• Where’s the Fire?

    6 , , , , Permalink 0

    Since I moved to San Francisco two weeks ago, my life has been like a comedy of errors. No big catastrophes, but little “first world” annoyances.

    It all started when:

    • The post office ignored the fact that I sent my apartment deposit via Express Mail and decided to ship it any ol’ time they felt like. That ended up being a week later than I paid for. I was fit to be tied, worried that my hard-won apartment would be given to someone else who actually paid when they said they would. They didn’t.
    • The movers accidentally absconded with the power cord for my flat screen. I got it back.
    • My mailbox key didn’t work. The box was jammed full of legacy mail. Do these people not believe in forwarding their mail? The building manager got it fixed.
  • The Great San Francisco Apartment Hunt Continued

    Two weekends ago I began The Great San Francisco Apartment Hunt. I’m leaving sunny (and yes, sometimes downright hot as hell) Los Angeles for foggy San Francisco in search of a less trafficky-lifestyle (and thus reducing the chances that I commit a road rage-induced homicide or suicide) and an escape from gaggles of women who speak with a Kardashian-perfected vocal fry, end declarative statements with like, a questioning, like tone? and spend more time talking about their manicures and expensive designer handbags than the current Presidential election. The “why L.A. is making me grossly unhappy” list is a lot longer, but again, I’ll save that for another post.

    Having had not much luck the first time (that kiss ass girl with the yappy dog got the apartment in the Marina, boohiss!), I flew up this weekend armed with a new strategy and attitude: I’m here to find a place and I will cut a bitch for an apartment.

  • 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.”