If by "heart," you mean "favorite jeans EVER" and if by "San Francisco," you mean "the outer limits of the East Bay."
I cannot adequately describe my severe trauma upon unpacking my bags from the weekend trip and NOT seeing my favorite pair of jeans. Apparently I left them on the floor at becca's house. I have no idea what I am going to wear until I get them back. Oh. My. Gosh. WHAT AM I GOING TO WEAR?!?!
My "skinny" jeans, I guess. Thank God I still have those. Whatever would I do without them.
Besides breathe, that is.
I am so depressed.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Wine Tasting Tips(y)
So on Saturday, I went wine tasting with friends in lovely Sonoma, CA. In addition to spending too much on wine (I bought a pinot and a zin from Gundlach-Bundschu, and a very refreshing moscato from Ravenswood), I also learned a valuable lesson, which can be summarized most succinctly as follows:
Don't go wine tasting on an empty stomach.
Er, not that I'm saying I learned that by personal experience or anything. Because of course I wouldn't do anything so silly.
Ahem.
Let's talk about something else now, shall we?
Such as the weather. Getting cold, isn't it? The high today in SoCal was only 75 degrees F! Brrr. Sweater season has arrived in the Golden State...
Don't go wine tasting on an empty stomach.
Er, not that I'm saying I learned that by personal experience or anything. Because of course I wouldn't do anything so silly.
Ahem.
Let's talk about something else now, shall we?
Such as the weather. Getting cold, isn't it? The high today in SoCal was only 75 degrees F! Brrr. Sweater season has arrived in the Golden State...
Friday, October 13, 2006
Fleeing The Scene
Sometimes, I think I go to the Bay Area specifically to experience the drive. Don't get me wrong; I love arriving and being there, of course, but I find myself oddly looking forward to the six hours I have all to myself in the car, between Los Angeles and San Francisco. Six hours of a long, flat (except for the Grapevine) and straight road that keeps heading into a far horizon, between groves of citrus trees, cotton fields, and emptiness. Six hours to think, to sing along with whatever music I'm playing, to pray, to daydream, to think some more.
I'll be taking that drive today, because I feel desperately the need to get out of town. It's been a very tiring week and I'm, well, tired. But not too tired to hit the road... speaking of which, I need to pack so I can get going!
While I'm away, be good, play nice, and enjoy your weekend. Do something fun! Read a book, or part of one. Watch a movie. Eat pizza. Try to survive the Apocalypse, if it happens.
And as always when I leave — miss me, my darlings!
Kisses from the frogg princess...
I'll be taking that drive today, because I feel desperately the need to get out of town. It's been a very tiring week and I'm, well, tired. But not too tired to hit the road... speaking of which, I need to pack so I can get going!
While I'm away, be good, play nice, and enjoy your weekend. Do something fun! Read a book, or part of one. Watch a movie. Eat pizza. Try to survive the Apocalypse, if it happens.
And as always when I leave — miss me, my darlings!
Kisses from the frogg princess...
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Swamped
Been a crazy couple of days in agency land, big red project folders flying everywhere.
I am not sure why we have our projects in red folders. I suppose to draw attention to them, so we don't forget to work on the projects they contain, but their sheer size should ensure our rememberance--I mean, they're like 2' x 3'. Kind of hard to miss, I'd say.
Frankly, I hate the red folders, because they're so alarming. Around 1 pm, the traffic manager (who monitors where and at what stage all the jobs are as they go through the agency process) came over and dropped off not one, but FOUR of these giant red folders on my desk. That was in addition to the three she had put there just moments before. I immediately felt my heart rate increase in stressed response.
"I'm sorry," she said, "but these are all rather hot." (She's British, as you can tell from the "rather.")
Well, of course they are hot. They are in red folders! How could they be anything other than a rushing, life-and-death emergency? I could probably count the number of times a project landed on my desk that wasn't due the exact same day on one red-ink stained hand.
Deadlines will be deadlines regardless of chromatic affiliations, but if anyone had asked me (and as usual, no one did), I would have chosen a different color for these stress-inducing folders in the interests of, well, reducing at least some of that stress. Like, say, the color yellow. It's hard to be angry and irritable in the face of such a cheery hue. Unless, of course, you get mad because it has no business being cheery when you are so stressed.
Ok, so maybe not yellow. Blue? No, that would be too cold. You wouldn't want to touch it for fear of the arctic chills. Orange? Eew.
Maybe green. Yes, the more I think about it, the more I think it would be the ideal color. Not hot, not cold, not ugly. Just a pleasant shade that reminds one that there is green grass somewhere beyond the cubicle walls, and outside the building where the sun (one hopes) still shines.
On second thought, green is depressing. Boo.
I am not sure why we have our projects in red folders. I suppose to draw attention to them, so we don't forget to work on the projects they contain, but their sheer size should ensure our rememberance--I mean, they're like 2' x 3'. Kind of hard to miss, I'd say.
Frankly, I hate the red folders, because they're so alarming. Around 1 pm, the traffic manager (who monitors where and at what stage all the jobs are as they go through the agency process) came over and dropped off not one, but FOUR of these giant red folders on my desk. That was in addition to the three she had put there just moments before. I immediately felt my heart rate increase in stressed response.
"I'm sorry," she said, "but these are all rather hot." (She's British, as you can tell from the "rather.")
Well, of course they are hot. They are in red folders! How could they be anything other than a rushing, life-and-death emergency? I could probably count the number of times a project landed on my desk that wasn't due the exact same day on one red-ink stained hand.
Deadlines will be deadlines regardless of chromatic affiliations, but if anyone had asked me (and as usual, no one did), I would have chosen a different color for these stress-inducing folders in the interests of, well, reducing at least some of that stress. Like, say, the color yellow. It's hard to be angry and irritable in the face of such a cheery hue. Unless, of course, you get mad because it has no business being cheery when you are so stressed.
Ok, so maybe not yellow. Blue? No, that would be too cold. You wouldn't want to touch it for fear of the arctic chills. Orange? Eew.
Maybe green. Yes, the more I think about it, the more I think it would be the ideal color. Not hot, not cold, not ugly. Just a pleasant shade that reminds one that there is green grass somewhere beyond the cubicle walls, and outside the building where the sun (one hopes) still shines.
On second thought, green is depressing. Boo.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Adventures in Proofreading
Some may think that proofreading (my profession du jour) is boring. I say it's an adventure. You just never know what you might find.
In the interests of not getting fired, I will refrain from posting some of the more intriguing errors, typos, innuendos, and awkward grammatical constructions I've found in client material as it goes the rounds in our agency. But don't worry — I find mistakes all over the place, not just at work, and sometimes it can be quite entertaining.
As in this sentence, culled from the Pittsburgh Tribune Review (via Critical Mass):
"DeYoung, a prize-winning Washington Post reporter, is the kind of biographer every pubic figure hopes for, or ought to: judicious, thorough, unstinting." (emphasis mine)
Classic. Gotta love the typos that don't get caught by spell check because they happen to be reel words.
In the interests of not getting fired, I will refrain from posting some of the more intriguing errors, typos, innuendos, and awkward grammatical constructions I've found in client material as it goes the rounds in our agency. But don't worry — I find mistakes all over the place, not just at work, and sometimes it can be quite entertaining.
As in this sentence, culled from the Pittsburgh Tribune Review (via Critical Mass):
"DeYoung, a prize-winning Washington Post reporter, is the kind of biographer every pubic figure hopes for, or ought to: judicious, thorough, unstinting." (emphasis mine)
Classic. Gotta love the typos that don't get caught by spell check because they happen to be reel words.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
A Memory
My favorite earrings were given to me by a girl I met at a university in Ramallah, two years ago.
She had a pale face, dark hair, and very light blue eyes. When S-- saw her, she wanted to photograph her. The girl seemed hesitant at first, wary, but she said ok. S-- asked the girl if she wanted the boy she was sitting next to in the picture as well, but the girl shook her head emphatically and drew away from him.
(We did see co-ed groupings sitting together and talking on the campus, but it was much more common to see girls with girls and men with men. Apart from the tendency toward gender segregation, I was startled to realize that I felt as if I were walking around any university campus back home. The atmosphere of eager learning and potential was the same.)
I think the girl's name was Fatima. I made the mistake of telling her I liked her earrings, which are long and dangly and have old Palestinian coins on them, at which she immediately reached up and began to take them out of her ears.
"Here," she said.
"Oh no," I protested. "I can't take them."
"You like them?" she asked.
"Yes, but I don't want to take them from you."
"It's ok, I can get more any time," she said, holding them out to me.
I still tried to refuse, but the virtues of giving and hospitality are so important to Middle Eastern culture, and I began to worry I would hurt her feelings or dishonor her if I did not take the earrings. Also, in truth, I wanted them. So in the end I allowed her to put them in my hands.
"I have nothing to give you in return," I said, uncomfortably aware of the weight of a necklace at my throat, which in fact was something. But my cousin in Egypt had given it to me, and I felt wrong about giving away another's gift. Also, in truth, I wanted to keep it. So I did.
"It's ok," she said. "That would not be proper anyway."
She gave me her cell phone number in case I had any free time to meet with her later. As it turned out, we left Ramallah that afternoon, and in our short time remaining in Israel, did not go back. So I never saw her again, and probably never will.
But I think of her whenever I wear her earrings.
Now I wish I had given her the necklace. It broke before I even returned home, which was only a couple weeks after I met her. I still have the necklace, somewhere, but I cannot wear it.
She had a pale face, dark hair, and very light blue eyes. When S-- saw her, she wanted to photograph her. The girl seemed hesitant at first, wary, but she said ok. S-- asked the girl if she wanted the boy she was sitting next to in the picture as well, but the girl shook her head emphatically and drew away from him.
(We did see co-ed groupings sitting together and talking on the campus, but it was much more common to see girls with girls and men with men. Apart from the tendency toward gender segregation, I was startled to realize that I felt as if I were walking around any university campus back home. The atmosphere of eager learning and potential was the same.)
I think the girl's name was Fatima. I made the mistake of telling her I liked her earrings, which are long and dangly and have old Palestinian coins on them, at which she immediately reached up and began to take them out of her ears.
"Here," she said.
"Oh no," I protested. "I can't take them."
"You like them?" she asked.
"Yes, but I don't want to take them from you."
"It's ok, I can get more any time," she said, holding them out to me.
I still tried to refuse, but the virtues of giving and hospitality are so important to Middle Eastern culture, and I began to worry I would hurt her feelings or dishonor her if I did not take the earrings. Also, in truth, I wanted them. So in the end I allowed her to put them in my hands.
"I have nothing to give you in return," I said, uncomfortably aware of the weight of a necklace at my throat, which in fact was something. But my cousin in Egypt had given it to me, and I felt wrong about giving away another's gift. Also, in truth, I wanted to keep it. So I did.
"It's ok," she said. "That would not be proper anyway."
She gave me her cell phone number in case I had any free time to meet with her later. As it turned out, we left Ramallah that afternoon, and in our short time remaining in Israel, did not go back. So I never saw her again, and probably never will.
But I think of her whenever I wear her earrings.
Now I wish I had given her the necklace. It broke before I even returned home, which was only a couple weeks after I met her. I still have the necklace, somewhere, but I cannot wear it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)