The rare SF sun

In a shocking turn of events, San Francisco is warm and sunny today. Okay well, it’s sunny. Warm is perhaps too strong a word. But I realized as I panted up and down the steep streets around Buena Vista park: it’s a good thing that New York has the heat and San Fran has the hills; if one city had both, people would keel over and die on a regular basis.

Caffeine free

Now that the initial weirdness of visiting home has worn off, I can safely say I’m just really happy to be here. To hang with my pals and see my family has been priceless. And I’m getting back into the San Francisco pace. It’s like New York, only decaf. Which is nice. Sometimes we all need to cut back on the caffeine.

Home.

I’m back in San Francisco for a week. Enveloped in the cool grey fog I call home, I feel as if I never left. Except that I did leave. And my “home” is now a brownstone on Dean Street in Brooklyn. How trippy is that?

It’s a very strange feeling, visiting a home that’s no longer your home. Things are so comfortable here, and yet, I can’t help but compare it to where I live now. It’s much warmer in New York. The cupcakes taste better in New York. I don’t have to wait for traffic lights in New York.

But, New York isn’t home.

It’s really kind of messing with my head. This is why people should never move. I can see why people grow up in one city and just stay there. It’s so much easier when you don’t know what you’re missing.

Bridesmaid

I’ve been to many weddings in the past – as a caterer, as a photographer’s assistant, and as a guest – but this was my first time as a bridesmaid. It’s way different being part of the bridal party. Instead of in the audience, you’re in the show. When the bride walks up the aisle, you walk up the aisle. When the bride cries, you cry. When the bride kisses her husband for the first time… (hey I told you, this was the first time I was in a wedding, I got confused).

It was a lot of fun though. I think I did well – I silk-screened matching T-shirts for the bachelorette party.



I stood where I was supposed to stand during the ceremony.



The only time I messed up was when I said that I looked like a two-dollar hooker in front of the make up artist who made me look like a two-dollar hooker. Apparently, she did not find that amusing. But seriously, did anyone order a two-dollar hooker?



But I gotta hand it to Bronwyn, she planned an amazing wedding. And, of all the weddings I’ve been to, she made the happiest, most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen.



Congratulations to you and Sonny, Brons!

Mister Creepee

We have ice cream trucks in California, but we don't have Mister Softee. Mister Softee circles the blocks near schools and playgrounds blaring the same eerie tune. It's a creepy song to begin with, even if it wasn't being blasted loud enough to make little children's ears bleed. Not to mention that Mister Softee himself is a bow-tied man with a soft serve ice cream cone for a head. You don't need me to tell you how scary that is.



That why, as my roommates and I returned home late last night, we were intrigued to see a Mister Softee truck pulled over on Nevins Street in front of a cop car. We stopped to watch with furtive glee as two pudgy Brooklyn cops sauntered over to the window.

Mister Softee is finally getting busted for uncover drug trafficking, we thought. Or perhaps the cops discovered a kiddie porn ring underneath that sweet facade!

The police officers approached the driver's window. We couldn't hear, but we watched as words were exchanged, and then their stern faces turned into smiles. The driver stood up from his seat and began to dig through his freezers in the back. Our faces fell as we realized: the cops pulled over a Mister Softee to order ice cream.

If that's not an abuse of power, I don't know what is.

P.S.
If any of you west-coasters feel like you're missing out on the grating Mister Softee tune, you can listen to it here.

Toil and Trouble

Me: You know what we HAVE to do?

Carolyn: What do you HAVE to do?

Me: We HAVE to go see Shakespeare in the Park.

Carolyn: Okay, sure. Why?

Me: Because Macbeth is playing. I love Macbeth.

Carolyn: Since when did you love Macbeth?

Me: I don't know, since we read it in Mr. Halpern's 10th grade English class. And anyway, I walked by the line to get in earlier tonight.

Carolyn: And?

Me: SO many cute boys.

Carolyn: I'm free tomorrow!

Me: Are you and I ever going to grow out of 10th grade?

Carolyn: No, I don't think so.

Me: Okay, good. Just making sure.

Oldie but Goodie

Many of you have seen this before. But now, with the help of youtube, I can finally broadcast Kermit's travels to the world!

Kermit Travels the World
A short film by Audrey

15 minutes of fame (or should I say pixels?)

After my mild panic attack at finding the coffee-maker in the office kitchen empty this morning, I have decided that this midtown, corporate job is sucking my soul. A new job is most definitely in order. That is priority number one when I return from vacation.

However, this afternoon, I got the fabulous news that my other blog, Unibloggal, which I write with some talented California ladies (two coasts, one blog, thus: Unibloggal) got a mention in salon.com. Which, for those of you that are not web nerds like me, is a pretty big deal.

Professional blogging, here I come. I may as well just storm out of this web of grey cubicals right now, since by tomorrow, Blogher will be banging down my door.

A big thank you to Laurin and her Naughty Nads.

Jaded

I judge New York harshly sometimes. Once the excitement wares off, New York is too crowded, too hot, too loud, too dirty. But I realized something this morning as I got off the train in Manhattan, returning from a night in the country. There's a trick to loving New York: don't let the excitement ware off.

New York's not about falling into a pattern. It's not about finding a routine and getting into a groove. It's not about three square meals and a full-night's sleep. It's about shaking things up. It's about pushing your comfort zone and finding new things everyday. It's about eating pizza at 4am. Leaving the city for only 24 hours reminded me of this.

I've been looking forward to next week's visit back to California for days, counting down the seconds until I'm back home, even for just a week. But now, I'm also excited to return to New York after that trip. To see the city with fresh eyes again. I hope I can remember this feeling two weeks from now, when it's time to say goodbye to the Bay once more.

Stowaway

Though my intention was to leave her behind in San Francisco, AGW somehow made it to New York. Perhaps she hid somewhere in my luggage. Perhaps she was accidentally packed in my boxes between my books and Taboo. However she got here, she was out in full effect in Manhattan's meatpacking district Saturday night. AG-dub, meet New York. New York, AG-dub. I'm sure you two will get along famously.

Sunset Cruise

I recently took my 100 ft. schooner out for a sail around the harbor. Okay, it wasn’t my schooner, it was the Pioneer, originally built in Marcus Hook, Pennsylvania in 1885 to carry sand mined near the mouth of the Delaware Bay to an iron foundry in Chester, Pennsylvania. But now instead of sand, it carries Italian tourists and recent California transplants. It was a beautiful sunset cruise. We brought champagne and cookies. Here are some pics:

First we had to raise the sails (heavy sails)



As we sailed futher from the bustle of the city, we got a great glimpse of Southern Manhattan, which I can describe in six words: not as pretty as San Francisco.



But as the sun went down and we approached the Statue of Liberty, I decided that just maybe, New York has some beauty of it's own.



Until the statue said something to piss Aram off, and he had to crush her. She's so insolent, that Lady Liberty, with her glowstick of freedom or whatever.



Lastly, here's me and Claire, looking extremely unpirate-like.

Subway Stories

Too many entertaining things happen on the subway to not start writing them down.

This morning, I saw a woman look up from the bible she was reading (a surprisingly large number of people read the bible or the Torah or the Koran on the train in the morning. Never too early for God, I suppose) and offer her seat to a woman that was standing up. The standing woman looked surprised, glanced around to make sure that she was in fact the one being spoken to, and then politely declined. As an outside observer, I realized that the seated woman had mistakenly thought that the overweight standing woman was pregnant. Ouch. I was embarrassed for both of them.

Earlier this week, a man proposed to me on my way to the subway. It was Monday morning, I had woken up 15 minutes prior and was already late for work. His name was Willy, and he wasn’t particularly attractive. I turned him down. He followed my rejection with, “Okay, well, next time let me buy you a drink or something.” Yes, Willy, next time I run into you in a crosswalk on Atlantic Ave. at 9:30 in the morning, we’ll totally go for beers.

Midtown

After two months of working on W. 33rd and Broadway, I just noticed that my office is across the street from the Empire State Building. I wondered why there are always so many tourists on my block looking up, but it never occurred to me to see what they’re looking up at. (Sorry, er, I mean: “up at what they are looking”?)

So I’ve been going on my merry way, to and from the coffee shop, when I finally noticed a sign that said “Empire State Building.” I look up and there is it – huge, towering, 102 stories. The highest building in New York, the second highest in the whole country, the fifth highest in the whole world, and remarkably easily missed.

I think this is an accurate metaphor for life, sometimes it’s the biggest things that go unnoticed.

More fun from the party

Claire and Michael, don't think you got away without being broadcast as well. Here is some footage from one of the many hoop-offs that occurred at the 80's party. You guys made a good run, but Serena is clearly the winner. If only Michael were also sporting those awesome gold hotpants.



(Thanks to the Bing Bong Brothers for the use of their lovely song)

Safely Captured

I’ve had requests for pictures of the African 80’s dancing. But I can do better than that, here’s the video. Though grainy, dark and hard to see, I think the cause of future embarrassment fully comes across. Here are the series of events leading up to this horrific display, which took us not one, not two, but THREE tries to perfect:

1. Cate and Audrey attend an African Dance Class (see previous post)

2. Cate and Audrey attend an 80's party (see side ponytails)

3. Cate and Audrey imbibe enough vodka to convince them that performing their African Dance routine in public at the party would be a fabulous idea.

4. Michael's there to film it (thanks, Mike, for your excellent camera work – video’s of YOU coming soon!)



The “camera story” to which Gary T. refers in his comment is something that occurred after the dancing. Once all the videos were successfully immortalized in my digital memory card, I put my camera down for safe keeping… in somebody else’s bag. Call it drunken logic, I couldn’t find my own bag, it seemed like the next best option.

Actually, I was under the impression that the bag in question belonged to one of my friends. It didn’t. I realized this an hour later when I went to get my camera and the bag was gone! After searching frantically and insisting that the host of the party question all his guests, I went home at 2am – cameraless and depressed.

At 2:30am I got a call, someone had the camera. They had been at the 80’s party and discovered my digital camera in their bag when they arrived home. (That’s strange, I wonder how it could have gotten there). They knew it was mine because they recognized the dorky white girls doing African dance in the videos. The problem is, they lived near Union Square, in Manhattan.

So I did what any devoted camera-lover would do. I hopped in a cab and I rode to Union Square and back to rescue my precious Cannon Powershot 450. I think the cab driver thought I was buying drugs; why else would I be "just running inside for a sec to pick something up" at 3am! 40 minutes and $32 later, my camera was safe and sound in my home. Thank god, because what would this world come to if I could not post my African Dance video on youtube for all to see?

Dog Molesters

A guy came up to me and Cate on our bike ride Friday night.

Guy: Do you guys have a dog?

Us: No.

Guy: Oh, I thought I saw you in the dog park earlier.

Cate: Oh yeah, that was us.

Audrey: We just go to there to play with other people’s dogs.

Cate: We really want a dog.

Audrey: We can’t have one in our apartment.

At that, the guy sort of looked disinterested and rode away.

Cate: You know what we sound like?

Audrey: Sketchy child molesters who hang out in playgrounds even though they don’t have any kids?

Cate: No, a lesbian couple. I think he thought we were together – ‘we want to get a dog, we can’t have one in our apartment.’

Audrey: Ha ha! You’re totally right. Oh well, he wasn’t that cute anyhow.

Cate: True, but he has a dog.

Audrey: Good point.

African 80's

"Lower! Get lower! Bend your knees like this!" The five-foot-tall African man at the front of the room bent his knees at a 90 degree angle, his loose, patterned pants almost brushing the floor. "See, watch me... one and two and ba ba ba."

"Of course he's lower than us. He's half our size." I hissed to Cate as our thigh muscles spasmed with the effort.

I had dragged her to the African Dance class in Brooklyn Heights on Saturday morning. The two of us were dripping sweat as we contorted our bodies into the most unnatural of positions. Or, one could argue, they were the most natural positions – years of modern American living with Serta spring mattresses and lazy boys having rendered them nearly impossible.

As I arched my back and flailed my arms wildly to the rhythm of the African drums, I looked around the room. This dance class featured the same dynamic of every other dance class I’d taken since tap at seven-years-old. The talented teacher’s protégées hogged the mirror in the front row, the rhythmless, skinny white girls hid in the back, the token male in the class (who's guaranteed to be black, gay or both) gyrated his hips front and center, while the rest of us filled in rows two and three.

In my head, I rated everyone’s grace, ability and style. I put myself somewhere in the middle – perhaps 12th best of 20. Not bad for my first day. Leave it to me to turn African Dance into a competitive sport.

I enjoyed watching the people who were really good (the winners) – their heads bobbing, hair thrown back, legs working overtime. I couldn’t stop staring the token male. He was white, so he must have been gay. He was the most into the groove by far, although his style appeared to be more African-American than African. You’re supposed to be gathering the grain, dude, not smacking that ass.

After an hour of warm-ups, floor exercises and a short routine, Cate and I were exhausted. Not too exhausted, however to perform our African dance routine in an embarrassing, vodka-induced Romy & Michelle-esque display at an 80’s theme-party that night, complete with miniskirts and side ponytails. This would make us the losers of African Dance. If not the losers of the party. Maybe the losers of the entire 80’s.

Cheating

I recall a Sex and the City episode in which Carrie refers to New York as her "boyfriend." The lights, the skyscrapers, the crowds, they comfort her. They make her happy. Who needs a guy when she has the City?

That's how I feel about San Francisco. San Francisco is my life partner. We are in love, San Fran and I. When I'm sad, I can stroll the steep streets of the City by the Bay, gaze lovingly at those unparalleled views and I feel better. I'll always return to San Francisco.

Then what does that make New York? New York is my wild, urban lover on the side. Sometimes loud, sometimes peaceful. All at once rude and charming. Brash and romantic. Sultry hot or ice cold. New York is my sordid little affair. Always unpredictable, always exciting and always going all night long.

Clouds banging together

Jolanka, Itamar and all my other Berkeley friends with weird foreign names. No, I am NOT censoring my blog and no, you don’t need to be concerned that my “blog's ambitions will be hopelessly crippled by my refusal to tell the truth.”

Just because I want to gain readership without losing my job, doesn’t mean anything is changing. I just took out a few one-liners about my boss. I still remain the cynical, judgmental bitch I always have been. Don’t you worry.

And now, a gift for my nice friends who still live in California and have normal names. I bring you the excitement and beauty of a New York summer storm...

Corrupting the Youth of America

This week I decided to do something productive with my life. I know, I know, what could be more productive than trying to get people to buy shit they don’t need with money they don’t have?

I’ll tell you what’s more productive – mentoring. Yep, I applied to be a mentor, to spend one hour every week with an “at-risk” kid to set an example as a responsible adult and make a “positive impact in a young person’s life.”

How scary is that? I’m going to warp his or her little mind with my cynicism, off-color humor and bad habits. “No, no, Tanisha, you suck the lime after you shoot the tequila.”

I’m kidding, I think it will be great. I still have to finish the application process – get fingerprinted, provide references, pass the background check to make sure I’m not a child abuser. I just hope that all those toddlers I beat in my early 20’s will stay hidden in that dark closet where I locked them.

Googling

For both self-indulgent and research reasons, I googled myself the other night. I know, sounds dirty. Once I was done googling myself, I searched for my name on the internet. When nothing incriminating came up, I did a search for: Audrey's Blog.

Here are some of the more entertaining results:

A 9-year-old, self-proclaimed “animal-crazy" homeschooler who blogs about what she read in the bible.

Some bad poetry.

And a blog called “Audrey III is Blooming,”. that contains sentences like: “Audrey III is now beginning to close up, but she is still putting out her scent of rotting fish in waves. I am heading home now, anxious to shower and remove any trace of Audrey's scent that is clinging to me.” Gee, that’s real flattering.

God, they're letting anyone blog these days. Aren't you happy that you've chosen to read a blog as interesting as mine instead of these other losers? Okay, so it's cruel to call a 9-year-old, bible-lovin', redhead a loser. But I mean it in the nicest possible way.

P.S.
When you google: “We put the hard on in Chardonnay,” I’m the first site that comes up!

The Procrastination Master

If there is a project that needs to be done, and I am the one that needs to be doing it, I can find an average number of 27 other things to do.

For how, I ask, HOW ever can I write that copy when bank accounts need balancing, emails need checking, friends need G-chatting, blogs need reading, favorite singers need Internet researching, eBay auctions need bidding, lists need listing, weekends needs planning, youtube needs viewing and shoes at the mall downstairs are in dire need of purchasing.

However… when my services are not required, and I’m stuck at my desk with no responsibility what so ever. I can find absolutely. nothing. to. do.

There’s no one online I want to G-chat. I can’t find anything good to read online. There’s nothing I want to buy. I can’t think of anything to blog about (thus this entry). It proves my theory that life is more fun when you have something else you’re supposed to be doing.

Remember in college when you’d go to the café to study for your Anthro test with your friends. You’d have the most interesting conversations about life, and boys and oh my god, I think the professor has a gland problem did you see those sweat marks in lecture yesterday, and absolutely no studying would get done?

But once you graduate and you grow up, there’s no Anthro exam hanging over your head, and your free time is really just... free. Life is just a little more dull.

Upgrade

I've decided that once a week-ish, I'm going to post an entertaining g-chat conversation on the blog*. It's sort of like having a guest blogger, only the guest is not actually aware that what he/she says could end up posted online for my meeeelions of readers. That's what makes it so FUN. Last week's chat featured Cate, New York's finest attorney (as of today, congratulations Cate). This week, I'd like to welcome guest chatter & good pal: Gary Tijuana.


garytijuana: i just sold my old laptop on ebay

me: I debated selling my iBook to get a new MacBook. But I couldn't do that to him... we've been through so much together.

garytijuana: that's how i feel; my ibm was with me for LOTS of stuff - Arizona, Spain, etc. i do feel bad. disloyal

me: What kind of father will you be? selling your children off to the highest bidder?

garytijuana: only if it lets me buy newer, smaller children.

me: with more memory and special features.

garytijuana: and high-res video capabilities.


*For future reference, please be aware that I hold the creative license, as head blogger, to alter conversations in order to make me appear more clever than I actually am. This one, however is entirely unchanged.

Rager

Last night was DomestiCATE, our housewarming party.

What a wild and crazy party it was, there was drinking.



And sitting.



And more sitting.



And then the dance party started… woohoo, all three of us had a fabulous time.



I’m just kidding, the party was a lot of fun. Crowds of people showed up, mass amounts of alcohol were consumed, and only two people were arrested for public nudity. A successful party in my book.

Red Hook

Here are some pics from my bike ride through a Red Hook, a unique neighborhood in South Brooklyn.



Here you can see the Statue of Liberty, you may have heard of it.



And the Southern most tip of Manhattan.



All these views are pretty, but what I really wanted to know was, where are the pies?



Oh, there they are.

Listlessness

After Stephanie warned me that the last post would most likely send men running, I'd like to clarify that I am not one of those girls who sits around planning her wedding. Far from it. Marriage would impede my plan to mother a child with one man from every country in the world.

Come to think of it, I should really get moving on that plan; I'm not getting any younger. Okay, who wants to represent the USA?

I simply like to make guest lists. That's all. I enjoy no other aspect of party planning. Okay, I like creating song lists too. And shopping lists. Really, I just like listing things.

List of items to buy for housewarming party this Saturday night:

1. Chips
2. Salsa
3. Pretzels
4. Party robot
5. Stella
5. Alpaca
6. Kazoos for alpaca
7. Vodka
8. Limes

Passing Time

Me: So, I'm making a list of people I'd invite to my wedding if I were to be married this weekend. It's kinda weird, cause I'm dividing them up by places I've lived. But people move around... so would you and Claire be SF friends or NY friends?

Cate: don't you have any work?

Me: I've gotten it down to 53 people, with a possible additional 21 if I invite more extended family. But I think that's pretty good. I can keep my wedding under 100 people.

Cate: wow.

Me: wow that's high or wow that's low?

Cate: wow that you're actually doing that.

Me: oh shit, I just realized that people will probably bring dates. That will double the number. Plus there's all the folks that my non-existent fiance will want to invite. Fuck.

Cate: you. are. a. dork.

Me: Do dorks have up to 74 friends and family that love them enough to come to their non-existent wedding and shower them with non-existent gifts? I didn't think so.

Hot Hot Heat

I'm not going to spend precious energy explaining how hot it is in New York right now. How, when I walk out the door, my brain melts out my ear and I start babbling incoherently. How the sun is so piercing, I drool and bump into mailboxes and parked cars. How tourists on the street are spontaneously bursting into flames.

Instead, I'll just paste yesterday's report from weather.com:



"Feels like 117"?!? I'll be on the next flight home.

But seriously, who invented weather this hot? I don't want to bring God into it, so I'm going to go ahead and blame Al Gore.

Back from Paradise

I have returned from the land of Mexico.

Despite my usual practice of deflecting all sun-rays and staying as pale as the white-sand beaches on which I lay, I actually managed to get some color in Mexico. Namely one color. Namely, pink. Yes, mom, I wore SPF 30 (or maybe 15) but the Mexican sun managed to reach into weird places I didn't know it could, sending me home with burnt armpits and under-boobs.

Here are a few highlights from the trip:

Watching amazing Mexican sunsets...



Dressing up pretty with my sis...



And best of all, watching my friends get married in the most beautiful setting possible...



I have to put my cynicism aside for a second to admit it was a gorgeous, touching and super fun wedding. I’m glad I went, Marina Girls and all.