publicly relating

I realized my last post started with the world's worst photo of me (unless you count this horrible nightshirt one and this equally hideous wetsuit one, of course), so I figured I should write something new and very long so the awfulness goes away. Because that's how the internet works, right? You bury embarrassing things with more embarrassing things and eventually everyone just forgets the earlier stuff because the new stuff is way more ridiculous and you come out looking like a winner. 

I swear, I'm not still on pain meds.

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is shortly after my surgery, I took my denture for a spin at a golf tournament. Which actually was a pretty good way to start venturing out into the world because golfers are apparently easily distracted, so you're not supposed to talk a lot, therefore I didn't feel too terribly self-conscious. 

That is, until I saw this guy.

Toothy jerk.

I don't really know anything about golf except that there is a ball and you're supposed to try to get it in a hole with as few attempts as possible. But I did walk the entire course (which was beautiful and hilly and dusty and vast). And I found myself following the 15-year-old golfer around (which subsequently made me feel really creepy). And I got stranded at a "crossing" in a giant crowd for a very long time and it was worse than trying to swim upstream at IKEA. 

The view from the deck of our hospitality tent.

My smile is only slightly crooked.

And since I don't know what it means to stop and stay in one place, I flew to San Francisco yesterday for a media luncheon that included a lot of wonderful things I couldn't eat.

Damn you, gluten.

Double-damn you.

Thankfully the consolation prize of a bunless burger was tasty. 

And while the work portion of my trip went well, the best part was getting to spend time with some of my favorite people in one of my favorite venues while watching my favorite team.

Most diverse group at the stadium.

MadBum set a new career high for strikeouts. And a shit-ton of seagulls swarmed the bleachers (which I think was actually Arvan's favorite part of the entire game). And I drank some scary form of sake that cost $10 and tasted like lemon juice with an entire box of sugar poured into it. And Himanshu joked that it would be hilarious if a foul ball hit me in the mouth and knocked out my other tooth. Yeah. That would be really hilarious.

Unfortunately, the Giants lost, but Layla and I were absolutely on point with our fish faces.

And I got to wear this hat.

I am back in Seattle now. And tomorrow I get my stitches out. Don't worry -- I will tell you all about it in way too much detail. I know you can hardly wait.

october together. with cats.

We briefly interrupt this Ironman training to bring you two things.

First, National Cat Day:

Uber was delivering kittens to raise funds for the Seattle Humane Society ...

... and we were lucky enough to schedule a visit.

Then: The World Series. (And you guys know even though I live in Seattle, I'm a San Francisco sports fan, and the Giants are my absolute favorite team. I love those boys and how scrappy they are. I love that ballpark. And I especially love eating all of the baked potatoes at that ballpark while watching those boys.)

And maybe this is too much information (but hey, when has that ever stopped me before?), but I get a little superstitious with baseball. So this happened:

Like you don't text on the toilet, too.

Yes, folks: I make a powerful poop.

where the hell am I?

So I am 13 days into a 24-day-straight work run. Which means two things: It's event season in the wine world, and I'm borderline certifiable right now. (About that last part -- what else is new, right?)

Last weekend I was in San Francisco for the Eat Drink SF, which I personally think should be rebranded as the Wine Country Casual Super Fashion Spectacular. For example:

Hey, it's Austin Powers!

"I'm a 'dancer.'" Wink wink.

Someone please tell me this is a joke.

Yes, folks, I am a terribly judgmental person. But come on. Look at that last photo. What the hell was that dude thinking?! Did he really look in a mirror and think: "So I have these fish-print shorts, and they maybe sort of look like I'm in my boxers, but no one will think they're underwear if I wear this amazing floral shirt with them. Hey, girl, hey."

Anyway. I'm in Texas right now. Irving, to be exact. TexSom, if you really want to get down to the nitty-gritty. And in typical fashion, I've already had some dumb adventures.

First, I had a 6:45 a.m. flight yesterday. And still went out the night before. I met some winery friends for what was supposed to be a mellow dinner with a margarita (singular), but then three margaritas and three glasses of wine later, I was at their house holding a meat cone (yes, you read that correctly) and it was after midnight.

See? I don't lie about meat cones.

I showed up at the airport still in -- how shall we word this? -- "fun mode" and wearing the same clothes from the night before. And then got on the plane, landed in This Place That Feels Like Standing Under a Heater Every Time You Go Outside and went into a 3.5-hour planning meeting with our two PR agencies. And the whole time I was thinking: I have no idea what I put in my suitcase.

How to know you're a professional: When you open said suitcase and find three dresses, a romper, three nice blouses to wear with jeans, running clothes, swim gear (including a kickboard and pull buoy), three pairs of shoes and enough underwear. Man, sometimes I impress even myself. (Sorry, no fish shorts, though.)

But wait, it gets better: Then we all hopped in an Uber to go to dinner. The driver was very thoughtful and had a plastic box of candy in the backseat for his passengers. I was holding it open in my lap so my coworker could snap a photo and pick out a lollipop. And that's when I noticed the absolutely gigantic cockroach hiding in the Dum Dums. I shrieked bloody murder and threw that shit on the floor so fast that I'm really surprised we didn't get into a car accident.

Roach, upper right corner

I don't think I will ever live this incident down.

Anyway, after the cockroach-induced near-heart attack experience, we went to a steakhouse and proceeded to clog our arteries.

Oh, look: A bacon tasting!

Because we are awesome (and it was my boss's birthday), the chef sent out two extra steaks. And the largest one somehow ended up in front of me.

Size matters

Can't wait to see what adventures are in store for me today. One thing is guaranteed, though: They will surely involve the meat sweats.

withdrawal

Yes, I'll admit it: I'm experiencing San Francisco Withdrawal Syndrome. It's tough. And a lot of it has to do with the food. I miss the burrito place down the street. And fabulous Citizen Cake, which has the best brunch. I miss dim sum. Bok Choy Garden. Pizza Orgasmica.

I miss my old neighborhood sushi joint, where the nigiri was cheap, there was a tofu teriyaki rice bowl on the menu (it was my favorite non-sushi item) and the servers knew me -- and gave me a hard time if I stopped in too close to closing time. (One actually asked me why I eat so late. This kind of reminded me of something a family member would say. And strangely, it sort of felt comforting.)

We tried the "best" Japanese restaurant in Petaluma on Friday night. (Note: There are only two Japanese restaurants in all of Petaluma.) Sadly, it was just so-so. The fish was fresh and the sake was good, but prices were high and service was bad. (Our waitress spent at least 15 minutes trying to figure out where the sake glasses were.) I actually went home that night after dinner and felt a little depressed.

Thankfully, I got a nice fix and made trips to the city Saturday, Sunday and Monday and tried all kinds of places -- some new, some newly discovered. We hit up District, a new wine bar near the ballpark (see my photo above). This was its opening weekend, and it was already packed -- the vibe was more like a bar than a wine bar, if you know what I mean. Still, the wine list was great -- lots of interesting flights -- and the service was awesome. I'd go back.

Then it was off to Bong Su for Jessica's birthday dinner. I have to say that I don't understand the hype about this place. I was pretty disappointed, and largely because of the service. We were part of a big group, so we were going to eat family-style, but our server totally skipped over the bf and me, even to the point of leaving our menus on the table after she took everyone else's, so we never got to order any of the entrees we wanted (which is rough since I'm mostly veggie and he's almost always veggie). And basically we hardly ate anything at all for dinner. And paid a nice price for it. (At least I got a glass of Tokaji Aszu at the end of the "meal.")

Luckily, Sunday night's excursion to Powell's Place was redeeming. I am still dreaming about the hushpuppies and black-eyed peas and fried okra. So freaking good. And inexpensive. And we followed the evening with some pool at Family Billiards, which actually has its own parking lot with free parking (totally unheard of in the city).

And I found myself asking: Why, oh why, didn't I find these places earlier?

moving

At times, I think this city gives gifts. One night, a papier-mâché parrot in the tree in front of our apartment. We laughed and took photos, then left it on its perch because you can't tame a wild thing. Another time, the brief glimpse of a man walking down Market Street with a cat riding on his backpack; I swore the animal smiled. Once, on the way to a play, a $10 bill on the sidewalk; it covered parking and then some.

We are leaving the city. It had to be done. It made sense. We needed space and air and less time spent driving to places with space and air. But I am sad. I've lived here since June 2004, the longest I've ever been in one place. I've been happier here than anywhere else.

But it's time now, time for the next adventure. And I look forward to the gardens we will have, the Mexican bakery around the corner, the yarn store down the street, the green hills and meadows.

I am sure there will be many more gifts.

today I envy

... everyone who works from home or is on vacation or lives in a place where the clouds haven't burst. I envy those who have dry pant legs, dry shoes and dry socks, who don't smell like wet dogs. I envy those who have garages, who don't have to trek for blocks in rain and wind sans umbrella to get to their car because PG&E has put no-parking signs up in front of their apartment.

all of my dreams are coming true

Bok Choy Garden now delivers.

This is amazing. On par with a two-hour full body massage. Or getting out of work early. Or discovering that your cat knows how to fetch (which mine does because he is a genius -- he also talks).

I heard the good news when I dropped by Bok Choy Garden tonight. I was craving potstickers -- vegetarian potstickers, to be exact. And Bok Choy Garden is the place to go for vegetarian Chinese food. The choices are endless -- everything from sauteed soybeans with bean curd and seaweed to bamboo pith soup to taro "fish" with sweet-and-sour sauce. It's no-meat heaven. And I would probably live in their kitchen if I didn't spend so much time being too lazy to walk or drive over there.

But now that has changed, due to new ownership as of a month ago, and I can be as lazy as I want.

And that's not all: Dining in is different too. True, the recipes are the same (same cook and everything), but it's like there's a new energy in the place. The service now kicks some serious ass -- I dined alone and didn't feel awkward or patronized at all. The dishes came out in a timely manner -- no main courses overlapping appetizers, which used to happen all the time. And the new owner is chatty (in a good way), enthusiastic and extremely professional. He told me all about his plans -- the new delivery service, the Web site he hopes to construct, etc. I felt like I was getting five-star attention but in a teeny-tiny, hole-in-the-wall, super-casual restaurant. And that's my favorite kind of feeling.

And here's the best part: When you get your check, you also get a little dessert called a "crystal ball" (other diners at a table behind me kept calling it crystal meth, but funny-ha-ha, that's not what it was). The crystal ball is fabulous -- it's a chewy little ball of green tea curd in a rice-based gelatinous wrapper. And it comes served on a small plastic leaf (cute presentation that sort of reminded me of Japanese toys for some reason). The owner told me a hilarious story about how one customer asked him to save all the leaves because he wants to make a costume out of them. Oh, hell yes. It doesn't get much better than that!

Despite the changes, essentially Bok Choy Garden is still Bok Choy Garden. The display rack filled with pamphlets with titles such as "GOD: Supremely Lovable," "LONELINESS" (not good when you are dining alone and missing your winemaker boyfriend terribly), "Nuclear Power?" and "Marriage: Great Expectations" still hangs on the wall on the way to the bathroom.

I wonder if when I place my order for delivery, I can also request the "CONQUERING DEATH" pamphlet with my meal.

not a utensil in sight

Woke up this morning craving Ethiopian food, all because last night's dinner was just so damn good. A group of us (sans costume, by the way -- I still regret not wearing a wig at least) went to Club Waziema for gigantic helpings of Injera heaping with various "sauces" -- lentil, split-pea, mushroom, vegetable -- a lamb stew and a chicken dish, plus sides of collard greens and salad. And two pitchers of beer. Un-freaking-believable. And the bill was just $71 for five people.

Funny -- I can't tell you how many times I've driven by Club Waziema. I'd always wondered about it but never thought about stopping in. The place looks kind of silly from the outside -- neon signs advertising Ethiopian food and a nightclub at the same time. Seemed a strange mix to me.

But the truth is -- and man, I love surprises -- the place is an absolute gem. Walls covered in gorgeous vintage wallpaper -- yes, it's actually velvety to the touch! Romantic lighting. A past that boasts amazing live shows from Billie Holiday to Ike and Tina. Can't believe it's taken me two-and-a-half years to check this place out!

I was so freaking happy that I ate my whole meal with my hands and didn't flinch one bit.

Which means either (a) food conquers all or (b) the Prozac is working.

Maybe I should go with all of the above.

please come home

Do you remember the day we allowed ourselves to be that couple, and we walked on the beach, holding hands? Do you remember the tiny sea creatures that washed up on the shore? They looked like tissue paper, pale lavender, and we picked them up and they were so light they could have blown away.

It was our first day in the city together, just us. We had iced chai from a tiny cafe near 17th Avenue. We went to a wine bar, and the glass of Pinotage we had there tasted like it could change the world. And you ordered your first creme brulee ever. And isn't it so true that cracking the top is the best part?

Today I went back to that beach. It was cold and overcast and only a handful of people were there. I think I was trying to look for you, to look for us.

to those drunken biznatches

at Slide last night:

You are lucky I am not a violent person. Because after you hit my elbow, causing me to spill my Chardonnay in my face and all the way down the inside of my cowlneck sweater (yes, my bra was soaked), I wanted to destroy you. And all you said was, "Oh, sorry."

I would've loved to smack you and dig my nails into your eyeballs and dump an entire magnum of red wine (yes, red!) on you. But instead, this is what I wish for you:

May you be walking down the street, preferably in suede shoes or a suede jacket, and may some completely drunk person who just ate too much Mexican food throw up all over you. And may chunks get in your hair.

May the guy you have been eyeing all night at the party walk in on you in the bathroom and find you changing your tampon. And may he run away screaming.

May you break the heels on all your favorite shoes.

May you get dumped in public.

May you eat a spinach salad.

And you will not be alone in the hell I have in mind for you. There were so many drunken biznatches at last night's winetasting. You will have friends. You can all pose for the event photographer together in ridiculously short skirts. And then brazenly ask my friend Jenny's fiancé if you can sit in his lap -- while Jenny is right there next to him!

So awful. The one thing I really hate about wine is that it's a magnet for yuppie scum or wannabe yuppie scum. Good lord.

if you look closely

... you can see the sun rise.

what I don't love about long weekends ...

... is coming back to work and playing catch up.

But what I do love is the extra time to try new restaurants. And this past weekend was full of new eating experiences. First stop was Tablespoon, where we dined Saturday night.

I'd describe this place as upscale comfort food. The specialty is mac & cheese (by the way, the appetizer size is large enough for an entree). And the Caesar salad is divine. (Can you believe that Caesar salad can be divine? At Tablespoon, it can. The secret is the warm, housemade croutons. I would love to be buried in those croutons on a cold winter night.) And the Chanterelle mushroom and leek tamale (see my amateur attempt at photography) was absolutely fantastic. And we finished off the meal with a plate of cookies, fresh from the oven. Yum.

I am definitely going back.

it pours.

The man on the radio this morning said: "There's a fatal car crash on Highway 121 near Viansa Winery. A head-on collision that is still being investigated. The highway has been closed for three hours now."

So I chose another route — went through Vallejo and up 29, past the Wal-Mart and the In-N-Out and the Safeway gas station. (How many of the cars around me were also taking detours?)

But I still saw the wreck (how did it catch up?): Two tow trucks — monstrous in their bright yellow paint — one behind the other, each carrying crumpled metal. One was burdened with a grey truck, the front-end smashed. The other held a maroon Buick, no driver's side door, no windshield, all shards and tangled steel.

While I commute, I chew gum. I like Altoids Sour Cherry. I like the way it makes my mouth pucker, the way it clears my head.

I debate while I drive: Is it time to leave the city? Is it time to move?

The rain will continue for the next six days.

three things I love

Yummy sushi pajamas, pedicures and tattoos.

(By the way, did I mention it's good to be back in San Francisco? I hate hotel rooms -- the way the carpet is worn thin in places, the way you don't know who touched the remote control last and if they were naked when they touched it, the way you wake up in the morning and can't figure out where you are. Is it Houston? Is it Dallas? Is it L.A.? I will be thankful when the travel happens on my own terms.)

home

I am so, so happy to be back -- to the boy, to the cat, to the tiny apartment with the big view.

yesterday, the Gold Spike served its last meal

The first time I went to the Gold Spike, there were five of us. We sat at the round table in the back, beneath the glass eyes of stuffed animal heads. There was the plastic red-and-white checked tablecloth, the dollar bills pinned to the ceiling so long they had turned black, the sound of voices coming from the kitchen. We drank much Chianti and savored the minestrone soup -- "Just like home food!" we exclaimed as we held our spoons.

We talked about our futures, what we hoped would come next.

I remember thinking, I will move to this city.