It was the Double Down Saloon. There’s a saloon of the same name in Las Vegas that I spent some time in the last time I was there. It turns out that the one in the East Village is owned by the same man as the one in Vegas. I thought it was pretty cool, plus earned me some bragging rights for having had a PBR or two at both locations. Tuesday was a relatively early evening, as I was back in the hotel around 11.

Wednesday was nothing to write home about in the office, but my Himalayan experience the night before had me craving Burmese food. I knew that my co-worker from SF would be down too, and we decided to put the invite out to everyone. Since the company wouldn’t be picking up this check, only our boss was interested in going. The three of us had a good time, though, and I really felt that it gave us a chance to bond with “The Big Guy in New York” who we really don’t know too too well.

After dinner, the boss took off, and we found ourselves in the East Village again. At this point, the warm place in my heart for that neighborhood was well established.  I got in touch with a co-worker, J-lew, from my last job at ZD who is now living in New York, working out of their East Coast office.   It turns out she lives in the East Village, too.   She came down and had a couple of beers, before showing us the greatest food spot in all the world.   It’s called Pommes Frites.  Basically, all they sell are fries, Belgian Fries to be exact.   And they have a bagillion different dipping sauces.   We had pesto mayo, honey mustard, and mango chutney.  It was the best late night snack for us three girls to share.    J also showed us around the corner to a place called Bamn that was like an old school automat, with vending machines full of hot grilled cheese and chicken strips.    Well, my affection for the neighborhood increased to full blown infatuation at this stage.  I vow to make many returns.

The next afternoon, I boarded my plane to return back to San Francisco.  It had been a good trip, but I was ready to return to my life, get on with the packing and moving, and deal in full time reality.  Plus, the food and drink was starting to take its toll.   It turns out that I gained five pounds when I was in New York.

The trip was good, though.  I feel like I had got a lot out of the work experience, and I feel that it boosted my confidence a lot.  I think that if I wanted to, I could totally make it in New York City, and if that’s the case, then Berkeley should be a breeze.

Just sayin’.

Eating Out vs. Eating In

The other day, J4 and I had brunch with a couple he used to live with. One of them is a sous chef, and was telling us about working in the restaurant. J4 used to cook at a few different restaurants and I have years of experience, so this is all something we can relate to, but as I’ve never been in fine dining, I didn’t know what a sous chef did exactly.

J4 explained the hierarchy of a fine dining kitchen.   Apparently there’s a person called an Executive Chef.  She’s the ideas woman.  She dreams up the menus and recipes.    However, she doesn’t really cook anything.    And she’s probably not even in the restaurant when you’re there.    Her name is probably on the website for the restaurant.

Then there’s one or two Sous Chefs.   They’re the grunts who are actually at the restaurant 14 per day.  She’s the one who actually cooks the food that you order.     The Executive Chef may have dreamed up the Mahi Mahi with Mango Salsa, but she’s the one who didn’t burn it, and made sure it looked good on the plate.   She’s the unsung hero of the kitchen.   Her name is probably not on the restaurant’s website.

So, as J4 was describing this to me, I realized something.   J4 is my sous chef.   Frequently I think up some idea of something I want for dinner, i.e. poached eggs over tomato on English muffin, and I make J4 cook it for me.   I don’t really like to cook that much, except for when I do.     I would much rather just sit down and have somebody hand me food to eat.  That’s why I like eating out so much.

Having a sous chef is awesome.   If you have the means, I highly recommend it.

Just sayin’.

Playlist: Alton Ellis
Be True To Yourself – Anthology 1965-1973 

My First Hate Mail

I am very excited to announce that someone hates me and my blog. And yet, even though they think my life is pathetic, they’re still reading. So you see, the joke is on her/him. The funniest part: it’s apparently my mom who thinks I suck. One question though, who are these ‘people’ that my mom purports to represent; you know, the ones who “only visit to get sick amusement out of how pathetic [my] life really is?”

Two stupendous firsts in two days!

Just sayin’.

Playlist: Flogging Molly
Drunken Lullabies
Original Release Date: February 2002

The Hi-Jinks Perpetrated by the Mischievous PLW and J4

I frequently hang out with a group of bikers, even though I don’t ride myself. They’re a fun group of people, and some of them are really good friends. Some of them are nuts. I think that could be said of any group of people. I usually see this group every Wednesday night. We get together and socialize at different bars around The City, like Molotov’s on Haight or the Hi Dive on Embarcadero. There’s a lot of taking the piss with one another, and several little pranks that folks in the group like to play on each other. My favorite is the kill switch.

On a motorcycle, the starter is different from a car, in that there’s the key and then there’s a button. To start the bike, turn the key and push the button, basically. To turn the bike off, push the button. The thing is, unlike a car, everything is out in the open on a motorcycle. Also, when you’re riding with a group of motorcycles, you usually pull up to stops and what not side by side.

One night, months ago, after leaving the bar, J4 explained the prank while I was sitting on the back of his bike at stop with Dub next to us. He hadn’t really been meaning to encourage me, but I caught on pretty quickly. Just as the light was about to change, I reached over and smacked the switch on Dub’s bike, and J4 took off, leaving Dub sitting at the now green light. I thought this was hilarious.

Last night, we were out as usual, only we had taken my car instead of one of J4’s bikes. As we were leaving, several of the others were pulling away on their bikes. One fellow, who I’ll call Yellow, came to the first light with us on my side of the car and waved. At the next light, he was on the passenger’s side. I said to J4, “you know what would be funny is if you could lean out of the car, and get his kill switch.” The difference between this and what we did with Dub was that I really was trying to encourage J4. Well, it didn’t take much.

J4 leaned out of the car window, and couldn’t quite reach the switch, but he did manage to turn the key, and shut the bike down. Just as it died, the light turned green, and J4 pulled himself back in. We heard the most awesome, “AAAAAHHH” from Yellow as I pulled away from the light.

We were pretty freaking pleased with ourselves, and we giggled all the way back to Oakland.