Saturday, September 20, 2014

Sartorial Saturday

I like to shop.  Alas, I have no money.  So I like creating outfits I *would* wear if I had said money.  I know fashion blogs are more ubiquitous than Ryan Gosling fan girls, but the difference between them and me is I would never suggest you buy a top that costs $350.  To misquote Coco Chanel herself, "That merde is much better spent on champagne."

Make Your Lips the Main Attraction
A casual fall outfit for those weekend days when you want to look effortlessly classic and comfortable. Your lips offer a pop of bright red color to an otherwise muted outfit. Chic.

Make your lips the main attraction.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Welcome to Cougar Country

The great thing about the Internet is that it really seems to know me better than I know myself.  Oddly enough, the scary thing about the Internet also happens to be that it seems to know me better than I know myself.

Case in point, this ad showed up today on not one, but *two* different websites I often frequent:
To be quite honest, this was my first reaction while staring at my computer screen during company time at home while definitely not at work:
I basically read it as a "we know you're pushing 30.  Face it: you're a spinster.  The only guys left out there for you probably haven't even graduated from high school yet.  Lucky for you, that sort of loneliness is totally hot right now!"

Am I the only person out there who constantly needs to be reminded of my age?  I mean, I really feel that my organs are a youthful 24 at the most.  And my music collection screams teenage angst, not "your biological clock is ticking." I forget at times how old the rest of the world sees me.

Like any good curious blogger, I visited, you know, in the name of science.  I was greeted with this:
So I take back my initial shock and horror.

I mean, yes, this site is reminding me of my aging spinster status, and assumes I not only must have at least one divorce behind me based on my Amazon shopping habits, but I've probably popped out a kid by now as well. Possibly worse is that these same website analytics that had the twisted sense of humor to cause this ad to pop up in my feed, are probably mercilessly judging the desperation implied by my love of 1990s romantic comedies on Netflix RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND.

However, still has hope that a HOT YOUNG STUD IS OUT THERE LOOKING FOR ME RIGHT NOW!  I mean, yeah,  younger guys ("cubs" is actually the politically correct term for this breed, as this website points out) have never been my thing, but you've got to admit they've got stamina.  And they'll probably encourage my love of Rihanna and late night bar hopping more than any straight guy in his 30s ever would.

Hell, my future prince charming is probably busy doing a keg stand with his other newly-initiated frat bros while I type this very sentence.  All I have to do is wait for him to realize he's into older women, find, create a profile, and be within a 15-mile radius of me.  There's a fairy tale in there somewhere.  If I'm not planning my wedding to this guy by this time next year, then I just don't understand life at all anymore.

Thank you, Internet, for reminding me that there's a large probability my soulmate hasn't even been born yet.  I like them odds!

Sunday, September 7, 2014

Phototacular SF

I've been housesitting for this bunny all weekend.  It's been glorious getting out of my apartment, away from the roomies, and just not doing anything.  The bunny wants nothing to do with me, so it's just been me and Netflix.

When I watch Netflix, I get to thinking.  And while I was thinking, I realized I haven't spent a single weekend staying in since...February?  As a bit of an introvert, this is toxic.  Housesitting was that much-needed time to clear my head...and head cold.  I'm currently typing this with a throat that feels like I spent all night  shoving burnt matches down it.  Lovely.

I've been a bit in the pits lately.  I don't know why.  I think it's anxiety about the future or something dumb like that.  I've been out with friends having a blast, doing the dating thing (which I wish I could write about, but my fear that karma is real won't let me), volunteering, studying and preparing for the future, yet I feel sad.  I don't know.  I'm in emotional limbo, I guess.  I tried to wash away the sinking feeling with mani-pedis and BeyoncĂ©, but weirdly that's not working this time around.  So I figured I'd spend Saturday strolling around San Francisco with my camera to clear my head instead.  Yep, just me, my camera, my Spotify playlist, and 10,000 tourists out and about on an 80 degree day.

The weather.  The bridges.  *Some* of the buildings.  *I'm* here.  I mean, how much better can a city get?!  People here are pretty cool, usually dreaming of the next big thing and then actually making it.  Probably while fueled by a recreational drug of some sort, but that's neither here nor there.

Anyways, onto the pictures:

Whoever Nelson is, he has a kick-ass last name.
We San Franciscans soak up the sun when we can.  It's pretty rare around here during the summer months.

The little java house that could.

In case you were wondering what the underside of the bridge looks like, it's just as boring as you'd imagine it to be.

I don't know, I just think tug boats are adorbs.
Fancy pants.
Cupid's Bow.  Also Gap headquarters.
Menacing bird.
 I wasn't allowed inside.

Why do things that look so good taste so bad?
Bike cabbies: significantly less annoying than car cabbies.
I can only assume they were clapping for me.


I really liked seeing all the small fishing boats at Fisherman's Wharf.  A good reminder that the place isn't just a tourist trap: it's still thriving with its namesake's industry.
I never took Elmo for a Marina resident, but I've been surprised before.

Crissy Field is for lovers.  Also frat bros (not pictured).

People getting married and making me feel so old, so alone.  Jk...good for them.

We had a moment.  Then he tried to shit on my head.
What most of my walk looked like: me and hundreds of other people with their cameras.


That's me!

Postcard SF.

I ended up walking 14 miles *and* making a pitstop at Trader Joe's.  Not too shabby.  I still better.  I also have a brutal sunburn to show for it.  Battle scars, you know?
Feel free to use this as a cautionary tale as to why you should always put on sunscreen.  Even in San Francisco.  It feels worse than it looks.

Thursday, September 4, 2014

Don't Forget About the Americans

Omid moved to London today, so I decided yesterday was as good a time as any to skip work and spend the day romping around town with Omid's perfectly coiffed hair instead.

On Wednesday I spent a leisurely morning in bed and strolled over to Omid's just in time for lunch.

The weather couldn't have been better timed to make Omid second-guess leaving, as well as for a top-down drive with friends--including the canine supermodel--to go get sandwiches.

This lovely number is from Ike's Place on 16th Street for anyone who's curious.  This was my first time there but I imagine they'll know me on a first-name basis shortly.  I had the Pilgrim, and my only regret is that I didn't order two.

After lunch we decided the only thing that could help cure our Omid-separation anxiety was more food, so off to Souvla in Hayes Valley it was for frozen yogurt topped with baklava and honey.  Ask for extra syrup.  Trust.

I then pretended to help Omid pack while really just sulking. Packing then took the shape of dancing to Shy'm and thinking about what to eat for dinner because we're responsible adults, is why.

What, I ask you, is a proper dinner without aperitifs first?  Had at our old standby, Blackbird, so we could reminisce over our Omid memories while properly sloshed.

This was followed by the last supper at Super Duper, because we're San Franciscans and if it's tech-savvy and fried, we'll shove it in our face and love every last bit of it.

Followed by more drinks at Toad Hall, Omid's last hurrah in the Castro.
The place was (surprisingly?) dead for a Wednesday night, which gave us ample opportunity to sit around looking like our damn gorgeous selves...

...and then owning the dance floor.

Followed by more drinks and tearful goodbyes.

Bon voyage, Omid!  Say hi to Prince Harry for me.