maybe she was distracted by the samba music...

Last night was the Miss USA pageant, and Miss Utah's answer to Nene Leakes' question has gone viral. Please admire this amazing spectacle:


Hosted by E!'s Giuliana Ransic and what appears to be a Jonas Brother, I had to hold myself up from overstimulation before we even got to the fact that Real Housewife of Atlanta Nene Leakes is fit to judge anything. Like Nene has any idea what the hell she was even asking. Anyway, "Utah" as Giuliana called her, gave a super dumb answer, and the world is freaking out that a pageant broad might be incredibly dumb and unable to think on her feet.

You know what is overwhelming me? That Giuliana is wearing the Peaches 'N Cream Barbie dress from the 80s! Memories have come flooding back! That dress (with its matching ruffled wrap) was my most prized possession for years. Maybe Giuliana loved the Peaches 'N Cream Babs as much as me...

knives, special pants, and meat...

Catherine and Brian joined me at a Brazilian Steakhouse, where we discovered how one properly holds tongs to receive meat from a Brazilian cowboy. That's right. I said it. Up now, on SFGate...

have you ever seen so many divas in a row...

Because I am a SAINT, I called my parents last night to benevolently fill them in on all of my accomplishments and activities. My mother breathlessly answered the phone, "Hello???"

"Hi Mom."

"Are you watching?"

"Watching what?"

"THE TONYS." She yelled it, done with me, over me, sick of me. My mother loves New York. My father loves excitement. In their relative retirement, my parents spend a lot of time in Manhattan. They sublet an apartment in Greenwich Village every Spring, they go to lectures, my mother goes to yoga, she has her "New York friend", and my folks see every Broadway and off-Broadway show they can. My mom's been on-stage at The Moth and she gushed at Philip Seymore Hoffman in the elevator at his own opening night. They are, as my mother likes to think, kind-of New Yorkers, blowing any inheritance they might leave their children on seeing David Hyde Pierce in "Curtains" repeatedly.

My parents no longer give a shit about long-term care or responsible planning. They want to go to The Big Apple as often as possible, and if they need to sell an organ on the black market, so be it. Some people are into French stuff, some people are into giraffe figurines, and my parents are into New York City.

A few years ago, they actually went to the Tonys, tux and sequins in the last row, paying a fortune and calling in a favor. As a result, in my family home, the Tonys are bigger than the Oscars. I find this blasphemous.

My mother handed the giant grey portable TV Room phone to my father. He'd take my call. "Hold on, Bethy, we just need to see who wins this one." He had a whole "side" he was on, a Broadway side. I could hear the TV in the background. "And the winner is..." Screams, yells. My mother may have thrown something.

"I've moved to the bedroom." My father confessed. "Mommy's watching the Tony's." He revealed that they'd dined on some sort of fish "flown in from Tokyo" for the occasion, cooked it, and brought it up on trays to the TV Room for the big show.

I started in on the kinds of things one tells one's parents. "So I had my review at work..."

"You know, we saw Kinky Boots with Ron and Rick."

"Yeah, Rick told me." My parents' gays tell me everything. Duh.

"And Mom didn't think she'd like it but we both loved it. We really had the best night."

I tried again. "Okay well, I saw a psychic in Stockton."

"And also, we saw Cicely Tyson, and Bethy, this WAS LIVE THEATER. I just got INTO IT."

I finally found the one thing that will make my parents toss up their hands and say "Kids? What kids?"

The Tony Awards. Fine. Watch your show. See which HOME you end up in.

This morning, I caught up on Tony host Neil Patrick Harris' opening performance.
Well, shit. Okay, I get it now:

red carpet interviews from the glaad media awards...

It's finally here! Last month, I headed down to the GLAAD Media Awards with the very patient Jonathan, a videograher from Drew Altizer and SFWire. We interviewed celebrities (including Gavin Newsom AND Real Housewife Kyle Richards, naturally). My favorite of all the interviews, I have to admit, was my chat with Peter Paige, who has a new TV show he's producing for ABC Family called, "The Fosters." But really, to me, he is Emmett Honeycutt from 'Queer As Folk'.

Red carpet walks are touch because all sorts of people are being ushered down the line by publicists, and the publicist says, "Do you want to chat with Random Steve, who no one's ever heard of?" No, no. I want to talk to Scary Spice, please. And you've got to sort of GRAB, literally, the celebrity you want. Obviously, all the press people want the same big name celebrity people... but as soon as I saw him, I was like, "EMMETT!!!!!" And would that I could have, I'd have spent the entire night with him. You have to watch the entire under-3 minute video to see out sweet goodbye. Gavin Newson, on the other hand, less warm.

Watch it over at SFWIRE...

tourist trapped: st. helena sleepover...

You don't need wine in wine country. Because I discovered two incredible, unexpected, and magical inventions in St. Helena last weekend. And I reveal them on today's Tourist Trapped. Up now on SFGate...

ain't no party like the west coast party...

I spent much of today helping a friend pick out wedding invitations. As we looked through the massive books of invite options, I became fixated with the glitter and the glitz of the bat mitzvah invitations.

Pure pink glitter lining the envelopes? This is a thing?!?!

I had to text my mother a photo of the most glittery invitation to a 13-year old's party. "I never had this."

 My phone glowed back. "You got a First Communion and a Confirmation. Also, we were not rich. We do not have a loft."

 These are fair points. However, pink glitter? Fuck college. Let's spend your money now.

This evening, my mother scanned and emailed me my First Communion photo. This is the first time I really saw myself as an adult in a photo from my childhood. That's me. That's my look at a camera at a family member, my embarrassing hair, and my high-necked dress that seemed like a good idea when we tried it on. That is me, trying really, really hard and not quite making it, because I am too big, too aware that I'm being photographed, and too me all over. I'm amazed someone loved me enough to take a photo.

 
I can identify all of the kids in this photo. And I can tell you that, according to my mother, just like the children were arranged by height, families were arranged. So my parents, grandparents, and Kate's family weren't even in the last row of church. They were in FOLDING CHAIRS behind the last row of church. I was that Godzilla-esque. My entire family had to pay the consequences for my huge 9-year old bones, knocking over church pews like in a monster in a movie trailer.

My world then was entirely St. Patrick's grammar school in Larkspur California. Anything outside of a champagne-colored minivan and an appreciation of 'savings bonds for college a birthday present' was exotic. And now, looking back 25 years later, I am PISSED that I never got an invitation with my name in a fun font, mentioning a loft and glitter. Pink glitter. Event here, reception at a separate location. Gifts on an 8-foot rented table here. There was a whole other world of glamour which I was denied.

In retrospect, it wasn't all that horrible. I can still remember the thrill of my Confirmation party, attended by 11 people. My "Da" and his lady-friend gave me a Discman. A Discman! At the time and in my palazzo-pant jumpsuit... it seemed like a pretty big day. But still, glitter was not involved at all...

i think maybe it was the title...

I almost posted this here last night, but then decided it might be good for a Culture Blog post. Unsurprisingly, "Old People At The Movies" is getting a few angry comments, although none as spectacular as yesterday's letter to the editor. Please enjoy (or hate) it over at SFGate!

you know i love every word of this...

This is how you TROLL.

I want to go find Ms. Mayfield, who is a FLORAL DESIGNER who doesn't think women should serve in combat, and give her a big, low class hug. My mother, however, might need to be physically restrained.

THIS was the original article, should you wish to read something 'very ordinary.'
Uplift! Enrich! Max Planck!

"this was so much better when I was 15..."

On this week's Tourist Trapped, Kate and I head to Great America, where we share an amazing and exciting 20 minutes. And then 2 and a half hours of hell. Up now, on SFGate!

so excited, then 60 seconds later, over it.

did you ever work in food service...

I, myself, have not. Yet. But I do have a story about serving food at a homeless shelter with my dad that I might tell tonight. Because it's Porchlught Storytelling Series Open mic tonight at the Hemlock Tavern, on Polk and Sutter!

$5 gets you in the door, sign up and tell a story for both the glory, and for a free drink. Or hang out and listen. We start at 7; you have a few hours to watch Behind the Candelabra, so we can discuss while smoking on the sidewalk...

twenty three skidoo...

Too many of the best phrases have died off, only to be given their last breaths by my father who uses these phrases with abandon. Last night at family birthday dinner, Alex offered some funny idea and my father screamed across Spruce, "Now that's got legs!"

I spent the next 45 minutes thinking of all the times I'm going to use, "Now that's got legs!" before my parents started describing seeing "A Trip To Bountiful" in New York. On and on, they went about Cicely Tyson, raving about her performance. My mother leaned across my father, "The New York Times said she was 88."

"Twice!" My father added.

"But Wikipedia says she is 79." My mother sat back in her chair, somehow more pleased with Wikipedia's version of Cicely Tyson.

And then with great flair and enthusiasm, my father boomed, "If Cicely Tyson is 88, (indignant pause), Katie bar the door."

Katie bar the door? What the hell is Katie bar the door?

"Look it up!" My father has recently discovered that one can use one's smartphone to access the internet immediately. Anytime he is questioned on anything, his answer is, "Google it." He walks around town saying, "That's got legs! Katie bar the door! Google it!"

I googled and and read the (now preferred) Wikipedia entry to the table.

Legend has it (oohs and ahhs from the table) that during the King's (James the 1st of Scotland) stay at a Dominican chapterhouse in Perth in 1437, a group of men led by Sir Robert Graham came to the door searching for the King in order to kill him. The King's Chamberlain, Robert Stewart, Master of Atholl (ooh, ahh), aware of the plot against his life, had taken the precaution of removing the bolt from the door of the room in which James and his queen were staying. James fled into a sewer tunnel as the queen and her ladies quickly replaced the floorboards to hide his location. Catherine sprang to the door and placed her arm through the staples to bar the assassins' entrance. However, they forced the door open anyway, breaking Catherine's arm, and discovered and killed the King. From that point on, according to the story, Catherine took the surname of "Barlass". Dante Gabriel Rossetti recounted the story of Catherine Douglas in verse in 1881, under the title "The King's Tragedy". This poem contains the line "Catherine, keep the door!" - possibly the origin of the idiomatic phrase "Katy, bar the door!" (a warning of the approach of trouble).

Our entire section of the restaurant really enjoyed that story, including our fabulous server who managed to work in "Katie bar the door" every time he brought something to the table. But it begs the question of my father, who had admittedly just given us all a really cool phrase to use, why is Cicely Tyson being 88 a warning of the approach of trouble? He just tosses around "Katie bar the door" as more of an, "Well then I just don't know what."

"She broke her arm?" My brother said. "Nice work Katie. James is dead. They should change that phrase to, 'Katie drink some milk.'"

*the New York Times also has some answers on "Katie bar the door" but they said Cicely Tyson was 88, so...

i feel very tiger beat about the whole thing...

I discovered Fever Ray while watching 'The Following", which is a Kevin Bacon TV-show that I watched and discussed with my friend Eve. So in one scene, the TV-show had this super intense song which I Shazamed and downloaded, and then discovered was the theme to the History Channel's show, "The Vikings." It's the History Channel's first scripted show and I have not watched it. But I will. Wanna know why?

 

Needless to say, I looked him up. His name is Travis Fimmel, he is Australian, he is THE LOVE OF MY LIFE. Here is an interview with him at ComicCon, and let me just say, for the record, I am no longer a 13-year old girl swooning over dudes. But this is... I mean, I just... You guys:

 

chips and dip is the name of our band...

I like to go to all the cool restaurants because I am an insecure person who validates herself by saying things like, "Oh, I've totally been there. Did you try the duck?"

I have been waiting for TWO YEARS to go to Frances, a casual yet very impossible restaurant to get into in the Castro, and finally decided I'd just go on Open Table, find the next reservation, and take it. Lo and behold, there was a 5pm dinner open last night. I had to hold it with a credit card, and texted Melissa, "We are going to an early dinner tomorrow at Frances. Please pretend you know this is a big deal."

Let me tell you about Frances! First of all, I am two years behind the times and it is embarrassing that I'm just going to Frances. Who cares, you've all already been there. Second of all, they have chips and dip. I repeat, they have fancy, organic, local chips and dip.

The chips were long, seeded crackers and the dip was basically really onion-y sour cream. There was way more chip than dip and the two of us devoured the whole thing. Our server, Jake Gyllenhaal, offered to bring us more chips. "Oh, no thank you. We're just eating the dip with a spoon. You have chips and dip!"

We also got chick pea "Frech fries" which Jake called "frites", spinach soup, maple bacon begniets (Mel is a vegetarian, so...), gnocchi with walnuts, and leek gratin with blue cheese. We did not order any entrees because the sides looked so good, and one of the things that happens when you turn 30 is that you don't care anymore. They had leek gratin. I'll have 8 of those, thank you. Please bring it to me and then look away.

We timed it, and it took 34 minutes before Melissa and I started in with the, "So, I sent this really embarrassing email. I need you to look at this thing on my back. You have to go along with the following lie." And I realized I wasted my fancy reservation at Frances, because when I'm with Melissa, I could be at a Shoney's and die of giggles. We did not talk about food. We talked about my most recent guy and our parents and big work plans and our trip to Atlanta and the fact that I cut off all my hair. (I cut off all my hair.)

I can say anything to my best friend. I've tested this. I could say, "So, I killed a guy and he's in an oil drum in the back yard" and Melissa would lean forward, "I wanna see. Do you need my credit cards? I actually know a guy who sells lye." She's automatically on my side, without judgement, ever.

Melissa does not care that there is $7 chips and dip. And I have learned, there is no point in my keeping anything from her, ever. We walked to my car and Melissa grabbed me. "Don't think I didn't see Jake Gyllenhaal wink at you. He WINKED, Bethy."

"I KNOW." I said. "I thought it was our own little moment."

"Uh, no. I saw the whole thing." And Melissa, who ran the Bay to Breakers at 7am, saw a wink, filed it away, ate some chips and dip, and pretended to care about a gratin, let go of my arm. She got in my car and knew when to go in a liquor store to buy me cigarettes. We've become fake characters in a novel at this point, we are so ridiculously in sync. Readers are like, "This is bullshit."

Anyway, I went to fucking Frances finally. Melissa came with me. We had chips and dip...

"it's for a friend..."

Last night, Sally, Brock and I decided to go to Trader Joe's. This was in addition to other fun things. We don't just go to grocery stores together and then home. As we drove over, we were each listing off the things we wanted to buy at Trader Joe's, and Sally finally confessed, "I need toilet paper."
We all agreed that toilet paper is very embarrassing to buy.

Present company excepted, everyone pees and poops, right? I mean, I don't. You don't. Sally and Brock certainly don't. But most gross people do. There should be nothing embarrassing about buying toilet paper. Yet Sally and Brock were freaking out, "Well, who's going to hold it when we walk out of the store? Not me. I don't want to hold it. You KNOW they won't put it in a bag."

That's true. Toilet paper never goes in a shopping bag. It must be carried and displayed like a neon sign announcing, "This is for my poo, folks! This is for numbers 1 and 2. Please picture me on a toilet because it is such a sure thing, I am preemptively buying a special product for just that."

"It's worse if you're a guy." Sally said in the trail mix aisle. "Because then it's just for number 2."

"It's for a friend."

Then began a heated discussion on men being kind of into pooping. Not necessarily proud of it,  it's like an official part of their day, one that requires smartphones and magazines attend. It is not that way for women, or so I've heard. Again, I do not use restrooms for anything other than checking my hair.

We dropped Sally off, screaming out the window, "Have fun with your toilet paper! Which you're going to use on the toilet!" Her neighbor was there, helping her with her bags. He was nervously shooting us the side-eyes as Brock and I yelled the words "poo" and "pee" across Nob Hill. And he was kinda awkward not because Brock and I are idiot children with some serious bathroom issues. But because Sally bought toilet paper, and that is totally embarrassing...

"they haven’t quite gotten this taste profile down..."

Not that Brock and I don't go here once a year, but on today's SFGate Tourist Trapped, Blair, Keri, John, and I head down to Chili's, where we discover a popular accessory, sugar-hot sauce, and how much Ranch is too much Ranch. Eat it up over on the Culture Blog...

if peeing your pants is cool, consider me miles davis...

I spent last night at Kate's house, and the best thing about crashing at a good friend's house, other than the unconditional love and viewing of Mermaids, is getting to use her toiletries. I have good lotions and potions. But I don't have ALL the lotions and potions. Kate has completely different hair and body products and I am wearing some of every single one of them today. You can probably smell the toxic blend of eight different kind of body lotions from where you are right now.

We also, watched The Real Housewives of the OC, and had a deep discussion on what our housewife tagline would be. There's a whole website devoted to them, and here are my favorites:

"My tank is full and I'm driving into my future." Vicki from OC, Season 7
"I asked, I believed, I received." Kim from Atlanta, Season 3
"To some people, living elegantly just comes naturally." Obviously Countess Luann, Season 3

I came up with:

"I'm kind of insane, but I make it look fabulous."
"Money grows on trees, and I own a Christmas Tree farm."
"If Spanx counts as plastic surgery, consider me altered."

Speaking of Spanx, I was recently in the Macy's Intimates section, a section that still embarrasses me to venture within, and discovered that New York Housewives Bethenny Frankel and Jill Zarin have competing lines of shapewear (which means Spanx, basically.)

Because I am a journalist, I tried both on and here are my findings:

www.skinnygirlshapers.com

Bethenny's "Skinnygirl Shapers" are WAY sluttier than Jill's, and feel cheap and off-sized. On the plus side, you could theoretically take your clothes off in front of someone else and look like you were wearing sexy lingerie instead of old lady girdles. So, there's that.

Jill offers the appallingly named "Skweez Couture" (seriously). I would say that you can't use the word skweez with couture, only skweez isn't a word. Jill's shapewear works like a motherfucker, but the only way you'd ever let anyone see you anywhere near those flesh-colored bikeshorts is if you were married to Bobby Zarin...

i tried to do the springer-pose but i can't pull it off...

Today's Tourist Trapped attempts to escape from a locked room in Japantown. Using mere clues and tools we find inside the room, my friends and I put ourselves to the test and see if we can escape in less than 60 minutes. The results... will not surprise you. Up now on SFGate.

Also, this is happening all week. Tune in from 2-5 every weekday and watch me guest host on the KOFY couch. Local TV!

Oh, and tonight is Porchlight Open Door. Come on down to the Hemlock Tavern by 7pm, pay $5 and tell a story on stage! You don't have to tell a story if you don't want to. You can just hang out and look cool...

um ma'am, we're going to have to ask you to leave...

There are two parts to this story. The first is that on Saturday morning, I had to meet a friend across town at 9am. I have an automatic weekday alarm on my iPhone already. I simply set a Saturday alarm for 8:10. I happened to wake up Saturday morning at 7:30 anyway, and vaguely recall having a thought that my 8:10 alarm never went off.

The second part is that a wonderful reader of this blog and now friend of mine named Seana very sweetly gave me her last minute tickets to Stuck Elevator, the play (that closes Sunday) at ACT. All of my friends were booked for Saturday night because they are very cool, including the ones who have so many plans, I get their back-ups.

Hey, I have stuff to do, people to see. But I happened to be free this Saturday night. I decided that I am a confident adult woman, and I can go to a work of live art by myself. Plus, if I ran into anyone I thought might judge me, I would just use the greatest/worst excuse for doing anything embarrassing ever, "Oh, this is for a blog post."

I put on some cute clothes. I did my hair. I ate a turkey sandwich. I drove myself to Union Square, and I told Will Call that I was Seana.

Great, they said, and handed over the tickets.

I was in the glamorous orchestra section and even had a "safety seat" next to me, which I soon realized made it look like I got stood up. I told myself that people who go to a play about a immigrant delivery man who gets stuck in a Bronx elevator for 81 hours don't really care who is with or without whom.

The play began at 8, and it was really interesting.

At 8:10, someone's phone went began to ring.

My phone was off. I'm not an idiot, and certainly not new to theater etiquette. Who's the asshole, I wondered, staring into the heads in front of me. Everyone within 10 rows looked around, myself included. C'mon guys.

So... it was my phone, obviously. My alarm was set for 8:10pm, and not 8:10am as I'd assumed. The silent mode doesn't work for alarms, and when I think about why that feature exists, it makes sense. This all happened because I am very old, had nothing to do on a perfectly good Saturday night, and am dumb. I am the asshole in the theater, folks. I, the adult woman who loves to talk on the phone with her mother about which actor stormed off of which stage over a cell phone, was the asshole with the cell phone playing "TIMBA" for what felt like eternity before I realized it was my morning alarm.

In retrospect, thank God I was alone...

My mother took this in New York at the intermission of Newsies, which is is equally embarrassing. 

it is an orange dress. and it's tahari...

Many mornings, Blair and I stop into our work-neighborhood Starbucks and I get a Venti coffee and carbs. Blair gets (big sigh) 2 shots of espresso on a lot of ice in a Trenta pastic cup. Blair's item is not on the menu and, without fail, creates a whirlwind of confusion during FiDi Starbucks rushhour.

The main issue this Starbuck's staff has with Blair's order is putting a hot beverage in a plastic cup.

The main issue I have with Blair's order is why she needs the huge Trenta cup for 2 little espresso shots and some ice. Apparently, she adds her own water when she gets to work. And Blair's point is, Fuck you Starbucks, give me what I want. Which is valid.

Apparently, no other Starbucks has taken issue with Blair's order, including the Starbucks 2 blocks away. "I got it in Hawaii! I got it in Mexico! Here, they write a fucking paragraph on my cup."

I've seen certain barristas go and get the manager, who then shows up and makes the mistake of telling Blair no, which has never worked for anyone anywhere. They didn't even consider it in Hawaii! In Mexico! Blair doesn't really feel bad other people are waiting, which is a pressure I can barely handle. Blair doesn't think Starbucks should be allowed to have arbitrary sometimes rules, which is another thing I'm not willing to fight. I simply stand back with my CUP OF PLAIN COFFEE and watch the show.

Obviously, used for chilled water later on.

One exchange left Blair so ticked off (although with her drink in hand) that she actually contacted Starbucks headquarters. Here, in her own words, is what transpired:

"oh i emailed- a response-bot wrote back- i replied asking for a stuporvisor...that went on for a while, a stuporvisor actually got back to me with his phone number - i called - left message - no response for a week - called back - left message - some other DM emailed me apologies (sort of) saying she saw that it was a re-Dick policy and she would talk to the staff."

I asked Blair for clairification about Starbuck's policy:

"they said that a hot BEVERAGE can damage the cup, i kept pointing out that they put it in a plastic VENTI cold cup so that policy is null and void. it took 5 or 6 emails to get them to admit it."

I love that Blair emailed these people 6 times. I, on the other hand, just snuck back into that Starbucks for a snack because I am a horrible person with no will power and they have La Boulange pastries now. I settled on a carrot cake muffin, which is a brown muffin and made out of vegetables and raisins. As I order, 3 gorgeous men walk in, and because I live in a world of constant food shame, I stood in tense, humiliated silence as the entire staff of Starbucks, the same staff who are now afraid of Blair, repeatedly announce, discuss, and FEIGN confusion over whether or not that girl in the orange outfit ordered a muffin or cake...

i wish he'd thrown in a falafel...

I am in New York City and I have all sorts of exciting things to tell you, like the man who made his wife cry on the airplane or the awesome show I saw at Upright Citizens Brigade, or Tom Hanks being amazing on stage, and appearing relatively tall, which is a relief.

Instead, the most exciting thing going on with me and New York right now is my knock-off handbag adventure.

Some broad on the New York City Council is trying to make it illegal to buy knock-offs. Right now it's illegal to sell them, but I think it's cool if you buy them. I'm not sure. The transaction itself is illegal, but until this law passes, I will not get fined and/or jail time for buying the amazing bag I just bought.

Before my crime wave, I met my friend James for brunch who offered, "What if someone stole one of your articles, made it stupid, reprinted it, and got paid for it? That's a knock-off."

I completely agree with him. I don't think anyone could make my posts dumber than they already are, but don't diminish my brand! I'm Beth, the only Beth! I get it.

My bullshit justifications for buying knock-offs anyway are:

1. Louis Vuitton is an international icon making gabillions of dollars every second. When I am in that position, I will buy real designer bags.

2. The bag I want, which is the Louis Vuitton Neverfull GM, is a totebag in the signature LV leather. It's like a Burberry scarf. Here's a recognizable print, give us a grand. So in my estimation, the bag's actual retail value is $200. LV is ripping people off.

These are nonsense excuses for being a cheap label whore.

I went down to Canal Street and as soon as I emerged from the subway, this man comes up to me and says "Handbags, you want handbags?"

Normally, I'd feel out the other vendors but I got a good vibe from this guy. "Do you have Louis Vuitton?"

"Yeah, yeah. I got it. Come with me."

We walked half a block to a falafel truck. He looked from side to side and handed me a laminated photo gallery of fake bags as hundreds of tourists pushed past us. #24 was the LV Neverfull GM.

"How much for this one?" I asked.

"Eighty Five."

I am a seasoned bargainer. $85 was bullshit. In what I felt was a bold and confident move, I rolled my eyes and started to walk away. He followed me. "Okay, okay. How much?"

"Not even in the ballpark of $85."

"Okay, you tell me what you think."

"$45." I said. You've got to get this part right because too low, and he's like forget it. But obviously, I want to pay the least amount possible.

Right away, he said, "$60."

Sixty I was willing to spend. "I want to see it."

"Okay, okay. You wait here."

I stood in front of the falafel truck, whose vendors seemed to be on board with this whole transaction, as my new friend headed across the street and got on his cell phone. I waited for about 3 minutes, and saw him marching toward me, looking shifty and holding a black plastic bag as low as he could hold it. We stood in the ordering spot of the falafel truck and I examined the bag as secretively as I could. It was certainly good enough and up to my very low standards.

"$55." I said.

"No, we say $60."

"It's obviously fake."

He was getting nervous, our deal was taking too long. "Fine. $55."

I handed him $60, he got $5 back from the falafel guy (!), and slipped me the cash, much the way you'd  discreetly tip a valet. He then spun around and was off. Clutching the plastic bag, I raced off in the other direction. Safely three or four blocks away, I opened the bag to full examine my purchase AND I LOVE IT SO MUCH.

If you see me with this bag, you will know it's fake and I don't care. I put it on Instagram and now all of my fancy friends who have the real one will know it's fake and I don't care. The effort and the risk and the thrill of the purchase make the payoff so much sweeter. Or as my mother pointed out, "It's worth $60 just for the experience!"

Well, no. But oh my God I love my bag...

i don't think you'reready for this jelly...

I feel like this photo collage really says it all. But read "Guy Fieri Is My New Best Friend" over at SFGate for all the gory details...

walgreens jackpot...

I have a shitty, shitty cold, and to what I feel should be my immense credit, have only stayed home sick one day this week. This is mainly due to the fact that I need to leave work early on Friday to go to Pebble Beach, which is less noble than, say, having an amazing work ethic. My co-workers wish I'd stay home. After my 637th sneeze today, Bill said, "That's it. I'm done. No more God bless yous."

I'm so sick of being sick, I'm doing the angry sneeze. Resentful of having to stop to sneeze, I kind of scream it out, along the lines of, "AAAAA-CHOOOOOO MOTHERF*CKER."

I did a little research today on the best over-the-counter cold medicines and went to Walgreens after work to buy them all. I got DayQuil, NyQuil, some sort of abusive nose spray, and cough drops. I forgot to buy fancy Kleenex, so I'm blowing my nose into cheap toilet paper and the results are not pretty. But most importantly, I made an incredible discovery at Walgrens.

Obviously, I didn't just buy medicine. While at Walgreens, I also bought make-up, face stuff, and snacks. This is how I discovered Walgreens "Nice!" brand Fudge Mint Cookies. People, these are Thin Mints.

They're like $2 and available year round. The Girl Scouts are running a racket.

Here are some other things I figured out this week while being sick:

1. The Mindy Project is an amazing and hilarious show, but it is becoming clear that every couple of episodes, a different actor is fired, like its a reality show and people are getting voted off.

2. Murder She Wrote has some serious storyline issues. I am speaking specifically about Season 3's Episode 3, "Unfinished Business." But in watching like, six episodes over the past week, Murder She Wrote has a lot of really convoluted storylines. I ended a lot of episodes screaming, "Wait, what?" at my laptop.

3. One of my neighbors is learning to play jazz flute. I am completely serious. It sounds like the wedding scene from Wet Hot American Summer ALL THE TIME.

4. Aaaa-CHOO!

here come the tiaras...

First of all, today's Tourist Trapped is up! Check out Tighe and my visit to the San Francisco Conservatory of Flowers over on SFGate.

I wore a hat to the Conservatory. Because I'm going through a CHAPTER IN MY LIFE RIGHT NOW where I've decided to be true to myself, own who I am, subscribe to O Magazine, etc. This means that I now wear hats. Hats are the kind of thing women buy because other women and gay men love women in hats. Stright men do not historically enjoy a woman in a chapeau. However, listening to the opinions of straight men has never really gotten me anywhere, and Big Chris will make fun of me no matter what I wear, I decided to rock my hat yesterday.

When Tighe met me in front of the Conservatory, he said, "I saw you from a distance and I just had to take a moment because there you were, in that fabulous hat and sunglasses, waiting for me." But all day long, I could feel that hat on top of my head, standing out, looking very Buena Vista Social Club. I only grew more self-conscious as the day wore on, when I met my friend Alice in Chinatown for photography and shopping.

"Oh! A hat!" She beamed, hatless. "I just love it." Alice knows that, unless you are Andie MacDowell in 'Four Weddings and a Funeral," a woman in a hat needs constant reassurance. While in Chinatown, I bought a silk nightgown for $30. And today, once again inspired to be fashion forward and sartorially honest, I chose to wear this nightgown as a dress to work.

I work almost exclusively with straight men, men who are very comfortable saying things like, "What the fuck are you wearing today?" On the front of this nightgown is a dragon. On the back are lots of Chinese characters, which as my co-worker Carlos pointed out, "could very well say 'Kick Me.'" The more I walk around in this thing, the more it static clings and shows off the stripper bruise I got from walking into a coffee table. The more I sit, the more wrinkled it gets. I am starting to feel really, really awkward in this dress!

As tonight is Porchlight Open Door (you should come!) I needed reassurance that I shouldn't run down to the Gap and buy jeans and a blouse to wear. I got my co-worker Gregg to take a photo, which I then texted to Brock, who described my experimental looks as "a dramatic departure."

It's only going to get weirder. My sponsor's 'suggested' I take a hiatus from dating. Which means I can finally wear my sequined blazer, my full length kimono, and my wigs...

the goldilocks of personal space...

One recent morning on my way into work, I stopped into Starbucks. This being in the Financial District, the line for coffee was probably five-deep. I was the last person in line before one had to stand in the doorway. The next guy in swung open the door, took one look at the line, and tapped me on the shoulder. In a booming voice, he demanded, "Uh, could you step forward?!?"

There was room for a tiny step forward but I had been giving the broad in front of me some personal space. Had I had a second to react to someone else joining our line, I would not have needed public scolding to take that step. Now, I had to bow my head and basically spoon the woman in line before me. This is too close, she and I obviously thought at we cradled each other like newborns. This guy could have just awkwardly stood in the door during the time it takes a barrista to make a Venti latte, not made us perform some fully-clothed girl-on-girl. 

Today I went to the dentist. After having my teeth cleaned, the obvious next step was to go get food. Lee's Deli is right under my dentist's office and on my way back to work anyway. I made myself a $47 salad from the salad bar and stood in line to pay. The man in front of me was giving those paying a healthy 10-feet of breathing room. What is this? Gringott's Bank? No. This is the register at Lee's. 10 feet is too much personal space. As I stood behind him, unnecessarily in everyone's way, I was reminded of the Starbuck's encounter. Exactly how much space, I wondered, is appropriate in between people in line? 

Independently and without consulting anyone else, I've determined an official answer:

If I stick my arm straight out, it goes about 2 and a half feet. That's the circumference of personal space I appreciate. I'd like to be able to do a 360 degree circle with my arm extended, hand up (as if to say, "Stop. That's close enough.") That seems like an appropriate amount of personal space among strangers. In crowded, peak-time Starbucks situations, 1 foot is fine. Anything closer than that is unnecessary. It's a cup of coffee, not the last lifeboat on the Titanic. 

Wikipedia agrees.

I can't believe there are charts online to help creepy people with this concept. Can't we all feel when someone is too close, or not close enough. Body language is the universal language! The fact that graphic designers have taken stylus to epad to create handy visual explanations is the reason I double check my house alarm in the middle of the night. What is wrong with people...

Unrelated: I'm co-hosting Porchlight Open Door at the Hemlock Tavern Monday Night. 7pm, tell us a 5-minute story onstage. The topic this month is Law & Order. It'll be fun!

i feel like my marina-raised father should totally run for this...

this broad.

For the second year in a rown, some bro was crowned Mr. Marina, which is an honor that gets you a signature cocktail at a Marina bar, some argyle socks, and, I imagine, laid a lot. Last night, along with my brave friend Jenn, I headed to Ruby Skye to watch these bros in action, competing in swimwear, talent, and Marina-wear. It was quite the to-do. And you can read all about it over on SFGate...

as i sit here in a $17 dress from target...

www.vaunte.com

Have you heard of Vaunte, the website that lets you buy the used clothing off the backs of very, very rich thin people? I took a look at the site and one of their "starlets" on today's Culture Blog. You should go read it, and then think long and hard about how starlet-worthy your wardrobe is. Up now, on SFGate...

worst dinner party ever...

Sometimes (because I don't want to talk about what they're talking about) I will ask my friend, or my family, or a dinner table, to pick 6 people (dead or alive) for their perfect dinner party. These aren't necessarilly the six most important, significant people ever. It's the six people you'd most like to have dinner with; the seven of you at a table. Here're mine:

Gilda Radner
Paul Newman
George Clooney
Julia Child
Louis CK
Bob Spotswood

In discussing this at legth with Blair (hers are all rock music types), I came up with an even better list. Worst Dinner Party Ever requires you to pick the six people (dead or alive) you would least like to have dinner with. These are not necessarily the world's most horrible people (but they certainly can be.) This list is just the last six people you would ever, ever want to spend 3 hours with. Here're mine:

Adolf Hitler
Anne Hathaway
Sarah Palin
Dennis Rader (the BTK Killer)
Anita Bryant
Joe Piscapo

I'd just like to be clear that Dennis Rader made the list not due to his heinous crimes, but due to his incredibly annoying demeanor. I just can't stand that guy.

Who's on your list(s)...

but is it gluten-free...

I am excited to celebrate my good friend Sally's birthday. So excited, I've agreed to join her to pick out a personalized cake at a local bakery, The Cake Gallery. Naturally, I went to the Cake Gallery's website to check it out and had no choice but to click on the link proclaiming, "X-Rated Cakes."

OH MY GOD LOOK AT ALL OF THESE.

I'm trying to talk Brock into making one of these his profile picture on Facebook. I have several questions. The first is, what would you do if someone surprised you with one of these? Your family is gathered at some lovely restaurant, and your prankster cousin or boyfriend is like, "Oh, I'll bring the cake! It'll be my gift to you!" Oh, okay. Thanks. Great. And then, with grate fanfare and sparkly candles, this emerges from the kitchen...

obviously i had to take a screen shot...

Once again, I had a really weird massage experience. Read all about it over on SFGate, and share yours please. Because spas are vulnerable, delicate places. And everything can go wrong...

Kinda embarrassing. Still worth it.

i am proud neither of what i have done nor what i am doing...

If you're like me or everyone I know, you use your phone to look up people on TV while you watch TV or discuss TV. It's a very distracting habit, but the skill once allowed my mother to figure out that Keifer Sutherland was sitting at the next table.

Tonight I am watch 'A Few Good Men' because it is on TV and it's the kind of movie you have to watch when it's on TV. My mother is now screaming at her computer, "Keifer Sutherland is in that movie and I saw him at dinner in New York!" In addition to Keifer Sutherland, the movie features one of my favorite character actors, J. T. Walsh. I always remember Jack Nicholson dedicated his 1998 Oscar to J.T. Walsh, who had just and very suddenly died. So here I am, watching AFGM and I start thinking about J. T. Walsh and decide to Google him.

First interesting fact: J. T. Walsh was born in San Francisco and lived here until he was 5. Neat!

Second interesting fact: J. T. Walsh died of a heart attack at he age of 54, "while a guest of the Optimum Health Institute, a spiritual detoxification clinic in Lemon Grove, California."

(As I write this, J. T. Walsh is in his character's full Marine dress uniform and about to kill himself. And... he's gone.)

Obviously I had to look up the Optimum Health Institute, which I assumed was rehab for chemical addiction. It is not. I'm pretty excited about the Optimum Health Institute where J.T. Walsh died, and obviously, clearly, want to spend at least one week and up to four weeks there.

Basically, one goes to the OHI to cleanse the body, quiet the mind, and renew the spirit. There is a campus near San Diego and one near Austin, and both of them look like religious retreat compounds. The accommodations are not glamorous (think burgundy and cream-colored quilts) and some rooms have a shared bathroom. The first French I ever learned was 'en suite' and there is no way I can share a bathroom with strangers. I wonder if J. T. Walsh did? There are no TVs or "radios" and only some rooms have WiFi. Also, there are no hairdryers! But they have natural body-toiletry stuff if you're so hell bent of smelling nice.

What do you do all day? I'm so glad you asked. There are core classes, and then classes for each week of your stay. I think you stay by the week, and you don't have to sleep there if you don't want to. (I do.)
Many, many, many of the classes have to do with wheatgrass.

Then, there's this, which is the second reason I really want to go here:

"You" validation
Learn to find the friend in your mirror. Participate in this loving class, where fellow guests share qualities they like about you. All you have to do is say "Thank you" and smile. Discover how giving and receiving validation are equally important.

There is also "vocal toning" which is an ancient practice of screaming while you meditate or similar.

Finally, I really want to attend (and obviously Emcee) "Friday Night Live" where you "share your personal gifts. Demonstrate a skill, sing a song, share a poem, act in a skit, or dance for joy. Enjoy camaraderie, laughter, and friendship in this night of celebration." Just imagine the type of people who go to this place "demonstrating a skill or reading a poem." Oh, the spectacular agony.

How amazing would it be if you went to the Optimum Health Institute to get a bunch of color irrigation, compliments, and wheat grass and J. T. Walsh is there too, starring in Friday Night Live and dropping dead? It would be amazing.

And now, back to A Few Good Men...

brilliant baseball players and knock-off handbags...

Once again, Lisa has dragged me to one of her sporting events. This time we headed to Stanford to watch Rhodes Scholars play a little baseball. It's up now over on SFGate.

And I've got an article in this month's Nob Hill Gazette. Just in case you're a hobo that doesn't live in a Nob Hill Co-op, you can read all about rich ladies and fake accessories right here...

i've never understood the pull of the obscene phone call...

Brock sent over a Los Angeles Magazine article which Eve and I immediately devoured. "In The Footsteps Of A Killer" is a fabulously long and detailed article about the very cold case of the Golden State Killer, who raped and killed people throughout California and remains ON THE LOOSE.

The article is written by Michelle McNamara, a stay-at-home mom who sits up all night on researching and discussing true crime cases on online chat boards, mainly the A&E Cold Cases discussion board which isn't even a show anymore but the chatting continues. Neat! She's been particularly obsessed with the case of the East Side Rapist/Original Night Stalker, whom she has renamed the Golden State Killer. On her quest to find the killer out of sheer personal interest, Michelle interacts with mostly retired police and people from her various true crime discussion boards, and occasionally mentions that her husband is a stand-up comedian.

I looked it up. She's married to Patton Oswalt, whom I now suddenly like WAY more.

The article is fascinating and well-written and for a true-crime obsessed person like me, a joy to read, with detailed info on all of the Golden State Killer's crimes and also tips on books and websites where amateur sleuths take this shit SUPER seriously. Again, Neat! But even better, there is a whole side section of the online version of the article with crime scene photos, much grittier details about the crimes, and (wait for it) a fucking creepy as fuck recording of the killer making an obscene phone call. I listened to that last night before going to bed and it was a big mistake. You've got to give your age and email address to access this section, which I've decided is yet another attempt at catching the GSK, but it is an awesome and super intimate interactive feature, which only reaffirms my love for this medium.

Eve and I have this fantasy where someone gives us money and an office, and then we just solve cold cases all day. We'd have dry erase boards, maps with pins in it, crime scene photos, a lot of old laptops, bad coffee, we could wear leggings all day... If anyone wants to sponsor our independent cold case company, we'll need $250K a year and a mini-fridge.

Anyway, check out the article. And then please discuss it at length with me because I need to know who the GSK is...

too soon, never forget, etc...

A friend's company had extra seats at their table for the Chamber of Commerce breakfast, so I got to go, probably for the last time because I just wrote about it on SFGate. But OH MY GOD guess what Mayor Ed Lee calls the World Series trophies...