• The Great San Francisco Apartment Hunt

    I’m relocating from Los Angeles to San Francisco imminently. Bye, Los Angeles. It’s been…well, I’ll save the “sentiments” for another post.

    This past weekend I flew up to the Bay to scout apartments, hoping to find a place before I officially move up. What a freaking mess it is up there! It’s not apartment hunting, it’s a cattle battle and the winner gets a drastically overpriced apartment fit for an oompa loompa and oompa loompa-sized furniture. Here’s how it works:

    1. You check Craigslist maniacally – ‘cause Craigslist is really the only way to find a place – looking for a listing that fits your criteria: clean, pet-friendly, not in crackhead row, no gross carpet from the 60s ‘cause you’re a hardwood floor snob and large enough for the harem of men you plan to acquire;
  • What It’s Like to Breakfast with Jay-Z and Beyonce

    I have this knack for seeing famous people in cities outside of Los Angeles. I don’t remember the last real famous person I’ve seen in Los Angeles, but if I fly somewhere else, given my track record, I’m likely to see someone of note.

    About 4 years ago, I was in Houston visiting the fam. My younger – too fly for her own good – sister, N, suggested we breakfast (yep, I used it as a verb) at a cozy, vibrantly decorated, restaurant called The Breakfast Klub, known for their chicken and waffles. It’s owned by a Kappa (as in Kappa Alpha Psi: black frat; famous for cane stepping; if you don’t know, now you know), so everything that would normally be spelled with a “C” is spelled with a “K”, like the “katfish and grits” dish. Kute.

  • How I Learned to Love My “Thick Thighs”

    I’ve been thinking about my weight since I was 13.

    One day I ate everything I wanted with abandon and the next, the size of my thighs were cause for angst.

    Thirteen is about when I started working out. My mom had a catalog of Jane Fonda videos from the 80s and I was Jane Fonda’s devoted follower. She looked hot in spandex and my thighs did not. Jane still looks hot today. It’s unreal. I also became a devotee of Joyce Vedral and her fat-burning workout. I thank her to this day for my interest in being fit and toned.

    I’ve been known to get a little intense about my interests. My poor parents. As a teen, upon being presented with “soaked in the deep fryer” chicken for dinner, I exclaimed with dramatic horror:

  • The End of My Love Affair with the Mailman

    I used to love getting mail. Remember back when the internet only existed in secrecy and you had to physically write letters to people? In junior high I had a French penpal. We’d write back and forth practicing our kindergarten-level language skills. My letters to her probably translated to something like:

    “Hello, my French friend. How are you? I am teenager. It’s not fun as think. Have zits. How say zits in French? Zeut alors! Do go to discotechques? You are amiable. Texas hot. Thanks. Write back now.”