Moose in the Kitchen

Originally written for I Live Here:SF. I’ve been thinking a lot about my life lately, specifically about my life in San Francisco. So this seems like a good time to post it here.

Someone once told me that I live a charmed life. Since this was in a job interview, I can only assume that my resume writing skills are truly formidable. She was right though, especially when it comes to address. I’ve lived in some good spots – Manhattan, London, and Florence (if you want to be generous with your definition of “lived in.”) But this eccentric grand dame of a city has always seemed brighter than other places. Even when socked in by fog. Anyone who gets me started on the subject of San Francisco better have some serious time on their hands or no compunction about telling a bright-eyed, ever-so-slightly obnoxious history geek to shut her flapping trap already. I tell people about how the Flood Building (where I worked for five years) was one of the few buildings left standing downtown after the earthquake and fires of 1906. Next comes a detailed dissertation on the Gold Rush-era ships buried under the Financial District. Soon I’m pulling out my iPhone for an enforced viewing of a streetcar making its way down 1905 Market Street, complete with witty commentary about how nimble early San Francisco pedestrians were.

Born and raised amid the suburban strip malls of San Jose, San Francisco was my first real city – it’s where I saw my first show, first recognized my brother’s tender heart as he sobbed at his first glimpse of a homeless man, ate seafood on the wharf. At eighteen, I fled to New York for college and developed grand plans to live abroad (and in Vermont, for some reason) before putting down roots in San Francisco. But after graduating, I moved right back to the Bay Area and was drawn up the Peninsula like a homing pigeon to its grain-filled roost. San Francisco sucked me in ten years ago and hasn’t let go since.

One of my favorite things to do is step out my front door and start walking – three blocks up the hill to Alamo Square Park to dodge tourists and nuzzle any unwary dogs who stray across my path, down the hill to Haight Street for sausage and beer, across Market to lie on the grass in Dolores Park, clutching a morning bun and listening to the buzz of conversation above me as the sun seeps into my bones. When my life feels like it’s careening wildly off course – as life tends to do – I’ll find myself roaming park trails, staring at my green sneakers and puzzling through some overly contemplative thought process. (Known euphemistically as Figuring My Shit Out.) Soon I’ll find myself staring out over the city – the glossy buildings of downtown, church spires wrapped in fog, the Golden Gate in the distance – and thinking, “Even if nothing else in my life is going right, at least I have this. At least I live here.”

I love that San Francisco is a city of adventurers, hearty spirits that can’t be put down by earthquakes or fire or the tragic closing of Roland’s bagels. San Francisco embraces people who know exactly who they are – and offers them stores full of shiny white platform go-go boots in a size eleven and apartments where purple stone lions peek out from Victorian facades. I love San Francisco’s vibrance – technology and history set off by Hunky Jesus competitions and massive pie fights, and all of it surrounded by unexpected flashes of blue water and red bridge. I love taking the cable cars and sitting next to Indian women in bejeweled glasses who squeal with glee as they spot the guy with three pets – the rat riding the cat riding the dog – ambling down Powell. I love walking down the Embarcadero at night and looping up to Chinatown where the red paper lanterns flutter in the breeze. I even love owning seventeen Old Navy sweatshirts because the schizophrenic weather patterns defeat me over and over again, even though I really should know better by now, and my options – yet again – are spend $12 or freeze.

I still cling to visions of a farmhouse in Tuscany or spending summers in Spain, but I can’t imagine leaving San Francisco for long. Because I love this city in a way I’ve loved nowhere else.

Whenever I answer “Good, thanks!” to the inevitable “How are you?” question, I cringe. You’re not digging ditches in small Nigerian villages, Amber. You’re not knitting mittens for orphans. THEREFORE YOU ARE NOT DOING GOOD. YOU ARE DOING WELL. BECAUSE THAT IS THE GRAMMATICALLY CORRECT ANSWER TO THE QUESTION. Then I get a firmer grip on my neuroses and move on with my day.

…..

Why am I not a bird? A bird that summers in the tropics. Where it is warm. Possibly even hot. Hot like Vegas-in-a-strapless-sundress-hot. Not that birds tend to wear strapless sundresses, but I envy their ability to strut about clad only in feathers and a smug expression. Because they have flown merrily off on their convenient wings to summer locales while I’m still shivering in San Francisco. Sorry for harping, guys. I love San Francisco. I do. I’m just…so cold. In late May. I’m wrapped in a blanket trembling over my heater. WHERE ARE MY WINGS? WINGS WITH WHICH I CAN WHISK MYSELF TOWARD THE SUN.

I mean, I don’t have to be a bird. I’d take being rich. WHY WASN’T I BORN WITH BIGGER BOOBS, SO I COULD BE A TROPHY WIFE? See, this is what happens when I’m cold. My life ambitions reduce to whatever will warm me up fastest. Though, arguably, marrying someone rich so he’ll take me to a Caribbean island is not as fast as, say, putting on another sweater.

…..

People react very differently to the necessity of taking the early morning Super Shuttle. There’s the surly girl. There’s the chipper older woman with her coffee and her earnest desire to find out where everyone is going and how they’re feeling at 4:45 in the morning. There’s the guy on his cell phone offering everyone within earshot the privilege of hearing about his girlfriend’s unwavering desire to eat barbeque ribs in bed. (What?)

Then there’s me. Who reacts to the necessity of early morning flights by doing dumb things in airports. If there’s a clear partition masquerading as the open air in that place where you can buy gum and magazines and Popchips, that place whose name I might remember if I’d gotten more than four hours of sleep, you might, in your exhaustion, smash into it like a misguided robin into a plate glass window. This will be hilarious for everyone except the plastic partition, which is still feeling a little hurt that you could so cavalierly treat it like it doesn’t exist.

I’m sorry, plastic partition. I respect you.

My trip to Las Vegas last weekend was a glitter-dusted convergence of all my favorite things: cheese, hilarious people who like to type words on the internets, and accidentally flashing a room full of bloggers because I don’t understand how dresses work, especially dresses from American Apparel.

Flashing people isn’t really a notable pastime of mine, so I would have faltered if I wasn’t surrounded by kindly people who laughed just as hard as I did and refrained from shunning me for my complete lack of mastery in the art of covering myself decently. Something that’s quite a feat in Vegas, where all standards of modesty are, shall we say, skewed. I even surpassed the burlesque dancers who graced us with their bosoms, bosoms that at least had the benefit of nipple tassles.

Dear Bloggers in Sin City,

SORRY I FORGOT MY NIPPLE TASSLES.

Love, Amber

Las Vegas is like a shimmering event horizon where anything is possible. It plagiarizes practically everything and still manages to be completely unique. Showgirls dot the street corners and palm trees sway in heat that made me want to lie down on the sidewalk in my sundress and gloat. You can suck vodka from plastic guitars and wear shirts emblazoned with glitter tigers. Or a balloon hat featuring a monkey performing lewd acts. People who participate so wholeheartedly in such activities are my kind of people. As are people who are so graceful at including others and making sure everyone feels welcome.

So, yeah. Nicole is a black hole of awesome, pulling amazing folks into her force field until everyone you meet at BiSC is someone you want to hang out with while strolling along fake Venetian canals and watching deliciously bendy men do things in a circus tent.

See? Bendy! Deliciously so.

I didn’t quite grasp the scope of this whole thing until I got to Vegas. Nicole wrangles details like a cowboy herding unruly steers. I mean, not some weathered, chain-smoking cowboy – a hot cowboy who understands scheduling. (This metaphor isn’t going well.) (NEVER MIND. FORGET I SAID ANYTHING.) She organized blocks of rooms at the Flamingo, rooms with big black blotches on the mirror, where “black blotches” somehow equal “TVs that play Meg Ryan movies while you brush your teeth.” We scored raft size lounges by the pool where we could sprawl and have our tarot cards read by James Bond, something I missed because I was folding myself into impossible shapes in the name of a poolside limbo contest. (Dear James Bond: I still want that reading. YOU’RE NOT OFF THE HOOK JUST BECAUSE YOU’RE MOVING TO LA.) She even arranged for French men to drizzle melted chocolate down my chest while whispering sweet nothings in my ear.

(Fine. I drizzled the chocolate down my own damn front and the French man said things like “marshmallow” and “caramel” to the entire room (brazen hussy) as he explained esoteric fondue facts. But it’s my blog and I can embellish if I want to.)

Sadly for my unwavering desire to Learn Things, I already know that I can’t be trusted not to spill down my skirt in public. So there were no major epiphanies, no grace-filled moments illuminated by a beam of heavenly light – at least not when I wasn’t slurping down frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity. Nor did I win a million bucks or meet the man I’ll marry. But I did realize something better:*

* Arguably. I mean, a million bucks would be nice.

I’ve become the person I want to be.

The Person I Want To Be

Can walk right up to a random conversation and contribute without undue awkwardness. Can start an impromptu water dance party. Can jump with wild and inappropriate glee at the opportunity to participate in a limbo contest (to see me fall on my ass in said limbo contest, watch at :35), rather than sink slowly to the floor at the suggestion, hoping no one will notice when I crawl under a chaise lounge and stay there for the rest of the day.

For someone who was once so crippled by shyness that she would sit idly at a table for forty-five minutes rather than flag down a waitress to bring her check, all of the above falls solidly into the Hell Yes column.

(Seriously. Forty-five minutes. I can’t believe it either.)

I love trips. Being displaced from your normal life opens up the world. Even if you’re just an hour and a half away by plane, not roaming some Nepalese mountain top. Besides, Nepalese mountain tops don’t have vodka-filled guitars or balloon hats. Just sayin’. And you can realize that you’re a person you never suspected was possible when you were ten or even twenty years old.

So thanks, Vegas. Thanks, Nicole. Thanks, BiSC-uits. See you next year.

I’m done being okay with dating people who don’t really want to be with me. I’m done being okay with saying “Yes, I’ll have your kid even though you don’t want to marry me.” I’m done being okay when someone takes three years to say they love me.

I’m just done being okay with the bullshit. To be clear, I’m done being okay with my bullshit.

To be extra special clear, there’s nothing wrong with any of the above. People move at their own pace and some of the most amazing relationships I’ve seen have done things out of customary order or not at all. But I’m done being okay with things I don’t want because I don’t believe I can have what I want. I’m done being scared of what I really want – and hiding from it.

When did I decide cowardly was sexy? What misguided internal monologue thought that was a good idea? Jeez.

Wow. I didn’t realize this was in me. Until, HELLO! Up it comes on a Wednesday morning! When I’m feeling woozy because it’s almost noon and I forgot to eat breakfast. And I’m still not eating breakfast because I’m clacking stridently on my laptop and imagining the ghost of Betty Friedan reading over my shoulder and nodding sagely. (Or not. I bet Betty’s ghost has better things to do. Like watch young shirtless men play basketball somewhere.)

Yes, life is complicated. Yes, the people you love don’t always do what you want them to do. And they shouldn’t. You love them because of who they are, not because they behave exactly the way you want. But I’m done just sitting there meekly and being okay and NOT FUCKING SAYING ANYTHING. I’m not trying to paint myself as a victim or anyone as an unfeeling, heartless bastard. Because 1) that’s lame, and 2) it’s simply not true. In every example up there, I loved and he loved and we loved and it was my problem that I never spoke up.

Next time I’m with someone and things aren’t going the way I’d like, I’m going to open my mouth. Words will emerge. Possibly even coherent sentences. And those words and sentences will be kind and loving, but will leave no doubt in anyone’s mind about what I want. He can give it to me or not and I’ll love him regardless, but everyone will know where they stand and we can make the necessary choices from that place. Rather than the place where you’re terrified to say anything because the egg shells you’re walking on will quiver and sharpen until you find the soles of your feet sliced to ribbons.

The only thing that ever felt truly insurmountable in any of my relationships was feeling like I couldn’t talk to him about things. Not everyone is comfortable with marriage certificates or tossing around the ever-so-momentous L word. While I think that speaks to some deeper issues, if we could talk about it and take steps to resolve whatever’s going on there, I could probably roll with it. Every relationship that felt good, that I remember fondly, was one where I could talk to him – and know that he would hear and accept whatever I had to say.

So I’m done with the bullshit. Yes, with my bullshit.

I’m done being okay in general. Okay doesn’t cut it any more. I want something extraordinary. Extraordinary doesn’t have to mean some lanky Hugh Jackman look-a-like roaring up on a white motorcycle to whisk me away. Not that I would put up any fight whatsoever if such a motorcycle were to pull up outside my window right now, but that’s not the only definition of extraordinary.

I have to make my own extraordinary. So that’s what I’m doing. And by “doing” I mean “thinking about doing” and “researching” and “making to-do lists.” But extraordinary is being formulated. If only because “make my own extraordinary” just got put on the list and that means it will happen. Because words are a kind of magic. An actual, legitimate magic. This is why we should say them and write them and think them. Especially when they’re about love.

Bay to Breakers celebrated its hundredth anniversary yesterday, which honestly confused me until I realized it was probably just a leisurely jog back in 1912. Seems unlikely that the good women of the Edwardian era dressed up like sexy pandas to prance up Hayes Street. Or that the men stripped down to their red flannel long johns, doused themselves in glitter, and performed a drunkenly bastardized version of Swan Lake as a stereo system blasted “BARBRA STREISAND!”

For those of you who don’t live in San Francisco – or inside my head, as I tend to assume – Bay to Breakers is a 12k that winds through the city to the Pacific Ocean. People do actually run the course, starting at some godforsaken hour of the morning while everyone else is still asleep, resting up for their taxing day of drinking heavily in Viking hats and lederhosen. Or drinking heavily while wearing nothing at all, because one of the main features of Bay to Breakers is the vast array of naked people. Where “vast array” equals “mostly old men.” We spotted six dangling wangs by 9 a.m. By the time we stopped for lunch – eating our sandwiches next to a guy who decided Superman underoos were a costume and took to posing outside the Whole Foods – our DW count had hit seventeen.

Things That Happened While I Was Completely Sober

Not drinking during Bay to Breakers is kind of like spitting on a Giants cap – as in, completely unpatriotic if your phone number starts with 415 – but my delicate flower system just isn’t enjoying alcohol these days. And when you’re in a parade with thousands of genial costumed drunkards who halt all forward motion to dance everywhere a sound system is blasting Duck Sauce, you want to enjoy yourself. And so I did.

Controlling the weather with my mind. It’s true. Three drops of rain dared fall on my head. So I started chanting for sun. I must have quite the persuasive chant because the sun dutifully appeared three minutes later and hung out all day. There was even heat, heat that filtered through my sweatshirt and it was glorious. At least until I drove down to Half Moon Bay for dinner and returned home to discover it rained in my absence. I COMMAND THE SUN AND THE RAIN AND LO, I AM DRUNK WITH POWER.

I almost propositioned a banana. I didn’t.

I almost propositioned a man dressed as a strip of bacon. I didn’t.

I almost propositioned a man dressed as a normal man. I didn’t. But I did give him one of the eggs from my Easter basket.* I also gave him my phone number, a process that required encouragement from four different friends, where encouragement means turning me around and physically marching me over to where he was standing. We had already met, as I am perfectly capable of talking to people. I’m just less able to entertain the thought of ever seeing them again.

* I was the Easter bunny, in keeping with our holiday theme. We also had a leprechaun, a Christmas tree, Abe Lincoln, and a pumpkin.

I almost stole a dog in a shopping cart. I didn’t. The man pushing the shopping cart looked quite devoted to his pet, and also burly.

Shouted “BUNNY SOLIDARITY!” to anyone else wearing rabbit ears. By three in the afternoon, I was pretty hoarse. There were a lot of rabbits this year.

Realized that people are basically good. After a bit of an injury went down, we had kleenex and band-aids offered by passing strangers in less than ten seconds.

Sprung my car from jail. It wasn’t parked on the marathon route, but apparently it was close enough to be arrested and sent to prison. After waiting in line at the police station, sans bunny ears, I drove back to my neighborhood and parked it in virtually the same spot. Meaning I paid $500 for my car to end up ten feet from where it started. But the blatant kidnapping of my car took none of the shine off the day, a fact of which I am inordinately proud.

Today is one of those days when something as simple as ordering coffee confuses me. Which does not bode well for the quality of this post, but I have “write blog post” on my to do list and my to do list has magical, mystical powers of doneness, powers I shouldn’t try to thwart. These powers are only enhanced when I scribble out the entire list and scrawl BE AWESOME across the top. Then I wander off to BE AWESOME. Or take a nap. Whichever happens first. (Usually the napping.)

Speaking of napping, today is also one of those days when I stumble toward my bed at 3:00 for no apparent reason. Reason number 637 why standard office jobs are Not For Me: I’m very European in my need to nap in the middle of the afternoon. (I’m also very European in my love of three-hour meals and taking six weeks off in the summer to sun myself, but I haven’t cracked that particular nut yet.)

In previous job incarnations I’ve been known to sneak into my boss’s office to curl up on his couch while he was in meetings (kind of awkward when he returned unexpectedly) and leave pillows in the back seat of my car so I could nap through my lunch hour. I was once found asleep under my desk. Nothing in this paragraph is an exaggeration, I’m sorry to say. How have I not been fired from every single job I’ve ever had? It remains a mystery.

Magical To Do Lists and My Deep and Abiding Love of Naps Were Not My Point

To my point!

Thank you so much for all your support of the scary thing. Sometimes when you put yourself out there, it comes back to you in measures far beyond what you ever could have hoped. This was definitely one of those times. So thanks, everyone. It means a lot to me. Where “a lot” cannot be adequately conveyed by all the caps in the world.

Most of the week pre-scary thing was spent lying on the floor wondering why I thought trying to sell something I wrote online was a good goal. Most of the week post-scary thing was spent feeling like this:

Roof jumping is fun. Especially when an ancestor on your mother’s side had a scandalous liaison with a muppet, the unintended yet hilarious consequence of which is me looking like this in every single picture taken ever.

Doing the scary thing now comes highly recommended by me. A person who, for the record, used to hide behind the couch during spin-the-bottle and truth-or-dare at high school parties. AGAIN, NOT AN EXAGGERATION. I even remember the couch. It was green velour. I spent a lot of time scraping my fingernail down the fabric, only peeking out from behind it when one of the uber-cool boys appeared wearing someone’s neon blue spandex dance team uniform on a dare, white boxers bunching out, sequin-covered blue hat with silver pouff balanced gamely on his head. Which indicates that he was probably someone I would’ve liked to get to know better. TOO BAD I WAS HIDING BEHIND THE COUCH.

Fifteen years later I know that doing the scary thing is not so hard. Sorry, younger me. Guess you’ll just have to play your first game of spin-the-bottle at 32. So if you have something scary tugging at you, I think you should totally go for it. Not scary like facing down an albino crocodile scary, because albino crocodiles are legitimately freaky and how does staring into the pink eyes of an albino crocodile enhance your life? PRETTY SURE IT DOESN’T. But if there’s something you know will make your life better and you just need to take that first step, I totally think you should go for it. I WILL SUPPORT YOU ONE-HUNDRED PERCENT.

If a girl who hides behind green couches can do it, so can you. Guaranteed.

Hi. I just did something really scary. I wrote an essay and put a price on it.

Basically, this has tapped into every fear I have – about money, about not valuing the work I put out into the world, about my capabilities as a writer, about how to design a goddamn PDF. But I did it.

This would not exist without major support and encouragement from Nicole and Becca. Not to mention Becca’s knowledge of fonts that made the PDF look more like a PDF and less like something I wrote in seventh grade with a dull pink crayon.

It’s a ten-page essay, a more personal version of the damn Brain Hamsters, with a few things that were very, very scary to say in public. So, go me.

Why Loving Yourself Is One Seriously Fucked Up

(Yet Ultimately Freeing)

Process

Since I’m weird and random, so is the price: $3.17. Though you can pay less, if you want. Or you can pay more. Or you can just go read the archives instead. Or you can go somewhere else entirely. OH, THE CHOICES YOU HAVE!

If you buy it, I hope you like it. And thank you so, so much for supporting me in something that freaked me the hell out. Just publishing this post is a huge victory. Thanks for being here for it.

So I’ll be wearing them more often. SORRY, EVERYONE WITH TASTE.

You can’t see the Crocs in this picture and that’s a damn shame. But we clean up nice, right? Even if my sequin quotient is entirely insufficient.

This weekend was all epic, all the time. From buying bunny tails to muppet photo bombing to rooftop mimosas. By Sunday night, my veins were sluggish with champagne and melted caramel, I had slept a grand total of four hours, my skin was a perfect match for the Boiled Lobster swatch at Kelly-Moore, and I was in proud possession of my first Craigslist Missed Connection, the holy grail of urban flirting.

If you’re going to dance much longer than you should at your age, deciding to wear Crocs is absolutely the best idea ever. I bounced like a crack addict on a pogo stick for a solid three hours on Saturday night and my feet didn’t even hurt the next day. For reference, I can’t sit cross-legged for more than ten minutes without feeling like the Tin Man in a drizzle while Dorothy withholds the oil can to teach him a valuable lesson about the importance of proper hydration. Besides, they so successfully imitated Not Crocs that even the gay guys would dance with me while I was wearing them.

Good call, me.

I Don’t Understand Humans

Why is it that when I act like a total bitch, men come running after me? I mean, I’m the same way. IGNORE ME AND I’M YOURS. What twisted impulse is that? HUMANS MAKE NO SENSE.

I suppose I wasn’t being a total bitch. But I may have pointed out to a very nice but entirely drunk law student that he had asked me the same question three times and then swished away in my Crocs and glitter tutu. We had a nice conversation, but when I realized we were circling, I decided I didn’t have time for this. Because I wanted to hang out with my friends, dance more, eat chicken fingers, and still get home before dawn because I wake up at 6:30 a.m. whether I’ve hit the pillow at 10 or at 4. Aging process, you suck.

Maybe it was less bitch and more knowing what I wanted and going to get it? And that’s attractive? Maybe? Or maybe he just wasn’t tracking the conversation well enough to realize I had been a bitch. Nah. I’m going to assume it was my relentless determination to succeed at my plan of More Dancing And Then Chicken Fingers. NOTED. DEAR SELF, PUT UP WITH BULLSHIT NEVER. IT WILL BE AWESOME. Because you’ll get to do exactly what you want, right down to the dancing and fried chicken. Plus, you will receive your first ever shout-out on Craigslist Missed Connections when you decide to check the following day. And, lo, you will be gleeful. Especially since you haven’t checked since 2004 and WHAT ARE THE ODDS? Even if you were looking for the other guy, the one who was my age and not drunk. THAT’S OK. IT STILL COUNTS.

Bride and groom pledging love, devotion, and solemn promises to clean the cat box more often, while their child giggles in the front row.

Dancing and waving red vines in the air like glow sticks, because funk is playing and waving red vines when funk is playing is practically a requirement. I’m sure that’s written somewhere.

The groom warning me about which single men to avoid.

Reaching up and plucking half the bouquet from the air, while Heather B snags the other half. We thought it was fate, the bouquet separating in mid-flight just for us, but then realized Leah had cleverly tied smaller bunches of daisies together. Something I totally intend to steal, should the symbolism of a caught bouquet translate into reality before I forget this handy trick. Someone should probably propose in the next day or so, or it’s not going to happen. My memory is patchy at best.

Which is why I like to write these things down.

My part of the bouquet. Still fate. It’s you and me, daisies.

TACO TRUCK. Multiple visits to said TACO TRUCK. Realizing I can’t say TACO TRUCK in anything but capital letters. Possibly with a little hop. Being the first in line for both TACO TRUCK and cake. Because I have no sense of decorum when it comes to delicious food.

Kids running in circles, tutus and pigtails flying behind them.

Being handed a small daisy by the bride and groom’s flirtatious young son. Realizing I don’t have the stamina for a child since Wombat’s energy wore me out in under three minutes and I was fairly certain he was going to take a header off the porch on my watch while the bride and groom had their picture taken – happy, beautiful, glowing, at least until their son suffered a head wound. (He didn’t suffer a head wound, to be clear. BUT IT WAS CLOSE.)

Watching Holly seriously consider stealing someone’s baby. Watching the parents look like they half hope she would.

Wishing I’d thought to pull out my phone and record the officiant’s speech. Failing that, I wish I’d tweeted some of it before the party clouded my memory of exact word choice. I do remember the rousing round of applause, complete with catcalls and foot stomping.

Dancing with the bride. Dancing with the bride’s mother. Realizing that both Kristin and I dance like muppets – mouths wide open, bouncing like Wombat after his fourth red vine, moving so fast the camera just catches a blur.