Category Archives: It’s awkward now

Letters From The Bay, Week 58: Jorts, of course

Dear Universe:

You saucy minx. Acting all like you’re just going to go your way and I’ll go mine, and then all of a sudden you’re all WHAMMY! Here you go lady! Early Christmas for you.

Yesterday? Yesterday alone was one for the books. Don’t act like you didn’t plan this whole thing:

“Um, hello, do you like my bike?” a lispy voice said next to me. “I found it in my garage, and tho I thought I’d take it out for a thpin! Do you like it?”

“Um, yeah,” I said, glancing over, looking at the voice, who was tall, with salt and pepper hair winging out from underneath a dirty baseball cap. “It’s very…” I let my voice wander while I looked for the bike he so wished to show off, and when I saw it I could not even help myself. “Oh wow. That bike is… Wow.”

Universe, as you know, the voice was a tall Spanish man, and he was riding a bike made for an ADD 12 year old. Girl. Circa 1987. It was truly a confection of awesome: banana seat held up by giant silver springs, metallic pink paint job with tiny embedded sparkles, big wheels, a low, curvaceous handle bar. If this bike were a person it’d be a twelve dollar tranny. Hot, in a big, messy girly-man sort of way. You planned that just for me, didn’t you Universe? A gem, you.

“Yeth, I thought it was interethting. But I’m going to Burning Man nexth week, tho I thought it wath okay!”

“Well, I think at Burning Man just about everything’s okay, so you probably don’t have anything to worry about. Unless the naked hippies light it on fire, but you won’t have lost much, right?”

“Ha!” laughed the Spanish man. “Ha! Oh ha! You’re funny, you know that?”


“My name is Antonio and I come from Thpain and I am only 39. I uthed to be a lawyer, but now I work in a rethaurant becauth I didn’t want to take the bar. If it meant okay, now I make loth of money, sure, but it dothent mean that, you know?”

“Oh, I see,” I said. “You’d like to make a lot of money for no effort?” Much like his little speech, Antonio was sounding increasingly like an internet scam. I was expecting him to offer me a discount on Viagra next. What about that, Universe? My birthday present, you say? That’s fine. I can wait.

“YETH!” he emphatically replied. “I don’t want to work tho hard! You know juth what I mean!”

You and THE ENTIRE WORLD señor, I thought to myself.

“Yes, I do. I’d like to make a lot of money while napping, which is like putting in negative effort, but I guess we can’t have everything, right?”

“Oh you are so funny! How about if I take your number and we go out sometime?”

Mmm, how about not?

“I’ll give you my e-mail address, but that’s as far as I go,” I told him, trying to lead him in the direction of expecting to be let down the next day, if not right here at this awkward juncture on a bench underneath the Golden Gate Bridge.

“Well okay. Maybe you come to see me at work thometime? Or maybe you come thee one of my showth! I do thand-up comedy!”

That would be ironic, as you have said nothing funny the entire time we’ve been talking, but I didn’t expect you to be funny, which makes you not ironic, and instead, just one more San Francisco creeper, albeit, of the Spanish variety.

“Oh really?” I said out loud. “Well you’re very funny!”

Good Lord I’m a horrible liar.

“Thankth! You too!”


As we said an awkward good-bye, Antonio stood up and reached over to shake my hand. As he did so, I noticed he was wearing jorts. For the uninitiated, jorts = jean shorts. Of course he was.

So, let me get this straight, Universe – a 39-year old, graying man with a lisp who works as a waiter and wears jorts? AND has a sweet ride of the hot pink beach cruiser variety? All of my very own?

In the words of my Lutheran ancestors, what wonderous love is this, oh my soul.

You know just what to get a girl for early Christmas.



Filed under Gentlemen Friends, It's awkward now, Letters from the Bay

Letters From The Bay, Week 54: Urban Lumberjills, Part II

I have never pedaled faster in my life. As you know, the faster you pedal when flat, the ever so slightly easier it will be to pedal once you’re at an incline of WTF degrees and counting.

For, like, a second.

M’s rear disappeared in the distance as I put my head and gears down and hauled up the Sausalito hills.  My thighs were burning – and not in the good way – as I slowly pushed my feet in circles, thinking less I think I can, I think I can, and more, Never again, you never have to do this again! Also, we have wine at home! Thank the baby Jesus!

I caught up to her as we came around the curve, and suddenly, inexplicably, M was airborne. The wind, fiercer now, had just picked her up and wooooosht! tossed her off her bike and into the side of the hill like it was no big thang.

Ha! I thought. Poor M. That sucks.

Luckily for me, I thought that right as I came around the same curve to meet her and what do you know? Wooooosht! No big thang.

We lay there for a second, legs tangled, helmets askew on the side of the hill, bikes on top of us.

“Well that was awkward,” M said finally, awkward still. “Um, yeah. But not quite as awkward as we probably look right now, lying on the side of a hill in the dark in Sausalito,” I said.  “Point,” M replied. “You definitely have a point.”

We girded our loins (because what else can you gird?) and remounted, chugging up the last stretches of the road to the bridge.

“The most important thing to remember is to just keep going, even though it’s kinda windy,” M shouted at me over the whipping wind as we approached it. “Hold tight as you come around the towers – the wind is pretty fierce when you swing out over the water.”

“Okay!” I shouted back, hair in my mouth, eyes watering in the gale, deeply disturbed at the thought of more wind. “I’m ready!”

We hit the bridge and suddenly, everything was quiet. The wind became white noise, the boat horns faded, even the sound of cars passing on the left receded into nothing. All I could hear was the sound of my own heart beating, and the noise of the waves running into each other down below.


All joking aside, there have been so many moments in the last year where I’ve felt confused or sad or weird about the way my life is going, and then there are moments like this. Where all is quiet and calm and I feel a great sense of both purpose and place, as if the Universe has slapped me across the face yelling, HELLO! THIS. IS. IT. YOU DID IT. NOW ENJOY IT, YOU WHINY WENCH!

I hate when the Universe is sassy, but I guess it’s sometimes necessary.

I felt amazing as we slowed to the gate on the other side, and then I felt blunt force as I ran smack into the back of M’s tire.

“The gate is locked. This is the way we need to go to get off the bridge, and it’s locked,” M said slowly.

“Um, so, we’re trapped? On the bridge? Is that what you’re saying?” I asked M, hoping that somehow she was lying or that I was just misunderstanding, or that what she was saying was true, but that she would follow it up by letting me know that Sparkles the Magical Bridge Fairy was going to come down and wave her giant sceptor in the shape of the TransAmerica Pyramid and get us the fuck off this bridge.

“Yeah,” M said, laughing. “I think that’s pretty much the situation. It’s 10:00 p.m. and we’re trapped on the Golden Gate Bridge.”

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Filed under It's awkward now, Letters from the Bay, Woe To Me

Letters From The Bay, Week 44: A Public Safety Announcement

Dear Drunken Stranger Who Climbed Through My Window and Slept On My Dining Room Floor Last Night:

Well good morning, you.  Yeah, you, stranger in the green hooded sweatshirt who is in my pantry, holding my box of Honey Bunches of Oats with one hand and scratching your ass with the other.

Quit that.

On the one hand, I’m really glad you were so drunk you needed to seek shelter en route to your dwelling, but not quite so drunk you couldn’t remember how to break into Daniel’s house via the dining room window and make yourself at home on the floor under the table.  That’s called “Using your head!” and “Being resourceful!” and I don’t know one Founding Father or Boy Scout of America who wouldn’t be darn proud of that.

Unfortunately, Daniel doesn’t live here.  I don’t know who Daniel is.  Neither do my roommates. Which brings us to a final and very important declarative statement: We don’t know who you are, either.

You left a giant footprint on my wall, you smell like beer, and not only did I not invite you to this slumber party, but I also most certainly did not invite you to cozy up with my breakfast.  Also – and I hate to keep harping on this, believe me – but, again, nobody here actually knows who you are.  And it’s getting uncomfortable.

So put down the oats and head on outta here, man. It’s a beautiful day in San Francisco, and I’ll bet you can scratch that ass just as vigorously from your own house.  If you can find it.


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Letters From The Bay, Week 41: Trashy, Part III

Part 3: I am a grossed out lady

Toot toot!

A zippy truck horn tweeted me from outside the reception desk.

“Your chariot awaits,” said Jennifer the receptionist with a chuckle.

After arriving at the transfer center, I found myself sitting on a hard plastic chair in the lobby of San Francisco Recology.  Also known as the House of Jennifer.  Jennifer is the doyenne of THE DUMP, and has been its gatekeeper for 23 years.  She is funny.  She is intent.  She is sympathetic. And she is very kind.  Especially to idiot girls who throw away meaningful jewelry.

As my tale of woe came tumbling out, she fixed me a cup of coffee, introduced me to some other DUMP ladies, and nodded and gasped at all the right parts of my story.  It’s one thing to be a good hostess over great wine and dinner at your own home, but I’m a tell you what – it’s amazing when you can be a good hostess, nay, a great hostess, at THE DUMP, and Jennifer totally was.

“Joseph is gonna take you out to the landing pad, so just go on now and see how you do,” Jennifer said as she directed me out the automatic doors.  “I just know you are going to find that ring, I just know it.”

I nodded bravely as the doors slid open and out into the parking lot.  Cool office air gave way to a special blend of fog and wet dirt and garbage, and I tightened my trench coat and hitched up my Kate Spade bag as I walked.

“Are you the girl?”  Joseph asked with one eyebrow up.

“Uh-huh,” I said, shaking his hand.  “I’ll apologize right now, this seems like a crazy mission.”

“Well we just see what we can do,” he said, adjusting his orange vest as he kicked the truck into gear. “We just see.”

The truck trundled along as Joseph pointed out the parts of the trash cycle.

“This here is where we dump it, aaand this over here is where we sort it.  And this over here is where we crush it!” he said gleefully.  Joseph is a man who, it is evident, loves his job.  As someone who also loves their job, I think that’s dandy.

“And this here is where we gonna search it,” he said as we pulled up inside a massive warehouse, next to a three-story pile of trash.  That’s right, a small municipal building sized pile of gross.

I ducked out of the truck and stepped immediately into a pile of something foul. Thank God for rainboots.

“Hey Steve!” he yelled to the man in the caterpillar as I daintily picked my way over to the pile.  Steve and Joseph made eye contact, and then Joseph waved like Miss America, only sideways and with slightly more flamboyance, and Steve used his enormous caterpillar claw and spread out the massive pile into a single layer of crap the size of a tennis court.

I tried to think of it as not crap, but instead, a treasure trove just waiting to yield up my ring!  Happy thoughts!

It did not work.

It was still a giant layer of crap.

And I still had to search through it.

I looked at Joseph.  He looked at me.  I looked at the crap layer.  He looked at me.  We looked at the crap together for a moment long enough for a plastic bag to biodegrade.

Nobody spoke.  Nobody moved.

After eternity passed and I had just psyched myself up enough to approach the pile, Joseph started laughing.

“Oh girl you know we gonna get some guys over here to help you out!”  And with a whistle, four trash men came hustling over and starting sifting through the crap layer.

“It’s in a Macy’s bag,” I yelled over the noise of the trucks.

Weird looks.

“It has a giant red star on it!” I revised.

And so we started.

They sifted, I supervised.  They tore through mail, kitchen sacks, coffee grounds and much worse while I circled the periphery like the seagulls overhead, eyes akimbo waiting for the moment – THE moment – when my trash bag would magically rise from the depths of all the shit in the Presidio.

It didn’t come, that moment.

After 20 minutes, I was ready to call off the search.  I mean, these men were picking through the trash for me.  They’re trash men after all, so it’s not too much of a stretch, but still.  I know when I’m being a pain in the ass and for about how long I can get away with it.  My time was running out.

I looked at Joseph with doleful eyes, and he looked back at me like, Girl, what did you possibly expect coming out here?  and I looked at him like I know, I KNOW.

And then Jose, a sweet young-ish trash man, yelled out from the middle of the crap layer, “Wait, here’s a star bag – could this be it?”

And you guys, I am not even kidding you, he held up a tied Macy’s bag like it were made of solid gold, and gently walked it out to me.  Jesus walked on water. Jose walked on trash.

It was a miraculous sight.

I shook off the bag and dumped it onto the pavement.  Amid dirty kleenex, opening night ticket stubs, and pink post-it notes in a scrawly cursive that I know too well, was the infamous Forever 21 bag.

“This is my TRASH!” I yelled to Jose, who just laughed.  “I’ve never been so excited in my entire LIFE to see my own TRASH!”

Triumphantly, I pulled out the bag, and then the ring.

As the guys high-fived and hugged, I slid it onto my finger and thought of how lucky I am.  And much I owed these guys breakfast.  And how funny this would all be, after I had showered thoroughly.

And then I realized that I’m not just an idiot girl who throws away meaningful jewelry any longer.

Now I am an idiot girl with one hell of a story.

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Letters From The Bay, Week 12: Hardly Strictly Hugs

Part IV: Hugs all around

So that’s how we were going to play it. A tall gangly stoner with keys to a Benz, a missing roommate who probably had 12 tattoos by that point, an innocent bystander who probably regretted even waking up that morning, seven hundred thousand hippies, and me.

And we all had to get the hell out of the forest.

“Um, B,? I said, much nicer once I realized he was our last hope for getting out of the woods.  He was the ship to our Crusoe, the rowboat to our Molly Brown, the coconut phone to our Gilligan. “Do you remember where your car is?  Because this is the largest urban park in the country, and we’re smack in the middle of it.”

“Hilary,” B said, stoned scoffing. “Please.  I know this forest like the backa mah hand!”

Sometimes when B is stoned he also talks like Ma Kettle.  Nobody knows why. It’s a scientific mystery.

“I cain git us outta this forest no problem.”

“Okay then, let’s go!”

“Okay!  We just have to walk up this hill…? I think?”

At this point, I’d like you to imagine a hypothetical children’s book featuring pirates searching for buried treasure.  Imagine a red dotted line, leading from the palm trees to the trunk in which the hypothetical treasure is ensconced.

Now imagine a hypothetical four year old took a bright red marker and drew all over said map.  Or you could imagine that a hypothetical pirate had just smoked a lot of hypothetical pirate marijuana and you put him in charge of your hypothetical hunt.

Where the fuck is your treasure now, huh?


Luckily – very luckily – there was a full moon in the sky and a large crowd to follow, and eventually we made it to the Benz. I’ll spare you the details. I’ll also spare myself the trouble of writing the words “and we paced back and forth in front of the same large building” for ten minutes straight.

D promptly confiscated the keys and slid into the driver’s seat.  B miraculously navigated us back into familiar territory, and D giggled the whole way while I precariously wedged myself in the back and tried to not to whap B upside the head with either my elbow or my Chaco-ed foot, while he blissfully sang along to Michele with John, Paul, George and Ringo.

Thank God I do yoga.

That’s all I’m going to say about that.

After miles of zigging and zagging, we crested one of San Francisco’s many enormous hills and B announced “We’re here!”

Yes, Internet: we had arrived at THE MANSCH.

Short for The Mansion, THE MANSCH is where B is lucky enough to be playing professional house sitter.  It’s on top of Nob Hill, diagonal from the Fairmount Hotel, and right down the street from Holy Crap I Can’t Believe You Live Here Boulevard.

As we crammed ourselves into the elevator and began the ascent, the doors and floors began to whiz by in reverse, like a backwards Alice down the rabbit hole.  Garage, foyer, library, master suit, dining hall, until finally we reached the rooftop deck.  D requested that we host a BBQ ASAP.  I requested that we go back indoors ASAP, because looking out into the vast twinkling sprawl that is San Francisco always makes me think about earthquakes and I was in no mood to contemplate my own mortality for the 47th time that day.

We descended via the twisting staircase, taking a quick pit stop in the library to check out B’s literature.  Just as D was investigating the history section and I was checking around for Colonel Mustard with a lead pipe, we heard a strange thumping sound approaching.

D and I made eye contact nervously.  I instantly thought of the big one, and took very, very slight relief in the fact that I would die amongst books and fine furnishings.

“B, what’s that noise?” I said, nervously.  “Is that the elevator?  And, if so, why does your elevator sound like a herd of rhinos?”

“Yeah, what IS that noise?” B said, surprised.  B is surprised a lot.  One of the unfortunate byproducts of being consistently stoned is that you have no clue what the hell is going on at any given time.  Another unfortunate byproduct is Cheeto fingerprints all over your most important belongings, in telltale, sometimes awkward places.

“Well, if you don’t know what it is, we certainly don’t know what it is,” said D, very logically.  D is not only one of my favorite people in the universe, but he’s also really good in a crisis – calm, levelheaded.  Given the way my life generally unfolds in this city, that fact pretty much ensures that D should be with me 92 percent of the time, just in case.

“Good point,” B said, eyeing the doorway as the sound grew ever closer.  We were all looking at each other, looking at the door, looking at each other.  D gave me his famous one-eyebrow look, which means “I do not like what’s happening here” and I gave D my famous B43 look, which means “I’m going to pretend that it wasn’t me who has gotten us into yet another disasterous situation with no clear exit strategy whoopsie daisy!”

The thumping was really close now.  The door handle rattled, the floors started to shake, and then – an arm snaked around the door.  A man’s arm.  Wearing approximately 22 multicolored beaded bracelets, and a glow in the dark hoop.

I know – I was surprised too.

“Oh yeeeeeah!” B said, relieved.  “It’s my friends from L.A.!  I forgot they were here.  Duh, they came for the rave!”

“The RAVE?” D squeaked.  “A rave in your house?”

“No, silly,” said B.  “It’s the rave in the field.”

Because, you know, it’s always best to rave outdoors if you can.

“Hey you guys, come on in!”

In they came, the ravers from L.A.   In all their beaded, multi-colored glow-in-the-dark glory.  There were five of them, and they were dressed head to toe in sparkly, stripey, multicolored outfits.   Covered in bracelets and glowing lights.  I almost had a seizure looking at them.

“Heeeeeeeeey!  HI HI HI!” said what appeared to be the head raver.  “I’m, like, Kevin, and like, I’m so excited to meet you!” he squealed, giving me an exuberant hug.  Not only was Kevin ready to rave, but apparently he had eaten a cheerleader for breakfast that morning.  “Ohmahgaaaaah, are you guys coming with us?!?!”

D’s eyebrow was up again, which was a sure sign that we were definitely not going with them.

“Um, no, I think we’re going to pass this time,” I said, as though I would ordinarily rave until the cows come home (which is likely when you rave in a field, maybe?)

“Oh, like, NO WAY!” said Kevin, hugging me in his sorrow, while another one patted me sadly on the leg.  “Like, that’s so sad, because raves are like, so fun.  Like, you would love it.”

“Yeah,” I said, untangling myself from Kevin’s sparkly embrace. “We’re pretty tired from Hardly Strictly, and kinda hungry, sooo…”

“Well let’s make dinner then! Hilary, you love to cook!” B very helpfully suggested.  “How about it?”

It’s true.  I do love to cook.  Maybe not for crazy ravers, but I couldn’t pass up a chance to cook in the mansch.  I also couldn’t help but think that cooking for the ravers and keeping them fat and happy might be the only way to prevent them from hugging me again. And so, with D as my souz chef, we raided the kitch in the mansch and cooked dinner for B and the ravers.

We chopped and sliced, laughing as we went.  Who starts the day in her underpants and ends it cooking midnight dinner for strangers?

I do.

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Letters From The Bay, Week 12: Hardly Strictly Oh Hell No!

Part III: Plaidtastic

It was getting late.  We had tromped from stage to stage, toting our cooler and snacks all the live long day.  The sun had gone down, we had come down, and it was starting to get chilly in the forest.

And by chilly I mean effing freezing, naturally.  San Francisco summers are notoriously cold, and even though people talk up September weather like it’s some trip to the beach, September is really just the only time of year you don’t need a jacket AND a scarf.  By night, it doesn’t matter what time of year it is, you better layer it up or you’re going to be an organic, free range, locally grown popsicle.

I surveyed the scene in front of me, and concluded it was time to peace. Throughout the course of the day, we’d been joined by several friends: a coworker of mine, some LA friends of AKB’s who had more tattoos than the show LA Ink, a fellow named Hot Charlie was with us for a brief period of time, and then there was B.

B is 24, like me, unemployed, unlike me, and wears a lot of plaid, like the rest of the Bay Area these days.  Your dad’s old work shirt that cost $89 at a Chestnut St boutique: so trendy right now.

“It’s getting cold,” I said gravely, as the rest of the crew was cavorting on the hillside, our final resting place for the day. AKB was playing backgammon with the tattoo artists from LA, B was bumming lighters off strangers nearby, and I was shivering on a blanket on the ground.  I think our time at the bluegrass festival was coming to an end.  Little did I know our night was hardly strictly even over.  “I think I am ready to go home now.”

“What?  NEVAH!” said B with a little too much bravado.  “We live to party on!  Besides, I want— hey look!  I think that’s my tartan!”

Before I could even register the use of the word tartan by a man who wasn’t wearing a kilt, I realized it was true: B, in all his plaid glory had spotted a couple on a picnic blanket a few feet ahead of us and true enough, the plaid of their blanket matched the plaid of B’s shirt exactly.   I expect if I ever see B’s room, it will probably be covered in this exact plaid, like all of Scotland took a huge dump on B’s possessions.

“Hey B,” I said, getting one of my famous ideas.  “What would it take for me to convince you to walk over to that couple, ask them to move off their own blanket, and then lie down on it so I can take a picture of you disappearing into plaid nothingness?”

I hoped to embarrass B into going home. I assumed the answer would be no.  Nobody in their right mind would usher two people off their own blanket for the sake of a pot-induced photographic opportunity.

I assumed incorrectly.  Also, B was not in his right mind.  Problem solved.

“Excuse me,” B said, shambling over, full of faux sweetness, like a baby-holding politician.  “I couldn’t help but notice my shirt seems to match your blanket exactly.  Would you mind very much if I asked you to get off your blanket so I can lie down on it and my friend here can take a picture?”

The couple were also not in their right mind apparently, because they hopped right up, B got right down, and all 6′ 4″ of B just disappeared.  See?


(photo cropped to protect the completely guilty – B is not innocent of much – fabric abuse is only one of his many crimes.)

“Okay,” said B, hopping up from the blanket and flashing his B smile to all the other onlookers and shaking hands with concert goers who had charged the blanket to photograph his great disappearing act. “NOW I’m ready to go.”

“Oh OH, now that you’ve had your moment in the not-sun because the sun is no longer out you’re ready?  You were just waiting for the paparazzi to swarm, and now that we’ve all frozen our plaids off, you decide it’s time to leave?  What if I’m not ready to go now, did you ever think of that?”

I was hardly strictly a little bit cranky at this point.  It had been a long day, it was cold, AKB had officially deserted D and I for the tattoo artists, and we were getting a little tired of catering to B’s whims in the woods.  But, then again, what do you expect from someone who lives in a mansion for free and always gets what he wants?

Oh, I forgot to tell you?  Yes, B lives in his aunt’s house, which is a mansion on Nob Hill (aka, The Mansch).  The aunt (if she actually exists at all) allegedly lives in Paris with her Latin American lover and B has free reign 300 days out of the year.  It’s all very Eat, Pray, Love, and B is reaping the tartan-encrusted benefits and has become quite the demanding princess in the process.

“Hilary,” B said in his politician voice again, “Are you ready to go?”

I considered making us stay just to prove a point, but I had lost all feeling in my face and not in the good, fun “whoa you guys, check this out!  Poke me!  Yeah, in the FACE!” way.

“Yeah, I wanna go.”

There was only one problem: B was not going anywhere, because B was hardly strictly completely stoned.  And he had just popped the top on another beer.  B makes good choices.

“I have my bus pass,” I said, problem solving, only slightly frantically. “We can just make our way out of the woods and hop on the 38 into the city.”

“Nooooo noooo, nope, nooooo” said B, his words already running together like a herd of puppies in a wide open field.  “I drove here and if I leave it out, someone will cut the top off.”

“What do you mean someone will cut the top off?  It’s a car, not a can of tuna.” B’s cagey ways were really starting to bug me.  I wanted out and I meant it, and I didn’t have time to decipher what “cut the top off” means in B’s metaphorical musings on life.

“Well, that’s what happened to it the last time.”

“B, you are making no sense at all.”

“It’s a convertible,” he finally spit out, as though he were talking to a three year old.  “And last time I left it outside overnight, someone cut the top off and it cost me $8,000.  So we gotta get to the Benz, and we gotta drive it. Oooookaaaaay?”

Um, okay?


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Letters From The Bay, Week 12: Hardly Strictly Hungry

Part I: No Pants, No Problem

It all started with a bowl of oatmeal.

I generally don’t like to start out my stories with “it all started out with…” but what I’m about to tell you is such a clusterfuck, it requires three separate blog posts and the only way to start such a thing is at the beginning.


It all started with a bowl of oatmeal.

It was just this past Saturday morning. I was standing in my kitchen, eating a bowl of oatmeal with strawberries on top, contemplating how it’s never too early to start being concerned with your cholesterol, when I looked down and realized that I was not wearing any pants.

I have been known to have a wardrobe malfunction or two.  I can often be found with my shirt on backward, and when I lived in Flat 4G and shared a bathroom with my dearest LP, she knew that if I went in straight faced (or whatever kind of face one wears when headed in to the WC with the Pottery Barn catalogue to take care of bathroom business) and came out laughing, it was because my underwear was on inside out.

But never before have I cooked pantsless, let alone eaten a full breakfast that way.  I don’t know what surprised me more: the fact that I had, indeed, forgotten to get dressed, the fact that it took me until I was mostly done with my extra fiber to realize it, or the fact that there was absolutely no reason for any of the above.

C’est la vie.

So there I was, in my kitchen, still eating a bowl of oatmeal and now contemplating both my cholesterol and my sanity, when my roommate AKB walked in.

“Um, what are you doing?” she asked, slightly bewildered.

“Um, eating breakfast?” I squeaked out, hoping she wouldn’t notice my sartorial shenanigans down South.

“Yeah, I can see that, but why aren’t you getting ready?”

“Uh, what are we doing again today?”

“Hello? It’s Hardly Strictly!  D is going to be here any minute!”

“Yes. Hardly Strictly.” I said with great determination.  And I was determined.  Determined to escape the kitchen without AKB noticing I was hardly strictly wearing any clothing, and also determined to figure out what Hardly Strictly was and why we were going there in the first place.

“Yes!  Hardly Strictly!  We talked about this, remember,” AKB called out over her shoulder as she bounded down the hall of our apartment.  “We need to start packing the cooler, so hurry up and finish that oatmeal.  And while you’re at it… put on some effing pants!”

So much for that plan.

So, as instructed, I finished my oatmeal and put on some effing pants.  While I was doing so, I recalled that Hardly Strictly was San Francisco’s finest bluegrass festival, and it was happening this weekend.  D lovey loves bluegrass – and who doesn’t, really? – and I simply love a good festival.  Upon further reflection I realized pants were only the tip of the iceberg that was the cluster that was my already very strange morning, and we needed additional accoutrements in order to truly enjoy our festing experience.

Those accoutrements being, of course, mostly cold, bottled, and refreshing.

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Filed under Fiesta!, It's awkward now, Letters from the Bay